The Conquest

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/3636984.

Rating: Not Rated

Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con,
Underage
Category: F/M
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Arya
Stark/Gendry Waters, Myrcella Baratheon/Robb Stark
Characters: Jon Snow, Sansa Stark, Rhaegar Targaryen, Lyanna Stark, Gendry
Waters, Robb Stark, Brynden Tully, Thoros of Myr, Pello Greenbeard,
Arya Stark, Bran Stark, Rickon Stark, Catelyn Tully Stark, Tyrion
Lannister, Benjen Stark, Cersei Lannister, Myrcella Baratheon, Joffrey
Baratheon, Tommen Baratheon, Tywin Lannister, Jaime Lannister,
Edmure Tully, Aegon VI Targaryen, Rhaenys Targaryen, Daenerys
Targaryen, Viserys Targaryen, Young Griff
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2015-03-29 Updated: 2016-05-22 Words: 251,745 Chapters:
14/?
 The Conquest
by DolorousEdditor

Summary

An AU of grand scale inspired by a prompt by Oblongata.

Three hundred years after Aegon the Conqueror built a new empire on the ashes of the
Valyrian Freehold the known world is a place of war. The Targaryen Empire is pressed by
enemies, the Seven Kingdoms war amongst themselves and forces contrive to pull them all
apart.

Amidst all this are a prince and princess who fear themselves ruined by the horrors they've
endured. Together they might be the hope their people are looking for. More importantly, they
might be the dream both abandoned long ago.

Notes

This work was inspired by and most of the characters come from George RR Martin's A Song
of Fire and Ice book series. I gain nothing from this. Nothing I say.

I only give permission for my works to be on AO3. If you upload it elsewhere, I will look for
you, I will find you, and I will... be angry with you.

See the end of the work for more notes

 Chapter 1

When the Doom came to Valyria many believed the reign of the dragonlords was at an end.

Yet not all the dragons perished in the destruction of the freehold. A hundred years after
the Doom a new dynasty did rise.

Aegon the Conqueror, First of His Name, Highest King, returned to the land of his
forebears and built an empire out of the ashes of the Valyrian Freehold.

With the might of their dragons the Targaryens conquered much of the freehold’s former
territories, establishing the Targaryen Empire which soon became the most powerful and
wealthiest realm in the known world. At the height of its power the empire stretched from
the headwaters from the Rhoyne to the Shivering Sea, from the hills of Andalos to the
grasslands of the Dothraki Sea. Their might enough to cause the most fearsome of rulers
tremble.

Yet three hundred years later those glorious days are long passed. The dragons are gone
and the empire's enemies grower bolder. With the fate of his dynasty in the balance,
Rhaegar Targaryen, First of his Name, High King of the Empire, must name an heir.

To the Seven Kingdoms, which continue to war as they have for since the coming of the
Andals, the politics of the empire matter little. Two heirs vie for control over the Vale, the
Dornish stand isolated and outnumbered by their enemies and the Reach wallows in the
grandiose ways of the Gardeners. For the first time in its history the Kingdom of the North
rules over parts of the riverlands. That expansion stands in the way of King Tywin
Lannister’s goal of creating a grand kingdom of the south, one with a Lannister king.

All this means a time of upheaval on both sides of the Narrow Sea. A time where a war
weary prince and a beleaguered princess hold little hope for the future.

And little knowledge of each other…

THE FOREST OF QOHOR

Fires burnt here and there, the feast of flames continuing long after the battle was done.

The dense forest of pines and spruce, once a sea of deep brown bark and thick green
canopies, had been devastated by the fighting. Swathes of this hinterland had seen their
ancient trees felled for use by the defenders. Many of the trees that still stood were now
blackened, bare husks of their former selves. Burnt by the hundreds of flaming arrows and
burning pitch fired to and fro. Others suffered from the boulders flung by catapults, branches
and greenery cleaved away or trunks torn to shreds. Some leaned against their brethren like
wounded warriors, not yet ready to join their comrades already littering the ground.
The number of fallen trees could not compare to the hundreds of very real corpses spread out
across this immense battlefield. Men and horses sprawled amongst the tree stumps, others
crushed beneath the branches of trees collapsed during the fighting. Not all were fresh, for the
fighting here had lasted more than a week, and in some places the freshly killed now piled
high atop the rotting dead.

The dead buried by the dead, Jon thought grimly, amidst all this madness that makes a sense
of sorts.

The dark rider took in all this with a grimace, for he had an excellent view of the lands
around from this ruined fort. Built upon a small hill in the midst of the forest, the timber fort
held a commanding position overlooking one of the main trails through forest. Hence why
the Dothraki had fought so hard to take it.

And killed so many in doing so.

The timber palisades and ramparts of the fort were thick with the dead. A glance to the
sharpened stakes surrounding its edges showed dead Dothraki and horses impaled upon them.
There were more about the breech the horselords had forced in the palisades when they’d torn
them down with rope and the strength of their mounts. This fort was but one of many hastily
built to throw back Khal Drogo’s advance through the forest to Qohor.

The Qohorik who manned this fort knew what would happen if the Dothraki reached their
city and had died to the man to prevent such a thing. Arrow riddled bodies were common, a
few had arakhs buried so deeply their wielders had abandoned the weapons in their victims.
A last stand had been made towards the center of the fort, the Qohorik dead laying atop one
another at the base of one their shrines. A goat sacrifice still rested on the altar, rotting and
riving with maggots. Offered perhaps in hope of salvation from their gods.

For some help to arrive before the Dothraki broke though. For Jon do to as he promised.

It was a sad thing to watch his men riding through the gates to join him here, for the men of
Qohor had likely hoped for such a sight only yesterday.

“Poor bastards.” Ser Brynden Tully spoke in his smoky voice, the elder Westerosi warrior
shaking his head as he dismounted. “One more day. If those palisades had only held out one
more day. Reminds me of the Sack of Harrenhal.”

“These are foul times indeed to think such horrors so common.” Thoros of Myr added, the
warrior priest urging his steed around another dead mount. “May the Lord of Light greet
these men with the favor they deserve.”

“They deserved more than that.” He said quietly, his men ignorant to his words.

Jon turned away from bloody mess around him to take in the sight of his men. He didn’t care
for how Thoros’s bright red cloak suited the bloodletting that had been done here. The red
priest stood out among those riders entering the fort, for most were garbed in a much darker
way. The Blackfish lived up his moniker, his cloak and boots as black as the dark chainmail
all in this company wore. Jon wore such mail himself, though beneath a heavy chest plate
engraved with the images of dragons and wolves.

This was how the Dark Order had dressed since its founding two hundred years ago. For
while the Targaryen Empire brought light to all it ruled the Dark Order ensured its enemies
could find no shelter in the shadows. Other imperial legions sworn to the High King were
usually ten thousand strong, a mix of cavalry and infantry. The Dark Order was far smaller,
numbering only a few thousand, yet what it lacked in numbers it made up for in other ways.
Unlike some other legions, those within the order did not need to be born of the empire and
thus many foreigners, chiefly Westerosi, came to find their way to serving the High King.
The order was entirely mounted, its reach and speed far greater than other legions, able to
meet foes far and wide in defense of the empire.

Such was how Jon had even come to be in the midst of yet another slaughter.

He’d been in Braavos, negotiating with the Sealord alongside his great uncle, Prince Aemon,
only a month ago. A welcome respite from the near constant warfare Jon had seen in the last
five years. He could no longer count on his hands how many campaigns they’d waged across
the realm and it exhausted him as much as the empire itself. It was a fine thing to come to the
Free City of Braavos to use words rather than swords.

That all ended when word arrived from Qohor of impending doom. A Dothraki khalasar,
forty-thousand strong and led by the dread Khal Drogo, was heading their way.

The High King commanded the Dark Order to aid the far flung city and Jon, as its Lord-
Commander, had heeded the call of the empire once more.

What is one more campaign to me? Another pile of dead at my feet? More blood on my
blade?

In the three weeks since they’d joined Qohor’s defenses he’d seen the most brutal warfare of
his twenty years in this world. Thousands had died in the Forest of Qohor, the imperial
armies doing their best to bleed the Dothraki rather than meet Drogo in outright battle. The
outcome was far from certain when, only yesterday, the Dothraki had suddenly left the field.

Allowing Jon the chance to finally answer the calls for aid he’d received while battling the
Dothraki elsewhere. So he could see the terrible cost his strategy had wrought upon the
Qohorik. As he walked about the bodies, young and old alike, he cursed himself for sending
these men here in the first place.

“This wasn’t your fault Jonarys.” Thoros came to his side, speaking his given name as the red
priest often did during darker moments. “You are much like the High King, your shoulders
slump with the great burdens you place upon them.”

“Aye my lord.” The Blackfish stepped over a Dothraki body, spitting upon it. “Qohor would
be a burning ruin right now if it wasn’t for your plan. These men came here to save their
home, they knew the risks and died for a good cause.”
“It’s a wonder more aren’t dead.” He shook his head, moving back towards the breech and
gazing out at the Dothraki dead at the base of the hill. “Half the forts were overwhelmed, we
were being pushed back on every approach, Drogo was winning. So why do we stand here
victorious?”

“Might be we bled him more dearly than he expected.” Pello the Greenbeard said, the Tyroshi
warrior pulling at his dyed whiskers. "Or he caught wind of the reinforcements coming from
Norvos…”

“Or our prayers were merely answered.” Thoros added and the older knight laughed.

“Considering how many gods we all pray to it’s about time one listened.”

“We’ll know more soon enough.” Jon pointed down to the forest trail, at a small number of
black riders approaching along it. “Gendry’s patrol returns. Let’s learn what Khal Drogo is up
to.”

He hoped his friend would bring word the horselords were heading back to the plains of the
Dothraki Sea. That this most recent invasion of the empire’s frontier was already at an end.
Before all this he was meant to report back to his father’s council and share what progress
had been made with the Braavosi. His mother more than any had urged him to make a swift
return, for their adversaries at court had been emboldened of late.

Lyanna Stark was many things but fearful was not one of them. Jon was her only child and
best defense against those in the empire who disdained the High King’s spirited second wife.

Especially when she champions unpopular causes, he thought, only my mother would attack
a blight on the empire’s honor even Jaehaerys the Good could not overcome.

While his father’s empire was truly the finest realm in the known world, filled with great
works of beauty and splendor, it was built on the back of slaves. When Aegon the Conqueror
returned to Essos with the might of his dragons he rebuilt the former Valyrian Freehold for
better and worse. Within the Targaryen Empire toiled thousands upon thousands of slaves
from all corners of the world. Slavers travelled far and wide to fill the empire's hunger for
servants, even raiding the lands of the Seven Kingdoms.

Jon's mother had been taken in such a way. She’d been travelling aboard a ship bound for the
Kingdom of the Storm to marry its king when the slavers attacked. Her brother, Prince
Brandon, heir to the King of Winter, fell in defense of his sister. Princess Lyanna was so
vengeful in her grief that when the slaver captain came to her she bit his ear clean off. The
slight was not forgiven, his mother made a slave rather than being ransomed as was
customary.

Mother spoke little of her time in captivity, save with pride at how she and her fellow slaves
bided their time to stage a revolt aboard the ship. The bloody rising of the slaves against their
masters was successful yet served to cripple the vessel, leaving it at the mercy of the seas or
whoever else stumbled upon it.
Father said a strange wind blew that day and still believed it was the gods themselves guiding
his imperial dromond to the drifting ship. By law any escaped slave found on the seas was
subject to the will of whomever discovered them. Yet when father’s men boarded the vessel
they found the surviving prisoners armed and defiant, his mother at the fore.

“She was a vision, a dark beauty with a fierceness I’d never thought to find in one so lovely.”
Father had told him. “From the moment she threatened my life she became a part of it. I
cannot say who captured who that day, for I have been under your mother’s power ever
since.”

Although father decreed that all the slaves could remain free and arrangements would be
made for their safe journey home, Jon's mother had declined to leave him. Spurning the
betrothal arranged by the Starks and her home itself, Lyanna Stark would become his father’s
wife only a month later. His second wife that is, for Prince Rhaegar was already wed to
Princess Elia Martell of Dorne at High King Aerys’s behest. The Targaryens had long taken
multiple wives and were free to choose their brides, unless the groom happened to be an heir.

His father had been pronounced heir only half a year earlier and his marriage to Lyanna
caused upheaval at the imperial court. Even now, more than twenty years later, Jon still felt
the effects of his parents’ defiance.

As child he was infamous. The product of a union between a Targaryen prince and a
Westerosi slave. The second born son of a king who only gained the throne following the
murder of his father. Many even whispered Jonarys had been born the same day Aerys was
brought low though his mother swore it was a lie. Wherever he went that reputation preceded
him. Some nobility turned up their noses at Lyanna Stark’s son while slaves bowed, out of
respect for his mother’s status among the downtrodden.

One of those who held his mother in such esteem met Jon at the foot of the hill, where the
majority of his men and horse awaited. The scouts were led by a large, well-muscled man
with coal black hair and bright blue eyes.

“My lord.” Gendry hailed him, climbing down from his horse, pressing a fist to his chest. His
dear friend only ever acted so formal when they were in front of the men, for the two were as
close as brothers. They’d surely been raised as such.

“Sergeant.” He nodded. “What did you learn?”

“We followed their trail to the edges of the forest.” Gendry replied, looking about as many
others hung on his words. “They are not regrouping like we feared, the khalasar has left the
frontier. Heading back east into the Dothraki Sea.”

“Khal Drogo defeated!” The Blackfish shouted to a raucous cheer from the men. “The order
prevails! The order prevails!”

“The order prevails!” The men chanted boisterously. “The order prevails!”

“Glory to the empire!” The Summer Islander Black Balaq roared and his words too were
echoed.
Yet he could not join in the cheering, for they had not truly defeated Khal Drogo. Something
about their sudden departure filled him with unease. Nor did he much feel like cheering while
those he’d sent to his death rotted nearby.

Gendry put a hand to his arm then, his eyes scanning the fort before offering him a
sympathetic look.

“Jon, brother, let me see to the burying of the dead. We shall honor them like the good men of
the empire they are. Let it trouble you no more.”

“That’s just the problem my brother.” He answered. “That they were good men. We bury far
too many good men these days.”

“It’s getting so only the vile and corrupt stand to inherit my father’s realm.”

“We must have peace… a lasting peace.”

“If only for the sake of good men.”

WINTERFELL

Every eye in the castle watched the party enter. The guardsmen and servants lined the
battlements and yards did so. As did loyal retainers and the royal family itself, all staring
silently as their king was returned to them.

The wagon rolled through the gates, pulled by a team of horses and flanked by an escort of
mounted warriors.

All held spears with the banners flying limply, the grey direwolf of House Stark on a snow
white backing. The men holding the banners were grim faced and somber, even by northern
standards. From where Sansa stood with mother and the others, the line of riders seemed
endless. The wagon was halfway across the courtyard and still the men came on.

Sansa spotted many she recognized among their number. Helman Tallhart, Ronnel Stout,
Halys Hornwood, Galbart Glover, Medger Cerwyn and his son Cley.

Yet she saw few of the men who had left with her father months ago.

No Martyn Cassel. No William Dustin. No Mark Ryswell.

It was only when the wagon drew close did she get a glimpse of her father. Or what they
carried him within, a coffin of the darkest oak.

For Eddard Stark was dead.

The King in the North. Lord of Winterfell. Her beloved father. Murdered.
Cersei swore I’d never be safe from her wrath, she thought bitterly, Joffrey told me there was
no end to the pain he would cause me.

Father tried to protect me from all that… so they killed him… oh father…

“Father!” Rickon sobbed, her eight year old brother making to run to the wagon before
mother took hold of him.

“Hush sweetling.” Mother whispered, pressing Rickon’s weeping face into her middle,
embracing him as tightly as Sansa wished to be held herself. “We must be strong now…
strong for your father. Strong for Robb.”

Rickon continued to weep, his bushy red hair shaking back and forth as he tried to deny what
they all had known for weeks now. Arya bore it far better, her little sister’s face as cold as
block of ice, her grey eyes as hard as men twice her ten and five years. Bran was trying to act
the same, yet even the lanky young man he'd become struggled to hold his chin high, a single
tear rolling down his cheek. No matter how strong they tried to act Sansa saw the pair
holding each other’s hands.

No one held Robb’s hand, nor could any if they wanted to. Her brother’s powerful hands
were clenched into fists at his side. With his strong jaw set and his auburn hair and beard cut
as it was, save for the Tully coloring, Robb was every bit father’s son. Draped in the furs and
wools of the north the softest thing about her older brother were his eyes. For nothing could
hide the anguish in them when father’s wagon came to a halt before them.

Father’s bones were just steps away and it was a struggle to hold her place.

Once she might have bawled like Rickon did, perhaps even faint. Yet that time was long
gone. She’d been through enough torture and pain to learn how to control her emotions. Or at
least how to hide them.

Your father’s dead, you must show grief, she thought, but some of these visitors could be
traitors.

Show no feeling and they won’t know how to hurt you. Show nothing at all.

Her clothing showed little of anything. Sansa held a wolf skin cloak tight around herself,
hiding her figure from the lecherous eyes of men. Beneath it was a simple grey gown that hid
every bit of skin it could save her face. If there was one truth Sansa had learned it was that
her body brought out the beast in men. At times she wished her breasts would shrink away or
hips would grow thin or too wide, or that she was a haggard crone of eighty rather than a
maiden of ten and eight.

Those selfish thoughts fell away as two men broke off from the escort, both dismounting in
front of them. One was a weasel faced young man wearing a tunic with a quartered coat of
arms bearing twin blue towers on grey and three red chevronels. The other man was a far
more familiar and welcome sight.
Jory Cassel, her family’s trusted shield, held something in his hands hidden by a pelt of
wolf’s fur. He carried it straight towards mother and Robb, dropping to a knee at their feet,
showing no concern for the mud he sank into.

“Queen Catelyn.” Jory rasped. “I served your husband. I fought for your husband. I failed
your husband.”

“You did no such thing Jory.” Mother shook her head, gently moving Rickon towards Sansa
so she could take her little brother in hand. She pulled Rickon to her side, drying his eyes
with her sleeve while Jory held up the fur-covered object.

“I couldn’t save my king, but I wouldn’t let those scum claim his body. Or his crown.”

A ripple of whispers and quiet words went through those watching as mother reached out to
pull aside the furs. Beneath them was a thick circlet of hammered bronze, dented and
scratched here and there. The runes of the First Men were etched along its length and rising
from its sides were nine black iron spikes wrought in the shape of swords.

This was the crown the Kings of Winter had been wearing for time untold. The crown her
father had worn since she could remember. The crown he’d died for.

Sansa remembered how mother would lift it from his brow to rub her fingers over his worried
head. Whether touching her father or handling his crown, mother had always done so with
gentleness and care. She did the same now, her hands trembling only the smallest bit to take
the crown in hand and hold it before her. Mother’s own crown was a slimmer band of bronze
lacking any decoration save a wolf’s head of the blackest iron.

“My husband is dead.” Mother spoke loud enough for all to hear. “The King in the North is
dead but his line survives.”

“The pack lives on!” The Greatjon bellowed, his face red with anger. “The Starks endure!”

“The Starks endure!” An echoing cry came from the crowd, Arya and Bran joining it. Sansa
merely clutched Rickon all the tighter.

How much more can we endure? How much more suffering can my family take?

Can I bear anymore?

“King Eddard left an heir.” Mother spoke as she turned to face Robb, crown in hand.
“Winterfell is yours, my son. The Kingdom of the North is yours, its troubles are yours.
Winter is coming Robb, if you have the strength to face the cold winds and the winter snows,
speak so now.”

“On my vow I do.” Robb answered, voice gruff and loud despite his low tones.

“If you mean to honor the legacy of the Stark kings come before you, your father’s legacy,
speak so now.”

“On my honor I will.”

“If you are worthy of the weight of this crown, bend to accept it.”

Robb did not hesitate, kneeling in front of mother and bending his head forward. With a
summer chill in the air Robb’s breathing came up as clouds of white mist. When mother
lowered the crown through those clouds they became steam in Sansa’s eyes, the bronze a
fiery brand.

The sounds of a terrible sizzling and her own screams filled her ears as a pain from years ago
came back all at once. A horrible pain and shame, a cruel laugh haunting her memory.

Her grip on Rickon tightened so that he hissed in pain, pulling her back from the past to
witness Robb being crowned here in the present. The crown sat well upon her brother’s brow,
his auburn hair like a field of fire the bronze was being reforged within.

“The crown is yours.” Mother stepped back. “Rise and let all see you carry its weight. Rise
and begin the reign of Robb Stark, King in the North.”

When Robb stood, back straight and chin raised high, the Greatjon pushed his way to stand
before him. The gigantic Umber lord pulled free a monstrous greatsword, holding it upwards
and kneeling down.

“The King in the North!” The Greatjon roared, causing Rickon to jump in her arms. “The
King in the North!”

“The King in the North!” Jory echoed and a hundred others did the same, all drawing swords
and kneeling too.

“The King in the North!”

Hundreds now shouted and knelt, Ser Rodrik Cassel joined the lords Hornwood, Karstark and
Cerwyn in offering up their blades. Every rider of the escort and guardsmen in the castle did
the same. Even young Bran drew his blade, which had never seen battle, and held it up to
Robb after while his place in the mud.

“The King in the North!” Arya and Rickon took up the call but Sansa could not find the voice
to do so.

For she had been paying attention to her mother’s words. The crown gave Robb more than
just a kingdom, it gave him its enemies as well.

The Greyjoys. The Gardeners. The Lannisters. The Durrandons.

Joffrey and Cersei are bad enough. Tywin Lannister is a man all Seven Kingdoms fear.

My father could not stand against all of that, how can Robb?

When the cheering died away and everyone was on their feet again the man who’d rode in
with Jory pulled something from his saddle. A large sheathed blade Sansa recognized as her
father’s Valyrian steel greatsword, Ice. Carrying the sword forward with a lowered head and
hesitant steps, the mysterious southron man was introduced by Jory.
“My king, here stands Olyvar Frey, son of Lord Walder Frey. He and his brother Ser Perwyn
were among your father’s party when we were ambushed. Without their efforts I would not
be standing here today, King Eddard’s bones and sword lost. The brothers Frey defended us
in our efforts to rescue all, Ser Perwyn falling in service to his king.”

Robb crossed the rest of the distance between the Frey and himself, grasping Ice but not
moving to take it from the man’s hands. Instead he bid Olyvar to meet his gaze, which Sansa
found full of sympathy.

“Your brother’s name shall be known to all northmen.” Robb said. “His sacrifice does honor
by House Frey. That you stood for my father when I could not means I owe you a great debt
Olyvar. I shall bestow upon you a knighthood. If there is any more I can do for you, good
man, speak to it and surely I will see it done.”

“I ask for nothing your grace.” Olyvar spoke quickly, clearly unready for Robb’s gratitude.
“My brother died as a subject of the Starks. I only ask to honor his death and my fealty by
serving as your man, however you’d have me.”

“Then my man you shall be.” Robb nodded, looking down to Ice and tightening his hold
upon it. “But I shall offer you a vow as well, Olyvar Frey. The same I swore my mother, my
brothers and sisters and I swear now to my father.”

With that Robb took the sword handle and while Olyvar held the sheath he pulled the
greatsword free. The dark and smoky color of the steel made Robb’s hair and eyes look all
the brighter.

“On the blade of my ancestors I so swear to have vengeance on those who have wronged us.”
Robb spoke through gritted teeth. “Justice for all those killed by Lannister treachery. I shall
not rest until Ice is red with the blood of lions.”

He looked to Sansa then. “And stags.”

Robb meant well but her face burned. That her family all looked to her then was bad enough.
When countless others did the same she lowered her eyes and released Rickon to pull her
cloak all the tighter. Trying in vain to hide her shame.

It was horrid to feel thankful when Robb commanded father’s journey continue on to the
crypts, for it stole the attention from her. This was a far less public honor, for while her
family led the procession to the crypts only the highborn and dearest servants of House
Starks were permitted to follow.

This was not how Sansa wished to welcome father home. He was meant to ride back through
the gates and find her there, thankful and happy. She was to embrace him and feel safe in
those strong arms once more.

Nothing good ever comes of us going south, she thought, I told father that… I told him not to
go…

Once Sansa had felt much differently. Years ago, when she was young and naïve, her mind
filled with songs of southron knights and romantic songs. It was her dream to one day be a
queen of a kingdom in warm, flower-filled lands. A dream she thought had come true when
the Durrandons came to visit. Her father and the Robert Durrandon were old friends, having
fought side by side to drive the krakens from the riverlands. Ever since the North had ruled a
swath of the riverlands, joining the kingdoms of the Storm and the Reach in dominion over
parts of those rich lands.

While mother described the south as a place of great beauty King Robert was not much to
look at. Fat and sweaty as he had been Sansa was unimpressed by the southron king, yet his
heir had been the very image of a prince. Joffrey Durrandon took after his Lannister mother
in all ways, golden hair, bright green eyes and a handsome face. To hear of her betrothal to
Prince Joffrey was a sweet thing, that she would be going south with the Durrandons the
answer to all her prayers.

Yet the gods were cruel.

Things had gone well at first, her prince acting kind to her while a tad harsh towards
smallfolk and his own siblings. Those were the first signs of the monster Joffrey truly was yet
Sansa was blind to it. That all changed when King Robert died in a hunting accident and
Joffrey took the crown himself. War had been brewing, the Durrandons and Starks set to ally
against the Kingdom of the Reach and take full control of the riverlands. Sansa knew Queen
Cersei preferred Robert ally with the Lannisters instead and disdained how much land he
meant to share with the Starks.

Joffrey went back on all Robert's pledges, demanding nearly all the land they were set to win
and parts of the riverlands already held by the North. Still not content, Joffrey commanded
the Starks to fight for him, to help crush his uncles Stannis and Renly, who had raised up
claims to his throne.

Father’s stern refusal of Joffrey’s demands led to her first ever beating. Joffrey had his sworn
swords take out his wrath on her body.

It was merely the beginning of her torment. Every loss or setback Joffrey suffered in his mad
rule was visited upon her through beatings and worse. The small retinue mother had sent with
Sansa to Storm’s End were murdered before her eyes. Joffrey had forced her to stare up at
Septa Mordane’s head on a spike twice. Once when it had only just started to rot and the
crows had been at it. The second after a storm had stripped half the greenish flesh from one
side.

Nothing was too sadistic for Joffrey. She was beaten until her body was a tapestry of bruises.
Stripped naked to the jeers of men. Taunted with lies about her family being murdered.

The war went so badly for Joffrey she feared he would kill her before any rescue would
come. For two years that hell dragged on and her hope struggled to survive. It was at her
worst that a hero saved her, the most unlikely of men. Now, years later, Sansa believed
Sandor Clegane had been a hero all along. The Hound might have served Joffrey, his life one
of violence and cruelty, yet he never struck her.
In the end, it was he who showed her mercy. Sandor Clegane who showed more nobility than
any of the knights who witnessed her torment.

Sandor who rescued her. Sandor who cared for her. Sandor who showed her there were still
good men in the world.

And how unforgiving the world is towards them.

There was no denying that as she watched father’s remains sealed within his tomb. While
scores of torches had been brought down with them into Winterfell’s crypts somehow the
darkness persisted. It hid along the edges of the granite pillars holding the earth above their
heads, behind the nearest statues carved into the likenesses of dead Starks. The shadows
loomed behind her grandfather Rickard and uncle Brandon, father’s statue now joining them
in this damp, chilly place.

Words were said, rites observed, yet all Sansa could think of was once it was all over the
darkness would be back. They would leave and father would stay, buried here in this cold,
dark place.

Such was why, when everyone else made to leave, she stayed put. Mother was too bereaved
to remain any longer, Arya and Bran each holding one of her hands when they left. Jory
enfolded a weeping Rickon into his arms, leading her little brother away. One by one the
Starks and their allies made to leave the crypts until only the king’s two eldest children
remained.

“It doesn’t look like him.” Robb spoke hoarsely. “The statue… that’s not father. Not the one I
knew.”

He was right. While the stone mason had certainly done a good job in capturing a strong,
stern looking king, one with direwolves curled at his feet and a bronze sword laid across his
lap, Sansa could never name it her father. His stone grey eyes too unfeeling for the king who
had shed a tear to be reunited with her. His face too hard for the father who kissed a
daughter’s head when it was full of worries. His skin too cold for the man who embraced her
before leaving Winterfell for his trip south.

“It’s just a statue.” She replied, wiping away a tear. “Just some stone thing father rests
beneath. It can never be what he was to us… what I remember him as…”

Robb grunted and made to run his hand along the bronze blade on the statue’s lap. She
watched as his shoulders slumped, his head shaking as he did so.

“This is my fault.” Robb choked out. “It should have been me to go. Me who died, not him.”

“The Boltons needed to be dealt with.” She reminded him. “Their rebellion had to be put
down and father trusted no one more than you…”

“No, no you don’t understand… father didn’t just go south to treat with the river lords. He
went there for me.” Robb turned to face her then, anguish etched across his face. “Father was
going to treat with the Gardeners. Trying to secure a peace between us, an alliance of both of
our kingdoms. It was a secret, at least it was meant to be...”

“That doesn’t make sense.” She said. “Father held nothing but disdain for King Mace. Ever
since the war when he let Tywin Lannister march through their lands to ambush our army…”

“That’s true.” Robb nodded. “But he hated Tywin and Joffrey more, we both did, for what
they did to you. We both wanted justice for you and everything points to the Lannisters and
Durrandons preparing for war again…”

He made fists at his sides and cursed beneath his breath.

“It was my idea, the alliance with the Gardeners. Princess Margaery was unpromised and I
suggested to father that I marry her. It was me who pushed him into seeking allies in those
soft flowery bastards…”

It wasn’t that much of a surprise to hear this. All knew father’s southron bannermen stood
between Tywin Lannister and his goal of uniting the Rock and Storm kingdoms. Pinkmaiden,
Raventree Hall, Seagard, the Twins, all begged for men the Starks just didn’t have. Even her
uncle Edmure, Lord of the River Marches, warned that if the Lannisters marched Riverrun
could fall.

Which was believable since her father was killed while travelling through their own southern
holdings. Such was the power and reach of the Lannisters.

Yet Robb’s admission spoke to something more sinister.

“The Gardeners betrayed him.” Her hand went to her mouth. “That’s what you’re saying isn’t
it? They told the Lannisters father would be coming.”

“They swear they didn’t.” Robb spoke through gritted teeth. “As Maester Luwin tells it the
raven proclaiming father’s death barely arrived before one came from Willas Garderner. The
Greenhand prince swearing up and down they were outraged by all this.”

“Not so outraged they called off Margaery’s betrothal to Joffrey.” She felt a cold creep up in
her, for that arrangement had followed father’s murder as well.

“The bastards.” Robb trembled with rage. “Prince Willas pledges peace between our families
now but what’s that mean to me? Two kingdoms set against us instead of three? Is that the
great feat I sent father to his death for?”

“Robb you couldn’t have known-”

“I should have!” He yelled, his cry echoing throughout the crypts like the ghosts of old
agreed. “I have to know these things! I’m the king now, I have to protect all of you! The
kingdom itself! The prince who got his father killed!”

“They killed him Robb, not you.” She tried to take hold of him but he backed away, half
hidden in shadows now. “You heard the lords out there, all the people, they believe in you.”
“Belief doesn’t mean victory Sansa. Else I would’ve broken through the gates of Storm’s End
myself and saved you before Joffrey…” Robb’s face lowered and the darkness hid his
expression, just as she tried to block out what he spoke of. “It makes me furious to think that
monster is set to marry and lords turn up their noses at you…”

Let them, she thought, better still have them ignore me altogether.

All men can smile but they can be monsters all the same… I cannot bear to be given to
another…

“There must be war.” Robb’s voice came from the darkness. “Against Tywin and Joffrey
both. Our bannermen north and south scream for it. With the Boltons rebelling and the
Arryns fighting amongst themselves father felt a war coming, that’s why he listened to me.
Mother says I should make peace, offer our enemies all our lands south of Riverrun but I
can't do that. We'd look weak. Those families we’d be giving away have fought hard beside
us, against the Durrandons and Lannisters both… I can’t betray good men.

“Good men are betrayed every day.” She looked to father’s statue. “They die long before
their time… and I don’t want you to be among them Robb. The last time father and you
fought against the Lannisters you had the Arryns to help. Stannis and Renly to distract
Joffrey’s armies….”

“And now that’s all gone. Gods Sansa, you do take after mother.” Robb sighed, leaving the
shadows to behold father’s statue at her side. “She said the same thing so let me tell you what
I told her. Surrender is not an option. Neither is defeat. We win or we die.”

“We can’t win. Not alone.” She pleaded. “Two years Robb. Two years I spent alone with
those people. Surrounded. Outnumbered. I escaped because of a good man. A friend. I’d be
dead and buried if not for him… and we all will be if you try and stand alone…”

Robb suddenly took hold of her arms and jerked her about to face him. “You will never be
alone again Sansa. Never again. I won’t let you or any of the others die because of me. I’m
not being proud, I know if I try and fight the bastards alone we’re doomed. That’s why I’ve
asked for help.”

“From who?” Sansa asked as she remembered being held by Sandor once in such a way.
Though she’d felt smaller in his arms, for he had towered over her while Robb and she could
look eye to eye. “The Martells?”

He shook his head. “They’re in a bad way too. No, it’s the Starks in danger so it’s a Stark I
reached out to.”

“What can Uncle Benjen do?”

Their beloved uncle was in White Harbor with his wife Wynafryd Manderly and their
children. While always welcome guests here at Winterfell Sansa saw little Benjen could offer,
for his command of the Stark fleet amounted to only two score galleys.

“Not our uncle.” Robb corrected. “Our aunt.”

“Aunt Lyanna?!”

It was Sansa’s turn for her words to echo through the corridor, as if the name Lyanna was a
shock to the spirits as well. Many here in the North spoke her name in hushed tones but to
Sansa her aunt had always been a magical figure. Saved from slavers to wed the most
powerful and famed prince in the known world, it was safe to say Sansa had aspired to living
a story as romantic as her aunt’s. She’d even played at being Lyanna as a child.

Yet none of them had ever met the High Queen of the Targaryen Empire. Truly all they had
knew of her were stories told by father and Uncle Benjen.

When Sansa left the crypts alongside Robb she had more than stories to go by, and more than
fears to haunt her.

Robb had to host a morose feast in the Great Hall for their visiting lords but didn’t force
Sansa to attend. She was thankful for that, the dampness of the crypts had found its way
within her gown so now the garment felt wet and heavy against her skin.

The mood of the castle was more somber than usual. Every servant or guard she passed on
the stairs of the Great Keep looked glum or offered words of condolences. When she opened
the door to her chambers a welcome sight greeted her, the first one in hours. Upon her bed,
filling the entire breadth of it, was a large grey direwolf.

“Lady.” She smiled, for no matter her mood, the wolf could always make her smile. “Oh you
lot chose a horrible day to stray from our sides.”

The wolf cocked her head, those golden eyes locked on Sansa as she came to sit upon the bed
and wrap her arms around Lady’s neck. The beast responded by sniffing and licking at her
face, whining some as her desperate hold dragged on. Sansa couldn’t help it, for the direwolf
never failed to give her strength. All her siblings had been wroth to find their wolves
disappeared a few days past. It wasn’t unusual for the five to leave the castle, they often did
so whenever the sixth of their number appeared outside Winterfell’s walls.

The Ghost the smallfolk called it. The albino direwolf that never fit in at Winterfell like the
others had. The runt who went unclaimed by any of the Stark children and had run out the
gates as soon as it was old enough to. Father predicted it would die without its pack yet
sightings persisted and every few moons the white wolf would appear. Each time the silent
spectre somehow bid his brothers and sisters to join him for a run about their lands which
lasted for days.

Such was what happened only days earlier yet Sansa was happy enough to find Lady returned
to her.

“I always feel safer with you here.” She kissed Lady’s snout as she rose from the bed. “If
only you’d come to me before I’d gone south. You would’ve smelt the rot on Cersei and
Joffrey from the start.”

Lady whined at that, almost in sympathy, yet she could not blame the wolf. The pups had
been found after her return to Winterfell so there was nothing Lady could have done to
protect her. Not like she did now, for the wolf was one of two people Sansa could ever
undress in front of.

With her gown covering so much of her skin its dampness made it to uncomfortable to bear.
Once Septa Mordane or others would’ve helped her undress but that was a time long gone.
Only mother had ever viewed what Sansa now displayed to Lady as she stripped.

Sansa’s body was slender but her hips were wider and rear full enough that men turned their
heads to watch her pass. Her breasts more than filled her hands, round and firm as they were,
topped with light pink nipples she thought matched the hue of her lips. In the dark Sansa
could pretend this was all she was.

She knew better though and the light of her chambers left no mistake of the painful truth. The
scars were few and small but there nonetheless. Three thin lash marks upon her back, a
handful of pale marks where blades had cut upon her chest and stomach.

“Nothing that mars your beauty.” Mother had said of those marks. “Nothing a good man
won’t be able to ignore.”

Yet even mother had struggled to speak kindly of the worst of her scars. The one burned into
the back of her right shoulder. The dark image of a stag, etched deep into her flesh by Joffrey
with a red-hot brand. Three men had held her down for Joffrey to scar her in such a way, the
vile creature laughing through her screams and the sound of her searing flesh. A fourth man
had been among their number but his protests had earned him a rebuke and dismissal from
the cruel occasion.

She’d been lost to a world of pain and burning for days afterwards, for her golden tormentor
had forbidden the maester from dosing Sansa with milk of the poppy. That time had been a
haze of agony, cruel green eyes and sickening laughter.

Yet when she regained her senses she found herself free of all that torment.

For her protector, the only man in Joffrey’s service never to strike Sansa and the only one to
oppose his branding of her, had somehow spirited her away from the castle.

“Quiet now little bird.” The Hound had warned when she awoke upon a small rowboat to
find the scarred warrior rowing them along the shoreline. “You save your strength. We’ve a
long way to get you away from the flames.”

Sandor hadn’t lied. Their escape from Storm’s End began a months long flight through the
south. Always heading north in hopes of somehow finding the northern army. She’d been
fearful in Sandor’s clutches, for he was often gruff and harsh with her in speech. Yet when it
came to cleaning her wound or carrying her through rough terrain, his tenderness betrayed
Sandor’s true self.

“You’re a hero.” She’d said one night, Sandor nearly choking on a squirrel he cooked for
them. “You’re my hero… a true knight…”
“I’m a man cooking a squirrel.” He’d grumbled back. “A hero would’ve kept you from being
burned.”

“But you saved me.” Sansa had answered back and the man grimaced again.

“For gold. Your family will pay me most like.” Sandor lied, for he often demanded payment
of another kind from her. “Sing for me, little bird. Sing me a song that makes me forget how
ugly I am.”

Sansa liked to think she’d never sung more beautifully. For she spent weeks singing her dear
protector to sleep each night. Willing that her lyrics would somehow reach the kind man who
cared for her so dearly. That he could accept them where he rejected her words.

Or her body.

They had found an inn near the Blackwater during a stormy night. After two months together
it was the first time the Hound had not pretended Sansa was his daughter when they took the
last room. Their clothes had been soaked through. The fire small, its meager flames offering
little warmth. Both had stripped themselves down yet only Sansa lay upon the bed. The
Hound resting his naked body on the floor, claiming with enough wine he’d survive the night.

She offered him blankets and he rejected them. She offered him the bed itself and he rejected
it. She became so desperate to save him from a chill he’d awoken to find her laying beside
him on the floor. A blanket thrown over top of them both, their naked bodies pressed
together.

Sandor had been so lost to the drink it felt like an eternity to her before he finally opened his
eyes. For she’d been alive with a feeling deep within her, one that kept her hips pressed
against his side and her heart pounding in her chest.

“Little bird… what the fuck are you doing?” Sandor had asked in a raspy tone, yet as soon as
his eyes found hers she’d done what she’d wanted to do for weeks.

She kissed him. His unshaven cheeks were rough and his breath stunk of wine but Sansa
kissed Sandor with all the love she could bring to bear. While lightning crashed without and
thunder boomed above the man who could’ve broken her in two accepted her kiss. Again and
again Sansa had kissed him, her lips and cheeks raw and her skin on fire, yet the most Sandor
did was steady her shoulders as she did so.

Until her leg rose up and brushed against his manhood. A hard, thick thing which sent a
shiver through her body. As soon as she’d done that Sandor came alive, nearly throwing her
aside like he did the blanket. He lifted her up in his powerful arms and laid her down in the
bed, leaving her naked body open for his eyes to take in. When lightning flashed without she
was given the same opportunity.

Sandor’s massive body had bulged with muscle and his chest was thick with dark, coarse
hair. His manhood had the same thick thatch of hair about it though her eyes were locked on
the size of the staff which stabbed out at her. Once Joffrey had a team of stable boys enter her
chambers at night, naked and stiff in such a way. Her screams of terror to find them standing
over her had amused him and thankfully he’d derived as much delight from denying them her
body as tormenting her with the threat.

Something Sandor had tried to deny himself as well.

“I can’t.” Sandor had rasped as he looked down at her. “I’m a monster but not this kind of
monster….”

“You’re no monster.” She’d answered, reaching for him, tears in her eyes at how much she
wished to be with him. “Please Sandor… love me… love me like I love you…”

The man who denied his true self did not deny her then. It had hurt, she knew it would, yet it
was a hurt she was willing to take for him. Sandor was soft and gentle with her, refusing to
move without Sansa urging him to. The pain never truly went away but it dulled, which made
seeing and feeling Sandor’s great pleasure all the better for her.

When he reached his release Sansa nearly wept to see the look of unfiltered happiness on her
love’s face. Never had his scarred eye opened in such a way that she saw joy in it and Sansa
had kissed him hard to ensure that moment lasted as long as it could.

Yet their time together was not to last much longer. Not a day after Sansa and Sandor made
love, her head full of names for their future children, Joffrey’s men had come upon them.

That was when the Hound appeared again. He was one against six and Sansa could do
nothing but scream in terror as he met their challenge. Sandor Clegane was a hero, she’d
known that for some time before watching him overcome such numbers. Yet even a hero
could not survive the wounds he took. She was no healer and he said it wouldn’t matter, he
was doomed. All that mattered to him was getting her as far as he could. Sandor held on for
three days after the fight, each day more agonizing than the next.

Until the morning they awoke and neither Sansa nor Sandor could lift him onto his horse.

“This is it then.” Sandor had winced as he collapsed against the base of an oak tree. “Time for
the little bird to fly free.”

“I can’t.” Sansa wept, burying her face in his neck and making to lift him again. “Please I
need you… you saved me… we’re in love and are going to be married…”

“Never.” He’d pushed her away. “I’d never wish that on you… if I was all you make me to be
you’d not have that mark on your back… I’d have given you that mercy…”

With that he’d kissed her, a soft, tender kiss. One that ended with him pressing a dagger into
her hands.

“And now I beg you for a mercy little bird. A song and some mercy. A good end to a bad
life.”

She’d argued of course. She’d wept and screamed but it was all for naught. Sansa was not
strong enough to lift him. Nor was she strong enough to deny him.
It was a cruel thing. Hundreds of times before Sansa had imagined killing Joffrey. In the end
though she killed the man who saved her from that monster. To spare the man she loved any
more pain she found the strength to press a blade into his heart.

A day later Lord William Dustin, who knew Sansa from birth, found her filthy and weeping
next to a recently dug grave.

Such was how Sansa came to be returned to her family. It was also why she remained
unmarried to this day.

For while none knew she gave up her virtue to a good man, all knew an evil man had branded
her as his own.

And as Sansa gazed at her naked body in the looking glass of her chamber she felt content to
accept such.

Joffrey may have branded me but I gave myself to Sandor.

A good man… of a kind I’ll never see again…

With a hand to her heart Sansa willed it the beating thing to turn cold. For it could never beat
as powerfully for a man as the one she had already lost.

For Sandor Clegane had been a man like no other.

THE HEARTLANDS

The Targaryen palace of Summerhall was a beacon of beauty and power unlike any other.

That was truly saying something, for these lands were already splendid in their own right.
The Heartlands were called such for good reason, for they laid between three of the empire’s
greatest cities. Lys, Myr and Tyrosh, the three daughters of Old Valyria, all sitting along the
edges of this fertile region. Once, in the anarchy following the Doom, those cities had fought
bitterly for control of the lands separating them. That time had long passed though, in the
peace to come during the Targaryen reign the so-called Disputed Lands proved to be the
richest and most fruitful of the imperial domains.

Such was why the Heartlands were chosen to build the new home of House Targaryen in
Essos, Summerhall. While the High Kings ruled the empire from its capital in Volantis it was
at Summerhall they raised their families. The magnificent palace had been built using dragon
flame and white stone quarried from far away lands. Three tall towers rose high into the
skyline, the Towers of Visenya and Rhaenys being shorter, the tallest being the Aegonspire.
Dotted with wide windows and balconies, each was topped with massive stone dragons.
Their wings spread apart while their mouths snarled into the sky, beacon fires burning bright
within those massive jaws

Below the towers were a number of pale keeps and spires of various purposes, many with
terraced gardens and reflecting pools jutting out from their sides. To Jon it was a mark of
vanity to have private pools and gardens in such a place. For Summerhall sat along the
shoreline of a wide, tranquil lake. Surrounding it were green fields and lush orchards that
stretched so far that Jon had been riding through them for the better part of an hour before
finally reaching his family’s home.

A month after leaving Qohor he was finally able to heed his parents’ summons. He rode with
only a score of his most loyal retainers, for no army was allowed within five leagues of
Summerhall without the High King’s invitation. His friends rode the closest, Gendry and
Greenbeard to his right, the Blackfish and Thoros to his left. They made quite the impression
on the field tenders they passed, many rising up from their work to stare. When some
recognized Jon they smiled widely and cheered.

“The Free Queen!” They shouted. “The Free Queen!”

He raised his hand up and wondered how many of these folk were free due to his mother. For
mother had long ago convinced father to free all the slaves tending these fields. In truth his
father no longer owed any slaves himself, unlike other members of House Targaryen.

As his horse clattered upon the smooth Valyrian road leading to the palace gates he wondered
which of his family might be gathered within. There were some Jon hoped to find there,
others he wished far away.

When they passed through the gates and into the wide, cobbled courtyard of Summerhall its
splendor took him aback. After years of harsh living the many golden statues and tall fruit
trees made him feel like he was unworthy of such a place. That was until he noticed the
beauty who was waiting to welcome him.

Queen Lyanna wore a blue gown of silk bound together by a pair of bronze rings, her skirts
trailing far behind her. She treated her hair much the same, for it fell well below her shoulders
in a cascade of dark brown, the color of the rich earth of these lands. Some said mother’s
grey eyes were cold but Jon had only ever found warmth in them.

It felt good to see little had changed.

“My boys!” Mother cried out happily, arms open wide at the sight of Jon and Gendry. “I shall
have Rhaegar strip you both of all your glories for staying away for so long.”

“It was not by choice your grace.” Gendry sounded abashed. “I swear it.”

“The Dothraki don’t bend to the will of mothers.” Jon added, quickly dismounting so Gendry
could do the same, an act of courtesy he had told the sergeant to forego.

When their feet hit the ground the queen gathered both into a warm embrace, as she had done
since they were young boys. Gendry’s cheeks turned red, for his friend was as embarrassed
by mother’s display as Jon was. Mother knew this yet hugged them all the tighter.

Gendry had come to them when he and Jon were just about eight years of age. Mother had
been leading him through a slave market at Volantis, showing him the crippling suffering of
the poor souls, when they’d come upon a young boy being beaten mercilessly by a slave
master. Mother had watched it with a mix of disgust and rage, for even queens had no right to
interfere in such matters. Yet when the boy began pleading for mercy in the Common Tongue
of the Westerosi she’d been driven to act.

Sending the slaver off with sheer ferocity mother had tended to Gendry herself. She’d paled
to take note of his appearance, proclaiming she’d known a king once of such features.
Gendry’s story came out soon after, for he was the bastard born son of the Storm King
himself, Robert Durrandon. He’d lived a life of relative peace as a blacksmith’s apprentice
until he drew the ire of the Storm Queen, Cersei Lannister. One night her agents came and
took Gendry away from the blacksmith he apprenticed for, putting him on a ship to be sold
into slavery.

In exchange for his cheap price the Storm Queen had attached only one condition to Gendry’s
sale.

“Please m’lady.” Gendry had wept from the pain of his beating. “I’ve done nothing to no one
save be an apprentice… they won’t let me be one here… they say I’m pretty enough for the
pleasure houses… I don’t know what those are…”

“Hush child.” Mother had gathered Gendry up into her arms, earning the protests of the
slaver. “I have never let gold pass between myself and the vile flesh traders. Yet I shall do so
now, if only to pay a debt I owe to Robert Durrandon. No matter if he never knows it.”

Such was how Gendry came to join their family, for mother refused to simply have him sent
away. She’d bought his freedom and felt responsible for him, thus Gendry had been raised
side by side with Jon, becoming the brother he always wanted.

Even though he already had a brother by blood. A fact which bid him to interrupt his
mother’s gushing kisses upon Gendry’s and his face.

“Mother, please, we’re warriors not children.” He broke away, his face growing stern. “Who
else is here? I heard tell the Golden Legion was camped south of the lake.”

Mother’s good cheer fell away and the face she wore for dire matters took its place.

“They’re all here. Every dragon there is to speak of, for either good or ill.” She sighed,
waving forward some servants to see to their horses. “Come, your father has called together
the Council of Heralds to hear your reports of the frontier. Your men should come as well,
Viserys and Aegon have brought theirs.”

“As you will it.” He nodded to the Blackfish and the others. “Prepare yourselves for a stare
off with the Golden Legion.”

“Splendid.” The Blackfish grinned. “Been a boring ride.”

As his mother led them along the marble walkways and silk curtained halls of the palace he
noticed something different in her. He’d missed it in the joy of the reunion yet now there was
no missing the dark circles beneath her eyes. When she caught him looking, her smile
appeared forced.
“Mother? What has happened?” He asked and immediately saw her forming excuses. “Don’t
hide things from me. We’ve been apart too long for that.”

“I wanted to wait.” Her words barely above a whisper, her hands wringing in worry. “Word
came from across the Narrow Sea. The Winter King is dead… my brother Ned has been
killed.”

“Eddard Stark?” He felt his mouth go dry for he knew the name well.

My Uncle Eddard, mother’s favorite brother, he recalled, whenever she spoke of the North’s
strength, of northern honor, it was his name she invoked.

“Eddard Stark was a good man.” The Blackfish spoke gravely. “I only met him twice but
there were few men better your grace.”

“I’m so sorry mother.” He stopped their steps, taking hold of the queen and kissing her brow
with care. “You called him a great man and I always thought to meet him… I hoped to at
least…”

“He would’ve loved you Jon.” She said, cradling his face, blinking away tears. “I blame
myself for not visiting years ago, I only hope his children can forgive the lateness of my
arrival.”

“Arrival?” He pulled away in surprise. “What are you-”

“Nevermind.” Mother interrupted, clearly done with the topic and urging him along once
more. “It is something we shall discuss later, it is unwise to keep the Council of Heralds
waiting.”

He wished to comfort his mother but there was no arguing against her reasoning. The Council
of Heralds had been a power unto itself since the end of the Dance of Dragons. Appointed by
the High King for life, and composed of the most powerful and wise men of the empire, it
was the council and only the council that could name the heir to the Targaryen crown. No title
existed in the empire save one bestowed by the High King himself, even that of princes and
princesses. The king could propose any Targaryen he wished as heir but unless they gained
the approval of the Council of Heralds, the king’s favor meant little.

In his father’s reign the council had only grown more powerful, for it was they who had
ushered in Rhaegar Targaryen’s reign in the first place. When his heir married a freed slave
High King Aerys had declared Prince Rhaegar’s life forfeit, promising to kill not only his son
but his wives and all their children. In this Aerys ran afoul of the council, for it was in
Rhaegar they put their faith in. That council had seen the prince as the most capable to right
all the wrongs Aerys’s madness had wrought in the empire.

The die was cast after Aerys had Rylar Rogarre, a member of the council, burned alive for
speaking in Rhaegar’s defense. During their next meeting, with Aerys feeling imperious, the
council members drew their blades and cut the king down. It spoke to Aerys’s unpopularity
that none of his sworn shields raised a blade to avenge him.
When they arrived at the council chambers it was the white-cloaked warriors of the
Highguard who permitted them entry. His men were forced to join the press of other armed
men gathered in the corridor, a score of Highguard warriors keeping watch over the different
factions. He and mother were only allowed one companion each and so it was that Gendry
and Ser Brynden who joined them in stepping through the doors.

The room was wide and circular, with open windows and tall pillars around the edges. At its
center stood a table carved in the shape of the Valyrian Freehold, a table the royal family
joined its councillors in standing around. Chief among them was the tall, black garbed High
King. A golden crown sat upon his father’s heard, a long mane of silver-blonde hair flowing
beneath it. His dark indigo eyes flashed to spot their arrival.

“Jonarys.” His father smiled to see him, a rare thing. “Thank the god Balerion you are well
my son, I feared so to send you against Khal Drogo.”

“I serve you and the empire, no matter the foe.” He answered, which earned a scoffing laugh
from another at the table.

His uncle Viserys looked much like the king, save being shorter and slighter of form. Where
Rhaegar exuded power and authority, Viserys oozed vanity and disdain. It said something
about his uncle’s character that Viserys commanded no legion of his own. He’d been forced
to raise his own company from the slaving elements of the empire, the Brave Companions
they were called. Though Jon found little bravery in hunting down escaped slaves or raiding
other lands to enslave others.

If any here captured the strength of the High King it was Aegon, Jon’s brother. Powerful in
bearing and displaying most of the Targaryen features, Aegon set himself apart from their
father by keeping his own pale hair cut close to his head. His brother was clad in black and
gold silks and offered a curt nod in Jon's direction. Beside Aegon stood his wife, and their
sister, Rhaenys. Black haired and olive-skinned, the princess took after Queen Elia in looks
yet differed from her mother in other ways. Her gown was bright red, an amber pendant
shaped into that of a flame hanging about her neck. Rhaenys’s conversion to the red faith of
R’hllor had driven a rift between Aegon and his wife, so that even now there was notable gap
between them.

None caught the eye more than the young woman now striding Jon's way. His father’s sister
was of an age with him and their relationship had never been one of aunt and nephew. While
he took notice of the Daenerys’s bright smile his eyes drifted to take in the rest of her beauty
as well. She wore a revealing purple gown, her lovely hair unbraided and bouncing along
with her bust as she came to embrace him. Far shorter than Jon, he was able to rest his chin
upon her head as he held her tight.

“It’s been far too long.” Daenerys whispered. “I missed you Jon.”

“I missed you too Dany.” He kept himself from kissing her head, for they were already acting
shamefully enough in front of the others. “I think you’ve shrunk.”

She slapped him across the face, light enough to spare him harm but loud enough to draw a
snort of laughter from his friends. With a hand to his cheek he gaped as Daenerys returned to
her place at father’s side, shooting him a look over her shoulder full of mischief.

Compared to Daenerys the councilmen were drab, uninteresting figures yet Jon took note of
them nonetheless. There were the usual noblemen representing the great cities of the empire
including Illyrio Mopatis of Pentos and Lysardo Rogarre of Lys. The great fleet admiral
Sallador Saan shared a whispered word with Varys, the eunuch seneschal, all while his
ancient great uncle Aemon moved his sightless eyes all about the room.

“Jon, your arrival is fortuitous.” Aemon nodded shakily. “The Sealord of Braavos sails to
Volantis, to conclude the peace we worked so hard to reach.”

“And gave too much away for.” Viserys spoke haughtily. “Aegon the Conqueror wished to
rebuild the Freehold, not let parts of it slip his grasp.”

“Braavos was never under the sway of Old Valyria.” Aemon noted. “Founded by the enslaved
in defiance of our ancestors, they take pride in their independence.”

“A slave is forever a slave in my eyes.” Viserys looked to mother as he said such. It was a
foolish thing to do with Jon so near and he was already advancing on the bastard when his
father acted first.

“Watch your tongue younger brother, else I will have it out.” The king snapped, bidding Jon
to halt his advance with a raised hand. “We are here to discuss Aegon and Jon’s victories, not
bicker like children.”

“Truly uncle, I’d thought you’d be in better spirits.” Aegon let his shoulder knock Viserys
some as he walked to shake Jon’s hand, doing his best to crush it in his grasp. “The toad had
his men follow my march, picking the flesh from my conquests like the vultures they are.
Good to see you Jon, I take it you’ve heard of my exploits?”

He had. During the long journey back from Qohor all he heard about was Aegon and the
Golden Legion's victories. While the Dark Order defended the empire’s northern borders
Aegon had expanding their borders to the south. The Ghiscari cities of Slaver’s Bay were the
empire's chief rivals to the south and had been slowly encroaching on their territory for years.
When Aegon learned Meereen was going to war against Yunkai, for some foolish reason, he
took advantage of it. Marching his Golden Legion up the Demon Road, Aegon brought the
truculent rulers of Mantarys to heel before seizing the port of Tolos and ruined city of
Bhorash as well. Not content with merely gaining new territory, Aegon went on to crush
Meereen’s defenses and sack the city and its great pyramids.

“One of our greatest rivals brought low.” Aegon smiled while some of the councilmen
clapped. “Hundreds of wagons of wealth to add to our coffers, thousands taken prisoner and
the pyramids of the Great Masters themselves set to flame!”

“A worthy offering to R’hllor.” Rhaenys clutched at her necklace and prayed as mother
scowled.

“And to the slave markets.”

“No need for harsh tones Lyanna.” Aegon reached out to take up a cup of wine. “Your son
held strong against the Dothraki, acting honorably. Yet it should fall to the first son to achieve
glory. Two victories are better than one.”

“Or none.” He said solemnly, garnering the attention of all. “Father, I fear I know why Qohor
was spared Khal Drogo’s wrath. It was not the Dark Order that drove him away, but the
prospect of far richer spoils elsewhere.”

He shot a glance towards Aegon. “Far to the south.”

“What are you talking about?” His brother crossed his arms. “Make sense Jon.”

“Word travels fast on the Dothraki Sea, from khalasar to khalasar. The Ghiscari have been
weakened, their cities and the lands of the Lhazarene open to attack. Every walled stronghold
between Meereen and the Sea of Sighs left broken, the empire vulnerable to attack-”

“How dare you?!” Aegon yelled, throwing aside his wine and putting a hand to his blade.
“Behind that mask of carved ice you call a face hides a jealous sot! Leave the warring to me
and go back to treating with slaves, that’s where you belong!”

Jon's hand went to the pommel of his sword as well and he tensed, not because of Aegon’s
threat but what his words implied.

“Why do I belong with slaves?” He asked, stepping forward. “Insult me all you want but any
slight towards my mother will be met, brother.”

“Jon!” Mother tried to take hold of him as Dany put herself between the brothers.

“Aegon say you meant no such thing!”

“Let him come!” Aegon waved Jon on. “Let’s settle who’s to be heir here and now-“

“Enough!” Father’s voice boomed like an iron ram against a gate. “Lower your hands from
those blades! You are sons of the dragon! Blood of the Conqueror himself! Act it!”

Despite father’s orders Aegon and Jon squared off still, his brother’s purple eyes doing their
best to beat down his own. Yet he could feel father’s gaze upon him as well, his mother and
Dany’s too. So Jon did as he was told, pulling his hand away from his sword and placing it
upon his heart, a salute to his king.

Aegon required a touch more to do the same, namely the touch of Daenerys’s hand upon his
arm. His resolve weakened as the pair looked to each other, the princess whispering a
command of her own that forced Aegon to abandon his threat. He soon turned to salute their
father as well while Rhaenys watched all this with fury.

“Forgive me father." Aegon mumbled. "I was only defending my victory against slander.”

“There was more wisdom in Jon’s observations than slander.” Father shot a glance to Varys,
who nodded. “Though less candor than I would’ve preferred.”
“The Lord-Commander is quite right.” Varys slipped between the other councillors in his soft
slippers and billowing silks. “The little birds fly far and wide, even in the cities of the
Ghiscari and the settlements of the grasslands. Several khalasars now move upon Lhazar,
Khal Drogo's among them. With Meereen sacked, its rival Astapor now dominates Slaver’s
Bay. Together with Yunkai and New Ghis, they are moving to restore their ruined sister.”

“So? What of it?” Aegon asked, though sounding a little less confident. “The horselords will
fight amongst themselves and then against the Ghiscari.”

“Perhaps.” Varys said with little conviction. “Though my little birds in Astapor say the Great
Masters there will wait out the Dothraki infighting and then try and buy the winner over for
an attack elsewhere.”

Aegon took a step back in shock and, while Jon had been proven right, he felt a knife twist in
his gut. He disdained the empire’s treatment of slaves yet it was ten times better than how
Ghiscari and Dothraki treated theirs. The thought of their foulness breaking over the frontier
made him sick.

It will take a lot of blood to throw them back, he lamented, more blood, rivers of it.

Rising up over my head, drowning me in it once more.

“Then it shall be war.” Jon admitted before gesturing to Aegon. “With the strength of the
Dark Order and Golden Legion together we might be able to-”

“No.” Father cut him off before addressing the others. “Leave us. Everyone but my sons and
wife, leave us.”

Rhaenys and Viserys both protested but his father sent them on anyways, Jon silently letting
the Blackfish and Gendry know to watch over Daenerys. He didn’t care for the evil eye
Viserys gave Dany after she kissed Rhaegar farewell and took Aemon's hand to escort the
blind prince out. Jon wasn't alone in watching Dany leave, for Aegon’s eyes followed her as
well.

Until the doors closed and father took Aegon and Jon into his confidence as he had since they
were but boys. Father cupped an ear each on both of them, drawing them close.

“There, now you must act as one to hear me.” His eyes moved between them. “When you
two let your passions get the better of you like that you play right into the hands of those who
wish to set brother against brother. The many factions of the empire are as dangerous to its
survival as its enemies. Rise above the politics, stay united and trust when I make my
recommendation for heir it will be in the best interest of both of you.”

He wanted to point out it wasn’t the crown he challenged Aegon over but he kept his tongue.
Father’s will was so powerful and after the years of bloodshed it felt good to be held by him
once again. Even if it was only to be lectured.

“Jon was right.” Aegon spoke begrudgingly. “If we join our strength we can bloody this new
Ghiscari alliance before they grow too powerful.”
“No, no I will not risk a war that could leave us open to the Dothraki. I will call up the
legions of the Rhoyne and levees of these lands to demonstrate our strength. I'll have
Sallador’s fleet harass New Ghis, in hopes of forcing them into accepting a separate peace
with us.”

Mother went to run a hand through father’s hair then.

“All of which will drain the empire’s strength even more.” She said. “At a time when your
father wishes to make many changes that will require a power we do not yet hold. Lands we
are yet to control.”

Expansion? Mother has never supported the expansionists.

She abhors their undying hunger for new territory and slaves…

Father took mother in hand then and led them all towards a large map hanging upon the wall.
A map of the known world, from Ulthos and Sothoryos to the Summer Islands and Westeros.
It was the Seven Kingdoms father directed their attention to, specifically the lands nearest the
farthest outpost of the Targaryen Empire. Their ancestor’s birthplace, the former seat of
Aegon the Conqueror himself.

Dragonstone.

“Westeros has lost a great man in Eddard Stark.” Father kissed mother’s hand. “His murder at
the hands of the Lannisters caught the Kingdom of the North off guard. King Tywin’s
ambitions would not be held back by a banner of truce.”

It was well known that Tywin Lannister, King of the Rock, was bent on controlling southern
Westeros. His grandson Joffrey Durrandon, the Storm King, ruled lands from the Dornish
Marches to the Bay of Crabs and the great castle Harrenhal itself.

Aegon tapped his chin in thought as he took in the map.

“King Tywin is making his play for a grand kingdom in Westeros.” He pointed disdainfully
towards Highgarden. “I see little to stop him from doing so. The hatred between Gardeners
and the Martells rules out any alliance there.”

Mother nodded. “And the battles between the Gardeners and Starks for the river lands has led
to bad blood there as well. With chaos in the Vale and the Iron Islands only interested in
reaving, the Starks and Martells are quite friendless. Even if they united, they would be too
weak to stand against the Lannisters.”

It made sense yet Jon disliked the conclusion he was led to by reflecting why all this mattered
to his father.

“You wish to support the Lannisters?” He tasted something foul in his mouth. “Father, I can
understand them being a powerful ally in the days to come and their gold could pay to shore
up our armies but I have to protest-”
“I’m glad you do, my son.” Father smiled to his mother. “Tywin Lannister is no friend to us. I
wish to create a new ally all my own. Our words are fire and blood. Your blood is of the
dragon my sons, but it is also of the Martell sun and Stark direwolf. I intend for you both to
do honor by your blood and bring fire to their enemies.”

He and Aegon were incredulous at this and thus began hours of discussion between father
and them both. Where plans were made and revealed all at once. It was long into night before
he was finally free to seek his chambers here at Summerhall.

They were far larger than he was used to anymore. The floors were marble with a bath carved
into the floor and behind some thin curtains lay an open balcony overlooking the lake
beyond. Years of sleeping in the cramped quarters of forts and pavilions ruined him for such
luxuries. Especially the large raised canopy bed he was meant to sleep in.

The bed where two naked young women lay waiting for him, both posed lewdly, running
their hands about their bodies in seductive ways.

“We’re for you, son of the High King.” One said, cupping a supple breast up at him.

The other dipped her fingers into her sex. “A gift, from your loving uncle.”

Viserys… of course… if only I could beat that piece of shit bloody…

It wasn’t a stretch to see why his uncle had sent these two to him. For both had dark brown
hair and pale skin, their eyes different shades of grey. Features as familiar to him as their
accents.

“You’re Westerosi? From the North?” He asked, ignoring their nakedness to find their
garments piled at the foot of the bed.

The two women shared an uneasy glance before the taller one nodded.

“Yes m’lord.”

“Then by the Old Gods, accept my apologies for this dishonor.” He offered the thin slips back
to both women, who merely stared in confusion. “I do not bed women held in bondage. I was
raised better, so please, dress and leave.”

As they did so he got a better look at their bodies. The scars and bruises were faint but there
they were, evidence of the treatment he was returning them too. Before they could scurry
from the room he asked them to stop.

“I want you to seek out the chambers of Sergeant Gendry in the lower levels.”

“Beggin’ your pardons m’lord but we was only supposed to lay with you.” The older one
answered again. “Then we was to go back to master Prince Viserys.”

“He’s no prince.” He snapped and felt bad when they recoiled. “Apologies, but please, forget
returning to Viserys. If you wish to return to the North go to Gendry’s chambers, tell him
who sent you and say the name, Lyanna. Do this and I swear, as the son of a Stark, you shall
be free again.”

The younger one met his gaze then, a look of unbridled hope flashing in her eyes. He
repeated himself once more and got both to agree to do as he said. Gendry would know what
to do, in their early days as simple cavalrymen in the order they’d helped many slaves this
way. People they hid instead of handing over to the upper ranks to enslave or sell for profit.
Long after the dreams of glory and service to the empire were tainted by the blood and rank
smell of rotting corpses Jon still took pride in helping those people.

The candles and torches blown out he stripped away all of his clothing, the heat of these
lands bidding him to climb into the bed naked. The breeze coming in through the balcony felt
good on his bare skin and he hoped somewhere in the castle, those two slaves bedded down
with hope in their hearts.

His father’s plans should have kept him awake but after all his travels Jon found himself
drifting off.

He was half asleep when she arrived.

Whatever entrance she stole through was a mystery to him. His battlefield instincts were still
sharp though, for Daenerys’s footfalls were barely audible on the marble floors. He rose up
on his elbows to see her beautiful form pushing aside the canopy of his bed. A moment later,
it was her robe falling aside, Dany not speaking a word as she displayed her pale naked body
to him.

Her breasts were full and high, the silver blonde hair about her sex as inviting as he
remembered. He was already hard by the time she crawled up the bed to lay a kiss upon his
lips. Gentle yet hungry all at once, her teeth nibbling at his lower lip.

“I said I missed you.” She sighed, letting her tongue tease his. “I meant to say I missed this
too.”

He said nothing as they kissed again and again, her lips sweet and hair like silk in his hands.
When she broke free it was only to kiss down his face and neck before moving lower. Dany
pulled the sheets away as she traced a wet line down his chest and then his stomach. When
she wrapped her hand around his cock he moaned a curse, for he knew what coming. Dany
looked him right it the eye as she took the head of his cock in her mouth, moaning herself to
wrap her lips around it.

When she began to move her head up and down it was like the years fell away. To times
when he had called Summerhall home.

Once they had all been young children here, running and playing in the pools and gardens.
Dany and Rhaenys used to take turns kissing Aegon and Jon both in those days. When they
grew older things changed, Rhaenys became distant after the death of her mother and Dany
and Aegon's kissing grew less playful. At one time he was sure it be those two to wed, for it
was no secret at ten and three Aegon took Dany’s maidenhead. Yet time weakened their love,
the pair having a falling out, Dany hurt by Aegon enjoying the pleasures of some of Viserys's
bed slaves.

They quarrelled and soon after Aegon left on a tour of the Three Daughters. That had been a
sad time for Dany and Jon had done what he could to see her through it. His efforts brought
them closer and closer, until their time together became the high points of his day. One thing
led to another between them, friendship giving way to love. Long before he killed for the first
time Jon believed he’d become a man the day Daenerys made love to him beneath a lemon
tree.

Later Jon would see there was more lust than love between them but he'd been too young to
tell the difference at the time. Of course, he'd asked Dany to marry him yet, with his leaving
to join the Dark Order and the war on the horizon, she refused him.

“If only so you return to me some day to ask again.” She’d wept to say at the time.

After a couple years, even though the feelings had faded, he had returned to ask again. He did
not begrudge Dany’s refusal, for she clearly cared for him enough to welcome him back to
her bed. To cradle him as he wept to experience something so beautiful after all the horrors
he’d been through.

He’d surely seen worse since but there would be no tears this night.

“Fuck.” He groaned when Dany looked him right in the eye before sinking back down onto
his cock.

His body wanted to arch and buck up into the touch of her lips and tongue but he fought
against that. It was far better to watch Dany suck and kiss at his cock. With her hand stroking
and pumping it, her mouth working the top, the sensation became too much. It had been too
long and she was far too beautiful.

“Now.” He warned her before grunting and filling his hands with the sheets. His climax was
so powerful she barely pulled away in time to escape the mess.

When it was done Jon fell back on the bed, lost in the ecstasy of the moment while Dany set
to cleaning him with the sheets. She would have him clean for what came next, for they were
practiced at this by now. His cock remained hard, as it often would be after the first release.
She moved to straddle him when Jon wrapped his arms around her and flipped Dany onto her
back.

“Jon, you don’t have to.” She said halfheartedly as he pushed her legs apart. “I thought you’d
be too tired to- oh yes…”

Her words faded away as he lowered his mouth upon her sex. He’d always enjoyed doing
this, tasting her. His lips and tongue making her all the wetter while her thighs trembled. She
sighed and moaned herself when he found her bud. It did not bother him that she bucked and
ground herself against his mouth, nor when her hands took hold of his hair to urge him on.
His jaw was sore by the time she reached her release but his manhood remained stiff. Her
cheeks flush and body weak, Dany accepted him with a gasp, the wet lips of her sex parting
before his cock which was so wrapped in a warm embrace he’d needed so. He tried to be
gentle but Dany’s hands clawing at his back and desperate kisses bid him to drive into her
harder and harder. As hot as this night was his body was burning, sweat dripping down his
face and mingling with hers as his mouth wrapped around her nipples.

The poles of the bed were quaking terribly when he came again, driving deep within his first
love to spend his seed. He stayed like that, his face buried in the crook of Dany’s neck, his
manhood still inside her while she stroked his back and breathed heavily. It was only when
the heat of their two bodies became too much that he rolled off of her.

Cool air moved over his sweat soaked and heaving body, his eyes focused on the dark canopy
above. Nothing was spoken between them, the only sound their breathing while he stared off
at nothing. Dany’s eyes had found something of interest though, for her fingers began tracing
the scars upon his body.

A long pale mark courtesy of a Dothraki arahk across his side. A bit of puckered flesh near
his left shoulder where a Braavosi water dancer had skewered him. An uglier scar along his
thigh, where a Ghiscari had lashed him with a steel-tipped whip.

“So many hurts in so little time.” Dany sighed, kissing her finger tips before pressing them
against a scar. “My poor Jon…”

“You do not have to look.” He grumbled, refusing to meet her gaze. Truly he could not bear
to look at her again, lest his youthful feelings get the better of him once more.

"Don’t grow cold to me again." Dany said, rising up on an elbow to look down at him, a
finger drawing lines on his sweaty chest. "Is it that northern honor Lyanna made you aspire
towards that troubles you? Jon, I thought we understood each other..."

"You understand me better than most." He cupped her cheek in his hand. "I was just thinking
on how that could be yet I'm still at a loss for how you remain unwed."

She smiled at the question, turning her eyes to the open window. "Freedom Jon, so many are
denied it in the empire so I will cherish mine. I wish no shackles on me, whether real or the
ones a husband burdens a wife with. Do you hate me for saying so?"

"Never.” He answered truthfully, feeling safe to speak freely with her. To reveal truths he
kept hidden from everyone else. “We are not meant to be, I saw the truth of that some time
ago. I love you Dany, I always will, but I can live without you. Try and imagine my mother
and father saying the same."

"I cannot, theirs is a love for the ages." Dany sighed, running a hand down the line of his jaw.
"Perhaps one day I shall feel such a thing... that I shall be worthy of it if I do. Lest I regret
losing out on such a soul like yours.”

She kissed his brow then, a long lingering kiss that was filled with more care than anything
else. When she pulled away her eyes were sad.
“I pray you find the love you seek Jon. You deserve it more than any of us."

“Because I don’t bed slaves?” He asked.

“No, because you believe in love. You have none of the ambition of Aegon or Viserys, not
even Rhaenys. Aegon thirsts for battle but every time you return from it I see how the
fighting burdens you, how the light in your eyes dim a little more. You take so little joy out of
life…”

He turned away from her, rising to sit at the edge of the bed and facing the window. In this
moment he didn’t like how close they were. To hear truths about himself that he was not
willing to accept. Dany’s hand touched his shoulder, soft and reassuring.

“Jon, you were born of a great love and have one of the truest hearts I’ve ever known. Likely
one of the truest the empire has ever seen. I fear what will happen to that heart if you cannot
find another that beats as powerfully. Please, ask Rhaegar to let the Dark Order stand down
for leave. Give yourself time to seek a bride… a love… or at least a reprieve from the
fighting-”

“You’re a dreamer Dany.” He said, looking through the curtains to the starry sky beyond. “I
envy you, your dreams, your hopes. Mine gave way to nightmares long ago... that’s my life
now. Battle after battle. Riding, killing, death, there’s not going to be any peace for me. Not
now at any rate. Father’s sending me across the Narrow Sea. Apparently I’ve seen enough
war on this side of the world, I’m meant to broaden my horizons by waging it in Westeros.”

“Oh Jonarys…”

Her hand pulled away and he didn’t blame her. If he could escape the darkness that found
him even in this palace of beauty he would surely try. Not if it meant breaking his vow to the
Dark Order or his father though, if he could not have peace Jon could still cling to his honor.

It was his honor that mother put so much faith in. While she hadn’t been home to Winterfell
since she first left, mother was intent on returning there soon. To save her family, to have Jon
help save their family.

We fight to save the Kingdom of the North. A war to preserve the Targaryen Empire itself.

More blood. More death. A duty he could not balk at.

When he felt the bed dip he turned to see Dany climbing off it, making to don her robe once
more. The arch of her back and the teasing way her hair moved against the top of her arse
reminded him there were better things he could be doing now than worry.

"You're going?" He asked and she held the robe before her, looking at him with sympathy.

"I thought perhaps we were done." She spoke with concern yet that look fell away when he
stood to face her, his manhood hard once again.

"It's been nearly a year Dany. I'm far from done."

“And it be nice to have a proper farewell between us.”

“Perhaps something I can dream on later.”

 Chapter 2
Chapter Summary

Nothing is the same and few things are what they seem when the dragons come calling
on the land of wolves.

THE DARK ORDER

The Dark Order was founded two hundred years ago by Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue
Prince.

In an otherwise tranquil period, the city of Mantarys raised a dread army, one that
raided by night and stole away hundreds before dawn. The poor souls taken in such
attacks were sacrificed for blood rites too unspeakable to mention. So ill-omened was
Mantarys that High King Viserys balked to send armies or dragons against it.

Until one man spoke up. Prince Daemon, the king’s willful younger brother. Having
been denied leadership of an imperial legion, Daemon began building an army all his
own. So popular was this rogue prince among the empire’s most hardened warriors, he
gathered a force of a few thousand with ease. Inspired by a trip to the Wall in faraway
Westeros, the prince drew from all ranks of nobility and freedmen, no matter their
breeding or background, uniting men in common cause.

Most in the imperial court believed that Daemon's campaign against Mantarys was
cursed from the moment he left Volantis. Half a year later, The Rogue Prince returned
victorious, flying upon his dragon Caraxes and leading his army home. Behind them
Mantarys and its blood worshippers laidsmashed, each league of the army’s return
marked by the impaled head of a foe.

In reward for their great victory, the High King bestowed upon Daemon’s men titles
and rank, the beginning of the Dark Order. From that time onward, its members could
claim spoils and honors like any legion. Yet unlike other imperial armies the order was
granted the power to name its own commander, a measure done by popular vote.

The order would go on to play a key role during the Dance of Dragons, helping raise
Aegon the Third to the throne. Over the years, famed warriors have risen through the
Dark Order’s ranks, including many with Targaryen blood. Aemon the Dragonknight,
Daemon Blackfyre, Brynden the Bloodraven.

Men both great and terrible.

Great and terrible… there are no better words to describe the Dark Order.
 WHITE HARBOR

Jon leaned against the dromond's railing and closed his eyes. The oars tilling the sea below
sent a salty mist up at him.

Not far from shore, the Jaehaerys was moving at a brisk pace, the triple-decked warship
pulling around a massive grey-green stone jutting out of the water. Rising fifty feet into the
air, its crown hosted a ringfort jammed with scorpions, spitfires, and scores of crossbowmen.
The giant stone dominated the approach to White Harbor, the northern port where much of
their fleet was already docked.

Built facing east along the mouth of a large river, this city would serve as their gateway to the
Kingdom of the North.

A hand touched Jon’s shoulder then, his mother coming to join him along the rail. The High
Queen wore a gown of the darkest grey, a garment far less eye-catching than the crown upon
her brow. A product of the finest smiths of Qohor, Queen Lyanna's crown was a circlet of
blue gold, wrought in the shape of roses. Jon was never one for jewelry or decoration but it
always made him happy to see his mother looking so elegant.

Her expression confused him though. Her eyes glistened with sadness while a small smile
pulled at her lips.

"I'm home." Mother spoke softly, her eyes moving over the city and the waterfront before she
pointed to the stone ahead. "Seal Rock. Gods Jon, that ugly thing was the last thing I ever
saw of the North. Brandon teased me when I wept to lose sight of it. He said he never knew
me to love seals so much... he always made me laugh..."

"The seals appear to have left with you." He put a hand overtop his mother's, squeezing hers
lightly. "This rock is now home to scorpions, far deadlier beasts."

Mother flinched some at his words. "The peace my brothers and I grew up with died with
Brandon. The North has seen war after war ever since, costing it dearly. My father, poor
Ned… I meant to see him one more time. In my mind, I pictured it all the same. My brothers,
my home… it was foolish of me. Twenty years of bloodletting and war, this city has changed
with it."

"It has grown stronger." A gruff voice spoke up from behind them. "As you did after many
hardships my queen. The Starks endure."

The voice belonged to one of the white-clad warriors keeping a respectful distance from
them. Ethan Glover was mother's oldest friend and the only Northman among the elite
Highguard of the royal family.

A thick, strongly built man, Ethan looked a powerful warrior in the white enamel and mail of
the imperial guard. In one hand he held the dark ironoak shaft of a poleaxe, in the other a
gleaming snow-white helm. His hair and beard were thick and russet-colored, bound in a
braid behind his head, with a bronze ring below his chin. None of that compared to Ethan's
most fearsome feature, the demon's mask brand burned into his right cheek.

The mark of a disobedient slave and a dangerous man. A mark Ethan wore with pride.

The Glover man had served as Brandon Stark's squire and part of mother’s escort to the
Storm King. After the slavers attacked their vessel, Ethan was captured and chained to oars,
no amount of whipping could bend his will. When it came time to throw off their shackles,
Ethan fought side by side with his princess. He’d never left her side since, following Jon’s
mother on her path to becoming High Queen, eventually taking the vows of the Highguard.
Ethan swearing his life to her safety.

"Your uncle's last words to me, ‘Protect Lyanna.’" Ethan had told Jon once as a boy. "He
trusted me. She freed me. I will do honor by them both, for the rest of my days."

As a boy, Jon saw Ethan as the paragon of all that mother told him of northmen. Strong and
fierce, proud and honorable, the Glover man was known far and wide as the High Queen's
mailed fist.

Though to mother Ethan would always be a dear friend and treated him as such.

"Thank you Ethan." Mother’s smile had a bit of mischief to it. "Now don't try and pretend
that seeing our homeland again doesn't touch you as well. None will think poorly of you for
shedding a tear."

"I am not one for weeping."

"Perhaps not today, but I remember a young boy freshly arrived at Winterfell, looking quite
misty-eyed to bid his mother farewell."

"I was a child then!" Ethan protested. "That is- I did not weep... I only showed sympathy for
my mother's plight..."

Jon held back a laugh but Ethan's Highguard comrade failed in that, Tumco Lho breaking
into a coughing chuckle that was quickly silenced by a glare from the older warrior.

Tall and dark-skinned, Tum was yet another who owed his freedom to Lyanna Stark. Born in
the Basilisk Isles and trained up as a gladiator for the slave pits of Meereen, Tum had led a
slave uprising that drew the eye of the empire. Thousands of slaves escaped Meereen, only to
be hunted by the Ghiscari legions, pressing them on a death march toward the Gulf of Grief.
That was where the royal fleet met them. Mother had convinced the High King to save the
rebels, to inspire the rest of the Ghiscari's slaves, in the hopes that it would cause future
uprisings for their enemies.

Tum, an able warrior with both sword and battle-axe, had begged for the chance to repay that
debt by serving the FreeQueen. In less than a yearthe warrior proved himself worthy to join
the Highguard, becoming one of mother's principle protectors ever since.
Father would've sent a third of his guard with her, had she allowed it. Instead she'd scolded
the High King on the kind of message that would send to the Starks of Winterfell, her family.

My family too, for what little that means, Jon thought, the Starks I know are the ones from
mother's tales, and most of them are dead.

There's no guarantee this King Robb will welcome us once he hears our offer.

Jon kept those worries to himself, for he'd already spoken on them at length with both his
parents before setting sail for Westeros. Instead he held his mother's hand as she pointed out
sights in the white-walled city as it grew closer with every moment.

A large castle sat upon the hill within the walls, the New Castle, seat of House Manderly. The
Wolf's Den was an ancient looking fortress overlooking one end of the long harbor, a strange
pall seeming to hang over the ruin. Truly it was the harbor that drew Jon's attention, for it was
packed with vessels flying the black and red banners of the Targaryen Empire. More than
fifty ships had ferried the Dark Order from Myr to White Harbor. Most were cogs and
carracks, dropping anchor in the city's large outer harbor. The twenty or so dromonds and war
galleys that served as escort were filling quays within the inner harbor, sheltered by the city
walls.

"Lord Manderly honors us by letting our warships dock there." Mother said as they watched
horses and black-garbed men streaming off of ships and onto the docks. "The inner harbor is
usually reserved for Manderly ships, the northern fleet."

"They have not strayed far." He pointed out the twenty or so northern galleys guarding the
entrance to the White Knife and the harbor itself. "A sign of caution... or a trap waiting to be
sprung."

Mother slapped his arm then. "Jon, these are bannermen to House Stark. Acting wary means
they are serving my family well. The same family, I remind you, that invited us here in the
first place."

"But they’ve never once sent an envoy to us. You call them family mother but I have never
seen the Starks once treat you as kin. Who is to say your brother's children are cut from the
same cloth as the man you remember?"

She looked surprised and hurt by his words, gazing at Jon as if trying to put a name to his
face.

"My father and brother were put in a difficult position after I decided to stay with Rhaegar.
By breaking my betrothal to Robert... it was a stain on House Stark’s honor. I knew what it
would mean and I stand by my choice, yet I never expected my family to understand. They
were well within their rights to shun me... but after Ned ascended the throne of Winterfell he
wrote to me. Benjen too. Our letters were few but in their words I found my brothers again. I
cannot see Ned's children plotting against us. Nor could I imagine you speaking of them so
harshly. To have you acting so... so..."

"Protective?"
"Cold." Mother sighed. "Oh Jon… when this is all done I hope you try and propose to
Daenerys again. She would be a fine match and you clearly love one another. It is time you
took a wife and cease this endless warring. With her as a mother I would have such handsome
grandchildren..."

He ignored her words, for their ship had moved deeper into the inner harbor, passing
the Jaehaerys' sister ship, the Alysanne, already at anchor. The Blackfish and Thoros were
overseeing the unloading of the dromond, both men giving a wave to see Jon's ship moving
into the quay next to them. When he turned to seek Gendry down in the hold, the queen made
to bar his path.

"Son, do not think I've missed the change in you. Even as a little boy you were solemn but
there was a happiness behind your frowns... a warmth. If I'd known what the Dark Order
would do to my darling boy, I would have made Rhaegar find some other duty for you.
Aegon's already wed well, if not happily. You can surely do better on both counts. Daenerys
would be perfect for you."

"For a woman so concerned with freeing people from bondage, you're far too content in
dictating the course of my life. I'm not a child, nor a slave to your wills mother-"

She cut him off by grabbing hold of his tunic and pulling him close, her eyes wide with
anger.

"Never speak to me of being a slave. Ever. Whatever else you think you've seen of this world,
the life of a slave is something you are blessedly ignorant of. You know nothing Jon."

A flush of shame crept up in his cheeks, for while he was a man grown it was still a terrible
thing to realize that he'd hurt his mother then. She spoke truly, in his righteousness he acted
like a spoiled prince. For all his troubles, he'd never shared half the hardship of these three
people next to him.

"I apologize your grace." He straightened and put a first to his heart. "Forgive me my
foolishness. I command men in battle better than I do mine own tongue. If you’d excuse me, I
would see to our landing."

Thankfully mother gave Jon leave then. He had little desire to stay behind and reflect on why
he had become so frustrated. It wasn't really mother's insistence on grooming him for the
imperial throne, which he had never coveted. Nor her attempts to wed him to Dany, who had
given Jon a tender kiss and a tearful embrace when they'd parted at Summerhall. Rather, it
was how mother and Dany agreed on how to ‘save’ him which bothered Jon, that somehow if
he married it would lift Jon from the darkness he now drowned in.

They act as if I want to be this way, he thought, this is what I had to become to lead.

To fight. To survive.

They believe a wife could save me from that while ignoring the more likely outcome... that I'd
drag the poor woman down with me.
His mind turned to the two slave women that Gendry had spirited away from Summerhall.
The women currently sharing a cabin below deck. Viserys had raised hell when he discovered
his bedslaves missing, accusing Jon and Lyanna both in their flight. Thankfully, Jon's fool of
an uncle spoke in such an impolite manner that Rhaegar became offended on their behalf,
ordering his brother away from Summerhall.

While Jon wished Viserys nothing but long and hard travels, he hoped the freed women's
journey was at an end. Bess and Elly were both grateful to be returning to the North as free
women, yet fearful of what their future held. Elly worried him most. Only ten and five, she
had tried on no less than three occasions to share his bed during the journey. She had no
family to speak of in the North and wept to offer herself as his own bedwarmer.

"My lord's bed would be kinder than the streets." Elly had sniffed as he rejected her
advances. "Or the brothels most like... Bess thinks we might find work there. I don't want to
be with so many men but Bess says it’s better than starving…"

It's not enough to merely strike their chains, he thought, freedom will not put a roof over
Elly's head or food in Bess's belly.

Viserys was a monster but he kept them alive. I must do better.

That's what this quest is all about in the end, helping these women and their like is part of my
parents' dream.

Thus, as the Jaehaerys was tied off to the quay and ramps were lowered down to the docks,
Jon reminded himself of the promise he made to Bess and Elly. They would be under his care
until shelter and work was found for them both. He prayed to do right by the pair and the
untold numbers back in the Empire who depended on the success of this journey

After a company of men and royal servants moved to line the edges of the dock, Jon and
Gendry descended the ramp, both wearing mail with swords strapped to their waists at the
ready. At the far end of the dock, near a large carriage, he spotted a sizeable welcoming party
of northmen, including a number of spearmen.

"If things go poorly do not worry on me." He said to Gendry, his eyes not wavering from the
northmen. "You get the queen back to the ship. My mother must be seen safely away."

"Ethan and Tum will do well by her. I'd be at your side Jon, like always."

"Not this time. You'll protect her with your life sergeant, that's an order."

He did not need to look to Gendry to know his friend understood. With a nod to some of the
servants the pronouncement of the queen's arrival commenced. Banners bearing the red
dragon of the Targaryen Empire were lifted high while trumpets blew a series of high notes.
Soon after, with a Highguard to either side, mother descended down the plank and onto the
dock. The welcoming party was not quite what Jon had expected. Ethan had set a high
standard for northmen it seemed, for the two men standing at the fore of the White Harbor
group were two of the fattest that Jon had ever seen.
Before he could reflect on this further their royal herald began to crow.

"Harken! Before you comes her imperial highness Lyanna Stark, High Queen of the
Targaryen Empire! The Majesty of Summerhall! Queen of the Freehold, from the hills of
Andalos to the river Rhoyne-"

"Queen my arse!" A voice called from within the Manderly party. "That's the woman who
used to beat me with sticks!"

A wiry, dark-haired northman pushed his way by the Manderly guardsmen, sending Jon's
hand to his sword. Gendry and Tum did much the same but Ethan, to his shock, waved off
their efforts. That's when mother let out a joyful laugh, grabbing at her skirts and running to
embrace the stranger.

"Ben! My little wolf!" Mother laughed as they wrapped their arms around each other, her
face pressed tightly against the man's closely trimmed beard. "Still yapping and causing
trouble I see."

"Like you're one to talk." The man pulled away, waving an arm to demonstrate how packed
the harbor was with men of the Dark Order moving about. "Look at all this! I just had these
docks fit enough for a queen and you show up and ruin them!"

Mother started laughing again and Jon began to piece together the stranger's identity. Their
features were very similar and few besides his father could make the queen laugh so warmly.
When the pair moved apart, Jon saw that the man's tunic displayed three grey wolves chasing
each other's tails on a field of white. Mother waved Jon forward then.

"Benjen Stark, let me present my son, Jonarys." Mother pushed both men together. "Jon, this
is my little brother, your Uncle Benjen."

"You remind me of Ned." Benjen Stark’s smile was tainted by the sadness in his voice.
"Though if you bothered to smile, I’d wager there’s some Brandon in there as well."

"My mother told me much of you Prince Benjen." He shook his uncle's hand firmly. "Though
I was kept in the dark about her beating you with sticks."

"A true demon she was." Benjen shook his head solemnly. "I think there was a log or two
involved-"

"Oh nonsense!" Mother cuffed Benjen's arm as he grinned playfully. That was when one of
the fat men behind them began to cough impatiently.

The pair looked so much alike that Jon was not surprised to learn they were brothers, though
he was a bit taken aback to learn they were knights. Sers Wyllis and Wendel Manderly were
Lord Wyman's sons, both men well past their prime, with thick grey mustaches that fell
below their chins. That, combined with their girth, reminded Jon very much of walruses he
once saw in Ibben.
Whatever their appearance, the Manderlys were nothing but amiable and respectful as they
welcomed the Targaryens to their city.

"Queen Lyanna, Prince Jonarys, we are honored to have you here." Ser Wyllis dabbed at his
brow, which was sweaty despite the cool northern air. "To have Targaryens within our walls,
surely this will be a tale for generations to come! Our father would be here himself but,
regretfully, the trek from the New Castle to the docks is a tad trying for him."

"He has put on a bit of weight of late." Wendel added with a lumbering bow. "We however
are fit enough to greet imperial royalty and its escort. Warriors to warriors.”

Jon shared a look with Gendry who appeared just as incredulous at those words. Somehow
both maintained their discipline in that moment. Mother waved away the Manderly brothers'
apologies, offering her hand for both men to kiss.

"A fine feast has been planned for you." Wyllis continued. "With only the freshest catches
and game from our own forests-"

"Grandpa move! I want to see the dragons!" A young voice brought their attention to a small
boy hidden behind Ser Wyllis's girth. The child, who could not be more than four, was
struggling against the efforts of a comely young woman keeping him pressed to her skirts.

"My apologies!" The woman sighed, throwing back her long brown braid and taking a firmer
grip on the boy. "I swear, my son learned his manners from his father."

"I'll accept blame on that account." Benjen nodded with a wink to the boy. "Let him come
Winnie. Here lad, meet your aunt and cousin."

"This is your boy?" Mother's eyes widened as she bent down to meet the coming of the dark-
haired child. "Little Wyllard? Why in my mind he was but a babe in a cradle."

"I'm not little anymore." The boy stated proudly before pointing to a green-haired lady near
his mother who held a bundle in her arms. "Lya's the babe now. She's the littlest."

Mother gasped and Benjen shrugged. "She was born two moons back. It was Wynafryd's idea
to name her Lyarra, after mother."

Such was how Jon came to be introduced to his uncle's family. His wife, Princess Wynafryd,
was Ser Wyllis's eldest daughter and blushed when mother came to place a kiss on her
cheeks. When the babe began to fuss, no amount of kind-hearted protests from Wynafryd
could stop mother from taking the bundle into her arms. As tiny Lyarra was fawned over,
Wyllis made to introduce the pretty girl who'd been holding her, his second daughter Wylla.

"Your grace." Wylla curtsied well but her eyes moved over his men with a fierce curiosity. "I
welcome you to White Harbor... your men as well. Is this truly the infamous Dark Order?"

"It is, but do not let the tales fool you. As grim as our name may be, my men will conduct
themselves with discipline and respect within your walls."
"Well that would be a waste." Wylla winked mischievously. "We've gone to such trouble to
stock the city with food and drink, it would be shameful for your men to miss out on the
festivities. Grandfather wants you to find as much wine as welcome here, women as well-"

"Wylla! This is a prince!" Wyllis sputtered some, coming to put an arm around his daughter.
"Forgive my daughter's impetuousness, my father spoils her. She speaks wilfully but to hear
her sing, oh it is like the sirens themselves calling. A score of lords have asked for her hand
after such a performance. Between us though, rumors fly that King Robb might seek her for
himself. My Wylla is surely worthy of a royal match… which reminds me, I've heard you've
yet to wed yourself-"

"Father!" Wylla hissed as her cheeks burned. Before Jon could answer, the Blackfish and
Asher Forrester, a newly made sergeant and a northman himself, arrived and rescued them
both from the awkwardness.

"Forgive the intrusion." The old knight bowed before addressing Jon. "Thoros and Balaq
have the men and the horses in the outer harbor formed into companies and I've done the
same for this stretch. I'd wager the order will be ready to move out within the hour, but we've
still got supply ships waiting for berths."

"Sounds like a problem for our Grand Admiral." Wylla smirked at Benjen, who was speaking
with Ethan while Wyllard hid behind his legs, staring up at the scarred warrior.

"Grand Admiral?" Jon asked and his uncle nodded.

"Aye, an honor I did not ask for yet it was bestowed upon me nonetheless by my goodfather.
Lord Wyman said there's no better choice to lead the Stark fleet than a Stark… no matter this
Stark's thoughts on the matter."

"Husband, you perform your duty well." Wynafryd put in. "It was my husband who
commanded the blockade of the Weeping Water during the Bolton uprising-"

"Thank you Winnie, but I doubt my war lord nephew will be impressed by my tale of sitting
on a bit of wood for a siege." Benjen came to sort things out with him. "Once some of your
ships are unloaded they can lay anchor up the White Knife, where the currents are calmer.
How many more are you expecting?"

"This appears to be all of them." Jon answered, the Blackfish grunting in agreement. "I'd have
the cogs put up the river-"

"Pardon me, you say this is all?" Wendel interrupted, joining Wyllis and Benjen in staring at
him. "But I count no more than four thousand men here."

"That sounds right, with sailors added in that is." Jon nodded, an answer which plainly
displeased their hosts. “We were more but recent battles drained us and we’ve not had time-”

"Benjen.” Mother handed Lyarra back to Wynafryd and made to take command of the
situation. “Brother, I'd appreciate it if you accommodated the Lord-Commander's needs.
Whatever else we need to discuss can surely be done when we meet Lord Manderly in his
hall. I for one am eager to thank our gracious host."

No argument arose and whatever misgivings the Manderly brothers had disappeared at the
spectre of having the High Queen journey through their city. They tried to usher mother into
joining the ladies and children in their grand carriage, which had carved mermen decorating
the sides, but she politely declined. Many looked askance when the High Queen mounted her
own horse instead but Benjen only laughed.

Most of the order was going to bed down in emptied lodgings near the far end of the city,
while Jon and a small company of his men would join the queen in the New Castle. Until
then, he would ride at the head of the order with his captains, his proper place as commander.
When he made to mount his horse, he felt a tug at his cloak, young Wyllard having taken
hold of it.

"Can I ride with you?" Wyllard asked, his little chin stuck high in the air. "Please? I won't fall
I promise."

"I... uh..." He looked to the boy's mother and found Wynafryd and Wylla both smiling, much
like his mother and uncle.

"It's fine by me!" Benjen shouted. "He sits a horse well if you keep a hand on him! Your
mother did the same for me once!"

"Go on Jon." Mother grinned ear to ear. "It's good practice for when you have a son of your
own."

He wanted to argue against it, to remind them that a march of the Dark Order was no place
for a child. His protests fell away as Wyllard began to jump up and down eagerly. His
excitement caused Jon to remember the little boy he'd once been. Begging for his father or
Ethan or even mother to lift him up onto their horses for a ride.

"Come along then coz." He took hold of Wyllard and lifted his small body up and into his
saddle.

When he climbed up behind the boy, he put a hand to Wyllard's hip and took the reins in the
other. Soon he was leading his horse away from the dock and onto the cobbled roadway
leading into the city. The wagons and horses of the Manderlys and the royal parties were at
the fore while a long dark mass of riders snaked down the edges of the harbor.

Gendry and Asher both chuckled to see the young boy sharing Jon's horse and a ripple of
laughter began moving down the ranks. Brynden winked at Wyllard while Black Balaq and
Greenbeard appeared bored at the spectacle.

"Now Wyllard, we are to lead these men through the city." Jon said, pointing at the lines of
riders. "They must be given commands, orders that must come from their commander. So you
will have to say what I tell you to."

"I get to tell them what to do?" Wyllard's mouth dropped and Jon could not help but grin.
"It's a high honor so you must treat it as such." He continued. "Now look to Ser Brynden,
and, as loudly as you can, repeat after me. Order attention!"

"Order attention!" Wyllard shouted and the Blackfish repeated the call, which echoed among
sergeants down the line.

An audible clanking and tremor of movement followed his men snapping to attention. The
only sounds to be heard after were the cries of seagulls and the crashing of waves. When Jon
and Wyllard commanded the men to ready themselves thousands donned their helms and
hefted up spears and banners. Wyllard stared in silence at the army of men whose faces were
now hidden behind dark steel. Jon donned his helm as well, the world growing dark save for
a narrow slit.

"Now we wait." Jon’s voice boomed in his helm in a way that made Wyllard jump. They did
not have to wait long, for Ser Wyllis broke free of his wonder soon after and waved the
Manderly party forward.

"Order, march!" Jon spun his horse about as Wyllard repeated the command.

The clattering of thousands of hooves upon the cobblestone streets drowned out the noise of
the carriage wheels and the sea itself. White Harbor's streets were wide and open, its city
watch having cleared people out of their path. As the Dark Order winded its way through the
city, onlookers packed along the street sides, hanging out windows or the tops of roofs to
watch their passing. Some appeared fearful, others pointing in wonder at Black Balaq's exotic
features, while a few were cheering to see young Wyllard at the head of the army.

The boy giggled and waved to his people, beaming to be a part of this grand parade. Jon felt
surprised at how much fun he was having as well, the child's joy warming his heart some.

Until Wyllard turned to look up at him with his wide, earnest eyes.

"One day I'll be just like you!" The boy spoke sincerely. "I'll be in the Dark Order! I'll fight!
Just like you!"

In that moment Jon remembered feeling so eager to join the order's march. It felt like an
eternity ago. A time before he'd ever shed blood or taken a life. Before he'd watched a friend
die or seen a child's corpse rotting in the hot sun. Before he'd ever won a victory, only to see
the families of the men he'd defeated whipped and enslaved in his family's name.

Through his helm's slit Jon saw all of Wyllard's youthful joy plain upon his face. Everything
else was darkness.

It scared Jon how much he preferred that to the boy's hope. The nothingness to those dreams.

They only served to remind him of a time when he'd shared such foolish hopes.

When he knew nothing.

 WINTERFELL

“Arya wait!”

Sansa’s command was hushed yet firm, her steps hurried as she chased her sister across the
courtyard. It was already filled with people rushing about, so Arya’s flight towards the Great
Keep didn’t draw much attention. Sadly the sight of Sansa and her friends chasing after Arya
caught many an eye.

They were all dressed in their fine gowns, the other ladies doing their best to show off their
best features. Jeyne Poole, already very pretty to begin with, had her hair braided so all could
see her lovely face and lively brown eyes more clearly. Talia Forrester moved gracefully in a
gown as dark a green as the needles of an ironwood tree. Beth Cassel’s curly, auburn locks
made up for her plainer face and her dress hugged her wide, attractive hips in an eye-catching
way.

Arya and Sansa were dressed very much alike, both wearing dark grey gowns with white
stitching at the collars and sleeves. There were differences though. Arya’s thick, dark hair
flowed freely while Sansa’s was bound up high in a conservative manner. Arya’s embroidery
was done in the pattern of running wolves while Sansa’s were roses. The neckline of Arya’s
dress was cut lower at the front, her bust being smaller than Sansa’s yet still shapely enough
to display. Her sister protested against it all but she was a maiden flowered now and mother
insisted Arya dress like a lady on this day.

Yet there was nothing ladylike in how her sister acted now. She was forced to watch as
Arya’s skirts were dragged through the mud of the yard, dirtying a gown that Sansa had
personally dressed her in. All five of the young ladies had spent much of the morning
readying themselves in her chambers. Their normal dressing maids were all called away as
part of the frenzied efforts to ready Winterfell for the arrival of its guests.

Mother worries our family will look poorly to the Targaryens, Sansa thought, yet they are the
ones who have shone poor manners.

They weren’t ’ t expected for another week. T his Dark Order must move like the wind.

Arya was only moments away from reaching the hall and Sansa had no doubt if she did that
Mother’s fears of being shamed would come true.

“Arya please!” She begged. “It is not worth it! Just stop!”

Arya did stop, but not because of her pleas. Nor was it the guards standing at the hall’s wide
oak and iron doors who barred her entry. Instead it was Lady who blocked the way, the grey
direwolf’s massive body moving back and forth as Arya tried to dart around.

“Lady move!” Arya demanded, stamping her foot. “You should be helping me!”

“She’s helping all of us!” Sansa snapped, grabbing Arya by her shoulders and spinning her
about. Angry grey eyes stared back at her and it hurt to think of father then. “I asked you to
stop. I asked you not to make a scene! What would you have done in there? In front the entire
northern court?”

“Exactly what that shit deserves!” Arya crossed her arms and looked to the other girls. “Tell
me you don’t think Robb should know!”

Talia made a sympathetic sound. “It was a ghastly thing for him to say about you Sansa. My
brothers would want to know if someone said such a thing about me-”

“Now’s not the time.” Jeyne said, hushing Beth before she could speak. “There are so many
lords and heirs in the hall! Father says we’ll never have a better chance of finding husbands.
If Arya pitches a fit she’ll spoil everything-”

“Then you should have held your tongue.” Sansa shot Jeyne a baleful look, for it had been
her clumsy attempts at gossip that sent Arya charging down here in the first place.

Arya was not the only one angry. The entire Kingdom of the North was clamoring for a new
war in the south. Robb was willing to give them that war, hence why his most powerful
bannermen had been gathering at Winterfell for weeks. While certainly busy with
preparations for war, mother had found time for Robb to see to other arrangements as well.
She apparently agreed with Vayon Poole that now was a fine time for matches and betrothals
to be made.

Sansa wondered how many knew of Robb’s offer to the Karstarks. Lord Rickard’s eldest son
Harrion was already wed, yet his second son Eddard remained unpromised. Robb had fought
beside Eddard Karstark at the Siege of the Dreadfort and liked him well enough to offer
Sansa as a bride. It came as no surprise to learn that the match was not to be, and in truth she
felt relieved to hear so, yet Sansa sensed that mother had held back some details on the
matter.

Details that Jeyne learned during a visit to the godswood, hiding behind a pine as the
Karstark brothers spoke in confidence. Apparently Lord Karstark had been amenable to
wedding his son to Sansa, but only if Eddard was named the new Lord of the Dreadfort as
well. Robb grew wroth at the demand, arguing that a marriage to Sansa should be honor
enough and seeking the Bolton holdings as a dowry was an insult.

Robb was ignorant to a worse insult though. The one Jeyne overheard Eddard Karstark
giving voice to in the godswood.

“Why shouldn’t I get the Dreadfort?” Jeyne had heard Eddard say. “If the Starks want me to
take that ruin of a lady, the least the king could offer is a ruined castle as well. At least the
Dreadfort has fewer scars and can be rebuilt with time. We stormed the Dreadfort in the
hundreds but, the way I hear it, even that castle had less men through its gates than Sansa
Stark.”

Her friend blushed to repeat the insult to Sansa at the time, for it embarrassed them both. She
wasn’t ignorant of what people thought of her. Joffrey had spread tales far and wide of his
branding her and lies about giving Sansa over to his castle guard. Robb harshly punished
anyone who repeated such falsehoods here in the North yet they persisted still, Joffrey’s
cruelty tainting her body and reputation both.

Sansa was prepared to ignore the Karstark insult, treating Eddard and his entire family with
courtesy despite the disdain she caught in his eye. He likely still whispered slights about her,
though thankfully the lordling was being smart enough to refrain when Robb was near. Sadly,
Jeyne had not been as careful when whispering the tale to Beth during their dressing. Arya’s
ears were as sharp as a direwolf’s and her anger just as fierce.

Yet as Sansa held her, Arya’s eyes betrayed something far worse.

“Let me tell Robb.” Arya urged her. “He shouldn’t have tried to give you away to that arse to
begin with. When he finds out what Eddard said, Robb will beat him bloody. If father was
here-”

“Father’s gone Arya. He’s dead.” Sansa retorted, tightening her grip on Arya’s shoulders.
“That’s why you must leave this be. If you tell Robb he would surely do as you say and it
could force a rift between us and the Karstarks. We need them now. Robb needs their men
and horses to avenge father. To keep us all safe. Please Arya, words are wind. You can’t let
our family suffer for me.”

That’s what is important, not some lordling speaking truths I’d rather keep hidden.

I am scarred. I am ruined. I ’ m not worth Robb risking his campaign.

I wasn’t worth Sandor’s life.

“That’s not right.” Arya said softly, her anger falling away. “He should apologize. You’re a
pain sometimes, but you’re not ruined… you’ll always be prettier than me at least…”

She smiled. “That has not been true for some time. You have a woman’s form now Arya, and
a graceful manner. Enough to make any man swoon, or at least ignore the mud on your
skirts.”

Arya looked down to the dirtied dress yet seemed more annoyed by how much of her bosom
was displayed. It was distraction enough for Sansa to extract a promise from Arya not to
confront the Karstarks. Her sister mumbled a vow before making to fidget with her neckline.
A part of her saw this and felt jealous. Sansa envisioned herself wearing a gown which
showed more skin than her neck and wrists. In that moment she wished to dress like a maiden
again, seeking her true love once more.

Until she caught how the guards at the doorway were looking at her.

Alebelly and Fat Tom meant nothing by it truly but the way their eyes moved swiftly over her
body set her skin to crawling.

“Princess, your mother was asking after you.” Alebelly said while Fat Tom mimed a swoon at
the sight of the young ladies, setting Beth to giggling.

“Has everyone been summoned to the throne room?”

“No, not yet.” Alebelly looked morosely to the door. “The lords and ladies are being served
mulled wine… piping hot and sweet smelling… I bet’s grand tasting…”

She felt relieved to hear so and promised to have some wine sent out to the men. Grabbing
hold of Arya’s hand, Sansa hurried the others within. The Great Hall, large as it was, looked
near to bursting from the great numbers within. The lords and ladies of the North and their
retainers mingled and moved about the trestle tables, their chatter filling the hall with an air
of excitement. Nearly every noble family was represented. Sansa spotted the Hornwoods,
Lockes, Glovers, and Flints to name a few.

There was no sign of Robb or mother but she spotted Bran and Rickon near Smalljon Umber.
Her brothers both wore white doublets emblazoned with the grey direwolf of the Starks,
looking quite handsome as the Smalljon regaled them with some tale.

Cley Cerwyn shared a laugh with Eddara Tallhart, the newlyweds amused by the Umber’s
passionate re-enactment of a battle. Rickard Karstark and Galbart Glover appeared quite put
out by the Greatjon’s loud declarations of promising to lead the van into battle. Talia waved
to her brother Rodrik and his wife, Elaenor Glenmore, while her twin Ethan blushed to
behold his sister’s friends.

At the sight of Beth, Ser Rodrik Cassel smiled widely, putting a hand on Ethan’s shoulder and
waving his daughter onward.

That would be a good match, she thought, Ethan is quite kind and well-read, and Beth would
make a fine goodsister to Talia.

While thinking of betrothals Sansa caught sight of the Karstark brothers, all three sharing
steaming tankards of mulled wine. While Harrion spoke softly with his Bracken wife, the
younger two both turned to admire the group that Sansa led. Eddard’s smile quickly turned to
a smirk at the sight of her, a whisper to Torrhen causing him to chuckle. She kept her chin
raised high as she passed by them, doing her best to ignore it.

Eddard’s reaction was an easy thing to miss if one wasn’t looking for it. Unfortunately for
him, Arya had been watching for just this very thing. A shout and the sound of a splash
erupted from behind her.

“Ah! Fuck!”

Eddard’s cry of pain bid half the hall to look his way, finding the Karstark brother covered in
the hot wine he’d been drinking only moments before. While he hissed in pain, Arya stood
before him, nudging at the empty tankard with her feet. Sansa put the pieces together and
groaned at Arya’s wilfulness once more.

“How clumsy of me!” Arya raised a hand to her mouth, either feigning innocence or hiding a
smile at how Eddard struggled to keep his soaked clothing from touching his skin. “I fear
your clothing must be ruined.”

“Gods! Watch where you’re going!” Eddard snapped, his face red with wine and anger. “Are
you blind girl?”
“Princess.” Sansa interceded then, putting an arm around Arya and meeting Eddard’s fierce
gaze. “Arya is your princess Eddard Karstark, and you would do well to address her
appropriately. A proper washing can fix those stains but it will do little to mend poor
manners. Surely my lord will beg forgiveness for being so discourteous to his king’s sister?”

Her words flowed like venom but were spoken as sweetly as cider. Still, Eddard bristled and
might have worsened things had his father not stepped in.

“Of course he will.” Lord Karstark turned a stern eye to his son. “The hall is full, mistakes
are made. Apologize.”

Eddard swallowed, his jaw clenched. “I apologize for my discourtesy, princess.”

“And I’m sorry for your clothes.” Arya curtsied in the same false way she would whenever
mother forced her to apologize to someone. “Oh, and the wasted wine.”

“We’ll see to the washing.” Sansa added, leading Arya away before she suddenly found a tad
more courage, looking over her shoulder to the burned and embarrassed lordling. “Perhaps
you should see a healer my lord. We would not want you burdened with any scars.”

“Oh now that’s pushing it.” Arya whispered, barely holding back a giggle.

Sansa had to admit that it felt good to see Eddard embarrassed in such a way and felt relieved
to think that Arya’s anger was now sated, all without destroying the bonds between Robb and
the Karstarks. It was the best of both worlds really.

Soon two other worlds would now meet, as a herald called out to the hall.

The Targaryens had been sighted from the castle walls, meaning soon enough House Stark
would be welcoming their distant kin home. Sansa joined her siblings and the rest of the
northern court in departing the hall for the throne room of the Great Keep.

It was mostly empty when they arrived and far too grim for Sansa’s liking. The long room
was drab and grey, the only color coming from the scores of vassal banners hanging upon the
walls. At the far end of the room, at the top of several raised stone steps, Robb sat the
weirwood throne of House Stark. The throne was quite magnificent, tall and white, its
armrests carved into the shape of direwolves. Beneath his crown, Robb’s brow was furrowed
in thought as he watched his family and bannermen enter. Grey Wind was doing much the
same from his place at Robb’s feet, the wolf’s massive form barely fitting on the wide step.

Mother stood beside the throne, dressed in a black gown befitting her mourning of father.
Sansa and Arya were never meant to attend the hall in the first place, so mother eyed them
curiously as the Stark children took their places nearest the throne.

“Sansa?” Mother asked curiously. “Bran and Rickon were to lead the procession from the
Great Hall, did something happen?“

Arya happened.
She nearly said such but held her tongue as the dampened form of Eddard Karstark made to
stand with his family to the side of the room.

“Nothing happened.” She lied. “I just wanted to give the lords in the hall a chance to see the
others. The light is so much better there and my friends all look like visions today.”

“No more than you.” Mother smiled to stroke her cheek, her attention moving to Sansa’s hair.
“Your hair is so lovely Sansa, I wish you would let it down, your father always said… well
nevermind. What matters is that you are here and what you’ve done with Arya.”

Mother’s turned to Arya then, her sister misunderstanding the sudden attention and beginning
to shake her head vigorously.

“I didn’t mean to! I swear-”

Arya’s words fell away when Sansa put a finger to her lips outside mother’s vision. Mother
paid it little mind as she inspected Arya’s hair and dress before waving Bran and Rickon on
as well. She nodded in approval at Bran before using her sleeve to clean the back of Rickon’s
ear as he fought her.

“What do emperors care about dirty ears?” Rickon asked.

“High King.” Sansa corrected. “The Targaryens have a High King, not an emperor. Truly
Rickon, you must pay more attention to Maester Luwin’s lessons. Little slip ups like that can
make you look unlearned and men who do not read cannot lead the maester- do not stick your
tongue out at me!”

Sansa made to snatch the little boy’s tongue out of his mouth when he ducked behind Arya.
Mother put a stop to Rickon’s flight soon after before the sounds of horns began coming from
outside the keep.

“It is time.” Robb declared from atop his throne. “The dragons are here, gods help us.”

Once Robb might not have sounded so displeased to welcome guests to their home. Yet he
had gambled much on seeking an alliance with the Targaryen Empire, many here in the North
distrusting the dragons and their strange ways. Some even thought Robb weak for seeking
help at all. She feared his gamble had not been worth it. They had heard troubling rumors that
instead of a grand army arriving at White Harbor, the Targaryens had only brought a few
thousand mounted warriors.

An insult perhaps, she thought, but why would Aunt Lyanna come all this way just to insult
us?

Why would she bring her son as well?

These questions still tugged at her mind when the doors to the throne room swung open and
members of Robb’s personal guard led a large party within. Morgan Liddle, Lucas
Blackwood, and Olyvar Frey were all armed and dressed in fine tunics yet they could not
hold a candle to the splendor and fearsomeness that followed behind them.
At the head of the strangers, walking beside Uncle Benjen, strode a slim, dark-haired woman
wearing a crown of blue gold. Her gown was silver save for the wonderful blue patterns that
twisted across the bodice and down her arms like vines. Flanking her were two helmed
warriors in the finest suits of armor that Sansa had ever seen. Both men wore white enamel
with cloaks as pure as snow and so she named them as Highguard, the sworn shields of the
imperial family. The larger of the two carried a poleaxe yet it was the second man that drew
the eye, his skin appearing to be a strange, foreign color.

Rickon gasped at the sight and Sansa shushed him, never once taking her eyes off the
growing number of strangers. In contrast to the white clad warriors were a score of men
armored in steel and mail as black as night. Only half wore helms as they followed the
procession and those who didn’t shocked her for reasons as different as the men themselves.

One large man had dyed his hair and beard green, another had skin far darker than the
Highguard who’d surprised Rickon and wore a cloak of bright feathers of many colors. A
grizzled, older man with grey hair walked beside a tall, muscular warrior with a comely face
who reminded Sansa of someone. The next face was one she could name easily, for Asher
Forrester was Talia’s older brother, second born son to their family and exiled from Ironrath
years ago. Ethan and Talia’s faces lit up at the sight of Asher while Rodrik’s turned to stone,
as if his brother had no place being here.

Which could not be said of the leader of this company, who looked as much a northman as
any. His hair was a familiar shade of dark brown, his beard full yet neatly trimmed. He was
tall in stature, lithe of body, yet strong looking all the same. The black armor he wore was so
well polished it caught the light like the obsidian dagger that Maester Luwin kept in his study.

He could have been called handsome if Sansa did not find his expression so solemn. His grey
eyes were much like Arya and father’s yet lacked any familiar warmth. Instead they seemed
cold as she watched him look over the faces of the room, perhaps with a hint of distrust. It
was then that she noticed the blade at this man’s hip, one with a masterful handle of artistry,
yet a weapon all the same.

Robb should have had them all disarmed, she worried, this hall might be filled with Stark
men but they could react too slowly.

What if we’re in danger? What if we’ve invited monsters into our home again?

She looked to Robb and found his eyes moving from the Targaryens to Grey Wind at his feet,
the direwolf unmoving as it watched all this as well. When Uncle Benjen and the regal
woman arrived before the throne, her uncle shot a smile the children’s way.

“King Robb!” Benjen bowed to her brother. “Your grace, my dear nephew, allow me the
honor of presenting your aunt, Lyanna Stark, High Queen of the Targaryen Empire! The
Majesty of Summerhall! Queen of the Freehold-”

“He does like to talk, doesn’t he?” The Queen interrupted, taking her skirts in hand and
curtsying to Robb. “As wife to the High King, I offer you greetings and friendship from the
Targaryen Empire your grace. As your father’s sister though, I offer my nephew the love of
an aunt.”
“I must play two roles then.” Robb answered, rising from his throne and descending down to
stand in front of their aunt. Lyanna was tall enough to meet his gaze and her eyes widened
some when Robb bowed. “As King of the North I welcome you to Winterfell your grace, its
comforts are yours. May it be as warm as your words. And as your nephew, I welcome you
home Aunt Lyanna.”

The Queen smiled at that, offering her hand which Robb took and kissed lightly. He then
raised it high for all to see, turning Lyanna so the entire court could bask in this moment.

“We Starks are united once more!” He spoke loudly. “The Starks endure! The North
Remembers!”

“The North Remembers!” The court echoed, the Greatjon’s bellow was nearly matched by
the largest Highguard warrior, who pounded his poleaxe down to make his point all the
clearer.

As soon as the cheer died away, the grey-haired warrior from the dark number broke free
from the others and made to come right at them. Sansa drew back in fear yet was shocked
when mother laughed and made to meet the man, the two enveloping each other in a warm
embrace.

“Oh uncle.” Mother clutched him all the tighter. “Uncle Brynden, words cannot express how
good it is to see you… it has been too long, far too long…”

“I missed you too Cat.” The older man’s lined face wrinkled in a smile as they pulled apart.
“Forgive me. I mean I missed you, your grace. Having travelled half the world, let me tell
you, you are still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.”

“You should have come here after your falling out with father. Ned would have welcomed
you, if only for me.” Mother’s voice trembled towards the end, the man clutching her hands.

“I am sorry for your loss. Ned was a good man.”

“A great man.” Benjen added, to a grumble of approval from others. “We’re going to make
the Lannisters pay for my brother’s death. I’ll fight to the death to see that happen.”

“But will the dragons?” The Greatjon asked, stepping out from among the crowd to stand at
its fore. “We could’ve marched more than moon ago yet we stayed here. Our king was
promised an army and you bring what? A few pretty horses?”

“Jon Umber.” Lyanna shook her head to walk towards the man, reaching up to tug his beard
with a grin. “Just because you’re louder than most doesn’t make you more loyal to the Starks
than me. Handsome devil that you are.”

Sansa had never seen the Greatjon blush before and before he could reply, the Queen held out
her hand to the leader of the dark warriors. He locked eyes with Robb as he came on, Lyanna
laying a hand upon his shoulder.
“King Robb, meet the man who will help you and the North drive Tywin Lannister scurrying
back to Casterly Rock. My son, Jonarys Targaryen, Lord-Commander of the Dark Order.”

“Which I can assure you…” The dark prince glanced to the Greatjon. “Are more than a few
pretty horses.”

“Far less than a legion though!” Galbart Glover added before Robb held up a hand, as if to
restrain his bannermen. Sansa knew it to be a mummery though. Robb wanted the Targaryens
held to task for their poor showing of support, yet could not sully their visit by doing so
himself.

“Forgive my vassal’s vigour.” Robb offered his hand which the prince shook firmly. “When
your father agreed to waging war alongside us against the Lannisters, we expected a famed
Targaryen legion to arrive at Winterfell. Three thousand is far less than ten Prince Jonarys.”

“Jon.”

“Pardon?”

“You may call me Jon.” The prince answered stiffly. “My father has not bestowed the title of
prince upon my brother or myself. I have been named Lord-Commander of the Dark Order,
so if you wish, you may title me as a lord.”

Sansa shot a look to Rickon, inclining her head so he could catch the importance of studies.

“May I now?” Robb’s jaw clenched some, clearly displeased to be corrected in front of the
entire court. He swallowed down any anger he had then to lead both the queen and her son to
their family.

One by one they were presented to the royal pair, Lyanna acting with far more warmth than
the prince. The queen embraced mother like a sister, offering whispered words that Sansa
assumed to be condolences. Their aunt then gave each of the children a kiss upon their
cheeks, Sansa earning two for some reason.

“Dear Sansa, it is good to meet you.” The woman spoke quietly to her, holding her fingertips
gently. “Even across the Narrow Sea I’ve heard of your trials. I admire your strength and
envy your beauty.”

“I must say the same of you.” She felt her cheeks growing red to think that her shame had
reached as far as the Targaryen Empire. “When I was a little girl, I used to dream of this day.
I would beg father to let me visit the empire, to meet my aunt, the High Queen.”

“You would’ve been a feature at court to be sure.” Lyanna smiled as Jon finished kissing
Arya’s hand and Sansa offered hers next.

His grasp was firm, his skin rough, likely weathered from the grip of a sword or the reins of a
horse. When she raised her eyes to meet his, she expected to find them roaming over her
body like all men did. Instead Jon gazed right back into her eyes, and it was then that she
thought herself wrong earlier. His grey eyes weren’t truly cold, only sad.
The saddest eyes she’d ever seen.

“Princess Sansa.” He said in a formal tone. “It is a pleasure.”

“My prin- er lord.” She caught herself. “I hope your stay will be pleasant. I fear Winterfell
might be a bit too drab for someone who was raised in a palace the likes of Summerhall. The
Heartlands are even more agreeable than the banks of the Rhoyne, or so I’ve heard.”

Jon raised an eyebrow at that. “Your castle is impressive princess, as is your knowledge of
the empire. Most Westerosi assume that the royal family lives in the capital. Just as many in
the empire think of the North as a frozen wasteland, filled with savages.”

“Oh.” Sansa wondered if the last part was a slight. “And what do you think my lord?”

“I never thought such foolishness to be true but I admit to underestimating your lands.” His
face warmed some then. “Summer snows might bother my men but I find them refreshing.
The North has a harsh beauty, difficult to see at times, but it is there if you look… I believe
its people are much the same.”

She felt flattered by this handsome prince, a sweet thing to think on until a darker thought
sprang to mind. Years ago, another prince had stood before her in this very hall, comely and
full of flattery, blinding her to the evil within him. Joffrey had ruined her as much with his
with his false smiles as he did with his burning brand.

You’re letting your silly dreams blind you again. Every word could be a lie.

He leads an army… an army of warriors have come to your castle… men who could hurt
you… take all you hold dear.

Sansa drew back from Jon then, too upset to act more gracefully. He looked at her strangely
but did not linger, his eyes following Robb as he climbed back up the steps to sit upon his
throne. Robb bid the Targaryens to stand before him again, adjusting his crown as he stared
down at them.

“Now that we Starks are all reacquainted, I hope you understand that I must show respect to
my loyal bannerman, lords who hunger for justice almost as deeply as I do. They came when
I called on them, bringing every man they could. You might have noticed them, twenty-five
thousand hardened warriors, waiting outside the castle. Waiting for my aunt to bring her
husband’s promised strength. Was I wrong to ask them such? Combined, the Lannisters and
the Durrandons can field four times our numbers. Your contribution does not change that
figure-”

“Wars are not won by numbers on a parchment.” Jon broke in, earning a harsh look from his
mother. “I apologize your grace for being abrupt, but the Dark Order can match and defeat
any mounted force the Sunset Kingdoms can offer.”

Robb did not look convinced. “I have more heavy horse gathered here at Winterfell than your
entire order. With that alone we could overwhelm you and I have even more horse in my
holdings in the south.”
“I wouldn’t bother to send for them, your defeat would be certain either way and it be a waste
for them to journey so far for such.”

“Watch your tongue!” The Greatjon bellowed as the tall, muscular Dark Order man moved to
stand between the lord and the prince.

“I mean no disrespect to your warriors.” Jon ignored the Greatjon, still gazing up at Robb.
“So I ask that you show respect to mine. I would never drag them so far for a hopeless cause.
The Dark Order stands against foes that others wouldn’t dare. We will fight with you against
your enemies. Take my word when I say that we are more than what we seem.”

Uncle Benjen stepped forward then. “It’s true Robb, I’ve never seen a force that moves like
theirs. Such order and speed, and then there’s the ships they brought. War ships, docked and
ready for battle at White Harbor as we speak. Our fleet size has been doubled with them, the
Durrandons will never match us!”

“This war will not be won at sea.” Robb pointed out, many lords voicing agreement, only to
be silenced by a look from the High Queen.

“My son speaks the truth! As does King Robb!” Lyanna spoke loudly. “The Dark Order will
prove to be a powerful ally in the days to come, yet even with its might and that of our fleet,
defeat would be likely! That’s why we’ve arranged for the Golden Legion to join our fight!”

“The Golden Legion?” Robb leaned forward in his chair as Sansa’s mind whirled with tales
of the most storied army in the empire. “They come to the North? When? How much longer
must we-”

“They have already arrived in Westeros, but they are not coming north.” The dark prince
answered. “My brother led his army to Dorne. There he shall join his strength with that of
House Martell and together they will lead thirty thousand out of the Dornish passes.
Marching to war against the Kingdom of the Storm.”

The importance of his words caused the entire room to quiet, Sansa holding her breath at the
thought of the Golden Legion marching against Joffrey. Robb’s face was carefully placid, but
Sansa knew he was hiding his excitement.

“I see, an attack from the south. The Durrandons will be too busy fighting off the Dornish to
aid the Lannisters in their war with us… their forces cut in half. Our strength nearly equal.”
Robb’s smile was a grand thing to see after weeks of him worrying. He rose from his throne
and opened his arms wide. “That will teach me to doubt my aunt and cousin! This alliance
could help us win back lands lost to us! Perhaps even take new territory from our foes!”

“Yes… land.” Lyanna’s tone changed, her face becoming somewhat stern. “I’m glad you
brought that topic up dear nephew, for we must secure your agreement on the matter of the
Durrandon lands before sending word to Aegon-”

“What’s this about land?” The Greatjon asked. “The Dornish want land from us?”
“Not from you Lord Umber.” Prince Jon answered. “The Martells seek some new lands this
is true but it is not them we speak of. No, it is the empire that seeks territory. My father
wishes to expand our holdings here in Westeros, beyond Dragonstone. We desire the lands
nearest to the island, those currently held by King Joffrey. From the Bay of Crabs as far
inland as-”

“I don’t understand.” Sansa spoke up, surprising herself as much as the court then. This turn
had been too shocking for her to stay silent though. “We thought you were coming to help us
fight our enemies. To get justice for my father.”

“If your brother agrees, we shall.” Lyanna gave her a sympathetic look. “Trust me my dear, I
want to avenge Ned, the brother I loved so much. Yet my wants must come second to the
empire’s needs.”

“You did not come for honor then.” She looked up the queen in a new light. “You came as a
Targaryen, not a Stark.”

“We came to stay.” Jon met her eyes then, the sadness still there but something akin to regret
as well. “You will have your justice princess… but we will need something in return.”

You were right, she thought, you were right not to trust him.

Kind words hiding their true wants. A good cause to cloak their desires.

They did not come to help.

They came to take.

JON

He liked this castle.

Jon couldn’t quite put his finger on why but as he walked the outer wall of Winterfell there
was no denying it. As a king’s son he had stayed in finer places, like the spacious manses of
Valyrian nobility or the grand palaces scattered across the Heartlands and along the Rhoyne.
Places of untold wealth with warm air and blue skies. Far different than the grey sky above
his head now and the cool winds bracing him.

He liked the briskness of the cold and the fresh scent of pines and hearth fires that lingered in
the air.

Some of his companions were not so easily won over. Behind him Gendry stood shivering in
a heavy cloak while Asher shook his head.

“Gods, big as you are Gendry your shaking is going to tear this wall apart.”

Gendry was embarrassed. “I should’ve worn that heavy wool too, it kept me warm on the
ride. This castle spoiled me is all. The walls block the wind and that keep is as warm as
Summerhall.”

“Tempting to stay out of the cold isn’t it?” Asher’s face grew grim. “My father used to say
that’s why only the strong survive in our land. Sooner or later, you’ve got to face the cold.”

“Winter is coming.” Jon said, turning his gaze beyond the castle and to where the Dark Order
camped outside the South Gate.

Their tents and horses lines were raised in an orderly fashion, their camp ringed with stakes
and ditches. Mother was displeased he ordered such but it was an act of discipline on the
order’s part and he wouldn’t have his men growing lax now. Even from this height he caught
sight of hundreds at practice. Black Balaq led his longbowmen in loosing at makeshift targets
while Lem and Thoros guided others in drills with the sword and spear.

They will be ready, I have faith in that, he thought, I just wish I had as faith in our allies.

“Three days.” He said aloud. “Three days King Robb has had to support our strategy and
three days he’s gone without speaking of it.”

“It’s a lot to take in.” Gendry wiped at his wet nose. “I grew up in the Kingdom of the Storm
and heard all the tales. Of how large it was in the good times or how it shrunk in the dark
years. No one ever cut it into shreds before…”

“A big move.” Asher nodded. “There’s been Seven Kingdoms for a long time, longer than
there’s been an empire that’s for sure. Now we show up saying all that’s going to change.”

Jon shook his head. “It was folly telling the Starks as we did. My mother and I wanted to lay
out our plans before we ever left Summerhall but Varys convinced my father otherwise. He
told the king we risked enemy agents learning of our plans before we were ready. With the
murder of Eddard Stark and the rebellion of the Boltons, Varys argued that some of the
northmen could not be trusted.”

“Some can’t.” Asher spat over the wall, crossing his arms. “My brother Rodrik and I visited
Winterfell often so trust me when I say Robb Stark is one of the good ones. He’s got the look
of his mother but it’s his father’s code he follows. King Eddard stuck to his word, even when
no one else kept theirs.”

“Sounds like you Jon.” Gendry added. “Give the Starks time, they’ll hear the queen out and
see you for the man you are.”

I hope they don’t. Gendry’s fought beside me and seen the same horrors but he’s never had to
take responsibility for them.

He can wipe the blood from his hammer but my hands will never be clean.

“Prince Jon!”

A youthful voice interrupted his brooding, drawing their attention to some nearby stairs. The
three youngest Starks were coming his way, a trio of direwolves among their number. Two
were grey and the third was black, Summer, Nymeria and Shaggydog. Each as different as
their masters.

“Prince Jon!” Bran called out happily as the lanky young man beat his siblings out in their
race to him. “Good day to you!”

“It’s Lord Jon, remember?” Arya cuffed her brother, the young princess reminding Jon of
mother then.

Rickon cuffed Bran again. “Don’t you listen to Maester Luwin?”

“It’s alright.” Jon saved Bran from the other two. “People call me much worse and I survive.
How can I help the noble princes and princess of the North?”

The three all looked to one another, having a silent argument before Arya rolled her eyes and
pointed to Jon’s hip.

“The boys wanted to see your sword but they’re too cowardly to ask. Of all of us, how am I
the one wearing the dress here?”

Gendry’s jaw dropped at the girl’s audacity while Asher’s laughter drowned out the protests
out her brothers.

“Arya Stark, you have not changed.” Asher grinned and Arya beamed at him before giving
Gendry a look that bid him to close his mouth. Jon swore she looked him up and down then.

“We’re not cowards!” Bran spoke up. “We just didn’t want to be rude is all.”

“It is no trouble.” He gave the youths a grin. “It’s only fair I think, you walk around with
your direwolves for all to see, living weapons as much as the dragons ever were.”

The Starks all watched eagerly as he reached down to draw free the sword his father had
gifted him before leaving for the North. The handle was a collection of silver barbs wending
upwards into two arcs. The pommel was made in the same fashion, but encrusted with bright
red rubies. When he pulled it free the Valyrian steel longsword gleamed even in the weak
light of the cloud-covered day. Its blade was long and sharp to the touch, slimmer than the
average longsword and lighter too.

“This is Dark Sister.” He named the blade, holding it before his cousins, who gazed at it in
awe. “It has been wielded by Targaryens for time untold. High Queen Visenya wielded it
during the founding of the empire.”

“It’s a girl’s sword?” Rickon made a face and Arya shot him a filthy look as Gendry came to
Dark Sister’s defense.

“A sword is no less deadly because it was wielded by a woman. I’ve seen many blades my
prince but few as fine as this one.”

Jon stepped back and slashed through the air in a swift arc that sang in the wind, causing the
boys to jump and Arya to smile widely.
“Stronger than any normal steel yet half as heavy. Prince Daemon, the founder of the Dark
Order, he wielded this blade. As did Aemon the Dragonknight and Brynden the Bloodraven.”

“And now you do.” Bran spoke respectfully. “Maybe one day people will talk about the
same. Jonarys the Terrible!”

“Terrible is right.” Asher spoke with mock severity. “Not don’t be telling anyone that Jon was
showing Dark Sister off. Our Lord Commander has a reputation to uphold. Many say he
never bares his blade lest blood need be shed-”

“They don’t need to hear that.” Jon spoke far more sharply than he meant to but would spare
these children any tales of his butchery. All grew quiet and he knew the mood had been
spoiled. He was sheathing Dark Sister once more when he caught sight of another grey
direwolf walking the battlements in their direction.

When they’d first been brought before Robb Stark his eyes had immediately moved to the
direwolf at his feet. Jon held a deep respect and appreciation for horses but he had never lost
his breathe at the sight of one like he did with Grey Wind. To him the wolf was the second
most beautiful thing in the room.

He was not so free to stare at the loveliest.

The very same princess who now followed behind her wolf. Her thick auburn hair was drawn
back in a long braid, her cheeks a touch bit red from the wind’s chill. She wore a gown of the
lightest blue, though he saw little of it beneath the white fur cloak she had pulled tightly
around her. Beneath it he knew there was a graceful and womanly body but it wasn’t that
which drew the eye first. Truly it was the bright blue of her eyes that pulled him in.

And the fear in those eyes that bid him lower his gaze.

“My lord.” Sansa spoke evenly, her eyes locked on where his hand still rested on his sword
hilt. “Is something amiss?

“No, no not at all.” He lifted his hand free and bowed quickly to her. “Forgive me I was just
showing your siblings my blade-”

“He usually doesn’t!” Rickon smiled widely. “He only shows people he’s about to kill!”

“That’s not true I-”

“Rickon, come here please.” Sansa’s face grew cold, her hand outstretched towards the boy.
“Arya, Bran, you too. Forgive us my lord, but Ser Rodrik awaits my brothers for their sword
practice and Arya is needed for… well Arya is needed elsewhere.”

“Oh Jon do come!” Bran’s face betrayed none of the unease the princess clearly felt. “Please,
I want to show you how well I can fight. Maybe you can change mother’s mind and let Robb
take me south.”

“Bran, do not put him in such an awkward position.” Sansa chided her brother. “Robb
decides who marches with him and I’m sure the lord has better things to do-
“I will be happy to watch my cousins spar.” He said, making to join the younger Starks as
they moved towards the stairs. “Though your sister is right, it is not my place to tell your
family where to send any of their people. Whether it be an army or a prince. If your brother
wishes you here there’s no shame in it. I was older than you before I ever marched to war.
Sometimes I wish I had been older still.”

He caught the surprise on Sansa’s face at his words, she was likely not used to hearing men
sound so foolish. Bran acted downtrodden for a time but Rickon’s excitement brought the
older boy around soon enough. They chatted with him excitedly, bragging about their
victories over other boys while Arya insisted she beat both her brothers with branches any
chance she got.

During their descent Sansa remained rather quiet, to his dismay. In the throne room he’d had
a taste of her charm and a glimpse of some bravery as well, few woman ever dared challenge
his mother when she took on her mantle as High Queen.

Sansa only said what all were thinking, what you were ashamed of yourself.

We should have come as friends, as family, not as conquerors.

I cannot blame her for thinking poorly of us. Nor King Robb for distrusting me.

When they arrived in the training yard the king was already there, speaking with several
others, including Rodrik Cassel, the master-at-arms. Robb was grinning as words passed
between him and his men, that was until he saw who his siblings led into the yard.

“Lord Jon.” Robb inclined his head curtly. “I heard you were inspecting your men from the
walls.”

“He’s come to watch us spar!” Rickon exclaimed before Bran and he rushed off to don their
leathers. Arya made to stand with him but Sansa urged her away so both girls stood beside
their brother.

“You need not stay.” Robb gestured to the yard’s arched exit. “I imagine a commander of the
Dark Order has many duties to see to.”

“The boys were set on me watching. If it makes them happy it is worth my time. Sometimes
it is good to remind ourselves why we fight.”

“Well said, although if I remember correctly you fight for land.” Robb countered, ignoring
Sansa’s quiet admonishment and pressing on. “Or has something changed in the last few days
that makes you value my family as much as I do?”

Jon met Robb’s eyes then, a stare not borne of anger, more of a challenge. After growing up
with Viserys and Aegon he knew well when someone was attempting to draw his temper out.

“If I am unwelcome your grace I will leave, I can tend to my own men’s training.”
“Surely you are welcome.” Sansa broke in, her voice soft yet firm as she took hold of Robb’s
arm, a gesture he ignored.

“Yes, do stay. Perhaps later I can visit your camp and witness this training. It would be a sight
to see what sort of practice can make you claim such a meagre force to be unbeatable.”

Jon seized on that. “If his grace would like a demonstration I can arrange one right now.
Choose your finest guard and I shall produce a challenger.”

He spoke not in anger, for an idea came to his mind as he spotted a number of Dark Order
men leading horses through the castle grounds. Robb nodded, smiling at the opportunity to
show him up, calling forth a guardsman named he named as Hal Mollen. A muscular man
with a thick brown beard, he took up the challenge with a smile. Jon then hailed his passing
men, one in particular out of the lot and who had once called Westeros home himself.

A thick necked men-at-arms who stood a head higher than Jon and was quite confused at the
whole situation.

“Grenn.” Jon gestured towards the Starks. “King Robb would have you spar with one of his
men. Do us proud. No blood though.”

Grenn looked to his challenger then. “I’ll do my best m’lord.”

With that the black-clad man drew his sword and went forth to meet his opponent. A small
crowd formed around the pair, Bran and Rickon pushing around Ser Rodrik to have the finest
view.

“Live steel?” Sansa sounded incredulous. “Robb surely blunted blades are needed.”

“Warriors do not clash with blunted swords.” Robb answered and Jon nodded, feeling only a
twinge of shame for risking Grenn so.

Asher held up a gold coin to Gendry. “I wager he takes it to-”

“Put that away.” He ordered, not taking his eyes off Robb. “This is not about wagering or
winning. This is a point that needs to be proven.”

Robb let Arya start the bout by giving a shout and Hal struck first. The blow was swift and
well-aimed, Grenn’s defense slower but able, knocking Hal’s blade back. Two more strikes
from the northman drove Grenn back a couple paces but the third he stepped aside and let Hal
overstep. A kick to the guardsman’s hip sent him stumbling. Then Grenn was on the attack.
Powerful blows that were careful and well-placed, his steps pushing Hal where he wanted
him. Grenn acquitted himself ably, a fine fighter, but it the Stark guardsman who won the
day. Both men were sweating when Hal finally knocked Grenn’s sword free and Jon’s man
yielded.

There was so shame in the loss and Robb did well by Grenn, complimenting him on his
swordsmanship before offering Jon his hand.
“A fine display.” Robb said, gripping his hand like a vice. “He pressed Hal for sure and he’s
been training at Winterfell since he was a lad. Sadly this only proves my point, as fine as Hal
and your men fought the Lannisters have better warriors, thousands of them. Three thousand
Grenns will not turn the tide-”

“Grenn joined our ranks only half a year ago.” He said in a straightforward manner. “He was
a slave once, a simple laborer who had never wielded a blade before. A farmer’s son before
that. Look at what we’ve done with him in such a short time. He’s among our rawest recruits
whereas most of my men are seasoned veterans. Trust me when I say in Essos only the
Unsullied are as well trained, that’s the kind of army I offer you.”

Robb looked at Grenn then, hand going to his beard with an expression that bordered on
disbelief. He didn’t blame him, before Jon learned the rigidness of life in the Dark Order such
a transformation would seem doubtful.

There was nothing but doubt on Sansa’s face as she watched her brother treat with Jon. He
saw that she wrung her delicate hands slightly and found himself remembering how soft
they’d felt in his grasp during their first meeting. It bothered him for some reason to see them
moving so nervously, yet it clearly disturbed Robb more when he caught Jon looking to his
sister.

“Your army may be all you say but I’m not yet sure if you’ve presumed too much on my
family.” Robb moved to block his view of Sansa. “I trust men who’ve fought by my side and
few others.”

Asher stepped forward at that. “You trust my brother don’t you? Well you crossed swords
with him in this yard countless times, stubborn rivals if I remember correctly. Now you trust
him with your life, things change your grace.”

“If any was an expert on how things can change it be you Asher.” Robb eyed the sergeant
with distrust before he took to nodding. “A fine point though. Bran! Come here at once,
Rickon, fetch me a sword!”

All were confused as Robb backed away and removed his cloak, handing it off to Arya before
lifting his crown off his head for Bran to hold. Jon began to suspect where this was going
when Rickon appeared with a longsword for Robb.

“I’ve caught a glimpse of what abilities your men can boast.” The young king lifted his
sword in a challenge. “Let’s test your mettle, Lord Jon. Let me see if you are the type of man
I can fight beside. If I can trust you to have my back.”

Gendry gave a small shake of his head and Jon had no illusions that his mother would do any
differently. Beating Robb might embarrass the king and destroy this alliance before it was
ever sealed. Losing to him could do the same.

Yet when he caught the princess’s eyes on him he felt the urge to do as Robb asked.

To show the Starks the type of man he was. To prove to them he was someone they could
trust.
“Asher, lend me your sword.” Jon removed his own cloak then and unstrapped his sword belt
to hand off to Gendry. While Asher offered him his blade Robb raised an eyebrow.

“Is the famed Dark Sister too good for the likes of me? Or do you worry once I knock the
blade from your hand I might claim it as my own?”

The taunt earned laughter from many of the watchers while Sansa’s eyes widened at the sight
of Jon pulling lifting up Asher’s blade. She was clearly fearful for her brother and he wished
he could explain that he chose the simple longsword over Dark Sister to spare her such
worries.

For he had no urge to kill Robb Stark.

Even if he was really starting to dislike the bastard.

SANSA

“To King Robb!”

The dark prince’s toast rose above the din of the Great Hall as hundreds raised their voices
and goblets to shout her brother’s name. From her place at the high table Sansa had a good
view of the entire hall, its tables filled with guests straining to get a glimpse of the spectacle
near her.

Lord Jon, who had been seated beside Robb at the center of the royal table, was now standing
tall and holding a tankard of ale high in the air. Not to be outdone, Robb rose and raised his
tankard into the air as well.

“To my cousin Jon!” Robb shouted as he laughed. “Now to find out who has the greater thirst
for victory!”

More laughter followed that, her great uncle Brynden and Gendry calling out Jon’s name
from the table filled with Dark Order men. Arya acted little better, competing with Bran and
Rickon for who could pound upon the table louder. Even mother and Aunt Lyanna looked to
be trying to outdo each other in showing disapproval at their sons’ behavior.

If only they’d been in the yard earlier all this foolishness might have been averted.

What was Robb thinking challenging the dark prince in the first place? Why did you hold out
hope the Jon would refuse?

He’s not so different from any other man…

Robb and Jon were certainly acting like men now, the most boorish kind. She wished she
could sit with Jeyne or Talia for she had little interest in watching a king and prince see who
could drink ale the fastest.
“Get on with it!” The Greatjon laughed. “I want to see which beast has the greater thirst! A
wolf or a dragon!”

After that Robb clanked his tankard against Jon’s and both young men lifted their drinks to
their lips. As they gulped down their ale the hall rang with cheers for both men, she even
spotted Dark Order men placing wagers with northern lords.

It wouldn’t be the first time today one of her brother’s contests with the prince led to bets
being made.

Robb and Jon’s bout in the yard was a fine display of swordsmanship, far better than Hal’s
duel with the order man beforehand. Her brother fought well, driving Jon all apart the yard.
In the end though the speed and grace of the prince had led to his sword being laid near to
Robb’s neck. It felt like the whole yard, including herself, had held their breath in that
moment. Had Jon wished it, the North could have lost its king then and there.

When Jon lifted his sword away and bowed to Robb it had felt good to breathe again. Robb
showed grace in his defeat, shaking the prince’s hand and complimenting his abilities. How
that led to the two deciding to test their riding skills she wasn’t sure.

Bran and Rickon’s lessons were forgotten as half the castle gathered to watch Jon and Robb
ride at rings. That contest had ended in a tie, not once or twice, but three times. When they
decided to move outside Winterfell for a race around the castle’s walls onlookers had packed
all the gates, joining with the camps without in cheering the riders on. Mother and Aunt
Lyanna had appeared around then, both pleasantly surprised at the time to see Rob and Jon
laughing as they raced by.

Rob had won the race yet the contests had only just begun. A test of archery had come next,
which both did quite poorly at. Then a foolish game the Wulls suggested which had Robb and
Jon running with logs and seeing how far they could throw them. There appeared no end to
the cousins’ rivalry but it was clear the ice-cold regard the two leaders held for each was
being melted by these contests.

Sansa’s fears lessening with them. Over the last few days she’d watched the Jon and Lyanna
intently, wary for any sign of cruelty or betrayal. Her eyes weren’t closed like they had been
with Joffrey but they caught no glimpse of a monster in Jon. Instead she saw a man who
treated people well, whether they be kin or strangers, lowborn or highborn. He rarely smiled
but caused others to do so often, her siblings especially.

It had been kind of him to show them Dark Sister, she thought, I knew he meant them no
harm.

Yet I still quivered and shook like a scared child… I cannot live my life fearing every strange
man with a sword.

Robb will likely marry me to one some day.

That thought made it hard to laugh with the others when ale spilled down the sides of Robb’s
mouth as Jon gulped at his tankard desperately. The prince’s efforts were to no avail, Robb
tipping his tankard fully over before pulling it away with an ale stained smile.

“A winner!” Uncle Benjen laughed heartily, pointing at Jon who made to lower his ale. “Oh
no you don’t! Finish what you start!”

“I think an end is what’s called for.” Mother declared loud enough for Jon and Robb to turn
her way. “Or are we to endure a juggling contest next?”

“Sorry moth-” Robb burped loudly, sending Arya and Rickon into a torrent of giggles. “I am
doubly sorry mother. We are tied though! We can’t let it end at a tie!”

Aunt Lyanna clearly disagreed. “Oh I think that’s a marvellous place to end your contests and
begin our merriment nephew. I remember how the bards disliked the northern cold and how I
longed for music in my youth so I had a minstrel brought with us from Summerhall.”

“A wonderful idea your grace, I’m sure Sansa would agree.” Mother nodded and Sansa
clapped her hands together at the thought.

“A minstrel would be grand! Does he play southron ballads or the eastern tunes? I’ve never
heard Jenai of The Sorrows sung by a bard of the empire before.”

“Then we must change that.” Her aunt raised a cup of wine to her. “If only to see my sweet
niece smile. Robb, may I have the minstrel sent for?”

Robb appeared put out, surprising her by looking to Jon as if to hear his thoughts on the
matter. Jon did not seem enthused either and she feared him to speak against it until his gaze
fell to her and something changed.

“Some music could be welcome.” He said to Robb with a hand to his chest. “If only to
comfort me after my embarrassing performance.”

“Ha!” Robb patted the prince’s shoulder before turning to face the tables. “It appears I’ve
been neglecting my fairest guests! Well good women, Queen Lyanna has arranged for some
fine entertainment for us this evening, so let us raise a toast to her!”

After the goblets were raised the queen called to the Highguard standing to the far end of the
table. Ethan Glover wore no helm now and the red gnarled flesh about his demon brand was
there for all to see. It saddened Sansa to think of Sandor then. Of how sweet it would have
been to have him here, sitting beside her as a minstrel played for them. When Ethan left to
collect the musician it drove the hard truth home.

That man will return but Sandor is gone forever. Resting in that pitiful grave I dug.

I hope flowers have grown near it… some roses perhaps… his life was so ugly may his rest
have some beauty to it.

Her sadness was helped some by how Talia and Beth clapped and beamed when the minstrel
arrived. He was an older man with a distinguished air about him, holding his chin high and
cradling his harp as if it was a child. Lyanna must have planned this beforehand for without a
word from her or request from the audience he struck up a northern tune.

Many still made noise throughout the hall, drinking and eating to their heart’s content but
nothing could drown out the minstrel’s heavenly voice or the harp’s soothing playing.

She sipped her wine and closed her eyes, letting the singer’s lyrics take her far away. To
when she had been a young girl, dreaming of the world songs painted for her, of gallant
knights and lands of forever summer. Of a time before she was touched by the darkness,
before it scarred her so.

A better time… a better me…

After first song ended Robb rose to lead Lyanna down for a dance. Jon did the same for
mother and Benjen offered Sansa his arm. Her uncle was a decent dancer, the music slow
enough that they fell into an easy rhythm. Robb and Lyanna were all smiles, her brother
acting so dashing half the young women present appeared jealous. Her mother and Jon made
a handsome couple as well, the older woman’s natural grace brought out by the prince’s swift
steps.

Robb was her next partner, then Bran, and she’d thought to drag Rickon out after since the
boy was too shy when it came to dancing. Mother had other plans however, leading Jon over
to her with a pleased look in her eye.

“Sansa, do our guest the honor of a dance.” Mother took hold of her hand. “Someone taught
him well and considering today’s events I think it only right to have his skill tested by the
best dancer Winterfell has to offer.”

Sansa and Jon both sought a way out of it.

“Mother… I thought to take a rest…”

“It’s no bother I could take some wine-”

“Nonsense.” Mother declared, pressing Sansa’s hand into Jon’s. “Exhaustion, sore feet, thirst,
I’ve always felt a good dancing partner can make that all feel distant concerns. Have fun, be
young, and treat her kindly my lord.”

“Of course.” Jon nodded curtly, his fingers wrapping around hers in the same tender way he
had when they’d first met. “If the princess allows?”

“I do.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, out of embarrassment and anxiousness. This
would be the first time someone other than her loved ones held her so close since Sandor.

When his hand went to her hip, pressing firm against her body, her heart began to beat faster.
It only grew worse as they drew together, their chests so close Sansa feared he’d feel her
heart pounding like a drum. She prayed her hands would not grow clammy and was nearly
caught unprepared as the next tune started up and Jon led her on. He clearly knew the steps to
this dance, guiding her hips about and his feet staying clear of hers. Still, something felt
amiss. Jon’s movements lacked all the finesse he’d shown with mother and his other partners.
With them his face was at ease yet when she glanced to him now Sansa found his jaw set and
eyes distant.

His other partners weren’t scarred and tainted… Lyanna heard of my shame across the
Narrow Sea.

Of course Jon did as well.

“I apologize my lord.” Her words brought Jon’s eyes down to hers. “My mother should not
have put you in such an awkward position… truly if you wish to see to your thirst with some
wine feel free to do-”

“Awkward for me?” He sounded confused. “Sansa, I only said that because I did not wish to
force you into a dance. There’s a hall full of proper northmen to choose from and I’d not
stand in the way of you finding a better partner. Your mother was only doing me a kindness.”

“A kindness?”

Jon’s face reddened some. “I might have remarked on your dancing. It is- I mean you move-
well you catch the eye. There are balls thrown during the Lyseni love goddess festival, events
filled with the empire’s finest dancers, and if you were there trained performers might stand
back and take notice of you.”

It was her turn to blush as Jon raised her hand high and spun Sansa about. When she returned
completely into his hold she could not help but smile.

“You’re too kind Jon. Far too kind, it’s you leading us now. As well as you do I wonder how
you keep so well practiced? I did not see any women among the Dark Order so I must ask, is
sergeant Gendry a nimble partner? Asher perhaps? He’s doing quite well himself.”

Jon blinked at her jesting while a hint of grin pulled at his lips. His gaze followed hers to
where Asher was dancing with Talia, her friend’s face full of joy to be in her older brother’s
arms.

“That’s something.” Jon remarked. “Mother insisted I learn dancing as a child but I never
pegged Asher for it as well. The most dancing we do in the Dark Order is with blades in our
hands. Sometimes I think of myself as a dancer when I face a swifter foe than usual. My
blade becomes my partner and I must find a way to lead it into doing away with-”

He tensed then, his grip on her hands growing lax and eyes widening. She’d been listening so
intently that Sansa feared to have step on his feet.

“Forgive me.” Jon closed his eyes. “I’ve been on the march too long, my mind goes to dark
places. I speak of foul things in sweet times... this is why all are wrong to call me a prince.
Surely a true prince would know better.”

“Most are ignorant of the worst in this world.” She said, tightening her grip on Jon’s hand
and shoulder, bidding him to stay with her. “You were telling me a story Jon, it did not scare
me to hear it. Here in the North hardly a tale is told without blood or death being mentioned.
Even the love stories.”

“I’m afraid I’m short on love stories.” He spoke softly, his fingers once more entwining with
hers. “Too many years among harsh men… now that I’m among fairer company it be nice to
hear a sweet tale or two. Would you know any Sansa?”

“I did once.” Their next step had their chests brush up against one another, his eyes not
moving from hers. “Stories I’ve not told for some time… but I’d be willing to revisit. If only
to repay you for this minstrel, and a splendid dance my prince- oh I’m sorry-”

“Pay it no mind, for this dance I can be a prince. If only to be worthy of a princess.”

She knew better than this. Jon’s words were too kind, his smile too comely and touch far too
welcome on her body. Yet Sansa could not deny how all that made her feel or that she wished
this dance to continue on and on. So when the minstrel finished the song she felt like beating
the musician with his own harp, no matter how well he played. Jon acted disappointed as well
and she had hope he’d ask for a second dance when the Greatjon came to tower over them.

“Jon Targaryen!” The lord spoke in a tone full of either threat or enthusiasm, she truly
couldn’t tell with him. “I thanked Lyanna for the frilly minstrel but he interrupted my king
when he was on the cusp of victory!”

“Those silly contests again.” Sansa sighed. “They’re at an end, aren’t they?”

“There’s one more!” The Greatjon laughed, pointing to where his son and several others were
moving people away from the dancing space. To her shock she saw Robb unbuttoning his
doublet as Cley Cerwyn poured ale into his mouth.

“I saw all that fancy footwork Jon!” Robb called out. “Let’s see if you’ve got the strength to
match that speed!”

“No.” Sansa shook her head. “No Robb we’re having such a proper evening-”

“And this is a proper wrestling match!” Rickon interrupted from where he now stood upon a
table, earning cheers for his boldness. “Just like when King Rodrik Stark won Bear Island
from the Iron Islands king! Wolves fight! Starks wrestle!”

“Well said lad!” The Greatjon laughed before facing the Dark Order table. “I’ve got three
barrels of ale on my king!”

“A fool’s bet Umber!” Uncle Brynden shouted back, Thoros the Red Priest leaping up from
his seat.

“Oh I’ve got a thirst! Show the wolves what for Lord-Commander! R’hllor will watch over
you!”

Jon stood silently taking this all in, a bemused expression on his face. When he glanced her
way she willed him to see it all a folly. How a true prince would prefer a dance with a
princess over some silly wrestling match. That for a little while longer Sansa could pretend
she was not a scarred, ruined thing and be the girl she’d once been.

Instead Jon grew somber and he nodded towards Robb.

“I’m willing enough to serve you one last defeat Stark.”

“Then come at me coz!” Robb laughed, pulling free his shirt and displaying his broad,
muscular chest. Jeyne and Beth’s tittering at the sight might have amused her once but Sansa
was too upset.

Jon didn’t even notice when she left his side to go and join mother and her aunt in scowling
at the whole affair. Men were forming a circle, taking wagers and shouting encouragements
while Sansa felt as discouraged as could be.

Which is silly, Jon owes you nothing, it’s not his duty to make you forget all your suffering.

He speaks of harsh times but he comes from a land of untold splendor, where princesses are
beautiful and free of scars…

“How about a wager dragon?” Robb asked, cracking his neck as Jon entered the circle of
men, undoing his shirt clasps. “If I win, the best horse in your company is mine! A fine steed
to mount for my battles to come! Go ahead and ask anything of me in case you win for I
doubt I’ll have to pay up!”

“We have nothing he’ll want.” She sighed to mother, who raised an eyebrow at that.

“The prince wanted something earlier. That was clear to all Sansa.”

“Mother!” She hissed quietly. “Please, don’t-

Her words caught in her throat when Jon lifted his shirt free. His body was as lean and
muscular as she thought it might be, the smoothness of his skin sending a warmth spreading
through her chest. That was until she saw the marks on his body. The scars across his chest.
Another at his shoulder. A couple at his back.

Robb had the odd mark here and there but those were nothing compared to Jon’s. His words
of war and suffering struck a different chord with Sansa as he glanced her way for the briefest
of moments.

“I’ll take your wager wolf.” He said, cracking his knuckles as the two men began to circle
one another. “But I ask for something far better than any horse.”

“Name it.” Robb bared his teeth and readied his arms.

“After this fight, the minstrel plays again.” Jon said, his feet moving surely over the ground.
“He plays again and he plays a song of Princess Sansa’s choosing. He keeps playing until
she’s had enough.”

“A song she loves and wishes to dance to.”

“For I’d have a dance with a princess.”
 Chapter 3
Chapter Summary

Despite the mistrust and fear, an alliance is forged.

Through kindness and courage.

The wolf and dragon are bound together.

The Fall of the Hoares

The end of House Hoare and the rule of the ironborn in the riverlands is owed to two
men who never lived to see the fruits of their labor. Rickard Stark, King of the North,
and Steffon Durrandon, the Storm King, were united in their hatred of ironborn. The
North had been raided relentlessly during the reign of King Harwyle Hoare while the
Blackwater and Trident were used to ravage the Durrandon holdings as well.

A pact was formed between the Starks and the Durrandons to drive the reavers out of
the riverlands for good. The Tullys, and other river lords chafing under iron rule,
joined with them. Prince Robert, the Durrandon heir, was betrothed to Lyanna Stark
while her brother Brandon was promised to Catelyn Tully.

Neither marriage was meant to be for the gods mock the plans of men.

King Steffon died during a voyage to Dragonstone in an effort to win Targaryen

support for the war. Slavers killed Brandon Stark and abducted his sister, her story
continuing on elsewhere. At the time many blamed the ironborn for the lost Stark vessel
and Robert turned his rage towards the Hoares.

King Harwyle was an ineffectual leader, unpopular even with his own people. With the
Durrandons, Starks and Tullys united against them the Hoares lost several battles,
eventually being forced back to Harrenhal. From there Harwyle sent word to his most
powerful bannerman, Balon Greyjoy, to rally more men from the Iron Islands to break
the siege.

Those reinforcements never arrived. Following Robert’s betrothal to Cersei Lannister

the Kingdom of the Rock raised a fleet and threatened the Iron Islands themselves.
Some say Lord Balon refused to abandon the islands to the lions while others claim he
preferred a larger crowd for a kingsmoot he believed soon in coming. The Hoares and
Harrenhal held out for months before mines dug beneath the massive walls allowed
Robert and Eddard Stark to invade the castle. The fighting was fierce and every living
member of House Hoare died in that battle. Among the fallen was the King in the
North, leaving his son Eddard to lift his blade and avenge Rickard’s end.

Thus Robert and Eddard finished the work their fathers began. The krakens were
driven back into the sea. The riverlands divided between the wolf and stag. It was said
the two kings remained good friends for years after.

Until the lions tore that peace asunder.

JON

The weirwood rose tall and proud before him. Today the northern sky was a dark grey which
made the heart tree’s red leaves stand out all the more. The canopy was the color of blood,
the tree bark as white as bone.

This tree even had a face, one with deep, dark red eyes that seemed to follow him. Jon was a
stranger to this castle yet the heart tree gazed at is it knew him. It was an odd how that didn’t
bother him. In truth, it felt natural. Like everything about this godswood. He felt at peace in
this dark, wooded part of Winterfell. The air had a damp chill to it and was filled with the
smell of pines. This was the North.

A land Jon was drawn to even in his dreams of late. When he’d stepped into the godswood
moments ago his senses had came alive with the memory of last night. When Jon had been
running through a forest, far darker and larger than this one.

Something driving him onward. A hunt. He was hunting. Following a trail and scents left
behind by prey.

Enemies, threats, he remembered, beasts that meant great harm.

It had all felt so real that when Jon awoke he’d expected to feel the earth beneath his feet, his
hands pressing down on pine needles and roots.

Now he ran his hand down the weirwood’s bark, finding it to be as smooth as it appeared.

The Dark Order has no finer longbows than those made of this wood. As elegant as it is
strong.

Just like a certain daughter of the North… a true beauty…

“You look a true Northman.”

His uncle’s words caused Jon to turn away from the tree then, for he had been ignoring
Benjen.

“Feel free to offer a prayer Jon.” Benjen inclined his head towards the weirwood. “Starks
have been praying to this heart tree since Bran the Builder raised Winterfell. That’s what the
stories say at least. You have as much right to that weirwood as the rest of us.”
“I have less.” He replied. “My mother told me of the old ways but we Targaryens are raised
to follow the gods of Valyria. Queen Elia chose the sect of Balerion for Aegon and Rhaenys,
mother chose Vhagar for me.”

“Can’t I say I’ve heard much about it.”

“Rituals. Candles. Offerings. Statues of naked people. All normal by Valyrian standards.” He
backed away from the tree and gestured to his dark clothing. “Never had much time for it
after I joined the order. I was taught to put my faith in the man next to me and to earn his in
return. That seemed more important than dragging a sheep before some altar.”

“No sheep for us, less ceremony too.” Benjen kicked at some fallen leaves and grinned.
“More foliage though.”

“Fair trade.” Jon shared a smile with his uncle. He liked the man and begrudged only having
met Benjen so late in life. It made him wonder if he would have got along with mother’s
older brothers as well.

Many say I remind them of Eddard Stark. It would have been nice to know him I think.

He sounds a good and honorable king. A man like me could have learned from him.

As he thought on that he heard voices coming through the godswood. Benjen had brought
him here on Robb’s command and he recognized the king’s voice easily enough. Robb
appeared soon after, with no other than Jon’s mother on his arm. Ethan and Tumco followed
closely behind while the Blackfish caused Queen Catelyn to laugh happily. It cheered him to
note how similar it was to Sansa’s laughter. Jon heard that sweet sound more and more often
of late. Her smiles as well.

Jon did not dare delude himself to think they were for him alone. Sansa was never truly alone
with him. Most of the time they spent together was among other Starks. Like when he gave
the Starks a tour of the Dark Order’s encampment or joined them for a ride about their lands.
Somehow the princess and him always found reason to grow near. To have moments where
they spoke only to each other. When Sansa’s smiles and laughter even brought good cheer to
him.

He remembered how much his body and jaw had ached after the wrestling match with Robb.
A hard won victory on his part yet all his hurts had been worth it to bring Sansa blushing and
smiling out for one more dance. The pain only came after her hands left him and those blue
eyes looked elsewhere.

Stop it. Your mind is off thinking on that foolishness when it should be on the task at hand.

For all you know the Starks are ready to give their answer. The fate of kingdoms could be at
stake.

An empire itself.
If that was the case he took heart, for when mother left Robb’s side she did so with a wide
smile.

“Jon.” Mother kissed his cheek before doing the same to Benjen. “Benjy, I hope we did not
keep you waiting.”

“Oh it was a real trial.” Benjen winked at Jon but something about his words caused Robb’s
good spirits to die away.

“Interesting you should mention trials uncle.” Robb said as he shook Jon’s hand firmly. “We
had a raven from Hornwood. Another village was attacked and some outlaws hung. They
spoke of Ramsay Snow swearing vengeance upon me.”

Benjen spat. “More Bolton leftovers? Their lord and heir are dead, the Dreadfort taken. They
couldn’t beat the Stark so they take it out on the smallfolk? Defenseless innocents?”

“Trying to live up to Roose’s legacy no doubt.” Catelyn added with a shake of her head. “Let
us hope that is the last of them.”

“I’m doubtful of that.” Robb said. “I’ve decreed that any seeking shelter shall be permitted
entry into their lord’s castle. Winterfell included. It is for us to protect their homes and if we
cannot, we must share ours.”

Hearing that impressed Jon. To him it was a kind and noble decree, a rare thing indeed. Most
rulers were unconcerned with the suffering of their people. If it spared a lord some hardship,
he’d allow his subjects to endure horror after horror. That Robb clearly felt a deeper
responsibility to his people was just another reason Jon had come to like the king.

“Is there anything the order can do?” Jon asked then. “You’ve welcomed us to these lands,
we won’t begrudge helping to defend them.”

Robb grasped his shoulder. “Thank you Jon, but I believe you and I have greater trials ahead
than just facing bandits. More powerful foes as well. To the south.”

The two regarded each other a moment more before Robb let a small grin slip free and Jon
could not help but join him.

“The alliance?” He looked about at the others, finding them to be just as pleased. “You’re
accepting it then?”

“I am.” Robb nodded. “The Kingdom of the North and the Targaryen Empire shall march as
one. Together we’ll preserve my realm and create a new kingdom altogether.”

“Splendid news.” Mother beamed, cupping Robb’s hand in hers. “Absolutely splendid. Today
starts a new day between the direwolf and dragon. A new era for the Seven Kingdoms and
the empire itself-”

“It surely will.” Queen Catelyn interrupted. “As long as some conditions of ours are met.”
“Conditions?” Mother appeared shocked as she looked between Robb and Catelyn. “You
spoke of no conditions earlier.”

“Nor did you until the royal party arrived at Winterfell.” The queen replied. “Lyanna, you
made it quite clear the empire is not willing to help us out of the goodness of your husband’s
heart. Just as you have demands, so do we. Fair is it not?”

The High Queen did not take that well. Mother enjoyed being back at Winterfell but even her
patience was wearing thin at how long Robb and his bannermen considered their offer. Aegon
had found far more success to the south, the Martells already committed to joining the war.
His messages to the North made it clear Aegon viewed their slow progress as a hindrance to
the High King’s plans.

His mother had been enraged to read such words and Jon caught a hint that anger in her eyes
now. So before she could speak to it he took Queen Catelyn’s hand in his and kissed it
respectfully.

“I understand fully your grace. The king is well within his rights here. What must we do to
join in common cause?”

“Well said coz, well said.” Robb nudged him. “I’m eager to get south, my father must be
avenged and our lands defended. My uncle Edmure warns of Lannisters probing into the
riverlands and the Durrandons doing the same. Together we might throw them back but I
need more than your word on all that’s been promised. We want a guarantee. We want
something that binds us together…”

“We want a marriage.” Catelyn added, her eyes locked on Jon in a hopeful way. “A marriage
between you and my daughter. We want you to marry Sansa, Jon.”

Jon was speechless. This wasn’t the first time he’d been offered a match before some great
campaign. He’d rejected all the others out of hand. His duty to the order came before gaining
some well-bred woman he hardly knew. Yet something about this offer gave him pause.

Mostly because he didn’t feel worthy of it.

“Out of the question.” Mother stepped between Jon and the others. She kept her voice low yet
she gripped her skirts tightly, a sign of her anger. “Jon cannot be part of this bargain. It was
never an option.”

“It must be.” Catelyn answered, not shrinking at all. “If you wish our support for your future
conquests you must take my daughter as a bride. If you are to win new lands with Stark men,
you must wed a Stark woman.”

“But I cannot.” He protested weakly. “I am… I am honored, truly, yet I’m already sworn to
the order. I have only served six years. Men of the Dark Order serve for seven years before
we can be free to leave… or take a wife…”

Rather than being offended Catelyn smiled then, waving the Blackfish forward.
“I hate to correct you on your own company’s rules but I’ve spoken at length with my uncle
about this. Apparently there’s a precedent for men of your position.”

“There is.” The Blackfish ran a hand through his grey hair, mindful of the hard look he was
earning from Jon’s mother. “Ah, sorry. Didn’t see much harm in sharing some order history
with Cat…”

Before the old knight even need speak to it Jon knew exactly what he was going to say. He
could’ve smacked himself for forgetting it in the first place. When Daemon Targaryen
founded the Dark Order he’d been a widower. Yet only five years into his lordship over the
order Daemon took a Velaryon wife. He declared that since he served as Lord Commander,
and carried the weight of command, that such a reward was due to him. No other Lord
Commander had ever done the same and that was partly why Jon let it pass from his memory.
More than that he’d long ago accepted his future was in the order. That he was good for little
more than war and killing.

The Starks felt differently, Robb and Catelyn both challenging him to say the Daemon
precedent couldn’t be applied to him.

“It could be.” He answered. “Though it would mean I give up command of the Dark Order
once my service is up… that’s when Daemon left-”

“The order is not what matters here.” Mother declared, pointing to Jon and the white dragon
insignia on his sword sheath. “There is more at stake than merely building a new kingdom in
Westeros. There’s an entire empire to think about. Jon could be the next High King and he
must wed carefully. His choice of bride could affect the council’s decision.”

Catelyn seized on that. “Then a Stark bride should not hinder Jon in the least. Afterall, Prince
Rhaegar wed a Stark and he was still chosen as heir.”

Before mother could respond Benjen weighed in as well.

“Come on Lya. It’s a fine match. Jon’s a good man. Sansa’s a true lady. Wed them and North
and East are bound together. You more than anyone know how important marriages like this
can be…”

“I will not give away Jon like father did with me!” The High Queen rounded on her brother.
“And you’re wrong Benjen! Sansa does not have the kind of reputation many would welcome
in a new queen…”

Mother caught herself then, sharing a look with Ethan whose expression darkened. His was
more sorrowful though, unlike the anger that spread across Robb’s face.

“What do you say of my sister?” He made the mistake of speaking harshly and stepping
forward at the same time. Ethan moved swiftly to bar Robb’s approach, holding his hand up
to slow the heir.

“Easy your grace.” Ethan warned before mother nudged him aside, looking stricken.
“I apologize. From the depths of my heart I do. Sansa is a sweet girl and I more than any
have no place deriding her reputation… yet as a mother… as a High Queen… you must know
that the tales regarding her stay in the south have reached the empire. Tales that put her in a
dark light. Of scars and worse…”

Jon knew full well what tales were whispered about his mother’s time as a slave. They
enraged him and father both. Yet he couldn’t reconcile that with what he was hearing about
Sansa.

“What happened to Sansa in the south?” He asked, drawing all eyes to him. “I heard she was
held captive by the Durrandons during the last war but little more. They wouldn’t have dared
mistreat her though. Not the daughter of a king. Not one as kind as…”

None answered, all trading unsure glances or avoiding each other’s eyes entirely.

“She was a hostage.” He pressed, feeling a foul suspicion growing within him. “Betrothed to
King Joffrey…”

“We don’t speak of that monster.” Catelyn nearly whispered, a touch of grief to her voice.
“Lest to wish for his death… for all he did to my daughter. For the scars he left her.”

“He hurt her?” Jon’s fists clenched. His muscles tensing. “Joffrey scarred her? He had her in
his care and he did that? By what right does he live? I thought your seven forbid such
things!”

He rarely ever felt such anger. It couldn’t be helped. Not when he pictured the princess who
smiled and laughed for him being hurt by some shadowy figure. He remembered the fear
he’d seen on Sansa’s face every time he reached for a blade. His mind went to dark places
wondering what had instilled such terror in her. His rage was so that the others eyed him
warily, all save for Robb. The king went so far as to put his hands on Jon’s arms, gripping
them tightly.

“One day Joffrey will rot in the seven hells for all he has done.” Robb looked into his eyes. “I
owe my sister that. That and more. I think you’re the man to help me do right by her. To give
her justice. To give her the life she deserves.”

If all this is true I’m not… she deserves better…

Sansa’s already had to abide one monster.

“Ask something else.” Mother sighed. “Anything. I admire Sansa… I understand her trials
but if I’m to see my son as High King one day I cannot agree to matching him to Sansa.”

“Just Sansa?” Robb released Jon to face Queen Catelyn. “If it cannot be her we’d be willing
to accept Jon wedding Arya instead.”

“Arya?” The High Queen blinked some and put a hand to her chin. “Perhaps, she might be
more acceptable to us-”
“Us?” Jon snapped. “What is this we, mother? Did we not speak of this back at White
Harbor? I am not a child and you’ve no right to speak on any of this. Nor to speak ill of
Sansa!”

“Jon!” Mother flushed in embarrassment. “I’m safeguarding your birthright.”

“And I’m fighting your war.” He gestured to Dark Sister. “Another bloody war for the
empire. It’s fine to send me off to kill and conquer but it’s too much to let me choose my own
wife? How many more must I cut down in my family’s name before I earn that right? How
much blood must I spill? Or shall I die first?”

Few things rattled his mother. Very few. Yet now she acted as if she’d been struck. Her eyes
glistened and a hand went to her middle. A wind blew over them all and the shaking of the
leaves above was the only thing to be heard. He could not say he regretted his words. Father
always said he was as stubborn as his mother.

So he scorned her then to address the Starks.

“I am as free to make this decision as my father was. It is I who command the empire’s forces
in the North. It is I you shall deal with.”

Queen Catelyn did not hesitate to come forward and take his arm.

“Might I ask to speak alone with you Jon? I fear this was not handled as it should have been.”

He accepted the woman’s offer, wishing to be anywhere but near his own mother. Half due to
his anger at her, half because of how horrible it felt to see her pained by his outburst. Robb
and Benjen made no argument, his uncle speaking softly with his distraught sister while
Catelyn led Jon deeper into the godswood.

“My daughter was beaten.” The Queen spoke softly, gazing up at his face as he tensed at the
words. “Sansa was branded and scarred. She was threatened with horrors far worse. Does that
make her unworthy in your eyes?”

“No.” He struggled to keep the bile down. “Yet I think the match is a poor one. Your daughter
has been through so much. She deserves better than me.”

He meant those words to comfort the woman but it appeared he failed. Her expression
saddened some and she looked away from him. All that made it a surprise when Catelyn
placed a hand over his and patted it gently.

“I wish Ned could have met you. He and I were never meant to marry. I was for Brandon but
he died so my father made me wed Eddard instead. At first I found him cold and harsh… that
he was displeased by me. It took Ned far too long to open up to me… to confess he thought
himself unworthy of me.”

She stopped him, running a hand through her hair in a sad, longing manner.

“I don’t think I ever convinced Ned differently. He made me so happy… we loved each other
so. We loved our children just as much. And we failed Sansa. We gave her over to Joffrey and
all that befell her is because of that. Do you think I would let her go through that again?”

“I would pray not.” Jon spoke sincerely. “And I rarely pray. Very rarely.”

“I’ve noticed that. Do not take this the wrong way but since your arrival I have made it my
duty to learn about you Jon. My Uncle Brynden hates most people and distrusts nearly all the
rest. A true Blackfish. Yet he claims you to be one of the finest men he’s ever met. That he
would be willing to die for you.”

“The Blackfish said that?” His eyes widened. “Well I’m his commander… it’s his duty-”

“What duty did you owe those slave women?” She asked with a raised eyebrow. “Benjen told
me about the two northern women you freed from bondage. You had the Manderlys give
them shelter and work. As I hear it you made it clear their treatment was of great concern of
yours. Were they your mistresses?”

“They were not.” Jon shifted his stance awkwardly, the woman’s gaze as unwavering as
Ethan’s. “I would not bed a woman who had no freedom in the matter. My father’s empire
enslaves countless innocents… I freed two. It is no great feat.”

“Benjen thought differently.” The Queen replied. “My husband would say you acted
honorably. All I’ve heard marks you a decent man. One who cares for others more than
himself. I could rest peacefully knowing Sansa was wed to such a man.”

Everything she was say was wrong and he shook his head at all of it. He also tried to push
away the thought of Sansa caring for him. Of how it would feel to return from some
campaign and find her waiting. To have a woman so sweet to hold. To hear her laughter. To
earn her smiles.

When I joined the order I was full of dreams… now I battle endlessly for an empire I can
barely stomach…

What would it feel like to have something worth fighting for again?

His silence did not sit well with the queen, who lifted her chin in a regal manner.

“A marriage is what the King in the North demands for this alliance to bear fruit. To fight as
one the Starks and Targaryens must become one. If you cannot accept Sansa then we offer
Arya instead. One or the other Jonarys. Stand with us or ride away. That is the choice before
you.”

Queen Catelyn made to take her leave then, striding away from him with her skirts and hair
catching some in the breeze. Her auburn hair was as lovely as Sansa’s and he couldn’t deny
the resemblance then. Or the truth of how he was always saddened to see the princess walk
away.

“Your grace, you are wrong.” He called out, Catelyn Stark stopping to face him. “I have no
true choice in this. My father’s will must be done. So I will do what I must. But as I said
before, I shall never force any woman to abide me.”
“So the choice is not before me.”

“It is before Sansa.”

SANSA

“I don’t know which I’d prefer.”

Beth giggled at Jeyne’s musings while Talia and Arya both made faces. Likely because both
their Robb and Asher were among the men Jeyne was speaking about. They were all out on a
midday ride through the Wolfswood, Sansa and her ladies, Robb with his men.

And Jon with his.

He rode side by side with Robb as their horses ambled through the trees around the shrubs
ahead. Asher was laughing with Olyvar while Lucas Blackwood and Robin Flint pressed
Gendry on the quality of the Dark Order’s chainmail. Once the parties would not have mixed
as they did now. That was before Robb warmed to the dark prince. Now they spoke together
with ease, passing jests and tales like old friends.

They’ve grown so close in such a short time, she thought, Robb won’t let nervousness and
fear keep cripple him.

I can barely speak to Jon without my demons returning… how am I to marry him?

“Sansa.” Jeyne whispered conspiratorially, smirking and hiding her mouth behind her hand.
“Well? Who do you is more comely?”

“I think it’s Asher.” Beth giggled again. “Ethan looks a lot like him.”

“I look like Ethan too, we’re twins remember?” Talia said with a sharp tone, causing Arya to
laugh. “King Robb is far more handsome anyways.”

“What of Gendry?” Jeyne asked. “He’s as tall as the prince and built larger than Robb
himself. Oh and his eyes…”

Jeyne made a mummery of swooning then which did not appeal to Arya one bit, her sister’s
face scrunching up in anger.

“You sound like Alebelly when he’s had too many.” Arya quipped. “What’s it matter what
Gendry looks like anyways? You said he’s not the marrying sort.”

“Well he’s not Arya. As far as I’ve heard he’s a baseborn bastard, with no true name either.
We can still find Gendry comely though. What do you think Sansa?”

“I cannot say.” Sansa said, the gossip about suitors worsening her anxiety. “I’m betrothed
Jeyne. My eyes are only for the man I am to wed. It would not be proper for me to do
otherwise.”
“There’s no harm in just looking.” Jeyne added. “Men do worse than that even after they
marry.”

I know the worst men can do… I’ve endured much of it… it mars my body still.

And after Jon gets a look at me his eyes will surely more elsewhere… the marriage will be a
disaster…

That’s exactly what Sansa had said when mother came to her with the news of the betrothal.
She’d been looking forward to joining Arya and Bran when they sought out Jon that day.
Without her family or others about she could not bring herself to seek out the prince’s
company. He likely only tolerated her presence out of courtesy to them and she felt ashamed
to prey on his kindness in such a way. Yet it felt good to be around Jon. To speak with him.
To earn a rare smile from the somber prince. Sansa’s mind had to fight hard to keep her heart
from betraying her. To believe she’d finally found a brave prince.

Which was precisely why Sansa wept to learn she was to marry him.

“Mother not him!” Sansa had cried as mother held her tight, drenched the queen’s shoulder
with her tears. “A second son of some minor lord, a knight perhaps… they might accept a
wife like me. Not a prince. Not someone like Jon. He’ll scorn me… he’ll hate me…”

“He’ll do nothing of the sort.” Mother had cupped her cheeks and wiped away the tears. “Do
you know what he said to me? After we asked this of Jon he said you deserved better. He
thinks the world of you Sansa. That’s been plain since your dance in the hall. Trust me.”

“He’s being courteous.” She argued. “Or lying… mother what if he’s like Joffrey? I thought
he was golden and perfect and he ruined me… what would a Targaryen prince want with such
a woman?”

“Nothing could ruin you. Nothing my sweet girl. Robb needed a way to bind the Targaryens
to us and I saw a way to make you happy. I’m sorry Sansa I thought you would want this. I
thought… well it is a good thing Jonarys said he would only accept the betrothal if you
agreed.”

That had surprised her to hear. It sounded like something a noble hero would do in one of the
songs she loved so. Begging a lady’s favor rather than taking it. Then she remembered the
songs were all lies. The brand on her back was proof of that.

“Oh mother. It was Jon’s way of finding a way out of this without offending us.” She spoke
fearfully. “He’d not want to upset Robb... he’ll save his anger for me… just like Joffrey…”

“I don’t think so Sansa. I truly don’t but I hear you. Do not worry on this a moment more.
Robb offered Arya as a bride too. We can seal the alliance by wedding and Jon to your
sister.”

“Arya?”
Learning this both angered and terrified her. Arya had grown into a lovely young woman and
Sansa was often jealous of the bravery her sister had in droves. That jealousy rose up again to
imagine Arya with Jon. To picture Arya enjoying the life she wanted to have but Joffrey’s
cruelty had denied her. The thought of Joffrey mingled with Jon once more, and she worried
that perhaps Jon could be some sort of a lie. Jon did not seem evil yet the thought of risking
Arya to such a man made her stomach clench.

Her little sister was ignorant to all the cruelty of the world. Yet Arya did her best to shield
Sansa from little she knew of it. She had gone after the Karstark for Sansa without a second
thought. Sansa was the eldest. She was the burden on the Stark’s honor. It wasn’t in her to
risk Arya because of that.

So Sansa told her mother what she wanted to hear. That she changed her mind. That if
someone had to marry Jon it would be her.

Robb was all smiles when he announced the betrothal in the Great Hall. Hundreds cheered
and congratulated both Sansa and Jon. Yet when she’d looked to the prince he refused to
meet her gaze, an unmistakable look of shame on his face.

We’re not even wed and already I disappointed him…

“Sansa?” Arya asked, appearing worried herself. “Are you alright?”

Her sister’s eyes were locked on how tightly Sansa gripped her reins, her knuckles white. She
feared perhaps the other ladies had seen but Jeyne and Talia were now teasing Beth about the
flower Ethan had presented to her the night before.

“I’m fine.” She lied, forcing a smile that Arya didn’t accept for a moment.

“Don’t lie to me. Every time someone talks about you and Jon getting married you look…
scared. You want to marry him don’t you? I mean he’s much better than that arse Eddard
Karstark-”

“A princess should not use such language.” She chided Arya, trying to hide her fear behind
that. “And it is quite normal to be nervous about a wedding. Remember how Uncle Benjen
looked before marrying Wynafryd?”

Arya laughed. “He was so pale he looked like the skinniest snowman ever. Jon did get sort of
pale when I told him he better treat you right.”

“You did what?” She asked and Arya smiled.

“After the announcement. Nymeria and I cornered him near the First Keep. I told him if he
doesn’t treat you right, even if I like him fine and all, that I’ll have Nymeria eat him whole.”

“Oh Arya! How could you threaten a Targaryen prince?”

“I didn’t threaten him!” Arya argued, growing angry. “I warned him. I was just trying to help.
Jon wasn’t even mad. He told me he did the same thing once to his uncle Viserys, apparently
he’s a real shit. Jon doesn’t like him near as much as his aunt Daenerys and that’s who…”
As Arya went on and on about Jon’s life it only served to upset Sansa more.

Arya knows more about my future husband than I do… she had the sense to learn about him
rather than act a fool…

There had been so many chances for Sansa to act the girl she’d once been with the prince. He
was polite to invite her along with the others on their tours of his encampment. She could’ve
asked about his life, learned of his interests. Truly she knew more of the Dark Order than Jon.
He seemed more at ease showing her the drills his men ran through. When the order rode in
formations they moved as gracefully as Lady did. With unspoken signals they changed
direction, split apart or came together. No man ever rode alone, always with a partner at his
side.

“Our strength is our loyalty.” Jon had told her. “Our dedication to one another. Without
someone at your side, you leave yourself open to attack. Without unity, there is no order.
Only chaos and the darkness. It is a horrible thing to be alone then.”

He’d turned his grey eyes to her then, likely to make sure she understood and she had. Sansa
had told him that was a wonderful way of looking at the world, smiling like a fool the whole
time. Jon had merely nodded, staring at her for a while as if he expected more. She’d lost her
nerve and stayed silent. Losing yet another chance to inquire into the mysterious prince.

Sansa was cursing herself for that when the direwolves rejoined their party. Grey Wind led
his sisters through the trees, making straight towards Robb while Lady and Nymeria sought
them out. Lady always made her feel braver and when their trail brought them to a part of the
forest sparser in tree cover Sansa would need that courage. That was when Robb and Jon
decided to rein up and wait for the ladies to catch up to them.

“Arya!” Robb waved their little sister onward. “Care for a race? You and I, Grey Wind and
Nymeria, first one to the end of the trail wins little sister.”

“Ha! Not much of a race!” Arya laughed before kicking at her horse, stealing a head start
from Robb that he roared at her for. It was not lost on Sansa how Robb winked back at her as
they disappeared into the distance.

Leaving Jon with her.

“Who will win?” He asked, watching her siblings ride deeper into the forest. “From what I’ve
seen of both they are spectacular riders. Better than me.”

“Arya most likely.” She answered before venturing to be a tad bolder. “And you likely sell
yourself short my lord. I’ve seen your men ahorse and have never seen finer riders.”

“My men shame me. Your brother bested me in a race the night of our challenges.”

“Oh of course… I forgot.” Sansa had seen that race and felt a fool now. “You were victorious
in your wrestling match though. I was thankful for that.”
“As was I.” Jon glanced to her. “The dance was… pleasant. I spared your feet a trampling
and that is always a good thing.”

“Always my lord. We did well together.”

She smiled at him, trying to show Jon how sincerely her words were meant. For half a
moment Jon looked ready to do the same but his mouth formed into a firm line.

“Since you speak of performing well, I must ask something of you Sansa. It’s about us
possibly marrying... see I’ve been speaking with your septon.”

“Oh.” Sansa tried not to be bothered by Jon’s uncertainty whether they would wed or not.
“I… I did not know you followed the seven?”

“I don’t. At least not yet.” Jon looked away from her then. “I was raised in the sect of Vhagar
but that will not do for what is to come. It is important I adhere to the rules of the seven from
now on. The followers of the Valyrian ways are less stringent when it comes to marriage
rites. Apparently the Faith is the not the same… there are expectations of the bride.”

“There are.” Sansa felt her heart begin to pound. She knew full well what followers of the
seven would think of her and her past. “I will try to live up to them. I was raised in the seven
as well as the old ways. I can do all that is needed...”

“That’s not true.” Jon said, lowering his voice so that others would hear. “There’s much you
cannot do. It shames me to speak on it.”

It shamed Sansa too. She knew she could be no proper wife. She was tainted and ruined. In
the south girls like her would be given away to the silent sisters. It tore her apart to realize
this was how Jon meant to escape their betrothal. By shaming her into changing her mind.

How can I stand before a sept and pledge to do my duty to him? I’ve nothing left to offer.

He’ll wed Arya instead or call the wedding off altogether. All will know how I failed.

Father will go without justice and the fault will be mine…

“Sansa?” Jon’s eyes narrowed on her. His expression darkening.

The panic welled up in her, causing Sansa to tug at her dress and hair some. Her hands were
moving on their own, her actions frantic. She felt everyone’s eyes on her. Their judgement.
Jon’s judgement. Her chest became tight. The air was being sucked away by everyone so
close to her. The trees were closing in.

“Sansa? Sansa what is it?”

“I can’t…” She rasped, grabbing her reins and looking about for an escape. “Let me… I need
to go…”

Then she was kicking at her mount, the poor horse whinnying in displeasure. Still, it jerked
forward, galloping away from the others and wending its way through the trees. She kicked
and snapped the reins. Seeking air. Seeking any escape from the tight hold of panic on her
body. The cries from the others were lost in the wind in her ears, the world becoming a blur
of trees and shrubs.

She didn’t know how long she rode. In woods this thick she could have only crossed a short
area but that wasn’t her concern. She just needed air and when it finally started to return to
her Sansa eased up on her horse. It slowed to a stop in a small clearing, snorting as she
clutched at her chest and gasped in deep, desperate breaths.

I’m such a fool… this was how it was always going to be. This is what I’m doomed to be.

Joffrey did what he did to make me his forever… Sandor died to free me but I’ll never really
escape.

A snap of a branch caused both Sansa and her horse to start. Robb had made it clear they
weren’t supposed to ride off alone, not with outlaws prowling the North. Yet it was no broken
man coming out of the woods, only Lady following after her. Sansa could practically feel the
concern coming off the wolf and climbed down from the saddle to meet her. She took only a
few steps before dropping to her knees and wrapping her arms around the wolf’s neck. Lady
whined and sniffed deeply of her, accepting the embrace and growing still.

“Lady… Lady… don’t you ever leave me.” She pressed her face into the wolf’s fur. “I can
stand never knowing love but not being alone… I can’t be left alone again… not like after
Sandor…”

Lady listened to Sansa spill her fears out for some time, being there like she had been ever
since they first found each other. No matter what the realm thought of Sansa this wolf would
accept her. It was a small comfort to think on, for no prince ever would. Then Lady scorned
her as well, pulling away from Sansa violently. The wolf acted so suddenly she was nearly
thrown off balance. She caught herself with one hand to Lady’s back as the beast gazed at the
arrival of a horse and rider ambling into the clearing.

The prince she’d run from.

“Sansa? Are you alright?” Jon asked, wide-eyed and fearful as he leapt down from his horse
and walked towards her.

“I’m fine.” She struggled to her feet, smoothing her skirts and hiding her face from his gaze.
“I just needed to get away for a moment. To compose myself…”

“That’s my fault.” Jon grabbed hold of her horse’s reins and led it back her way. “I am poor
with my words… I meant to ease your burdens, not add to them. Weddings are complicated
affairs and there’s only so much I can leave to you. The bride has her duties but there are
tasks for the groom as well. I should have sought the septon’s guidance on those rites…”

“I’m sorry?” She looked at Jon’s eyes and found them as sad as ever. Not full of judgement
or disgust like she feared. “You were asking me about wedding rites?”
“Yes… I was a poor student during our lessons at Summerhall. I never cared much for the
ones on the Andal faith and I didn’t want to embarrass you during the wedding…”

He didn’t want to embarrass me… he wasn’t calling off the wedding… he was asking for
help…

She was grappling with this when Jon stood before her, head lowered. He did not raise it even
as he handed the reins to Sansa’s mount back to her.

“I would not have you suffer my idiocy… my bungling. Not during a wedding. You deserve a
fine occasion. It’s important that my family be seen as respecting the Faith of the Seven in the
south but if you wish to be wed before the heart tree I will find a way to make it so. If you
want to change your mind-”

“That’s not why I rode off.” Sansa reached for her reins, her hand slipping over top of his. A
tremble running through her, so powerful she swore his hand did the same. “A wedding
before the seven is fine by me Jon. Teaching you about it even better. I should not have
ridden off, I’m just a silly girl who misunderstands things-”

“Silly?” Jon’s grey eyes looked up with a deep earnestness. “Princess, if I thought you silly
I’d never try and explain the Dark Order to you. Few have grasped the truth of our ways as
quickly as you. I felt my words clumsy in comparison to yours… I had not looked at the
order in that light in a long while. In a hopeful manner.”

Sansa was struck by his words and the smile that pulled at Jon’s face. Here, in this clearing,
they were alone. She should have been terrified. Fearful of the sword strapped to his side and
the weapon he hid within his garments. Yet nothing about how he gazed at her or spoke so
kindly troubled her. Joffrey’s trickery had been born of boasts and sly charm. If Jon was a liar
he was a brilliant one.

He could’ve tried to take advantage of her not yet instead he helped her up into her saddle.
His hand lingering on hers. Hers on his. She wanted to believe more than anything he was
what she hoped. Yet Lady’s growl gave her pause.

The direwolf had backed away from them both, now lowering her head and snarling towards
Jon. That was when Jon pulled away from her, his head snapping about, much like Lady’s
was doing. His hand falling to his sword.

“Jon…” She grew fearful, her hopes betrayed. “Jon what did I do?”

“Sansa, ride off.” Jon said before pulling free Dark Sister. “Now.”

Rather than pointing the blade at her the prince pointed it to the edge of the clearing. There
she saw a number of ragged looking men appearing. More were emerging from the woods all
around them with each passing moment. Their clothing was filthy, their beards long and faces
dirty, all armed. Swords, spears, mauls, one with a bow. There were eight in all, each one
pointing a weapon at Jon and her. A tall one was so bold as to grab at Jon’s horse and yank it
far from the prince’s reach.
“That’s her.” An older man growled to an uglier one. “That’s the Stark daughter. The older
one. I seen her from the trees. Knew it was her that rode off.”

“Perfect.” The ugly one replied, hefting up a cruel looking sword and throwing back his
cloak made of some strange hide. He had a broad nose, long dark hair and wormy looking
lips. His eyes as pale as milk.

It was him Jon pointed Dark Sister at.

“This is the Princess Sansa Stark. She is under my protection and that of her brother Robb,
the King in the North!”

“He’s no king of mine.” The ugly one laughed. “Nor my father’s. We’ll see how high and
mighty the Starks are when we leave this one’s skin drying out in the sun.”

“Hold.” Jon commanded as Lady snarled and snapped. “If you wish a hostage I am Jon
Targaryen, son of the High King. Take me and let the princess ride free from here. If you
make to bar her path, you will die. That I promise.”

All the outlaws began laughing then, mocking Jon and making lewd gestures to her. Sansa
held her reins tightly and tensed when the ugly man swung his blade through the air in threat.

“Brave man. I’ve flayed a few of the brave ones before. They always end up screaming. I
make them scream my name. Ramsay. She’ll scream it too when I’m done with her.”

“Ramsay Snow?” She put a hand to her mouth. The name was whispered and cursed at
Winterfell, for his crimes in the North were legend. “The Bastard of Bolton.”

“Bolton?” Jon’s tone changed, his eyes darting to their left were only two barred their path.
When he spoke again it was only to her, a whisper. “Sansa, when I move you ride. You ride.”

“Jon, no.”

She looked about for Robb, for Grey Wind. For anyone. Yet she saw no men save only those
who meant her harm.

“Please Sansa, stay.” Ramsay smiled cruelly. “I’ll teach you to style me proper. After
everything is said and every hole used-”

“Sansa ride!” Jon roared, rushing at the two men between her and the woods.

One held a spear, the other a maul. Before she snapped her reins the man wielding the maul
had fallen, Dark Sister swinging blood through the air as Jon defended against a spear thrust.
The others charged forward and Lady leapt up to attack a swordsman, allowing Sansa’s horse
to run off. An arrow flew by her as Jon held back the spearman, the prince meeting her gaze
as she rode by.

His sad eyes now full of fear as well.

Terror coursed through her. Much of it was for herself and what these men would do to her if
she stayed. There was more than enough fear left for Jon and Lady as she watched the five
Bolton men close in on them both. A spearman jabbed at Lady, driving her back while the
other four attacked Jon. He met the cuts of blades and other swipes with a grace akin to the
finest of dancers. Yet he had far too many partners.

Far too many.

Just like it had been for Sandor. When he rode to protect her from Joffrey’s men and paid for
it with his life. When she had let him die for her. His love for her had earned him a poorly
dug grave and nothing more. Now she left Jon to much the same.

Not again… not again… I won’t bury another...

I won’t let him die.

She pulled at the reins, jerking her horse about as Jon shouted in pain. The archer had loosed
again and an arrow was buried in his side. He struck out and threw away more strikes from
his foes but Ramsay was moving about. Trying to get at his back.

“No.” She rasped, finally getting the horse to face the fray. Kicking at its side with all her
might. “Please. Please!”

The horse charged forward. Sansa’s heart beating just as powerfully as its hooves. Jon had
been driven to a knee, still laying about with Dark Sister and holding his attackers at bay. All
save Ramsay. The Bastard drew up behind Jon. Raising his sword high.

Only to curse at the sight of Sansa charging towards him.

At the last moment he cut at her horse but it was too late. Her mount screamed, Sansa
screamed, but so did Ramsay. The horse rode right over the Bastard, the man falling beneath
its hooves before the poor animal stumbled from its own wounds. Sansa was flying then.
Thrown from her saddle and moving through the air like a bird.

A little bird.

Then she hit the ground. The impact drove the air from her lungs. It set her side to screaming
and her mind to reeling. She rolled across the earth, which was damp and hard. The pain
racking her body nearly bid her to slip into a creeping blackness yet she held on. Sansa
fought against it. Jon’s voice guiding her way.

“Sansa!” She heard him shout. “Sansa!”

The world was hazy but things came together. Her horse on the ground, Ramsay crushed
beneath it. The fiend rasping and grunting as he died. Lady was killing another of his men,
her jaws wrenching free an arm. Then there was Jon. Still alive, still fighting.

He was fighting three now. His face was red. Everything about him was red. She remembered
the Dark Order and how they rode. Jon moved liked them. His skill and speed defying sense.
Still his enemy came. Still he shouted for her.
She thought it was her mind failing her when a large white blur burst from the trees into the
fight. A Bolton man screamed as the white beast pulled him down. The wolf’s massive jaws
tore through his flesh, crushed the bones in his arm. Lady’s albino brother would be this
man’s death.

That still left two for Jon to face. Two men fighting hard to kill him.

She needed to go to him so Sansa set to crawling on her hands and knees. Anther body hit the
ground soon after, the dark prince having gutted him. The last Bolton fiend was pressing him,
fighting like a savage. He was hale and strong while Jon was hurt and slowing. An arrow
jutted out of his side. Other hurts bled on his face and body.

“Jon!” She choked out, crawling his way. “Not you!”

He didn’t hear her, for that was when his foe pinned Jon’s sword to the ground. Jon didn’t
fight for his blade then, instead grabbing at the arrow in his side. With a shout he wrenched
the arrow free, his blood spraying across the ground. He then drove the bloody arrow tip right
up and into his foe’s neck.

The man was still gurgling when the white wolf took out his legs and made to tear him to
shreds. Lady was standing over Sansa now, whining and licking at her face.

Yet still she crawled to Jon, who was staggering her way.

“Sansa…” He rasped, blood steaming down his face and from his mouth. “Sansa… speak to
me… please be alright…”

“Jon.” She reached up to him.

Jon was covered in gore. His blade slick with blood. His face and black garb stained with red.

She remembered how Joffrey had draped himself in gold and satin. Nothing was too
extravagant to prove himself royalty.

Yet as Jon came to her, filthy and weakened, she found a man far more worthy of the title of
prince.

Sansa saw her prince.

JON

I look horrible… Vhagar see me through this…

Jon scowled down at the finery he was wearing. He’d been struggling here in his pavilion
with his clothing for far too long. The doublet was as black as ebony, its buttons and
fastenings made of silver. The shirt beneath a dark grey with white frill about the sleeves and
collar. They felt itchy against his wrists and worse around his neck. The collar was too tight
and Jon grunted as he pulled at.
The sound was born from annoyance and pain, his hurts from the ambush not fully healed
yet. Beyond the cuts and bruises it was the arrow wound that pained him the most. His side
was stitched and bandaged, courtesy of the order’s chief healer and Maester Luwin. Both
men had chided Jon for tearing the arrow free in the manner he had. He’d taken that in stride
yet shouted in pain when boiling wine was poured into the gash.

That agony and the hurts he bore now were all worth it. Sansa had been spared whatever
suffering the Boltons had planned for her. When Ramsay Snow threatened Sansa it hadn’t
mattered how outnumbered he was. Nor that he’d lost his horse or lacked any armor. Sansa
would get away, even if it meant his life.

So he had become death. Men of the Dark Order were taught to fight as if the odds would
always be against them, for they nearly always were. He had lacked armor but that made him
light, agile, Dark Sister alive in his hands. The Valyrian steel cut through flesh but it was Jon
doing the killing. He hadn’t thought twice about tearing the arrow out to finish the last kill.
That was how badly he wanted the bastard dead. Had Jon not felt so weak he might have
smiled to see the light fade from the man’s eyes.

Sansa’s eyes had been far brighter. Those blue eyes were as lovely as could be. Which made
it all the worse to see himself reflected in them. A bloody, gore covered monster.

He’d feared such a moment since Robb declared Sansa had accepted the betrothal. That one
day she might see what he truly was. Jon just hadn’t expected it to come so soon.

That seems to be the way of things here in the Sunset Kingdoms. Nothing has gone as I
planned.

Father chose the wrong man to carve out our place here… the Starks were wrong to give
Sansa to me…

The Starks credited Jon with saving Sansa’s life but that was a lie. Sansa had saved his in
truth. Her riding back for him was one of the bravest acts he’d ever witnessed and had almost
cost Sansa her life. There was not a doubt in his mind they both would have died there if not
for the arrival of their true savior.

When Jon turned to look at his bedding he found a large white beast with bright red eyes
staring back at him.

“Well then, how do I look?” He asked, holding out his arms and displaying himself to the
direwolf. “You insisted on staying to watch me dress. Let’s hear your thoughts.”

The direwolf cocked its head in silent response, as silent as ever. This was the sixth direwolf
born of the same litter as the others. The one without a Stark.

“The runt.” Robb had told him. “An albino mute and a standoffish one at that. It causes no
harm since he is rarely seen. A ghost really.”

Ghost. That’s what Jon had taken to calling the direwolf that had saved them. The wolf
refused to leave his side after the ambush. Ghost was present while the healers tended to him,
something Sansa had tried to do as well until Jon sent her away. She’d taken a hard fall and
he commanded the maester to see to her care. Truly he couldn’t bare her to see any more
blood that day.

He wanted better for her.

Jon was still fussing over his clothes when Gendry and Asher entered his tent. Both stopped
midstride and gaped at him.

“Fuck me.” Asher smiled, looking Jon up and down. “Look at all that lace.”

Gendry laughed. “I’m offended brother, is the dark mail no longer good enough for you?”

“Shut it.” He growled. “This is how Westerosi highborn dress for such occasions. I wanted to
wear my armor but my bride told me that is not proper. I need to learn the ways of these
people. It’s their customs I should be respecting.”

“Well, with all due respect commander.” Asher smirked. “I’ve never seen you looking
prettier.”

While Gendry and Asher shared a laugh Jon scowled again. Neither of the two men wore
armor either but were still dressed in the tunics of the Dark Order. He was about to ask them
on the state of the others when Gendry opened up the flap and waved someone within. The
High Queen walked inside then, carrying a dark cloak in her hands. Mother wore a black and
crimson gown, which dragged behind her as she walked. Her dark hair was bound in a large
braid that hung over her shoulder, bound in a silver ribbon, yet he saw no crown upon her
head.

Mother caught him looking and touched at her hair.

“I saw no need for my crown this evening.” She smiled some. “Tonight I wish only to be a
daughter of House Stark, not a High Queen. A proud mother more than anything else.”

“Then look to Gendry.” Jon fidgeted with his collar again. “Blasted thing…”

“Here.” Mother handed the cloak off to Gendry, then moving to sort out Jon’s garb. “I wish
there’d been enough time to do this right. The Winterfell seamstress did well but I thought
you looked quite handsome at court-”

“We’re not at court.” He replied. “The styles favored at Summerhall aren’t known here. I
won’t look more an outsider than I already am.”

Mother laughed. “Gods, where does all that stubbornness come from I wonder?”

Despite his hurts and the comfortableness of his clothing, mother’s words lifted his spirits
some. There had been tenseness between them since the godswood yet if mother still held
any opposition to his marrying Sansa she held her tongue. She’d actually done the princess a
kindness the day of the ambush, for it had been mother to embrace Sansa and lead her away
from his tent.
“I had thought to find you at the castle.” He said. “Is something amiss?”

“Nothing Jon. Not if you’re happy.” Mother stroked his cheek before inclining her head back
at Asher and Gendry. “I only assumed with your men busy readying for the march south
you’d be in need of someone to attend you.”

“We’re better at fighting than finery.” Gendry nodded. “Even if there wasn’t a war on, Jon
would be poorly served by us in this.”

Somehow the talk of the coming war made him feel less nervous. Only days after the ambush
ravens had arrived from Riverrun. Word had reached the Tullys that the Lannisters were
amassing an army at Casterly Rock and the Durrandons were readying their forces north of
the Blackwater. The enemies of the Starks had decided the time was right to act. Robb and
Jon had been of the same mind on how to respond.

The army of the North would march south and the Dark Order would ride at their side. If
good fortune was with them Robb hoped to arrive in the riverlands in time to join their
strength with that of his southron vassals. Things were now moving at a rapid pace, his time
here at Winterfell coming to an end.

His imminent departure meant it was time for Jon to prove his dedication to the alliance. His
marriage to Sansa was no longer some misguided idea. The Starks wanted Jon and Sansa to
wed before he left for the south. Thus the last few days had been spent not only preparing for
war, but for a wedding.

Only one of which caused his palms to sweat.

He was rubbing his hands against the sides of his breeches when Mother released his collar,
beaming to stand back and gesture to him.

“There! There’s my handsome prince!” She put a hand to her chest then. “Mine for only a
short time longer, my boy. I’ve dreaded this day as much as I longed to see it come. To see
you married. To lose you to another.”

“Speaking of.” Asher broke in. “Sansa Stark is waiting. The Starks wanted us to be at the
castle before sunset. We should be going.”

“Not quite yet.”

Mother took the cloak back from Gendry. Unfurling it so all could see it was an entirely new
garment. Most of it was made from black suede the order used for the cloaks of its outriders.
Jon had worn such a cloak during many a harsh campaign yet never seen one this handsome.
White fur draped about the shoulders and around the neck, more of it lining the edges. It was
a fine contrast to the dark cloak and complimented the white three-headed dragon sewn
across the back, his personal sigil. When the High Queen held the cloak out for him to touch
he marveled at soft it felt within, discovering only then it was lined with black silk on the
inside. That earned a questioning look to his mother which she shrugged at.
“I gave my silk gown over to maker.” Mother said. “Strong, warm, and gentle, I figured
Sansa’s cloak should match the man I’ve giving over to her.”

“Thank you mother.” He bent down to kiss her brow. “I love you.”

“I love you too son.” She leaned into his shoulder, taking a firm hold of his arm. “Now go
and fetch me a gooddaughter.”

Before they departed Jon entrusted Gendry to carry Dark Sister on his behalf. He felt naked
without a sword on his hip but he terrified Sansa enough already. Gendry accepted the sword
with grace, declaring himself to be honored.

Jon felt much the same when they left his tent to find a collection of mounted men and
waiting to escort him to the castle. Ethan and Tum stood out in the white cloaks of the
Highguard and Jon counted Balaq, Greenbeard, Thoros, and the Blackfish among the order
men. Beyond the riders stood the rest of the Dark Order. His men stood at attention in two
long likes, guiding the way from his tent to the gates of Winterfell. It touched him to see such
a thing. This wedding was not popular among the men, apparently most wanted or believed
Jon should continue on as their leader. He’d made it clear though this marriage benefited the
empire more than his continued leadership of the order ever could.

Some of those arrayed before him likely disagreed with that yet they honored him all the
same. Brynden rode forward, leading Jon’s horse to him with a weathered smile. Greenbeard
held the black standard of the Dark Order, Thoros the red dragon banner of the Targaryen
Empire. It fell to Asher to carry Jon’s own banner and it was then a light snow began to fall.

“A summer snow.” His mother's words came out as a white mist. “During a wedding no
less.”

“A bad omen?” He asked and Asher chuckled.

“A good one. A couple who marries in the snow can withstand anything, even winter.”

They were off after that, Ghost leading the party on their slow ride up to the gates. He tried to
focus on the size and grace of the direwolf to settle his nerves. Jon had ridden into battle
countless times and faced foes terrible enough to haunt his dreams, yet he’d never felt as
scared as he did right now.

It’s not my life I’m set to ruin here… I can lead men, I can wage war, I can kill…

What’s all that to caring for a wife? How can I be what Sansa needs? I don’t even know what
I need.

The sun was setting when they were welcomed within the castle by a troupe of Stark
guardsmen. After dismounting Ser Rodrik led them on to the yard outside the Great Hall,
which had been completely transformed.

Winterfell’s sept was too small for a wedding of this size so Robb arranged for it to take place
in the shadow of the septry. A wide awning now stood outside the sept’s entrance, its beams
adorned with bands of heather, thistle, and countless wildflowers. Septon Chayle stood below
it, between the statues of the Mother and Father which both had bouquets of blue winter roses
at their feet.

The decorations did not lack for admirers as the Stark bannermen packed the yard. A diverse
collection of northern nobility stood to either side of the path Jon and his mother were
walking along. Many he knew only by their family names, the Hornwoods, Cerwyns,
Glovers, Flints, and so on. Yet here and there he found some he did to recognize. Maege
Mormont and her daughters smiling as they passed, Rodrik Forrester and his wife did much
the same but Jon found it quite unsettling when The Greatjon offered a wide grin of his own.
That rarely happened without a bout of loud laughter to follow yet this time the Umber lord
remained silent.

All were silent actually, the only talk to be heard were the greetings passing between Jon’s
men and the northerners as they took their place among the audience. The Starks stood to one
side of the newly built altar. Queen Catelyn looking regal in a gown of blue. Her long hair
moved slightly in the breeze and he noticed, just like mother, Catelyn had no crown upon her
brow either. Uncle Benjen stood to her side, dressed as finely as the young Stark boys near
them. Bran and Rickon smiled widely at the sight of Jon, though Rickon made a face when
he pointed at the lace at Jon’s sleeves. Arya smirked at that as well, the lithe young woman
wore a grey gown which none could call drab. Not on a girl with as much bearing as Arya,
who was so bold as to wink at him.

A wink today, a threat before that, I should fear this girl as much as I like her.

The Starks surely do raise women of note.

His mother did not go to stand with her kin, instead moving to stand to Jon’s side of the altar.
Ethan joined her there, Gendry and the Blackfish as well. Rickon giggled when Ghost pushed
his way between Gendry and Ethan. Allowing the direwolf to act as part of his wedding party
was likely not proper but it felt right somehow.

Anything that gave him strength was welcome right now. With the others standing apart from
him Jon now waited with the septon at the altar. Everyone was looking his way and he
instinctively reached for the assurance of a sword at his side. There was none there of course
and he cursed himself for forgetting that. Then he began to worry on what else he might
forget. Sansa had tried to do as he’d asked her, teaching him the rites of this marriage, yet
between his healing and preparing for war their time together had been short. The Blackfish
had done his best but practicing for the ceremony with the old knight acting as Jon’s bride
was unpleasant for both of them.

It’ll be far more unpleasant if you bungle this. Remember everything Brynden told you.

Prayers first. The septon will lead you through. Then they tie your hands… wait…

His worry was so great that he nearly missed the arrival of the bride herself.

Excited chatter rippled through the guests and drew his eyes back the way he’d come. The
last light of day was leaving them and lanterns were now raised by guardsmen to ward off the
night. Through the shadows and falling snow came the bride. Robb held her arm, Lady
followed at her side but Jon barely noticed any of that.

His eyes were locked on Sansa. His bride. The most beautiful woman he’d seen in all his
years.

They’d drawn her hair up into a style like a braided crown, a tight bun of auburn grandeur.
That left Sansa’s face free to be admired, his eyes drawn to her high cheeks, rose colored
from the cold and standing out against pale, pristine skin. Her eyes were lowered and Jon’s
gaze did much the same, taking in loveliness of Sansa’s bridal gown. She wore a grey cloak
on her shoulders and beneath it her gown was as white as polished ivory. Gold trim hemmed
her neckline, offering only the briefest hint to the top of her bust. Around her waist hung a
belt with white satin and golden embroidery.

He was still in awe of all this when Sansa raised her gaze so their eyes met. Hers were wide
and bright, like winter roses in a field of snow.

Snow drifted down upon her as Robb brought her onward out of the night. It felt wrong that
Sansa would be surrounded by shadows. Her radiance belonged somewhere far brighter, like
a field of flowers on a summer’s day. Surely not here amidst the snows.

Someplace better than at his side. Surely all had to see that.

There was no end to people admiring Sansa’s beauty. Jeyne Poole clutched at her chest while
Beth Cassel stared in awe. The Greatjon’s eyes were practically bulging out if his head and
Thoros made a silent signal to the red god. He caught Harrion Karstark grinning to whisper
something into his brother Eddard’s ear, nudging the man and causing his face to grow red
with anger.

Jon didn’t care for that yet if any others noticed they ignored it. Robb was too focused on
delivering Sansa to her place at the altar. With a kiss to Sansa’s cheek and a nod to Jon, the
King in the North made to join the other Starks. Sansa then faced the septon so Jon did the
same, finding it strange to have to look upon an old man with a beauty like Sansa so near.

Septon Chayle cleared his throat. “Here, before the Mother and the Father, under the eyes of
the seven and you good people, a union is to be forged. Who is this man?”

“He is Jonarys Targaryen.” Mother answered, her voice loud yet gentle. “Son to High King
Rhaegar, Lord Commander of the Dark Order, a dragon of the empire… and my son.”

“And who is this woman?”

“She is Sansa Stark.” Robb declared, chin held high. “Daughter to King Eddard and Queen
Catelyn. A princess of the North. A wolf of Winterfell. My sister… whom I love so.”

Then take her away from here, Jon willed, give her to a good man, a kind man.

Robb did no such thing as Septon Chayle led those of faith in a prayer. Few besides Sansa
and the rest of the queen’s children were able to join. The northmen held to their Old Gods
firmly yet it was not the North the High King was intent on claiming. His father had
commanded Jon to do all he could to win the favor of those who followed the Andal beliefs.
If the faithful of the south saw the Targaryens respecting their gods father hoped they’d
accept imperial rule all the easier.

Jon had agreed at the time but he hadn’t expected to be married in such a fashion. He was
quiet during the prayers, ignorant to them truly, and thus stood like a statue as Sansa spoke
for both of them. A stolen glance showed Sansa looking to the sky above, her words coming
out as mist between her pink lips, melting the snow that fell. Some was collecting about her
shoulders and Jon had to stop himself from brushing it away.

He had no right to touch her yet. Not that it would matter when he did. Whatever vows Sansa
swore here this night Jon swore his own. None of which could let him harm the princess to
his side. She’d been through too much already.

“Jonarys-”

“Jon.” He corrected the septon without thinking, his mind elsewhere as he gazed upon his
bride. Sansa caught his gaze and blushed while Arya and Bran’s snickers caused Jon to
redden as well.

The septon was less amused. “Jon then, you and Sansa must now be bound together. As you
will be in life.”

“Oh.”

Jon thought to apologize when he felt a warm touch against his fingers. Sansa’s hand brushed
against his, her own fingers wrapping around his. He realized then she was leading them into
the next part of the rites. She gently bid Jon to face her, taking both his hands in hers and he
feared his were shaking like a green boy’s before battle. Their eyes met again and the
uncertainty he saw in Sansa’s made him ashamed, for she likely feared he would bungle this.
He offered the smallest of nods and a squeeze of Sansa’s hands, in hopes of reassuring her.

For half a moment he thought Sansa would smile but the septon ruined it all by tying a ribbon
about their hands. Jon didn’t like that. It felt wrong to see Sansa bound in any way. His
objection was forgotten as the septon began to speak the vows.

“Before the eyes of the seven, I hereby seal these two souls. Binding them together, for
eternity. Look upon one another and say these words. Father.”

“Father.” His voice mingled with Sansa’s as they began to recite the vows of the seven. Their
vows to each other.

“Mother… Smith… Warrior…” They spoke as one. “Maiden… Crone… Stranger.”

He knew the next part well, the vows which filled him with a desperate hope. A terrible fear.

“I am hers, she is mine.” Jon declared, shocked at how good it felt to say. Snow was melting
upon Sansa’s red cheeks when she replied.
“I am his. He is mine.”

His heart beat faster to hear Sansa say so. To feel her touch. To watch how she bit at her lips
as the septon declared them wed. Jon numbly watched as the man untied them yet made no
move to take his hands away from hers. The septon was saying something but the pounding
of his heart was too loud. A horror crept up in him when Jon realized another rite was
expected and he had nod idea what it was.

Sansa rescued him then, just like she had in the Wolfswood. Her eyes moved to his cloak and
then to her own as she turned away from him. Robb stepped forward to take hold of the
direwolf cloak Sansa wore, unfastening it and lifting away. Jon’s mother came beside him,
pushing the bridal cloak into his hands before wiping tears away from her eyes. He wanted to
comfort her but he was no longer a child and his duties were now to his wife.

“With this cloak I do seal my vow.” He laid the cloak around Sansa’s shoulders, fastening it
as tenderly as his hands could. “I take you under my protection Sansa Stark. From this day
until our last day.”

Sansa did not have to speak a word in response yet when she turned her hands sought his
arm. Her body trembling, from the cold he hoped.

With the rites done the couple faced their families and guests, who erupted in applause and
cheers. Robb was in a duel with the Greatjon for who could shout the loudest. Much like
Jon’s mother, Queen Catelyn was weeping openly, gazing at Sansa with pride. Jon did a
double take at Arya, for her eyes appeared misty as well. Yet when the princess caught him
looking she rolled her eyes and crossed her arms.

Lady took to howling then, a sound matched by her siblings gathered at the far end of the
yard. Their howls echoed off the castle walls as Robb announced a feast in the Great Hall in
honor of Jon and Sansa.

“Good food and better wine! Full bellies and hazy minds!” Robb shouted to the joy of all.
“Let us celebrate this marriage like it deserves! May it grant my sister and cousin a happy
marriage! And us good fortune in the war to come! To victory!”

“To victory!” The northmen echoed the call and Sansa’s hold on his arm tensed.

In the joy of the last few moments Jon had forgotten what the future had in store. He’d let
himself get caught up in wedding the North’s greatest beauty. Sansa was his wife but war was
his calling. Soon it would beckoning him again, tearing him away from Sansa’s grasp. She
looked up to him fearfully and he wondered if she was recalling what he’d done in the
Wolfswood. If Sansa too had become so lost in the ceremony that she had forgotten the kind
of man she married.

One far too good at killing. A man ignorant of how to make her happy.

And Jon wanted to do that more than anything.

To make Sansa happy.

 SANSA

“If it please you my lord.”

Sansa looked to Jon to seek his permission. He was seated to her side here at the high table
and appeared surprised by the question. As was Robb, who stood with his arm offered for a
dance. The celebration underway was loud, Aunt Lyanna’s minstrel playing a lively tune.
Sansa looked forward to a dance with her brother yet knew the proper thing to do was ask the
prince his mind.

No, not just the prince… my husband now…

I am a woman wed. I am his and he is mine.

“Of course Sansa.” Jon answered, rising to help her stand. “Whatever will make you happy.”

“No worries on that!” Robb chuckled. “I know my little sister, I’ll have her spun about so
many times she’ll be smiling half of the night. The rest of the night falls to you Jon.”

“Robb!” She gasped, the sound of it lost over Robb’s laughter as he took hold of her hand
and led her from the dais.

King or not she meant to scold Robb for his vulgar humor but her attempts were drowned out
by the voices of others. Guests called out praise for her gown and congratulations for her
marriage. Sansa still couldn’t quite believe it. This morning she had woken up Sansa Stark,
the stain on the honor of Winterfell. Now she was a part of the Targaryen imperial family.
Four months ago she had never given one thought to her distant cousin. Now Jon was her
husband.

If someone had told me of all this I would’ve named them a liar. That such tales belonged in
songs and the songs are lies.

Yet as Robb began to spin her about in a dance her eyes went to high table. Where her
husband sat, as real as could be. Jon sipped of wine and watched their dancing with a far off
expression. That inspired her to put an extra bounce to her steps and to twirl her skirts about a
tad more than usual. If she was to be wed to a fine man she’d look worthy of one.

“Are you trying to outdo me?” Robb asked, eyebrow raised as he did his best to keep up.
“Marriage agrees with you Sansa. I doubt the realm has seen a more beautiful bride.”

“Thank you Robb.” She said before pinching at his arm, causing him to flinch. “And that is
for jesting of what is to come. You call me beautiful but that is because I wear a gown my
friends worked hard upon. There was nothing they could do for my scars though. Jon will
surely turn away from me when he sees them.”

Robb shook his head. “That man who stood tall against eight foes for you Sansa. He did not
abandon you then, I can’t see him turning his back on you for some scars. Did you not see
him nearly faint at the sight of you?”
“He did not.”

Robb’s words did cause her to remember how dashing Jon had looked waiting for her at the
altar. His garb could not have been finer, the way the snow caught in his long dark hair gave
the prince a cold elegance that made her chest flutter.

Her mind always went back to how he fought for her. How he had suffered such great hurts
yet made to protect her nonetheless. Sansa had let herself believe Jon might truly care for her
then. Yet after the fight he’d sent her away, refusing to have her around while he lay
wounded. She’d thought for certain Jon blamed her for his hurts, a belief the High Queen
dissuaded her of.

“Child, dear niece. Hush.” Aunt Lyanna had cradled Sansa against her as Jon’s cries of pain
followed them on their journey back to the castle. “Jon holds no ill will against you, it is in
his blood to act recklessly for the ones he cares for.”

“He does not care for me. Only the alliance… if I died under his care it would destroy all the
arrangements-”

“Nonsense.” Lyanna had gripped her chin and forced their eyes to meet. “I spoke against your
betrothal for the foulest of reasons. I must beg forgiveness for that and owe you a great debt.
You must know Jon would not hear me and not for loyalty to any alliance. It was me
speaking against you that stoked his ire.”

Sansa hadn’t believed her and Lyanna knew it without her speaking a word. The queen would
not leave it be, drawing her close enough so the maester could not hear.

“You and I, we’ve known suffering.” Lyanna’s grey eyes darkened at some distant memory.
“They branded you. Beat you. Well they whipped me. Did worse. They tried to ruin us.
Rhaegar never accepted my views on that. He believed in who I was long before I could.
There are good men in this world Sansa Stark. My son is one of them. Give him leave to
show you that.”

Once Cersei Lannister proclaimed the same of Joffrey. The wicked woman knew of Joffrey’s
cruel treatment of her and berated Sansa for earning his tortures. Always looking down at her
when the tears would come. Lyanna was different. She met Sansa’s gaze, held her close and
spoke of pain few could ever know. There was no falsehood in the High Queen. No
judgement. Only understanding.

During the wedding, when Jon’s hands had trembled in hers Sansa feared he would pull away
from her. Denouncing the whole wedding and her as a bride. When her chest had grown tight
and the panic threatened to return, it was Lyanna’s words that echoed through her head. Of
Jon being a good man. Instead of turning from her Jon had offered a nod. He gripped Sansa’s
hands tighter and did not let go again until it was time to put his cloak around her shoulders.
That cloak had been softer within than she expected, warmer as well. Strong enough to hold
back the cold and make her feel safe. It fit well.

Jon’s touch had felt the same. While Robb was a fine partner Sansa wished it was her
husband dancing with her now. He had left his seat at the table and was now speaking with a
number of northmen. Rodrik Forrester shook his hand while Halys Hornwood waited his turn
to do the same. What gave Sansa pause was the drunken form of Eddard Karstark, who said
something that gave his brother Harrion and Jon a reason to look displeased. Harrion added
something with a nod to Jon before forcefully pushing his brother back towards their table.

“What’s all this?” Robb asked and she thought for sure he’d seen this display as well.

Instead she found her brother staring at another couple making to dance. Namely Arya and
Gendry, the poor sergeant being dragged across the floor to the hoots of his comrades. Arya
had to put Gendry’s hands on her hips and press them till they stayed. The sergeant’s cheeks
burned as laughter rang throughout the hall.

“Well, there’s a man I need to bloody.” Robb sighed and she smacked his arm.

“You’ll do no such thing. Leave them be. How often is it that Arya invites a man to dance?
It’s a rare thing during a rare occasion.”

“Perhaps just a bruising then?” Her brother inquired, earning another smack. “Ow! Fine, fine.
The wife of my ally is a demanding sort. I’ll have to accept being the kind of king to stand to
the side and glower at his sisters’ suitors then. Or to suffer watching them dance with their
husbands.”

Robb grinned and stepped away from her, for Jon now joined them with a bow.

“Your grace, I would beg a dance with the princess.” Jon asked politely and Robb touched
Sansa’s arm lovingly.

“You two have a whole lifetime of dances laying ahead and look how impatient he is to start.
Well I’ll not stand in the way of that. Treat her kindly Jon.” Robb made to leave them but
before he could Jon leaned in to whisper something to him. Whatever it was made Robb
stiffen and eyes narrow. “I was clear on that matter. All were told. It’s not something to worry
on Jon, please, enjoy the evening.”

Robb departed but his stern words aroused her curiosity.

“Was that about the alliance?” She asked and Jon frowned, clearly displeased to answer.

“No, not at all. A drunk man asked me how long until our bedding took place. A Karstark,
saying something about proving your beauty to all. I did not know what a bedding was and
did not take his meaning.”

Sansa’s blood ran cold. A bedding was her worst nightmare. Strange men grabbing and
pawing at her, baring her flesh and scars to all, it would be like Storm’s End all over again.
Mother had refused to hear of one and Robb had sworn no bedding would occur. She did not
have to guess at which Karstark thought to suggest such a thing to Jon. A petty vengeance on
Eddard’s behalf, for what Arya did to him or because of the mocking he received during the
ceremony. Talia had overheard Harrion calling Eddard a fool for missing out on a bride like
Sansa.
A vengeful fool. A drunken vengeful fool. He wishes a bedding to display my ruin to all.

To embarrass me… to embarrass Jon…

She was wringing her hands nervously at the thought when Jon took one in his, concern
etched across his face.

“This bedding, it displeases you?”

“It’s a custom.” She hesitated to say. “One I asked Robb to forgo… it involves-”

“That’s all I need to hear. If you do not wish it, then it will not be done. I only worried I’d
shown myself ignorant of another of your customs. I must make amends for my bungling at
the wedding, I pray this helps.”

The prince then gave a silent signal and the minstrel took up a new song all at once. It took
only a moment for Sansa to recognize it and she smiled.

“Jenai of the Sorrows.” She said. “You asked for this?”

“No, you did. This was the song you chose after my match with Robb. I worried it was a poor
choice for a wedding-”

“No it’s perfect.” She spoke truly, heartened Jon had deigned to remember such a thing. A
small grin appeared on his face. A handsome one. Then she welcomed his hand upon her
waist. For it fit well. Their dance began as such, the slower tune lending to a more leisurely
form of dancing.

“This minstrel plays wonderfully.” Sansa sighed. “People call this a sad song yet there’s a
great romance to it. Jenai and her Prince of Dragonflies… a prince who gave away an empire
for love. For a woman with flowers in her hair.”

“Truthfully I used to mock it.” Jon admitted. “Aegon and I both, when we were boys. We’d
laugh about an heir doing something like that for a woman.”

“It’s important for Targaryens to choose the right wife.” She said, feeling her spirits drop for
she was surely the wrong type. Yet Jon shook his head, his dark hair falling some over his
eye.

“To me it’s better to make the right choices. What’s best for the empire is not always what’s
right. It’s taken me a long time to learn that… and I’m finally on the cusp of righting many
wrongs. On making the right choices. I hope so at least.”

His solemnness was returning so she reached up to brush the hair from Jon’s face, letting her
fingers trace along his skin. The feeling it gave was a warm one, a welcome one.

“I pray I am a right choice.” The words came out as if another spoke them. “I’ll do all I can to
be one. The empire’s ways are different but-”
A bellow from the Greatjon cut off the rest of her words, the Umber lord stood near the Dark
Order’s table and was urging them all to drink.

“Empty those cups!” The Greatjon lifted a tankard high. “Order men! Northmen! All of you!
We drink as one before we fight as one! Let’s liven up those Dark Order cloaks with some
lion’s pelts!”

The men of the hall shouted in agreement, drowning out the music and bringing the war back
to Sansa’s mind. When it was mentioned at the wedding it felt horrible to think she was being
wed only to bid farewell to her husband. The south was a place of great terror and hurt for
Sansa but a part of her was jealous of Queen Lyanna. Her aunt would be joining the march
south. Riding with Robb and Jon. Watching over them. Caring for them.

“To the Starks!” Uncle Brynden shouted, lifting his cup high and hundreds of men did the
same.

“To the Targaryens!” Uncle Benjen added.

Men were shouting and drinking, boasting and spilling, it was all becoming very raucous and
Sansa feared for her dress. She sought a less crowded spot for Jon to lead her when she
spotted him. Eddard Karstark was swaying her way, his goblet spilling over as he stumbled
through other guests. To others it looked like he was merely joining in the toasts. Yet Sansa
saw something in his eyes. Drunk as he was, the man was intent on something. They had a
cruel look to them, much like Joffrey’s before some horrid act.

When someone called for a toast to Robb she watched in horror as Eddard lifted his cup. She
thought of her dress then, the gown she looked so pretty in. The one that hid her ruin. Eddard
nudged Rodrik Forrester for an excuse to let the dark wine spill downwards. Sure to ruin her
dress.

It never had the chance. While she watched all of this numbly Jon spun her about, the wine
splashing down upon him instead. His face and much of his chest were drenched in it, many
in the hall growing silent or gasping like Sansa did. The Dark Order men rose swiftly from
their seats, their eyes all on Eddard, who stood gaping at the prince.

“My apologies.” Eddard grumbled and bowed poorly. “I’ve been told I’m the clumsy sort.
My father tells me I must apologize for that.”

“No, not for that.” Jon’s tone was cold, his stance a threatening one as he gently urged Sansa
back. “You must apologize to the princess. My wife.”

“What for?” Eddard challenged. “It was an accident and her gown is fine. Not a mark on that
dress.”

“Apologize for what you meant to do. Else I will hold you to account. My blade came with
me to this castle and if you press me, it will leave bloodied.”

“Jon I don’t-” She wanted to stop this before it went too far but Arya came to hold her back,
her face full of silent fury.
Jon’s expression betrayed nothing. Wine ran down his face in dark red lines akin to blood. It
dripped onto the floor yet the prince’s gaze never left Eddard. The other Karstarks were near
but their eyes were on the middle son as well, awaiting his response. Robb was not so patient
when he arrived.

“Why must Sansa be apologized to?” Robb inquired, rounding on Eddard. “If offense was
given to my sister on her wedding I will see to it that you-”

“Eddard will apologize.” She interceded, drawing all eyes to her save for Jon and Eddard,
who still glared at each other. “He will do so and I will accept for he has had too much wine.
Too much drink in celebration of my wedding. He will give an apology and I will wish him
well the rest of the evening. We can part ways honorably for mistakes are made, are they not
Eddard?”

Eddard’s eyes faltered and moved to her then. He was drunk but he was also backed into a
corner. One she was desperately trying to see him out of. Jon need not have this man’s blood
on his hands and she saw not point in Robb losing the Karstarks over such foolishness. More
than that, she wished to tend to Jon, who had moved far too quickly for a man with his
wounds.

With a deep swallow, Eddard bowed his head to her.

“Mistakes are made. I am drunk and that made me... well my fight is in the south, not here. I
apologize Princess Sansa. On my honor as a northman, I apologize.”

“I accept.” She said before reaching to Jon, who remained tense. “Jon… husband. This is at
an end. It would make me happy to put this behind us.”

“It would?” Jon looked to her and she nodded.

He considered that a moment before she felt the tenseness leave his body and he turned his
back to Eddard. No words passed between the two men, Eddard returning to his kin and Jon
seeking out a cloth for his face. The mood had darkened some in the hall but she cared less
for that than the state of the prince. His clothing was soaked with wine and he would surely
need to leave to change. When Sansa said so Robb began to laugh.

“Get that minstrel back to playing!” He commanded, waving his arm about to address all.
“We need a lively tune! The bride and groom are about to retire to their marriage bed!”

She made to argue but the guests were already clapping and hooting at the idea. The Greatjon
shouted something about Jon not being the first man to seek his wife covered in wine. Asher
and Uncle Brynden took to patting Jon on the back while Jeyne and Beth ran forth to grab
Sansa. There was to be no bedding but before Sansa could catch a breath her ladies were
leading her from the hall while men flocked about Jon, shouting bawdy jests. The minstrel
began to play Oh, Lay My Sweet Lass Down In the Grass and the last sight she caught of Jon
was Aunt Lyanna speaking into his ear.

Robb had arranged chambers for the couple’s use in the Great Keep and that was where
Sansa’s ladies led her. Jeyne and Beth were all giggles while Talia sang a sweet song to guide
their way. Arya fumed about Eddard but Sansa had bigger worries. This was the part of the
night she dreaded.

Jon was kind to me with this gown on but when he learns the truth of me that’ll change.

I’m a scarred, branded girl with no maiden’s gift to offer him.

His kindness will turn to disdain… his tenderness lost...

The chamber itself was warm, the bed covered in soft furs. Jeyne admired the flower petals
tossed all over the room while Arya mocked them. Beyond that there was a dressing table for
her with a washbasin that a servant filled with steaming water. While the girls helped Sansa
out of her gown and let down her hair all she could do was stare at the bed.

They were meant to make love there but all she felt was fear.

Everything was moving too quickly, her gown taken away. Her small clothes replaced with a
shift far too thin and bearing so much skin she clutched at herself. Her arms and legs were
nearly bare, her breasts straining at the top of garment and her back no longer hidden. Arya
drew Sansa’s hair down so that it hid the brand, the sisters embracing afterwards. She tried to
draw as much strength from Arya as she could but there was little time for it. Gendry’s voice
boomed through the door, announcing that was Jon ascending the keep and would there
shortly.

And so they left her. Leaving Sansa alone, barely clothed, and doing her best to breathe
normally.

Any moment he’s going to walk in and see me here. We’ll be alone and everything will
change.

Just like it did with Joffrey. Jon will come in and blame me for the wine. He’ll blame me for
what I am.

He’ll hurt me for it…

The sounds of footfalls in the corridor spurred an urge for her to hide. Sansa looked about the
room, panic setting it and only growing worse as she found no place to shelter her. Until she
saw her bridal cloak. The black and white cloak Jon had put about her shoulders.

She had felt safe in it and that was what she needed now. So, just as the chamber door began
to open, Sansa threw the cloak around herself, hiding her body beneath it. She turned from
the door and still did not face it when it shut.

“Sansa.” Jon’s voice was hoarse. “Sansa I… I must say… the room is very welcoming.”

“It is my lord.” She spoke to the bed for she had not yet the courage to face him. The cloak
could not cover her whole body and much of her front was exposed.

“Are you cold?” He asked, still not having moved from the doorway. “Do you wish me to call
for more wood for the hearth? These aren’t your chambers and if you’re not comfortable…”
“Thank you but it’s alright. I’m not cold.”

“But you’re wearing the cloak still. And you’re shivering…”

“I don’t mean to... I apologize Jon.”

She bit her lip then and finally turned to face him. Jon stood in the doorway, his clothes
stained and expression somber. The cloak hid most of her from his sight but when his eyes
roamed up her bare legs and tops of her breasts the prince swallowed.

“I didn’t think… with the cloak on I thought you hadn’t…” Jon rubbed his face and looked
away. “You look a vision Sansa. There was no need to go to such trouble on my account.”

“It was my duty. I am your wife.”

“Yes… yet you shiver.” Jon sighed. “You tremble without feeling cold. I can see the reason in
your eyes, for it is familiar to me. So Sansa, speak truthfully now. Are you frightened of me?”

“I’m scared.” She admitted, shaking her head and pulling tight on the cloak. “I’m just
scared… forgive me. Forgive me for acting a child my prince.”

“Lord.” He corrected her. “Just a lord, you’re the only royalty- oh no!”

The sob had escaped her before she could stop it. That small misstep caused the walls to
break and her fears to spill out. Already she was a disappointment and he had not seen the
worst of her. Jon was coming towards her, hand outstretched as if to help but she jerked back.

Jon stopped in his place. “Sansa… Sansa it is alright. I’m sorry for all this. They forced you
didn’t they? To marry me? I know you think me a monster but I’m not the kind to-”

“You’re not the monster. I am.” She wept, watching Jon’s confusion grow. “Please my
prince… my lord… Jon! Jon don’t hate me for what I am. I’ll do all I can for you. Whatever
duties you ask just don’t hate me. Don’t hurt me.”

“No one will hurt you.” Jon raised up his hands. “None. Certainly not me. Sansa when they
told me you were… mistreated, the only hatred I felt was for the monsters who could do such
a thing. I wanted better for you. Better than me. I’m a monster and you saw that in the
Wolfswood. Know I’ll never be one to you. For you I’ll be more. I swear it.”

Why does he call himself a monster? How can I deserve better than him?

“I’ll bed on the floor.” Jon continued. “For tonight. For every night until you give me leave.
If that day never comes then so be it. I swore to spare you from monsters and I’ll swear
another vow now… ugh.”

Jon had been making to kneel when he grunted and grasped at his hurt side. The events of the
hall came back to her and suddenly Sansa was beside him. The cloak was forgotten, falling
away as she took hold of Jon’s arm and helped steady him.
“Has your wound worsened?” She looked to his side and grew worried for it was stained
dark, like the rest of his clothes. There was no way to tell if it was blood or wine she was
looking at.

“It is no bother.” Jon lied horribly, his eyes wide at the sight of Sansa in her shift. “Sansa…
your cloak…”

“Your clothes.” She corrected, wiping away her tears and pulling at his doublet. “Jon take
them off we must see if you are hurt. I’ve seen wounds fester before and if we aren’t
careful-”

“As my wife commands.” Jon backed away to begin fumbling at the fastenings of his
doublet. It did not take long for her to realize his skill with a blade did not extend to dressing.

“Here, let me help.”

Sansa’s fingers began moving through the loops and ties with ease, ignoring Jon’s protests.
The memory of Sandor drove her on, her fear of Jon a distant thing compared to her fear for
him. When the doublet was off the stained undershirt came next and Jon’s upper half was laid
bare. Wine glistened over his lean form, darker where his muscle cared lines across his chest.
His scars remained, the ones she’d stared at during the wrestling match. Yet it was bruises
and cuts from the ambush that stood out to her. No more so than the dark red bandage at his
side. Sansa watched with worry as Jon undid it and then exhaled in relief to find the wound
there still stitched and not bleeding.

“You’ll need a new bandage.” She said but Jon was already tearing a strip from a clear part of
his undershirt. Sansa could not help but frown at that. “We could’ve sent for one, there was
no need to completely destroy your clothes.”

“Force of habit.” Jon shrugged. “When the order rides we use what we can. Fear not Sansa,
your gown is safe from me.”

“Why thank you, Jon. Please don’t think to put that bandage on without washing first.
There’s a basin right here.”

She took his hand and led him to the table. She took a cloth in hand and soaked it in the warm
water. Yet when she made to press it against Jon’s chest he stopped her, holding her wrist in a
shy manner.

“I can do this myself Sansa. You need not-”

“Did you not become a mess protecting me?” She asked, cocking her head and putting a hand
to her hip. “You drove me off after the ambush, do not think to try the same here. Let me do
my duty. Let me tend my husband.”

Jon relented, dropped his arms to his sides as Sansa began to move the cloth up and down his
body. Moments before she had been weeping but Jon had done nothing to warrant it. Even
now, as she soaked his chest in warm water he stood as still as a statue. His eyes trying to
stay elsewhere but drifting down to her body now and then.
“I did not drive you off.” He spoke defensively. “I thought only to spare you the sight of any
more blood. You already saw me at my worst that day.”

“Your worst?” The heat of the water felt right considering how her body was warming from
touching his. “Jon you acted a gallant prince and I’ll hear no argument different. It upset me
you would not let me stay at your side… I’ve seen my fair share of blood…”

“I know.” Jon rasped, his jaw clenching with each touch of the cloth. “Forgive me. I am
trying to treat you as you deserve and I’m making a mess of it.”

“Well messes are easy to clean.” She turned to wring out the cloth and was rewarded with a
small laugh from her husband. Yet it died away all of a sudden and to her horror she realized
her hair had fallen away from her shoulder. The brand was there for Jon to see and he stared
at it now.

His face twisted in anger.

“I’m sorry.” Sansa dropped the cloth and covered the brand with her hand. “I’m sorry! I was
going to wear a veil or keep my hair hiding it… please don’t look…

She was backing away when Jon took hold of her arm. Then, slowly, carefully, he laid a hand
over the one she used to hide the brand. When he began to pull it away Sansa whimpered in
fear and shame. Jon’s grey eyes were as sad as ever as he peered down at the ugly stag.

“It’s too horrible…” Sansa felt the tears coming again. “It’s too ugly…

“Nothing about you could be ugly.” Jon’s fingers tightened around hers. “What they did, it
made them ugly Sansa. Not you. Now that I see this… it is only a reminder of my duty to
you. My father sent me to fight for the empire. Robb and I shall shed blood for an alliance.
But now I will fight for you. For my wife. I’ll make myself worthy of you.”

It was all lies. It had to be. Yet everything she’d seen of Jon made him a terrible liar. Others
would recoil in disgust at the sight of her brand yet he looked at it with a deep sadness. Like
mother would look after she visited the crypts. Sansa wasn’t prepared for this. Nor when one
of Jon’s fingers left her hand and moved across her scarred flesh. She shivered at how gently
it was done and how good his touch felt.

Yet Jon took that tremble the wrong way. His finger pulled away and he might have done the
same had she not held firm

“Forgive me.” Jon beseeched her. “I swore not to touch you. I had no right Sansa, no right
and I beg you-”

“I welcome it.” Sansa said, wishing to feel his touch again. “Please don’t scorn me now… not
after saying such kind things.”

“I’d not scorn you. It’s not about that… I just won’t take liberties with you. Not when you’ve
been forced into wedding me-”

“And I won’t force you to hold me… but if you did, I would welcome it. I would.”
Jon seemed torn then, his eyes searching hers for something Sansa hoped she could give. She
took a small step forward, bringing them a bit closer, hoping Jon could accept that. He did
more than accept it, his strong arms moving around her and pulling her body against his. Her
brow rested against his cheek. Her breasts against his bare chest. Her hands at his shoulders.
His hands pressing against her back. She could feel his heart beating and wondered if he
could feel hers.

They stayed like that for some time. She couldn’t say how long. His embrace was much like
the bridal cloak. It was strong yet soft. They fit well.

When Jon’s lips moved to kiss her brow a sigh escaped her.

“Was that alright?” He asked when she made to gaze up at her.

“It could have been better.” She teased with a smile. “In the songs a bride is kissed-”

Jon kissed her lips then. His beard rubbing against her face as his lips slide over hers. They
were warm and full, the feel of them sending a shudder through her. It felt so good to be
kissed again her breathing was heavy when he pulled away.

“I hope that was better.” Jon smiled down at her and she basked in that.

“It was… might we keep trying though?”

She was rewarded with another smile and then another kiss. This one she met halfway. It was
all very innocent at first. Lips pressing to lips, hands staying put and yet gripping tighter and
tighter. Yet soon the hands began to roam, hers to Jon’s face and strong shoulders. His up and
down her back, sliding to her arse and causing her to laugh. That might have broken the kiss
had her body not pressed hard against his.

Somewhere the fear still lingered. Rattling its cage and wishing to be free again. To grab hold
of her mind and tell her things were as they had been. Yet Jon’s touch proved that all to be a
terrible lie. One she no longer wished to cling to. She moaned and he grunted. Her leg rose
up against his and his hand cupped her breast. That part wasn’t gentle but she had no need for
it to be. The way his thumb rubbed across her nipple bringing forth another moan.

In her mind it was Jon that led them to the bed but she suspected that tale might not hold the
full truth. Where Sansa should be wringing her hands a wicked woman had taken her place
and unhooked Jon’s breeches. A wanton one who let the straps of her shift be slipped off, so
that the garment crumpled on the floor.

It was only when Sansa found herself laying back upon the bed, naked and stretched out on
the furs for Jon to gaze upon, that the frightened girl returned. Her hands moved to cover her
smaller scars but the sight of Jon half bent over and struggling with his breeches caused her
to laugh.

“I must work on my dismount.” He rasped when he finally freed himself.

When he turned his eyes went wide at the sight of her nakedness. Her nipples were hard and
while she kept her legs together his gaze fell to the auburn thatch of hair bout her sex. Sansa
only caught this in flashes for she was taking in the sight of him a well. His cock was large
and thick, not so big as to worry her though. She felt its hardness touch her leg as Jon
climbed up the bed. If he cared for her scars he did not show it, too intent on kissing her
again.

“Jon…” She sighed, her hips pressing up at him and his hand moving down her body. “Jon…
Jon… I’m no maiden…”

“Oh… me neither…” Jon did not even slow his kisses along her neck. That he brushed off
her admission so easily made Sansa tear up.

“Thank you.” She grabbed at his face, forcing him to look at her. “Thank you for being a
good man.”

“I will be one.” He said, his no longer as sad as they’d been. “I meant all I said… I’ll be
worthy of you Sansa. I will be. Worthy of being yours.”

She did not weep. She did not fear. When her legs spread and Jon moved between them it
was what she wanted. Her words that bid him to push within and her voice that whispered.

“I am yours.”

And he is mine.
 Chapter 4
Chapter Summary

Two souls, trying to do the best they can.

A war rages and defeats are many.

As worthy as the blade, wits are needed for victory.

The Clash of Stags

Robert Durrandon’s death in a hunting accident put the Kingdom of the Storm in the
hands of his son, Prince Joffrey. Now a king, and more a lion than a stag, Joffrey set
about ridding Storm’s End of those who disdained the influence of the Lannisters.

Ser Barristan Selmy was one such man. Barristan the Bold served as King Steffon’s
champion first, then as Robert’s. Yet when Joffrey ascended the throne he wanted a
younger man for a champion and took that honor from the seasoned knight. The king
went further still after Barristan protested Joffrey’s rasher decisions and crueler
actions. The noble knight was stripped of his holdings and banished from the kingdom,
some say Queen Cersei even tried to have him killed.

Such actions inspired many Stormlords to turn from King Joffrey and call for Robert’s
brothers to take up the crown. Renly was the most popular choice, beloved by highborn
and lowborn alike. The charming prince raised an army at Fawnton, gathering support
from the Reach as well. Yet some believed this to be an error, for Stannis was the elder
brother and had better claim. Away at Harrenhal, Stannis was detached from events at
court and had few allies. A stern man, little loved by any, he marched south with a force
far smaller than that of Renly’s.

Together the two brothers outmatched their nephew’s strength at Storm’s End. Renly
had three times the men and Stannis had Barristan the Bold acting his champion. With
most of his supporters and the Lannister armies away battling the Starks, Joffrey’s days
as ruler of Storm’s End appeared near to an end. Until the Durrandon brothers did the
unthinkable.

Instead of uniting to retake their family’s home from the Lannister queen and her cubs,
Stannis and Renly made war upon each other. Within sight of Storm’s End, where the
three brothers had grown up together, Stannis and Renly went to battle over Robert’s
crown. Stannis saw the kingdom as his by rights, Renly argued since they were both
taking it from Joffrey rights went out with the privy pot. Neither was willing to give up
their claim so both vowed to fight.
Stannis had fewer men but Renly less experience. The younger prince attacked at dawn,
his men charging with the sunlight in their eyes. Follies like that turned the battle from
a rout into a viscous, brutal bloodbath. Thousands who disdained Joffrey’s reign died
fighting one another. The Durrandon brothers among them.

Mortally wounded but with Barristan the Bold at his side, Stannis cut his way to his
brother. All knew Stannis a hard man but none ever believed him a kinslayer. Yet that’s
what he became, with the sunlight at his back many claimed Stannis more a shadow
than a man when he slew Renly.

With the rebel cause already reeling a force loyal to Joffrey fell upon the survivors.
Many rebel lords were captured and made to bend the knee. Others lost their heads and
lands, sating Joffrey’s cruelty. The fate of Barristan Selmy was a mystery afterwards,
for he was not among the prisoners nor the dead. None having seen him since.

So it was, in trying to bring Joffrey low, Stannis and Renly secured their nephew’s
continued reign.

A more shameful folly is not easily named.

JON

The causeway could barely be called a road.

In the empire, most roads were paved stone and level, the ancient Valyrian ones so broad that
entire caravans could pass one another with ease. What lay ahead of Jon was little more than
a ruddy path in the mud. Running along a raised embankment, it was narrow and winding.
The cold, barren shore of the Bite lay to the east, the vast, murky bogs of the Neck stretched
out to the west.

Robb and Jon took all this in with grim silence outside the gates of Moat Cailin, their only
company the two direwolves at their sides.

Jon was thankful his father had not tasked him with invading the North, for Moat Cailin was
a formidable fortress. Various types of moss crept up the great basalt curtain walls of the
Moat, which were nearly as tall as Winterfell's. A great timber keep lay within and a number
of smaller buildings, less important structures compared to the three stone towers that loomed
over the fortress and the road itself. Each was pockmarked with arrow slits, allowing archers
to rain hell freely on any foolish enough to attempt an attack up the causeway.

“Not much to look at.” Robb grunted then, glaring ahead. “Our road to glory.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

The king made a non-committal sound to that, his mind clearly elsewhere. Robb, like Jon,
wanted to be elsewhere. Yet here they both stood, staring at the route they would soon take
south. That’s where Robb wanted to be, throwing back the invaders marching through his
lands and avenging his father.

A noble goal for the son of a king, Jon reflected, my father sent me here for a good cause as
well.

And all I want to do is return north… back to Winterfell.

To my wife.

It was a foolish thing to think on. Sansa and Jon had had only one night together before the
northern army marched south. His wife was little more than a stranger to him. Yet it hurt to
leave Sansa all the same. To bid her farewell with a stone face while his princess’s eyes
glistened with sadness and fear. He remembered how she woke that morning, with a look of
shy contentment to be wrapped in his arms, their naked bodies pressed together. Holding
Sansa had filled him with deep sense of calm. Leaving her had torn that all to shreds.

“You will be safe here.” Jon had tried to comfort her when it came time to leave, the couple
holding hands. “This is your family’s home. Nothing will harm you here. They’ll protect
you.”

“And who will protect you?” Sansa asked, her grip tightening. “You and Robb. None of you
understand what the Lannisters are capable of. I know how Cersei and Joffrey think and if
they find out that we’ve married… Jon, they’ll hurt you because of it... you’ve no idea what
they can do…”

“And they’ve no idea what I can do. They’ll learn soon enough. I’ll make it back, I promise.”

That was how Jon left Sansa, frightened and upset. All he could offer her was a chaste kiss to
her cheek and empty words on his eventual return. Not that he could predict when that would
be. Nor truly guarantee it. Despite every part of his being wishing it to be so.

“We’ll get through.” He proclaimed to both Robb and himself. “I’m not simply speaking of
this causeway or the Neck. Nor Riverrun or Storm’s End. I mean all of this. The battles
ahead, the war itself. We’ll get through this Robb.”

“I thought I was the cheery one.” Robb adjusted his crown. “Well, the only way we’re getting
through this is if we get into the fight. We've spent two days here simply waiting for Lyanna.
Those are days we could’ve been marching. Time we might not get back.”

While part of Jon wanted to point out how long it had taken Robb to accept the alliance in the
first place, he held his tongue. He agreed that his mother was in the wrong here. When the
northern army left Winterfell the High Queen had stayed behind, in hopes of making final
arrangements with Aegon and their other allies to the south. Gendry and a small party were to
escort her south and rejoin the army before it reached Moat Cailin. That had been two days
ago.

It was only this morning that some of the Blackfish’s outriders reported spotting mother’s
party half a day off.
“There’s no excuse.” Jon admitted, petting Ghost’s head. “They were only a few score riders.
At the pace this army moves, they had more than enough time to catch up. I apologize,
cousin.”

Robb sighed. “We’re brothers now Jon, no need for that. As annoyed I am, I take heart in
knowing that Lyanna’s almost here and no harm has befallen her. I’d rather your mother be
late than anything else.”

It would be a lie to say that Jon hadn’t been worried sick this whole time. The idea of
hundreds of Ramsay Snows ambushing his mother’s party would not leave his head. All
nonsense of course.

She had thirty of my best men. Gendry would die before he let anything happen to her.

He guards my mother… the Starks protect Sansa… duties that should fall to me.

“King Robb!” A voice hailed from back towards the gates. “Your grace, there you are!”

Lord Ellard Bowden appeared beneath the portculis, leaning upon a crutch as he limped
towards them. An older man, Ellard had a wooden peg where his left leg should be, having
lost the limb to a lizard lion ages ago. The beast’s hide now adorned the wall of the lord’s
hall. His missing leg did not deter Lord Ellard as he hobbled onward. With his dark hair and
long features Jon might have confused Ellard for a Stark, were it not for the man’s eyes. They
were an usually deep shade of green, of a color that Jon had never seen before in all his
travels.

“A mark of the crannogs.” Ellard had jested when they first met. “Stay near to the Neck long
enough and the bogs work their way into your blood.”

Moat Cailin was indeed a mixing of the North and the Neck. A good number of the Bowden
household was made up of crannogmen and Lady Bowden herself was a cousin of Howland
Reed. There was even a hut within the fortress where an old crannogwoman kept strange
potions and poultices. Ellard claimed her healing skills helped cure the worst of their
snakebites and thus she was treated with as much respect as the Bowden maester.

So far they’d avoided any losses due to snakes, the army camping north of the fortress while
Robb and most of his bannerman bedded within the castle. The lord had given over the
Gatehouse Tower in its entirety to Robb, the Stark direwolf banner flying high above it while
just below was the banner of House Bowden. A longbow crossed by three white arrows upon
a grey field, a nod of respect that the Bowdens had for archery.

A look to the battlements showed scores of archers patrolling the walls. Since their arrival,
endless bouts of archery competitions had raged between the bowmen of the Moat and the
Dark Order. Black Balaq, never one for easy praise, spoke of how impressed he was by the
quality of the Bowden archers. Karl Bowden, Ellard’s youngest son, a lad of fifteen, had
taken Balaq to eight rounds of target practice before the Summer Islander took the win. Balaq
had shaken Karl’s hand, a rare mark of respect.

It was that same slim, young man that helped Lord Ellard as he bowed in respect to his king.
“Your grace, I was hoping to find you.” Ellard spoke in a weathered voice. “We’ve spoken on
this before but forgive an old man his stubbornness. I must insist you take a company of my
bowmen with you.”

Robb wouldn’t hear of it. “My lord, I’ve already accepted your sons and nearly all your
spearmen into my ranks. Should things go wrong in the south I need your archers here.”

“I could hold this fortress with half the men I have now.” Ellard pressed and Karl nodded,
looking to Jon with his own set of eerie green eyes.

“Twice as many as Brandon the Bowman had when he held the Moat. Captain Balaq says the
Dark Order is always outnumbered. Well, so are the Bowdens, yet we fight all the same.”

“My boy’s right.” Ellard agreed.

The lord then began retelling them the tale of his house’s founding. Three hundred years ago
an army of the Vale had thought to invade the North while King Torrhen Stark had been busy
defending his coasts. All that stood in the way of those twenty thousand Vale men was Moat
Cailin and the king’s bastard brother, Brandon Snow. It was Brandon who held back the
invaders, with only a hundred bowmen at his command. Brandon himself who slew three
members of House Arryn, the uncle and cousins of Queen Sharra Arryn. When the third
Arryn had fallen, the Vale army had retreated. In reward for his bravery, Torrhen named
Brandon the new Lord of Moat Cailin, giving his brother leave to found House Bowden.

“Never kneel.” Ellard said at the end of the tale. “Those are my house’s words and our vow.
We’ll never kneel to any threat that the Starks might face. Leave me with one bow and a
quiver of arrows and I’ll hold off the lions myself!”

“I’ve no doubt you would.” Robb patted the lord’s shoulder while shooting a tired look Jon’s
way. “Yet my decision stands. The army marches on the morrow and this fortress will be well
defended when it does. The North and my family’s safety at Winterfell must be assured. I’ll
have at least one part of my realm spared this war.”

As they spoke the war was already well underway. When Robb’s twenty-five thousand men
had arrived at Moat Cailin they were greeted with foul tidings from the south.

The Lannisters had launched their attack on the riverlands and by all accounts it was a
disaster to the Stark cause. An army under Jaime Lannister had broken through the riverlords
at the Golden Tooth while King Tywin marched a larger force up from the south. Riverrun
and most the of the riverlands were now threatened and the word was that King Joffrey had
departed from Storm’s End to join the Lannisters with an army of his own. The only good
news to be had was that the Dornish raiding of the southern Stormlands had made the
Stormlords cautious. Most of them remained behind while Joffrey made to grow his army
further north, drawing soldiers from the riverlords that owed him allegiance.

Then Joffrey will have as many men as we have here. King Tywin moves with an unblooded
army and Edmure Tully wrote of fifteen thousand with Prince Jaime.
Robb was still debating with Lord Ellard regarding the size of the Bowden contribution when
Grenn and Ser Olyvar rode through the gates.

“A party nears!” Olyvar called as they jerked their horses about. “Galloping hard from the
north!”

“Is it my mother?” He asked and Grenn nodded.

“The Blackfish says so! He rode out to meet them but, my lord, something troubled him! The
High Queen’s escort, it’s a hundred strong! Mostly Stark men!”

“A hundred?” Jon repeated, sharing a concerned look with Robb. “My mother had Ethan and
Tum watching over her plus Gendry and thirty mounted veterans, more than enough to see
her here. Why would Bran send more?”

Robb frowned. “I’ve no idea. I gave Rodrik Cassel strict commands not to weaken the castle
garrison. Seventy riders is nearly every horse left in Winterfell.”

“Ser Rodrik’s a good man.” Lord Ellard added, stroking his beard. “A loyal man. He’s not the
type to disobey without cause.”

“Then let us learn this cause.” Robb declared and soon they were entering the fortress once
more.

Within the walls the three towers of Moat Cailin stood tall and straight, overlooking all as
they crossed to the northern entrance. Karl was helping his father limp along while Ghost and
Grey Wind ran ahead. That was not a strange sight but Jon did take note of how excited they
seemed. They were still marching across the damp, muddy ground when he heard the howls.
He had grown so accustomed to hearing such sounds at Winterfell that he could tell right
away that it was two different wolves making the sounds.

“What is this?” Robb demanded, quickening his pace as Grey Wind howled back. “What the
bloody hell are they doing here?”

Jon had no way of knowing for sure but something made him suspect who ‘they’ were long
before the gates began to rise ahead of them. He was not at all surprised when two new
direwolves darted beneath them. The black one ran straight for Ghost, Shaggydog tackling
his brother and playfully nipping at him. The grey one moved Jon’s way and he prayed for it
to be Summer. Or Nymeria.

Yet when he saw her pretty golden eyes his worst fears came true.

“Lady… no.” He reached out to put his hands to the direwolf’s head, petting her as she licked
at him. “You’re not supposed to be here… you should be with Sansa-”

“Hey Robb!” Rickon’s shout echoed through the courtyard. The youngest Stark was
bouncing in his saddle as he rode into the fortress, laughing to wave at his brother and then at
Jon. “I told them I’d beat them inside! There was a race and I beat them all!”
Neither man could give voice to their thoughts as more followed Rickon through the gates.
Mother was a close second, the High Queen smiling widely as she galloped up beside
Rickon. Ethan was among the next few to come through, then Tumco and Gendry. When
Gendry spotted him the sergeant’s face twisted into an apologetic expression. One Jon
understood all too well when a party of ladies rode in, guarded by Ser Rodrik and a number
of Stark men. Jeyne and Talia were there, and between them came an auburn haired rider in a
familiar black cloak.

“What a beauty.” Karl spoke admiringly. “Who is she?”

“My wife.” Jon said, running a hand down his face in disbelief at the sight of Sansa.

“What’s the meaning of this?!” Robb roared, marching through the press of riders and
making Rickon reconsider climbing down from his horse. The boy gave a cry when Robb
yanked him to his side, taking a firm grip on the Rickon’s collar. “Ser Rodrik! Why is my
brother here? My sister and her ladies? Why are any of you here?”

The old knight’s face reddened in embarrassment or shame but before he could speak, mother
intercepted the king.

“Dear nephew, I fear there were many developments since we last saw each other.” The High
Queen held her hand out to Robb so he could help her dismount. “The King in the North shall
have all the answers he seeks, after we are free from our saddles. It was a long and grueling
ride for us. Wasn’t it Sansa?”

“Yes.” Sansa answered, her gaze darting between the king and queen. “We drove our horses
to a lather Robb just to get here as quickly as we did. My ladies are exhausted, as is Rickon is
I imagine.”

“I’m no lady!” Rickon struggled fruitlessly against Robb’s hold. “I can keep riding! All the
way to Casterly Rock! Right Robb?”

“Shut it.” Robb spoke with barely restrained anger, turning his gaze to mother’s outstretched
hand. The king certainly showed grace then as he, despite his fury, made to help the High
Queen down. “I welcome you to Moat Cailin aunt, let us find someplace where you can
explain your- where we can talk.”

“As his grace commands.” Mother smiled.

While Robb did Jon’s mother a courtesy, Jon moved to show his wife the same. A flush of
color appeared on Sansa’s cheeks as he took hold of her hips to guide her descent to the
ground. He couldn’t deny feeling warmer to touch her once more. Nothing compared to his
anger though, which he did his best to hide from Sansa when she finally stood before him.

“It is good to see you well my lord.” Sansa spoke quietly, her eyes avoiding his gaze but
looking about his mouth instead. “The travels were kind to you?”

“Better than to you I fear.” He said, noting how exhausted Sansa appeared, her pale skin
standing out against the bridal cloak she wore so well. “Why have you come all this way
Sansa? Why?”

Before she could speak to it, Lord Ellard loudly announced that the hall of his timber keep
would be opened to the new arrivals. While the lord led the Stark riders and Sansa's ladies to
the keep, the royal party would gather elsewhere, in the smaller guesting hall of the
Gatehouse Tower. Its long table could only seat ten or so but none made to sit as hot, mulled
wine and stew was brought for the weary. The Highguard and Ser Rodrik stood silent and
grim as Mother gathered Sansa and Rickon to her near the hearth so they could warm
themselves. Jon joined with Robb at staring at the High Queen incredulously. She was
pushing a bowl of steaming stew into Rickon’s hands when Robb’s patience came to an end.

“Alliance be damned, aunt or no.” Robb crossed his arms. “You’ll explain why you’ve
dragged Sansa and Rickon halfway across the North. Right now Lyanna.”

“I apologize Robb. Sending a raven would have been kind but your mother and I feared
anyone learning that your siblings were traveling south. There are still Boltons bandits
about-”

“Yet you risked them anyways.” Jon stepped forward, leaning on the table and glaring at his
mother. “How could you be so reckless with their lives?”

“Jon, please.” Sansa spoke up, her hands wrapped around a cup of mulled wine. “Do not
blame your mother, this was all because of me.”

“You?” He blinked in confusion while the queen put a hand on Sansa’s arm.

“After the army departed Sansa and I got to speaking. Of her times as a hostage to the
Durrandons. Of all that she experienced in the south.”

“All of which is precisely why she should be at Winterfell right now.” Robb grumbled, until a
sharp look from the High Queen silenced him.

“I do not speak of the cruelty that Sansa endured, but all that she learned of our enemies.
Knowledge as valuable as three legions and- well tell them my dear.”

“Joffrey is not well loved.” Sansa said to a mocking response from Robb. “No brother, I don’t
just mean by his enemies. By his bannermen as well. Queen Cersei was always going on and
on about which lords couldn’t be trusted. A list that grew longer with each slight that Joffrey
gave, every cruelty he wrought on his people. I saw the proof of that in the eyes of the lords
who visited Storm’s End. They couldn’t hide it as well as I did. They hated Joffrey.”

“Think on that.” Mother challenged them. “Men of note who might be willing to abandon the
Durrandon cause.”

“Like who?” Robb inquired and Sansa was quick to answer.

“The Darklyns of Duskendale.”

“Aunt Lysa!?” The king let out a deep breath of exasperation. “That bloody woman hasn't
answered one of our ravens in years! She wouldn’t even bestir her lord husband to rescue you
Sansa!”

Jon pieced it together quickly then. He knew a fair amount about the Darklyns, for the empire
traded often with Duskendale. Lord Royner Darklyn was Joffrey’s vassal but was married to
the daughter of one of his king’s greatest rivals. Lysa Tully, Queen Catelyn’s sister and
Sansa’s aunt. Jon didn't remember hearing Lysa’s name spoken once during his time at
Winterfell, likely because she was guilty of exactly what Robb accused. Abandoning her
family, leaving Sansa to monsters.

Sansa looked anything but scared now. “You don’t have to remind me of how little Aunt Lysa
helped me Robb. I was there when she came to Storm’s End. When she turned a blind eye to
Joffrey having Meryn Trant strike me…”

She paused then for Jon’s fists had curled upon the table. The name Meryn Trant was now
etched into his memory as Sansa pushed on through hers.

“Aunt Lysa won’t help us. She’s content to avoid angering Joffrey. Her husband is a different
sort though. That was our mistake, beseeching Lysa for aid rather than Lord Royner. He
despises Joffrey for the taxes he levies on Duskendale’s trade. He even spoke out when I was
beaten. Joffrey would have surely killed him then and there... if not for Ser Dontos the
Daunting. He championed his lord-”

“Alright, alright.” Robb held up his hand, clearly deep in thought. “The Darklyns are the
Durrandon’s strongest bannermen north of the Blackwater… we could try and offer Lord
Royner-”

“Not you Robb, us.” Mother looked to Jon. “I wrote Dragonstone before we left Winterfell.
The empire’s trade is important to Duskendale and I’ve seen to it that arrangements were
made… all thanks to Sansa.”

Sansa seemed embarrassed by the praise but Jon couldn't understand why. His wife had
seized an opportunity in the south that none of them had considered. He had thought Sansa
clever before this, yet clearly he’d underestimated just how sharp her mind was.

Which made sense. He barely knew his wife.

“None of that explains why Sansa is here.” Jon said. “A raven would have sufficed.”

Sansa’s face fell as Mother bristled. “This is not the only insight Sansa had to offer on the
inner workings of the Durrandons and the Lannisters. It is clear she could be a great asset to
us, hence why I asked her to join my party for this campaign.”

“You’re serious?” Robb faced Ser Rodrik then. “My mother agreed to this? Letting Sansa
ride off to war!?”

“It wasn’t mother’s decision!” Sansa argued. “I’m a woman grown, bedded and wedded.
Lyanna was willing to take me so I came. Mother and Bran disliked the idea but I do not need
their leave.”
“Nor mine it appears.”

Jon spoke the words without thinking, his anger at his mother and wife’s rash actions boiling
over. Sansa drew back at that, wringing her hands while mother appeared disappointed. The
last thing he wanted to do was speak harshly to Sansa, so he kept his mouth shut, fearful of
what else might escape. An awkward silence fell across the room, the only sound being
Rickon's loud slurps of his stew.

“Um… so.” Robb scratched his head and gestured to his little brother. “Why’s Rickon here
then? Did he figure on some way to win the Vale over to us?”

“Rickon is to be Jon’ squire.” Mother said before raising a hand to cut off his words. “Yes,
yes, only an order man could serve in such a role. So until you are free of your vows, Rickon
will act as my cupbearer.”

“Oh, right.” Rickon put down his bowl and snatched up an empty cup, offering it to mother.
“Do you want some wine?”

“By the gods.” Robb grabbed his face. “Fine, Rickon I can understand. Sansa, truly, I’m not
sure what to think of bringing you… that’s a decision I’ll leave to your husband.”

All looked to Jon, who chewed on that thought. “I would like a word with Sansa. Alone.”

Mother nodded. “Naturally. After she travelled all this way to see you, it would be
discourteous of us to deny you two a moment. You do remember all our lessons on courtesy,
don’t you Jon?”

Jon's glare spoke volumes, letting his mother know just how welcome her interference was
right now. She took it in stride, making mention to Robb of how rooms would need to be
readied for herself and Sansa. When Robb told her space was scarce, that Jon and the others
had been bedding down with the army after the last free tower had been given over to the
Greatjon, mother laughed.

“Let me deal with Jon Umber. There’ll be ample room for myself and Sansa’s ladies when
we’re done. A proper chamber set aside for Jon and Sansa. We can’t have a princess bedding
down in a tent.”

The High Queen sounded confident in all she said, not once considering that perhaps the
Greatjon would not succumb to her charms. Nor that Sansa might be unwelcome to Jon
bedding with her this night. He thought differently as Robb and mother led the others from
the hall, leaving the couple alone.

Him standing to one end of the table. Her to the other. Neither meeting each other’s eyes.

“You’re angry.” Sansa spoke softly, pulling at her braid.

“I’m furious.”

“Don’t be, not with your mother at least. She didn’t speak the whole truth… of whose idea all
this was. It was I who approached her, to collect on a debt and to show how I could help
you.”

“You help me by staying at Winterfell.” He kept his tone firm even though her words
softened his fury some. “When this is all at an end, I would find you there-”

“My father promised the same. When he went south I begged him to stay. Now he’s gone and
mother cries at night. She hides it but we all know. I don’t want to weep for you Jon.” Sansa
touched her chest then, near to her heart. “I want to be a proper wife. Your people are very
different than mine Jon. Their ways are a mystery to me. Lyanna was a Stark who learned to
act as the wife of a Targaryen and she rides with my brother’s army. She told me your aunt
Daenerys travels wherever she wills. I believed it was my right to do the same. You never
forbade me-”

“I was clear on wanting you to stay under your family’s care. Must I order you about? By
Vhagar Sansa, you know you don’t belong here.”

“I belong here more than you.” She shot back, defiance flashing in her eyes. “These lands are
strange to you, the people a mystery. Much like the empire would be to me. Yes, you have
Robb and the others to guide you but haven’t I proven my worth? That all the pain I went
through was worth it?”

By the end, Sansa's voice had risen until he had trouble telling who was being lectured. What
was he to say to that? He was her husband but these were her lands. They were married but
she was right. He wanted to keep her safe yet she'd already been hurt.

“Please don’t send me back.” Sansa begged, rounding the table and coming to take his hands
and lowering her head. “Lyanna has promised that the Highguard will protect me. That I shall
be as well-guarded as her. I’ll make no more trouble… I’ll be as obedient as you wish, just
please my lord, please don’t send me away…”

Jon had heard pleas before. Hundreds, perhaps thousands. From defeated foes to dying
friends, an endless stream of sorrow and pain. Long ago he had steeled himself against such
things. Yet when Sansa raised her head, eyes full of uncertainty, her hands on his, it shook
him. If felt like he was back before the sept again, swearing himself to her.

“I’m not your lord.” He cupped her chin. “I am yours and you are mine.”

No effort was needed to lift her mouth up to his, for Sansa complied with ease. The kiss
hugged the line between propriety and hunger. It felt too good to last only a moment, for he
had thought on their wedding night often. Jon felt an urge to take hold of her body and press
it against his but he fought it. There was no ignoring the matter at hand. So, reluctantly, he
pulled back to find Sansa’s expression far more hopeful.

“I do not want an obedient wife.” He said, running a thumb over her chin. “You’ve met my
mother. She’s willful, perhaps even wild at times. Do you think any son of hers could not
respect strength when he sees it? No. What made my blood rise, what worries me now, is
how wrong I was. This whole march I thought you were safe and secure… and it turns out I
knew nothing.”
“I was in no more danger than any of the others.” Sansa insisted. “Less than Gendry or
Ethan… both said they would die before any threat touched me. The High King let your
mother go to war… let me act as strong as Lyanna does. She’s been teaching me what’s
expected of a Targaryen princess. Like how to speak High Valyrian.”

“Truly?” He held back the urge to smile as Sansa nodded and made to prove it.

“Kostilus ynot ren-ren um...renignon.” She beamed to speak in a strained yet earnest Valyrian
accent. Yet the meaning of the words confused him and she saw that on his face. “What? I
said ‘please, let me come’ did I not?”

“Ah, let me come.” Jon grinned. “Close Sansa. It is kostilus ynot mazigon.”

“What did I say?”

“Please let me touch.”

“Oh.” Sansa acted embarrassed but he refused to allow it.

“Do not feel badly, your accent was good. It is my mother who is a poor teacher, she has no
patience. I was the one who taught Gendry High Valyrian. I will teach you too, if it please
you.”

“That sounds marvellous. Truly! Perhaps during our ride south we could practice? I do so
wish to be able to speak to your father in his own tongue. I’d want to make you proud if we
were to visit Summerhall… oh, sorry. I should not have presumed…”

“I would be happy to take you to Summerhall, it’s quite lovely. All Targaryen brides have
been presented there since Jaehaerys’s reign. Hence that lyric from Jenai of the Sorrows-”

“No, not about Summerhall.” Sansa looked at him intently. “About me going south. You’ve
yet to give me your leave.”

She was right. He hadn’t. Yet already Jon was looking forward to hours of riding with Sansa.
Teaching her his language. Speaking of his home. Perhaps of the home they might build
together. A chance to get to know the woman his life was now bound to.

Send her back to Winterfell and you’ll forever wonder if she’ll run off again.

If this was any other woman, with all she knows, you would not think twice about bringing
her.

Jon was still struggling with that when a knock came at the door. Young Karl Bowden came
to announce that the Greatjon had volunteered to turn over his chambers to the newlyweds. A
bit of news that caused both him and Sansa to flush.

“They are yours Sansa.” Jon said once Karl left. “You’ve had a long ride and I can bed down
in my pavilion like I always do. I’ve much to think on.”
Sansa frowned some. “If you so wish it but, husband, the Greatjon was kind enough to gift
his rooms to the both of us. He might take it as some slight if you bed elsewhere.”

The clever young woman reached up to pull at Jon’s tunic, making a show of straightening it.

“If a wife did have a tiring journey, all in hopes of finding her husband, would it not be a
good thing for them to share a bed? She would surely sleep better with him by her side.
Especially if they are to have only one night together before she is sent away.”

Sansa smiled shyly towards the end, Jon marvelling at the way she was winning him over
without once stating her true desires.

He cupped Sansa’s cheek, his face drawing close to hers again before he gave voice to his
own wants.

“Kostilus ynot renignon.” He whispered, his lips hovering just over hers. “Please let me
touch.”

Sansa recognized the phrase swiftly, wetting her lips to arch upwards.

“You can touch.”

And he did.

SANSA

The sounds of their grunting were loud in the tent.

Each time Jon thrust inside Sansa they both gave voice to their pleasure with abandon. Jon
was pressing down on her, his hips driving between her legs which she had wrapped tight
around his hips. His mouth left hers to kiss at her neck, leaving Sansa to stare up at the roof
of the tent as she clawed at his back in lust. The whole pavilion was beginning to lighten as
morning dawned anew and Sansa cursed the sun for rising.

Another hour… another ten… not yet… not yet…

It all felt too good to end but she knew it had to. The camp would awaken soon, their
journeys to start once more.

Sansa knew Jon’s release was nearing, she recognized all the signs. The way his hand
kneaded her breast, rolling her nipple between his fingers, his kisses giving way to gritted
teeth and muttered curses in her neck. His thrusts were growing more powerful, his cock
plunging so deep inside her that a change in position might make it painful. The way it was
angled now made her feel full of Jon and lost to desire, her cries becoming all the more
guttural.

It was embarrassing. She wanted to be quieter, to sound more lady-like, but there was nothing
she could do save bite Jon’s shoulder. She dare not cover her mouth with her hand. It still
stung from where she bit it earlier.

Jon hadn't returned to their tent from his patrol until late in the night, his body damp from the
rain and exhausted otherwise. Usually the night was their time for love-making but her
husband was in no state for it. When he'd climbed into their stiff bed, she simply rolled over
to embrace him, pressing her body against his cold flesh to warm him. She’d fallen asleep,
face resting in the crook of his neck.

Only to be awoken by Jon’s mouth kissing away at her neck. She didn't have a chance to
return his kisses before her gown was unlaced and his mouth traced a wet, warm trail down
her body. Sansa hadn't understood why Jon's face was lowered between her thighs until his
tongue flicked out to taste her.

It was wrong, the prince’s kiss. Improper. An affront to the Seven most likely. Yet she'd
gasped and covered her mouth, any protests lost as Jon kissed and licked her through to a
sweet release. She’d bit her hand horribly during, out of embarrassment at the guards without
possibly hearing her cries.

Jon was not so worried now.

“Sansa.” Jon grunted as he thrust harder. “Sansa… my god…”

Jon muffled his groans by locking his lips onto hers again. Something about this part always
felt wonderful. Her mouth captured each grunt, his passion flowing through his mouth into
hers. His thrusts started slowing, becoming deep and determined, like he was trying to draw
out what was fated. They both cried into each other’s mouths when he drove in one last time,
his hips jerking and body tensing as he spilled his seed within her.

Their skin was slick with sweat, Jon’s weight forcing her deeper into the furs. It wasn’t very
comfortable but she wouldn’t move for the world. Not while Jon's tongue licked at hers. Not
while he stayed hard within her. When he finally broke the kiss and rolled away from her
naked body, she could hear him muttering words in the native tongue of the empire.

“Kirimvose…” He exhaled, half of the words lost. “Kirimvose… darilaros… rijes

abrazyrys…”

He gives me thanks, her mind settling on meanings, he calls me princess.

“Kirimvose valzyrys.” She spoke breathlessly. “I give thanks to my husband.”

While Sansa pulled the furs up to cover herself, she knew well enough to leave Jon
uncovered. He worked up such a heat in their love-making that he couldn’t tolerate any furs
afterwards. She’d come to learn that about him during the many nights they bedded down in
this tent while traveling south.

Just like she came to realize that he never fell asleep first, for she always drifted off to the
feel of his hands running through her hair. Jon loved her hair. He hadn’t said so, not yet at
least, but she knew. The way he touched it, the looks she would catch when he was staring at
it in bed or as they rode. It was clear that he loved it.
Just like he loves me, she thought, he’s yet to say that either but I can hope.

Marriage and lust does not always lead to love… but it has for me.

Sansa pulled some at her hair as she watched Jon roll to the side of the bedding and pull his
smallclothes and breeches on. She didn’t want him to rise just yet and was thankful when he
moved back to kiss her again.

“We should be getting up.” He said, his arm to her other side so he could lean over her. His
words punctuated by their kissing. “Robb will be in a hurry… might reach the Twins before
the evening… you can sleep in a proper bed this night…”

“I sleep well… as it is…”

She sighed, feeling his hardness rising once more and press against her leg. A wicked thought
of how swiftly she might get Jon’s breeches off came to her mind then. She found that her
husband was rarely ever sated by just one release. Nor was she. It would be a sweet thing for
him to take her once more. To do those things with his hands and mouth that no girlish gossip
with her friends could have ever prepared her for. They could stay just a little longer for that,
she thought selfishly.

“Hey!” Jon broke their kiss, jerking up and looking to the side of the bed. “Hey! Get! Not
again!”

For a moment she worried that someone had crept into their tent during their lovemaking, too
lost to their passions to notice but Sansa quickly breathed a sigh of relief. It was only Ghost
watching them from the edge of the tent. Jon did not like it when the wolf watched them at
this and lunged to grab his boot, tossing it at the wolf. It sailed by harmlessly but Ghost took
the message, running off and out into the distance. Jon stood up from the bed then,
grumbling.

“Oh Jon.” She chided. “Ghost’s just curious… he means no harm.”

“Harm or no, I’m the jealous sort.” Jon replied, giving her a rare smile as he gazed down at
Sansa while she clutched the furs about herself. “I’d not share such a sight with anyone else.”

She wanted him to come back to bed so she could reward him for such sweet words when the
tent flap burst inward, the poorly dressed and wild-haired form of her youngest brother flying
through it.

“Jon!” Rickon exclaimed happily to see Jon standing. “I saw Ghost coming out and figured
you were up! Can I ride with you and Robb today? All three of us? No girls-”

“Rickon Stark!” Sansa shouted, pulling the furs even more tightly about her body as she
gaped in horror. “Get out! Get out this instant!”

Rickon took notice of Sansa’s bare shoulders and legs then and began to giggle and point. Jon
was beginning to usher the boy out when she grabbed up his remaining boot and threw it
straight into Rickon’s chest. The boy let out a cry when it struck.
“Hey! It’s not my fault! Half the camp is up-”

“Then go and join them.” Jon firmly guided Rickon out of tent. “We shall be out shortly.
Fetch your sister’s ladies. Then go and ask your brother about the riding arrangements.”

“And to teach you some manners!” She added, already pulling the night gown over her head.
With Rickon gone, Jon turned to watch this with a mischievous look in his eye.

“Rickon’s just curious. He means no harm.” He jested. “And from what I glimpsed without,
he’s also right. Most of the camp is awake. Robb’s already striking his tents and readying for
the march.”

“He’s trying to beat your men.” Sansa said as she laced up the front of her gown. “The Dark
Order musters far faster than the northern lords. Robb covets that discipline and speed. He
wishes that the Stark army had more of it.”

“I wish I could have more of a certain Stark.” Jon spoke in an enticing tone while he
wantonly stared at bare breasts. It was almost funny how sad he looked when she finished
tying the gown shut, like how Ghost would act when denied a share of her plate. Sansa
wanted to let Jon have more of her, and she of him, but there just wasn't any time.

When they were in bed together it was easy to forget the war. Now that they had risen, she
had to face reality and the ugly truth was that the Starks were losing. They’d exited the Neck
in an orderly fashion, only to learn from the Blackfish’s outriders that the Tullys had suffered
a great defeat. Jaime Lannister had smashed the riverlords outside the walls of Riverrun,
capturing her uncle Edmure in the process. Lord Blackwood still defied the Lannister host
from within Riverrun, though there was no telling how long that would last.

Meanwhile King Tywin was putting most of the riverlands to torch, sacking the castles of
Pinkmaiden, Stone Hedge, and Raventree Hall. The Lannister king now moved to block
Robb’s crossing of the Trident at the rocky ford with thirty thousand men at his back. Sansa
was happy to hear that the size of the Lannister host had not changed, as sad as that was to
admit. It meant Joffrey and the Durrandons had not yet joined their might with King Tywin’s.
The foe was more numerous but not insurmountable. There was still hope.

Sadly much of that hope was now pinned on the Freys.

House Frey had always made her father weary. She’d heard him describe the family as
undependable at best. Yet most of the king’s criticisms of House Frey had arisen due to its
lord at the time, Walder Frey. Robb described Lord Walder as an ancient, sour-faced weasel
of a man who sought favor before doing his sworn duty.

“Thank the gods he’s dead.” Robb had declared during their march, earning a rebuke from
Sansa for fear of Olyvar overhearing. “You’re right of course, but Olyvar’s nothing like his
father. There are too many Freys to count yet I still name Lord Walder the worst. During the
last war he refused to help the Tullys lest Edmure marry one of his daughters. Grasping
bugger.”
There were few who mourned Lord Walder’s death in the passing spring and it was rumoured
that much of House Frey had fallen into disunity afterwards. Stevron Frey, Walder’s firstborn
son, now ruled the Twins but had not used his family’s strength to aid in the fight against the
Lannisters. Robb’s scouts reported thousands of men marshalled at The Crossing while
enemies ravaged their neighbors. Robb needed both the strength of the Freys and their bridge
across the Green Fork to join the fight.

Edmure had to marry Roslin Frey to win such boons, what will they ask of Robb?

He’s unpromised... so a marriage is most likely. But that cannot happen, there are better
matches out there for Robb… they’ll look to Arya and Bran then…

She was thinking on this when Talia and Jeyne arrived to see to her dressing. Which meant
Jon left their tent soon after, her friends grinning to watch her prince peck Sansa on her cheek
in farewell. While Jon saw to the Dark Order, her ladies saw to keeping Sansa informed of
the camp gossip.

“You should have seen your aunt and uncle.” Talia giggled. “Queen Lyanna and Benjen
shared a bottle of wine with the Greatjon and the Karstarks. They all got good and drunk
toasting Prince Brandon and King Eddard. Oh, and Eddard Karstark made a vow to live up to
his namesake... just before the Greatjon tried to sing-”

“I was almost kissed.” Jeyne interrupted wistfully. “Ser Olyvar walked with me by the river
last night. He gave me his arm all the way back to my tent. He wanted to kiss me, I could tell,
but he simply bid me a good night…”

Sansa comforted her friend. “Olyvar’s a good man, he likely didn't wish to presume on your
virtue.”

“It would have been nice if he tried.” Jeyne continued to pout while Talia laughed.

They acted as if they were all still at Winterfell and not marching off to war. Beth’s recent
betrothal to Talia's brother Ethan had meant her staying back at Winterfell and mother refused
to even hear Arya's requests at joining the army south. Her sister was furious of course,
mother earning the blame, for Sansa would have liked having Arya among them. The young
princess’s bravery was missed as Sansa and the others drew closer to the families that had
killed her father. The monsters who had tortured her.

Ruined her.

No, I’m not ruined, she reminded herself, I suffered hurts but I made it through.

I healed. I learned. Now it is time to spare others those same lessons.

The first sight to greet her eyes after they left the pavilion was a young man undergoing
training his own trials. Karl Bowden, the youngest of Lord Ellard’s sons, was also the Dark
Order’s newest recruit. After Sansa finished pleading with Jon to let her stay with the army,
Karl had begged a boon himself of her husband.
“My lord, I wish to pledge myself to the Dark Order.” Karl had dropped to a knee before Jon.
“Your men fight with the Starks and I wish to fight for you. I’ll do anything you ask.”

“Then I ask you to reconsider.” Jon’s expression had grown as hard as ice, his eyes narrowing
on Karl’s youthful features. “If you look at the order and see glory or a chance at traveling the
world, think again. That’s what you see in the light of the day. In the darkness we are war and
hardship. It’s not your pledge we want, but your very life. Seven years of it or less, depending
on what sacrifices you’re called on to make. Reconsider boy.”

“I’m no boy.” Karl had argued. “The marsh seer told me that when I become a man my path
will be with the shadow riders. That with them my arrows shall travel farther than any
Bowden has ever loosed or ever will. My bow is yours. My life is the Order’s.”

So it was to be. After Lord Ellard gave his assent, Karl was inducted into the Dark Order. The
northmen were denied witnessing the secretive ceremony, though Karl’s training was plain
for all to see. It was strange to see a northman like the Bowden youth clad in the dark eastern
garbs of the Order. Stranger still to see him furiously working to inspect the shoes of a whole
line of horses. He was partnered with a young Sisterman recruited from White Harbor, the
pair repeating strange chants over and over again.

“Full fist, full stop… half fist, slow pace…” The two youths spoke in exhausted voices. “One
left, archers ready… two left, archers loose… split left, hit the flanks…”

“Poor boys.” Talia said as she watched them, for hers was a gentle heart. “They never seem
to stop. Chanting. Fighting. Working. That’s no life.”

“That’s because it isn’t their life anymore.” Sansa noted. “Their lives belong to the order
now. My husband went through the same. Asher and Gendry as well.”

Jeyne tittered at that. “And look how well those men turned out.”

Due to the efforts of Karl and the other order men, their entire company was ready to ride out
within the hour. Even with the head start Robb had commanded of his bannermen, the
northmen still could not match such organization. She thought for sure that that would mean
Jon’s men would lead the van but that honor fell to Galbart Glover. Save for the parties of
outriders screening their march, most of the Dark Order kept to the rear of the army. They
were so far back in the line from where Sansa now rode that she could not even spot them.

Usually Jon would ride alongside her so they could speak of their different realms to each
other, practicing Valyrian together, sometimes just talking. Simply passing the time.

She couldn't imagine anything more wonderful.

However today Jon rode at his place beside Robb. While her brother made sure to engage all
of his bannermen in personal conversations whenever possible, as father taught him, it was
Jon he wanted with him when they arrived at the Twins. Olyvar as well it seemed, which
caused Rickon to sulk, for he was riding back with the women and their guardians. The
Highguard flanked Lyanna as she tried to tease a smile from Rickon while Jeyne and Talia
did much the same with Gendry. The sergeant was doing his best to be polite as he saw to his
duties, though he could not hide his blush and the ladies preyed on it. Gendry, like the other
order men guarding the women, held a tall ironwood spear and wore an ugly brown cloak
over his dark armor.

“They don’t want the Lannisters to know.” Lyanna explained to her. “Robb and Jon, they
wish to keep the Dark Order’s presence here a secret. A surprise for our enemies, hopefully
as unwelcome to them as the one you cooked up at Winterfell.”

“It was an idea. Nothing more.” She pointed out. “None ever thought of it because my family
had little to offer the Darklyns. Without the Targaryens that plan would be for naught.”

“We Targaryens.” Lyanna corrected, the older woman gesturing to Ethan and Tumco. “The
Highguard does not protect women of House Stark. They guard Targaryens, like you, and
soon enough you’ll have a Highguard warrior of your own. I’d have Ethan take that task on
now, but Rhaegar commanded them to see to my safety before all things and they heed him
before all others.”

“Our duty is to the king.” Ethan added gruffly, his scarred face wrinkling to grin at the queen.
“A wise king at that, for he knows how his wife enjoys getting into trouble.”

“Silence you.” Lyanna ignored her protector. “Sansa, do yourself a favour, choose a quiet
protector. Like Tumco, a much more pleasant sort.”

“I get to choose? But I thought the High King would name one to me?”

“Well he could, but if I know my husband he’ll offer you some choice in the matter. If
Rhaegar had his way I would have twenty Highguard slowing me down everywhere I go.
Aegon usually keeps four about him but two were lost in the fighting at Meereen. I believe
Rhaegar is waiting for Jon to leave the order to name new members, so our son can choose
his own protectors. If they can prove their worth that is.”

“I hope I’ve proven mine.” She spoke earnestly, surprising her goodmother. “To you more
than most Aunt Lyanna. Bringing me to Moat Cailin, it earned you Jon’s ire. All you did was
for my sake and his… I did not think it would cause such a rift…”

“I knew it would.” Lyanna smiled sadly as she looked to Jon. “My son is too much like me to
expect different. We’ve quarrelled before, though never for such a good reason. You were
worth it Sansa. I did not bring you for your wisdom, nor simply because I owed you. You
impressed me by even asking, most women I know would not think to do so. I believe it to be
your mother's influence. Yet when you used my debt to push my decision, I saw something
else too. A glimpse of a queen.”

She tried not to let Lyanna’s words intimidate her. Her aunt had been instructing her in the
manner of Targaryen court for weeks now. If they were in Volantis Sansa would be expected
to host a three day celebration in honor of her marriage. The first day for the royal family, the
second for the nobility, and the last and largest for the common folk. Then she would have to
oversee the slaughter of a sheep before a clutch of dragon’s eggs kept at Summerhall. Most
importantly would be the tour of the many cities of the empire, each with different rites and
wants of her.
At first Sansa had thought that Lyanna was simply grooming her to be a proper wife. Over
time though it became clear what role Sansa’s aunt wanted her to eventually fill.

It is hard enough trying to get to know my husband, let alone learn how to rule an empire.

“You speak too kindly your grace.” She said after a moment, inclining her head to the High
Queen. “For I only see one queen among us.”

“One for now, and enough with this your grace business. I am Lyanna, aunt, or mother if you
would prefer. I would welcome you calling me such Sansa. I never had a daughter. My son’s
birth was a difficult one, it robbed me of the chance for others. Not that I ever lacked for love
or pride in Jon. Does my son still treat you well?”

“Very well.” She blushed to think of how well he treated her at night when her eyes settled on
Jon as he rode ahead, his dark hair moving in the breeze. He must have sensed her gaze for
Jon turned about to look her way. His stern face began warming, his lips pulling into a smile.
Lips she wished to kiss again. A mouth Sansa yearned to hear speak of love between them
before she covered it with her own.

Instead Robb said something that stole Jon’s attention, leaving her to speak with Lyanna on
other matters. They were both hopeful that once they were at the Twins, they could glean
some news of the events that Lyanna had set in motion at Winterfell. By now the alliance’s
fleet of northern and imperial vessels would have arrived at Dragonstone. The Jaehaerys was
to begin calling upon Duskendale and the Alysanne was ordered to sail about Crackclaw
Point. The lords along those coasts were among those that Sansa believed willing to rise up
against Joffrey, with proper motivation.

The Stormlords were a trickier lot, many having already lost one rebellion against the
Lannister puppets at Storm’s End. The Estermonts, the Conningtons, even the Selmys had
reason to hate Joffrey and Cersei. Care had to be put into how to reach out to them, especially
considering who Jon would have them paying fealty to when all was said and done. Robb and
Jon had heard the women out on their ideas, and both were shocked when Lyanna proposed
Gendry as possible way to inspire a Durrandon revolt.

The more pressing issue was securing the Frey support though, something Sansa pondered
still when the twin castles of the Crossing appeared ahead. As intimidating as Moat Cailin
was, the Twins were even more so. The two castles that stood to either side of the Green Fork
had high curtain walls were ringed with arrow slits and murder holes. Inner keeps rose high
within both and a tower sat at the middle of the stone bridge which connected them.

It was not long before a party rode out to welcome the army. Ryman, Lord Stevron’s heir, and
his half brother Walton was among them. They bid Robb and Lyanna to come in and feast
with the Lord of the Crossing yet Benjen and Ethan refused to consider it.

While Benjen spoke courteously, Ethan was blunt. “Once you’re in their power we might not
be able to get you out.”

“Well how else am I treat with them?” Robb asked. “Someone has to go in and I doubt Lord
Stevron will be happy with me ordering him outside his own gates.”
“I will go.” Benjen offered and Jon did the same.

“As will I. The Starks and Targaryens should look united in this.”

“Sansa as well.” Lyanna added, earning a baleful look from both Robb and Jon. “I trust my
brother and son of course, but I’m afraid you will both see this situation with more martial
eyes than needed. I wish to have Sansa’s estimation of the Freys. Also, in truth, her beauty
may help us, what lord would not be charmed by her?”

There was an argument on this but Lyanna won Robb over on the idea. Especially after Sansa
told him of her potential responses to what the Freys would most likely ask of him, things
that would be awkward for him to speak on. Ser Ryman and Walton would stay behind as
hostages to their kin’s good conduct while the Blackfish joined with Olyvar to lead them
within his family’s home.

As they drew closer, Sansa saw that the eastern castle was an impressive fortress, its gates
strong and guarded by numerous men-at-arms. Jon rode close to her the whole way, his eyes
moving about cautiously. It was touching and a proper distraction from the fear that came
with being in a strange castle again. Surrounded by armed men loyal to others.

An ugly sight awaited them in the courtyard. While grooms took their horses, Sansa spotted a
group of men held in stocks along the edge of the yard. Filthy men, barely clothed and clearly
having been beaten. The youngest was barely older than Arya, the eldest an old man, his long
white hair and beard hiding his face. She thought she could feel him staring at her yet when
she looked his way the old man’s head lowered.

They found Lord Stevron in his hall, seated upon a massive chair of black oak, the back
carved into the shape of the Twins themselves. A white-haired and wrinkled old man, well
past sixty, the Stevron Frey’s weasel-like face turned from the great number of Frey brothers
and cousins around him to wave them forward.

“By the Mother! I did not believe it when your riders came!” Stevron wheezed. “Never, never
in a hundred years did I think to see the day when we would welcome both our noble King in
the North and a High Queen within the Twins! My father would turn in his grave to know it is
I who earn such an honor! Yet I do not see the king and queen here. Do they follow behind?”

“Begging your pardons my lord.” Benjen bowed. “My nephew and sister are not here for you
are not where you’re meant to be. How is it that the Freys stand down while Riverrun is
besieged?”

A man laughed at that, one she would later learn was named Black Walder, Stevron’s
grandson.

“Is it our fault that Edmure Tully proved himself to be such a piss-poor commander?”

“Watch it.” The Blackfish warned. “That’s my nephew you speak of.”

“And Roslin’s husband!” Olyvar shouted back, challenging his nephew who stood a head
taller than him. “He is the father of her children! A lady of House Frey is besieged yet you
stand here sipping wine! You would leave Roslin facing the Lannisters alone!?”

“Olyvar, is that you?” Black Walder sneered. “I thought you Rosby gets were all too good for
us left at the Twins.”

More Freys shouted from amongst a crowd of weasel-like faces.

“Freys first!”

“The lions are hungry!”

“Why should we offer ourselves up as a meal?”

“Cravens!” Olyvar shot back.

The factions of House Frey almost came to blows then. It took Jon and the others putting
themselves between Olyvar and Black Walder to stop them from killing one another. Through
it all Sansa noticed that Stevron actually appeared pleased and soon she learned why. The
uproar gave him reason to have Walder Rivers clear the hall of his kin, save for Stevron’s
bastard brother and his grandson Edwyn. She tried to remember all that Olyvar had told her
of Edwyn as Stevron began coughing.

“Forgive that display.” Stevron hacked from behind his hand. “And our lack of action. My
family is not united in this. After my father died, I wished to restore goodwill to the name
Frey… to show us an amiable family. A reasonable family. A loyal one.”

Stevron began hacking again so it fell to Edwyn to continue.

“But, just like the use of our crossing, all of that comes with a toll. If certain members of our
family see my grandfather’s good nature as weakness... well, we could face problems here.
Respect must be shown, whether by wolf or dragon, to win our swords and our leave to
cross.”

“I take it gold is not the toll you seek.” Jon crossed his arms, causing Edwyn to grin while
Stevron’s coughing worsened.

“This is the dark prince I take it?” Edwyn said with a smile that looked out of place on such a
harsh face. “We congratulate you and Princess Sansa on your marriage. It seems one of the
royal Stark children is married off... while the others remain unprom-”

“My lord!” Sansa cried out, cutting Edwyn off so she could fill a goblet with water and carry
it to the beleaguered Stevron. “Water my lord, a drink to parch your throat before we drink of
celebration.”

To her it was a clumsy way to interrupt Edwyn’s attempt at match-making yet Lord Stevron
accepted the water gladly. As he gulped deeply, his eyes took in her form.

“To be served by a princess, my many thanks your grace. I remember your mother well…
you have her beauty I see… does she ever speak of the dance we shared once? She was only
a young thing then…”
“Often.” Sansa lied, putting a hand upon one the old man's own gnarled fist. “Often and with
red cheeks. You were quite charming then. Were she not in mourning and caring for my
siblings, I assure you she would have made the journey.”

Stevron smiled at that, patting her hand and doing little to hide how his gaze fell to her
bosom. It disgusted her, as it did whenever men stole such liberties of her body, yet it helped
the cause all the same.

“My lord, you spoke of being loyal, do you mean it?” She asked and when Stevron nodded
she gestured for him to lean closer, whispering. “There are things I would share with you.
Royal secrets… invite me to a view out the window.”

Stevron’s eyes widened but did as she asked. The whole spectacle earned confused
expressions from Edwyn and the others while Jon looked on bemused. The old lord was
happy to offer his arm and lead her over to a window, where Sansa continued to spin the story
she’d come up with on the ride.

“I should not be telling you this but my mother spoke so highly of you, do swear to keep this
in confidence.”

“I swear, on my honor as a Frey.” Stevon promised, whatever that was worth.

“Then know that the Targaryens stand with us. The Martells as well.” Sansa said and she
watched as Stevron gasped at the knowledge of Dornish involvement.

He acts like Jeyne when she hears a promising piece of gossip.

“Edwyn is right, Robb remains unpromised, but that is because he considers a match to a
princess.”

“A princess? Which one?” Stevron asked, barely able to hide his excitement.

“I cannot say, but their involvement is key to our lands being free of the lions. Nor do I have
leave to speak on Arya or Bran. My mother kept them at Winterfell to seek northern
matches.” Sansa spoke this part in a grave manner, Lord Stevron nodding his head in
response. “My brother’s bannerman feel cheated of late I fear to admit. Too many spouses
from outside the North, you understand that, don't you? And she still grieves so much for my
father.”

“Of course, I sympathize with your poor mother and all her trials.” Lord Stevron frowned
then and Sansa knew she had to change course. “But still, I must insist-”

“I can also tell you that soon my brother will have to decide the fate of two castles.” The lord
perked up again at that. “The Dreadfort of course... and Harrenhal, for when it is retaken from
Kevan Lannister, a new lord shall have to be raised up. And Robb has two brothers…”

Bargaining for Rickon’s future felt horrible yet Sansa had no doubt that at least one Stark
would have to be promised for the army to cross here. Olyvar had told her of Walda Frey,
Edwyn’s daughter and Lord Stevron’s great-granddaughter. She was of an age with Rickon
and third in line for the Twins. For a third born son like Rickon, a match with Walda was
more than agreeable. Stevron did not take completely to the idea until she made note that a
marriage to Rickon would make Walda a princess.

“A Frey princess...” Lord Stevron muttered in thought.

Robb had laughed to learn of this back at the camp, even louder when Rickon pitched a fit.
He screamed bloody murder, saying he didn’t want to marry a stoat and earning a cuff upside
the head from Robb.

“You’ll speak kindly of your future wife.” Robb commanded. “And if you agree I’ll get you a
proper sword and a new horse.”

“Really?” Rickon’s rage faltered then. “Can I get some chainmail too? And spurs?”

Jon could not help but grin at how quickly Rickon’s mood changed, something she did not
care for. She knew nothing of the young Frey girl but resolved then and there to instruct
Rickon on how to treat her with courtesy. When Jon took her brother as a squire, she would
impress upon her husband the importance of teaching Rickon how to treat his bride well.

The royal party was certainly treated well by the Freys. By most of them anyway. Lord
Stevron held a feast in the hall to celebrate the first visit to the Twins by a High Queen of the
Targaryen Empire and little Walda’s betrothal to Rickon. Those close to Edwyn were pleased,
his father Ryman boasting of having a granddaughter who would be a princess. Walda was a
slender little thing, close to Arya's age and fair-haired like her mother. She was all smiles to
meet Rickon while other Freys, like Black Walder and Lame Lothar, did not raise their cups
to join Robb’s bannermen in toasting the match. Sansa made silent note of each one of them,
and saw Lyanna doing the same.

Jon held her hand during the feast, letting Robb and Lyanna do most of the talking with Lord
Stevron.

“You were something with our Lord of Frey.” Jon said, running a finger gently over hers.

“Was I too bold? Stealing him away like that?”

Jon shrugged. “My wife is a bold woman, or so I’m learning. Especially when it comes to
protecting what she loves. I was a touch jealous though, watching Stevron hold your hand
like that.”

He feigned a hurt expression but the squeeze he gave her belied any true anger. Her husband
could be quite charming when he tried. It was a shame that others didn’t see this side like she
did.

“You have my hand now.” She smiled to him. “Now and always Jon. I’m thankful to have
this chance. To hold you. To be of use. To safeguard what I love…”

Sansa met his grey eyes then. Once she thought them the saddest eyes in the world. That
wasn’t so anymore. There was a light there now that hadn’t been there before. One she saw in
moments like these.

When they were together.

“To learn Valyrian as well.” Jon added after a moment of content silence. “We did not have
our lesson today. Forgive me if I wish to test you some. What does zokia mean?”

“Wolf.” She answered quickly, for he called her this at times, most often during their
lovemaking.

“Yes, and what of timpanan zaldrizes?”

That took her a moment. “Dragon… but something more than that? Is it white dragon?”

Jon smiled. “Excellent, you’re amazing Sansa. Truly. I… well this is one is harder. I’ve not
said it to you before. Avy jorraelan.”

He was right. This was harder. So much Valyrian lettering sounded the same and its phrase
structure was so different than the Common Tongue at times.

“Oh... I’m not sure! You’re declaring something… that’s the avy. We’ve not practiced this
one before? That’s not quite fair husband, I’ve had no chance to learn it.”

“You’re right, though I have tried to show it.” Jon pulled her hand up to his mouth, kissing it
as he looked to her. “It means I love you.”

Sansa’s mind was trying to remember the word and proper accent when it dawned on her that
this was no true lesson. The feast around them was loud, men and women talking and
laughing, ignorant to the words that Jon had spoken. Words she’d wished to hear for some
time now.

“I needed to say that.” He spoke against her fingers, his brow furrowing. “We’ve had all this
time together because of you. I left you once without saying so... without realizing it. I say it
now because it is true and I won’t waste another chance before I leave again…”

“Again?” Her hand jerked in his grasp. “What do you mean? You’re to leave? When?”

“On the morrow.” Jon shattered their moment with his words. “With Benjen and almost all
the foot, we continue south. I’m sorry… I should have told you sooner but Robb and I only
settled on this strategy today-”

Her mind was reeling from this when a commotion arose from the doors to the hall.

While others were celebrating it appeared that Black Walder was intent on darkening the
occasion as he had the prisoners from the yard brought into the hall. Many were displeased at
the sight of the filthy prisoners, all of whom wore irons. The old man with the white beard
she’d seen earlier was bleeding into his shackles and he kept his head low.

“Our king is here! A rare thing!” Black Walder proclaimed, gesturing to the beaten men who
all wore irons. “Who better to pass judgement on these men in the king’s name than the king
himself?”

“Surely there is better timing?” Benjen asked, earning grunts of agreement from the
northmen. “This is a celebration.”

“In a time of war.” Black Walder sneered, yanking the youngest prisoner forward. “And these
men are all enemies. Captured on our lands, trying to spy for Tywin Lannister’s advance.
Spies against the King in the North!”

“Hang them!” Torrhen Karstark shouted, Robett Glover echoing the same.

“Put them to the sword and be done with it!”

“Hold!” Robb raised his hand, quieting the hall and turning a cold gaze upon the prisoners. “I
will hear these men speak before deciding their fate. As is just.”

In truth there was not much to say. Not a one of the men was of higher rank than a man-at-
arms or freerider it seemed. Some were accused of attempted pillaging, others of merely
being too slow to escape Frey pursuit. Robb was fair, impressing two into service with his
army. Three others he deemed worthy of death but he offered them the chance to take the
black, which all did. Yet when it came to the old man everything changed.

“I’m no Lannister.” The old man’s voice was muffled, most of his face hidden behind his
filthy white hair. “Nor a spy. I am a knight.”

“A knight of the hedges at best.” Edwyn jested, several laughing disdainfully at the man. “He
calls himself Ser Arstan Whitebeard. A village headman farther south turned this one in.
Claimed he was singing the praises of King Tywin of the Rock.”

“A liar I name him.” Ser Arstan spoke hotly, causing Sansa to sit a bit straighter. Something
rang familiar then. “On my honor, I have never taken service with House Lannister. A family
at that village let me bed in their barn. The headman came to take advantage of their daughter
and I did my duty as a knight. I drove him off. Your men took me on the road the next day.”

On his honor… his duty as a knight… I have heard these words.

I have heard this voice.

“This tale smells like something that came out of a barn.” Lord Stevron wheezed. “Your
honor as a knight? Well then who knighted you ser? Which hedge boasts the honor of
knighting Ser Arstan?”

“No hedge. Just a good man, a lord.”

“His name?” Robb asked but Arstan remained silent. Stubbornly silent, until a Frey
guardsmen jabbed his ribs roughly with the end of his spear.

“I cannot say.” Arstan rasped. “I am not free to do so.”

“Then I have no proof you are a knight.” Robb shook his head. “And thus your swearing on
that title means nothing. I must go on what my bannermen claim. This could mean your life.”

“So be it.” The old man spoke defiantly, his eyes finally raising. Blue eyes. Familiar eyes. His
mouth speaking words she’d heard before. “I lived a knight. I’ll die a knight. By your leave
or not.”

“As you wish. Arstan Whitebeard I hereby sentence you to-”

“He lies!” She nearly shouted, causing Jon to spin about and the entire hall to stare her way.
“He lies I say!”

“We know Sansa.” Robb raised an eyebrow as she rose. “He is a mummer’s knight.”

“No, not about that.”

Sansa left her seat, Jon following after as she made to round the table, heading towards the
knight who tried to hide his face from her. It made no matter anymore. She’d seen enough of
this wrinkled face. Beneath all the filth it was much like it had been years past. When he had
stood before a different king. Defiant. Proud.

“This man is a knight.” She said. “But not one named Arstan Whitebeard.”

“Your grace, don’t.” The old knight shook his head, trying to shuffle away from her.
“Princess, you of all people… do not speak for me…”

“He squired for Lord Manfred Swann. He was knighted by King Ormund Durrandon in
battle. He has never served a Lannister king, for he was a champion to the Storm Kings. Two
of them before he was dismissed by a third!”

“By the gods!” The Greatjon roared, rising from his seat as the Blackfish gave a cry as well.

“Champion to the Storm Kings? You can’t mean-”

“I do.” She was an arms length from the knight before he dared to meet her gaze again.
Through his ragged hair, his sad eyes gazed up at her. As they had the day he’d left Storm’s
End. His hair had grown but she knew him still.

“This is no hedge knight. Nor a Lannister spy. I’ve only seen one knight act so bold before a
king.”

“Here stands Ser Barristan of House Selmy!

“Barristan the Bold himself!”

JON

Stay quiet. Steady pace. Let the darkness be our friend.

Jon repeated that to himself as his horse moved slowly through the mist. Gendry and Asher
were on each side of him, a long column of riders following behind. Ghost blended in well
with the haze, barely visible as it led the way on.

If Jon squinted hard through the early morning mist he could make out the other columns as
well. Thoros and his command was to the right, Balaq’s between them and Greenbeard’s off
on the left. The entire Dark Order rode like this, separated into different parts but united in
their goal. All eyes focused on the camp ahead which was not as well hidden by the mist as
they were.

That would change, for the sun was soon to rise, the sky beginning to lighten. What worried
him more was how the morning calm was punctuated by the sounds of thousands of horses
and their hooves tromping upon the dewy grass. It was entirely possibly some Lannister
watchman could hear their advance before seeing it.

The Blackfish and his men are seeing to that, he reminded himself, Brynden knows these
lands and he’s never failed you.

Failure was not an option here. Not with the odds stacked against them as they were. While
the Dark Order could advance unnoticed, the camp ahead shined like a town at the edge of
the Dothraki Sea. The torches and cook fires of thirty thousand Lannister men guided their
way. An army come to drive the Starks from the south and kill all that stood in their way.
They certainly had the numbers to do so here, for the Lannisters outnumbered the order ten to
one. By all accounts Tywin Lannister commanded twice the horse that Jon did and few men
in Westeros were feared as much as the shrewd and ruthless commander of the West.

Yet it was not this commander nor this battle that Jon worried on.

Robb would be fighting to break the Lannister siege of Riverrun. His cousin also faced
greater odds against him but Jon tried to focus on what Robb did have rather than what he
lacked. A keen mind for one. Robb’s strategies were inventive and defied expectation, his
ability to come up with strategies and changes at a moment's notice inspiring. A swift and
mobile force for another. Almost the entire northern horse was with him. The element of
surprise as well, for the Lannisters thought that Robb was marching here. Just as Robb
wanted them to.

He also guards my wife. I told Sansa I loved her only to leave her again.

Vhagar, the seven, the old gods, whomever. Watch over them. Protect her.

The whole spectacle of discovering Barristan Selmy at the Twins had forestalled Sansa’s
anger with him for a few hours. It was actually Jon who grew wroth to learn that a former
sworn shield of the Durrandons stood before them. Barristan the Bold’s legend was known
even in the empire, his disappearance during the Clash of Stags a mystery to all. Once he’d
hoped to meet such a knight but that was before Sansa became his wife. Before he learned
that Barristan witnessed the crimes done to Sansa and did nothing.

“That is my shame.” The old knight had admitted before the hall. “Not that King Robert died
under my care, or that the boy king stripped me of my title as a Durrandon champion. None
of that mattered in the end… I saw what they did to you Princess Sansa… I knew what they
could do, what Joffrey promised to do… and I did nothing…”

“Nonsense.” Sansa argued, her voice gentle and sad. “I remember that day well ser. Even
after Joffrey chose another as his champion, you stayed at court. You spoke out at my
treatment… you acted a champion for me. Cersei stripped you of your lands and title and-”

“And I left.” Barristan spoke with a deep shame. “My words were no shield your grace. They
did not protect you when I left to join Lord Stannis’s cause. When both Renly and Stannis lay
dead at my feet, I was a knight without a king. I heard of Joffrey’s vile treatment of you...
how it was the Hound who rescued you… if a brute like Sandor Clegane-”

Sansa had bristled at that. “Sandor Clegane was a good man. Worthy of being a knight.”

“Worthier than I it seems.” Barristan had looked to his manacled wrists. “The Hound’s deeds
showed me how far I’d fallen. I stood by and let the stags be overrun by lions. I abandoned a
princess to treatment not fit for the vilest of men. I aided in the great sin of kinslaying… I
was no true knight.”

“So you became a sellsword?” Robb had asked, as enraptured by the sight of the old man as
the rest of the hall.

“No... I became Ser Arstan the Whitebeard. A hedge knight. The open road and good deeds
became my cause. By upholding the vows of chivalry and defending the helpless with
whomever I so chose, I hoped for some redemption. To be worthy of being a knight again...”

As badly as the old man had been treated, Jon saw strength in his stance and a tenseness in
his shoulders that only came with the most skilled of warriors. He was defiant to his captors
and Robb both, willing to die to avoid this moment. Yet when Sansa cupped his cheek in her
hand, Jon watched the man’s strength falter, his defiance turn to shame.

“You were always a knight Ser Barristan. To me at least. Your word carries great weight and
I’m sure my brother knows now that you are innocent of the charges laid against you.”

“Of those crimes I am.” Barristan shook his head. “But not the charges levied on me by the
Father for failing to uphold my vows… you poor child…”

“I’m no child anymore ser.” Sansa looked to Jon. “I am a woman wed. To a good man. Safe
in his care and that of my family’s. So now let me see to yours. You shall be bathed, fed, and
given a warm bed. We shall discuss anything more come morning.”

Barristan had protested, as had some of the Freys, but Robb backed Sansa in all that she
demanded. Jon was not able to do the same when they retired to their chambers. His wife had
been furious at him for leaving. At Robb for keeping the plans from her. At herself for being
so angry in the first place.

“This is war.” She’d said, laying on the bed, still gowned and facing away from him. “I knew
you’d have to fight, I just thought I’d be near. That I could be there after you, to tend to your
hurts like I tried to do after the ambush…”
“Let’s pray I have no hurts then.” Jon had curled up behind her and kissed her shoulder.

“Your path is the most dangerous though. To face Tywin Lannister’s army. Perhaps even
Joffrey’s.”

“I hope it is so.” He spoke truthfully. “It means less danger facing Robb and Benjen. I’ll be
with my men and they've kept me alive nigh on seven years. They’ll bring me back to you.”

“Like my father’s men brought him back.” Sansa had snapped, refusing to look at him. “At
least allow me to journey with Benjen’s foot…”

“No. Not this time Sansa, it’s too risky. Robb’s path is the more secure one. My mother goes
that way and so shall you. I’m sorry.”

He apologized in Valyrian as well but Sansa would not face him. She might have wept, he
could not tell. Jon had simply lain there, staring at his wife’s back as he ran his fingers
through her hair for what felt like hours. It was such beautiful hair, even when the fire died
down it shone like copper. He was admiring it still when he thought Sansa had fallen asleep
and drifted off himself.

Only to be awoken by her kiss. Perhaps she’d been awake the whole time or had risen at
some point. It did not matter. He could see little through the darkness but could feel all the
same. Sansa had stripped herself bare, pressing her soft and naked body against his as she
tugged at his clothes. Repeating the same words in Valyrian, over and over.

“I love. Forgive.” Sansa begged between kisses. “Forgive. I love. I love.”

He begged the same of her. Their lovemaking was different this time. Less lust and more
gentleness. Perhaps because that was the first time that Sansa had mounted him. She was shy
about it and surprised Jon by climbing atop him in the first place. Whatever spurred her on,
the world fell away when she took his cock in her hand and slowly lowered herself. He
cursed the darkness then, for it robbed him of the sight of her body, though nothing could
stop the feeling of Sansa drawing him deep inside of her.

There was doubt about so many things when he left the next morning. Of how well their
plans might work. If the rumors that the Freys had heard of Duskendale were true. The fate of
the disgraced Barristan Selmy. Yet as Jon rode away, watching Sansa grow more and more
distant beside his mother, he had no doubt that she still cared for him.

That he was becoming a better man. One worthy of her.

A thought which made Jon grimace now as the Lannister camp spread out before them. They
were so close now he could see the staked edges. The river running to the west. He could
hear the sounds of men and horses as the army came alive.

My men need me to be who I was, he reminded himself, I’ve gotten them through worse but
not with my mind so muddled.
I cannot fight Tywin Lannister as Sansa’s husband alone. The lion must face the monster I
am.

“Sun’s almost up.” Asher rasped from his right, spear at the ready. “The Blackfish better be
ready…”

“He will be.” Jon answered, pulling at Dark Sister to make sure the blade did not stick in the
sheath. He looked to Gendry, his friend already wearing his dark helm and wielding a spear
while a warhammer was strapped to his back. “I worry that the hammer weighs you down
brother.”

“My horse is as strong as me, it can bear it.” Gendry’s voice echoed in the helm. “Do not
worry on me Jon. I’ll be right there with you. The whole way. Khal Drogo wasn’t the end of
us. Some lions won’t be.”

“Then I’ll see you on the other side.”

He turned back in his saddle to gaze down the line. He held up his hand and made two quick
fists. An action repeated by every sergeant who saw it. Soon every man was donning his
helm and checking their armor. It was good to see that Karl Bowden had not hesitated at the
command. The young man was undergoing the worst part of joining the order. The training.
The endless chanting, burning the meaning of these signals so far into a recruit’s head that
Jon remembered dreaming of them. That was necessary, for in the heat of battle a man’s wits
could melt away. Knowing the signals like the back of your hand could be the difference
between defeat and victory.

That and having the right man beside you.

Jon had just put on his helm when a horn cut through the quiet. A long, ugly sound that
sounded more like a beast dying than anything else. It came from direction of the Lannister
camp. From near its staked edges.

“The Blackfish.” He gritted his teeth. “This is it!”

Four more horns then joined in. All blowing as long as they could, giving Jon and the
commanders of the other columns a chance to follow the sounds.

“On me!” He raised his hand and signaled the charge, kicking at his horse. “For the empire!”

“For the empire!”

Jon spurred his mount on, careful to give it time to work up to a full charge. He would be
asking a lot of it in the next little while and needed it ready. Gendry and Asher were with
him, the rest of his column following behind. The horns continued to blow as the Lannister
camp began to writhe with activity. Many likely saw the four columns of the Dark Order
charging out of the mist. The narrow formations hid their numbers but that was only part of
the reason for them. It had more to do with why the horns continued to blow, guiding Jon and
his men straight towards a part of the stakes that had been uprooted.
Where the Blackfish and a few men now knelt over some dead Lannisters and waved their
comrades onward.

“I hope you remembered my horse!” The old knight shouted as Jon rode by.

Surely they had. Men towards the end of the line would be leading the mounts of the
Blackfish’s men. Two score brave souls had crawled up to the Lannister camp to kill their
watches and dig up what stakes they could. Clearing the way for a charge that Jon now led.
His other captains were doing much the same, guided by the horns and moving swiftly
through the camp defenses.

Ahead some brave and dutiful Lannister soldiers had begun to form ranks. Yet many began to
shout and flee the moment they realized that the riders weren’t being held back by the stakes.
A ditch slowed them some but it only gave Jon time to scan the defenders and the makings of
the camp. A few hundred men lined the edges, thousands more darting about among the tents,
likely trying to armor and organize themselves. Trumpets were blowing and banners were
being raised. Jon lifted his own hand then, signaling the raising of their banners and for the
charge to split.

It’s time to show them what the order can do. It’s time to sow some chaos.

Once they were through the ditch, Jon’s column split in three directions. Asher and Gendry
stayed by his side and a few hundred more followed as they drove straight into the fraying
ranks of defenders.

A man-at-arms screamed when Ghost lunged forward and drove him off his feet. His grisly
end only added to the dead that Jon’s men were making. Spears thrust out, swift and
disciplined blows, stabbing down and through the defenders. Dark Sister was in his hand
then, cutting a man’s arm free and carving through a helm as he rode by.

Then they were in the camp itself, galloping between the tents, screaming and killing as they
went. Men ran to and fro, some standing to fight, others trying to flee, most ending up on the
ground and trampled by the horses. If he turned either way he caught glimpses of the other
columns, all doing much the same. They were all driving south but one outpaced them all.
The only company that hadn’t broken apart, Balaq and his five hundred archers. Their bows
were slung on their backs, spears at the ready, riding hard for the other end of camp. Doing as
Jon had instructed.

He lost sight of them when he came to a mess of tents blocking their advance. When he
slowed to consider their route, an arrow clanged off his helm. The archer who’d loosed it was
among a number of men gathered around a lord with a badger on his surcoat. He was
shouting at his squire to armor him faster when he met Jon’s gaze.

Whatever bravery the man had fell to fear, for he stood in the way of the route that Jon had
chosen. It was Asher who rode the lord down, a war cry escaping his helm as the spear
pierced the foe’s chest. Jon was cutting at a swordsman's neck when the badger lord’s squire
was knocked into his path. A boy no older than Rickon.

The boy was scared.

He could only watch as the squire fell beneath his mount's hooves. Listen as a terrified shriek
turned to sickening cracks and thuds as the child was trampled.

A monster… child-killer… you forgot what you were…

This is you.

“This is it!” Gendry shouted, pointing his bloody spear to the west. “Jon! Jon they’re forming
up!”

The sun had appeared and with it rose the power of House Lannister. While a good part of the
camp was falling to disorder, a sizeable force was banding together

In a clearing surrounded by grand and golden pavilions were warriors garbed in the Lannister
crimson, banners flying their golden lions, many already gaining their horses. A quick guess
put their number at more than a thousand already and droves more were joining the rallying
cry of their trumpets.

The reason why became apparent when a few score armored riders appeared, escorting a man
who made the gleaming knights appear to be beggars. His armor was deep crimson,
highlighted by gold. His cape was golden too, as was the crown forged into his helm. Jon was
the son of a High King of the Targaryen Empire, and even he thought this man a grand sight.

“That be Tywin Lannister!” Asher growled, whipping his horse around and staring at the foe.
“If I’m wrong may I shit gold.”

“That’s what they say about Tywin.” Gendry added, rallying the men about them and looking
back at the stalled advance with worry. “Lord Commander, we cannot stay put.”

“No we cannot.” Jon agreed as the Order threw back the frenzy attacks from the Lannister
men. They were throwing back the assault with ease and Jon wondered if they could form
into a wedge before Tywin’s force was ready to strike at them. There was a chance he could
cut through the Lannister line and meet the King of the Rock himself.

The man who arranged your uncle’s death… whose support allowed Sansa to be kept a
prisoner for years…

She was tortured… he made that possible…

Asher cried out then, his man pulling at an arrow embedded in his mail. It had not gone deep
but there was blood on the tip when he cast it aside. More arrows were being loosed from
behind them, a rank of archers following a press of spearmen advancing on their position.
Men that would cut off their escape if he tried to attack King Tywin's growing force.

“We cannot stay here.” He gritted his teeth. “Our place is elsewhere. South. Push south!
Through the camp!”

As his men shouted their agreement, Jon swore that King Tywin’s helmed head turned his
way. He felt the King of the Rock was staring at him. Taking his measure. That bid him to
pull on his reins and bring his horse up into a rear. With his horse screaming and the camps
doing much the same, Jon pointed Dark Sister towards the king.

“Sansa Stark!” He shouted, not caring if the man heard. “I am here for Sansa Stark!”

It wasn’t true. Jon was here to conquer new land for the empire. To give his father a place to
settle those people it had hurt the most. Yet he wanted this king to know his family’s crimes
against Sansa would be held to account. That her brand was their damnation. That it would be
for her that Jon made them suffer.

And to do all that he had to abandon a fight with Tywin Lannister here and now. His party
beat their horses and rode at a gallop through the tents. They had to fight harder now to
escape the wrath of its defenders. Their surprise had worked but that was gone. The camp
was too large and foes too many to overcome by themselves. That had never been the plan.
The Dark Order’s strength was meant for a different kind of battle.

They would’ve faced a terrible battle at the southern edge of the Lannister camp if it wasn’t
for the brutal bombardment the westermen now suffered. Balaq had broken through to the
south ahead of the rest. His archers had dismounted and were raining hell down upon the
camp, thinning the enemy’s number so that the rest of the order could blow through like a
strong wind.

Jon’s was the last party to join the mass of dark riders, all awaiting his coming and cheering
as Balaq’s archers took a grim toll on their enemy. The Lannisters were drawing back and
forming up, likely anticipating the order to hit them again.

“Made it through did you?” The Blackfish hailed, riding up and pointing to the western part
of the Lannister encampment. “They’ve got about two thousand heavy horse mounted
already. If they figure out what we’re up to, with our horses in the state they’re in, we might
not outride them Jon. We best go now.”

“We could end this here.” Asher put in. “Look at them. They’re barely fit for a fight! When
Benjen gets here-”

“He is here.” Gendry interrupted, staring north and bidding all to follow his gaze.

There he saw a dark blur in the distance. Still too far to make out for sure but Jon knew what
it was. They’d left Benjen and the Stark infantry only a day ago. More than twenty thousand
men flying the banners of the Umbers, Cerwyns, Glovers, and Freys, to name a few. The
direwolf of House Stark would be more numerous than the rest and Jon could almost picture
Benjen riding beneath it, one of the few men in that army with a horse.

The rest were with Robb. The king needed them to do his part. Just as Robb needed Benjen
and Jon to do theirs.

“This is Benjen’s fight.” Jon said, removing his helm and letting his hair fly about his face.
“We soften up the Lannisters. Weaken them. Make them wary of their rear. But the battle is
for the North to wage. Our place is the rocky ford. We take it. We cross it and keep Joffrey
and Tywin apart.”
Brynden nodded. “Going now is the only way to be sure of that.”

If Benjen wins then the Lannisters will retreat. We’ll hold the ford and box them in.

If my uncle loses, he can retreat back to the Twins… but I need to be across the Trident…
everything hinges on that.

Fuck you RobbTheStark stop stealing my fic, love DolorousEdditor

He hated to think of leaving his uncle to the fight here but this was the strategy they had
formed. They had to keep Tywin’s eyes anywhere save on Riverrun. Joffrey’s army had to be
kept south. That’s where the empire’s conquest was meant to happen. Where Aegon expected
Jon to be.

Far from where he wanted to be.

He could not help but think of Sansa as he commanded the Order to ready for the ride on.
The best way to help her and the Starks was to ensure victory over their foes. His leaving this
fight made that possible. The Lannisters did not give pursuit, having taken notice of the
approaching Stark army. Benjen was still outnumbered by ten thousand or more but his foe
was disorganized, panicked, and bloodied.

Now Jon had to do the same to Joffrey’s army. That and worse.

His mind clouded with dark thoughts as they rode south, the sounds of trumpets and horns
blowing behind them. Of two armies readying to clash. He thought of Sansa’s brand, her fear,
and what Dark Sister would do to the man who had caused it.

What Jon would do. He’d just killed a half score of men and none of their faces stood out.
Save the boy’s.

A monster killed him, he told himself, the same beast that’s coming for Joffrey.

I’ll do my worst to see this done. The empire be damned. I’ll do it for her.

I’ll become that thing I was before I had her… to do right by Sansa…

To be a better man.
 Chapter 5
Chapter Summary

The war rages on, a time of fire of blood.

A princess acts a queen, fighting for what's hers.

A prince battles a king, riding hard into the darkness.

DRAGONSTONE

Dragonstone has long been the place where the Targaryen Empire and the Seven
Kingdoms meet. The island, along with Driftmark and Claw Isle, represent the
westernmost of the empire’s dominions. A far-flung outpost of little import to most
within the empire. To the people of Westeros, Dragonstone appears a pitiful holding
considering the wealth of the empire.

After Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives left Dragonstone to forge the Targaryen
Empire many believed they’d abandon Westeros entirely. Yet for some strange reason,
Aegon held onto the damp, stormy islands. Some claimed it was a sentimental
attachment to his birthplace. Others contend he held out hope to use Dragonstone as a
base to launch a conquest of Westeros. A wiser few believed the island to be the
preferred hatchery for the Targaryen dragons before they died out.

Whatever the reason the island has remained a holding of the Targaryen imperial
family ever since. Traditionally, once an heir is chosen, they are styled the Prince of
Dragonstone. To remind all of where the Targaryens had once been and how high the
dragons could soar.

The importance of Dragonstone is more than matched by the regard House Velaryon
holds for Driftmark. Due to their history of loyalty and intermarriage with the
Targaryens, the Velaryons are seen as the empire’s second family. They are both
wealthy and influential, with great estates along the Rhoyne and Myrish coast. Yet it is
Driftmark the Velaryons prize first and foremost. It is common for Velaryon sons to
covet the title of Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark.

While small and distant, these islands have played important roles in the history of the
empire time and time again. Most notably in the Blackfyre Exodus and the birth of
High King Rhaegar’s second son, Jonarys.

Yet those are tales for another chapter…

 SANSA

“Princess, are you sure I should be here?”

Barristan’s words echoed through Riverrun’s empty sept, for Sansa and the knight were the
only ones within. The sunlight streamed in through the doorway and windows of the seven-
sided structure as she moved to light seven candles.

“I am more than certain. It can only be you, good ser.” Sansa smiled to the old knight as she
lit a candle below a statue of the Mother. The light drove away some shadows but not
Barristan, who had been acting as hers for days now. “And I pray that one day you’ll stop
asking me if I want you around.”

“You have enough prayers to offer without wasting any on me, young lady.”

Barristan’s kind voice fit well with the gentle admonishment he offered. With his hair cut and
his face shaved, it was hard to picture the ser as the scruffy hedge knight he’d been only
moons ago. Barristan had joined their party at Sansa and Robb’s insistence. She didn’t trust
the Freys to let him depart their lands peaceably and Robb was wary of letting a former
Durrandon knight loose at their rear.

He’d had little choice in the matter, though Sansa made sure he was not treated as a prisoner.
She did all she could to win him over. Having Ser Barristan join their cause would be a grand
thing indeed. While the knight refused to declare for Robb he was insistent on staying by
Sansa’s side during their travels. Truly, Barristan acted fearful of what could happen if the
Lannisters captured her again.

It is the Lannisters who should be wary. Jaime Lannister learned that lesson.

My uncle keeps the Prince of Lions locked away while I wander about freely and Robb
invades his homeland.

It was not idle praise that Barristan the Bold called Robb’s invasion of the Westerlands the
boldest of actions. Her brother was earning a fierce reputation since his entry into the war.
Robb’s capture of Jaime Lannister at the Whispering Wood, as well as his victory during the
Battle of the Camps, had not only lifted the siege of the Tully castle, it had shifted the
momentum of the war.

Tywin Lannister might have defeated the northern army at the Green Fork yet it cost him his
heir and his stranglehold on the riverlands. Uncle Benjen was forced to retreat and reform his
men but the King of the Rock had to do much the same. The Lannister army had holed up at
Harrenhal ever since, ravaging the nearest lands for supplies and waiting for Robb to come to
them.

Many had worried that Robb would be forced to besiege Harrenhal and break his men against
its strong walls. Or that Robb could be caught between King Tywin and a new force being
raised in the west. Instead, against anyone's predictions, Robb had taken his small army of
cavalry and struck at the Westerlands. Only days ago, news came of a great victory at
Oxcross where Robb surprised the newly formed Lannister host under Ser Stafford Lannister.
Word must have reached Harrenhal as well, since outriders reported that King Tywin was
moving west to stop Robb’s rampage across his kingdom.

Unless Uncle Edmure has his way, Sansa thought as she lit another candle, which he
shouldn’t.

Robb knew what he was doing… he left orders for a reason… at least, I believe so.

She needed to make Edmure believe the same and Ser Barristan was important in helping her
do so. At the moment, however, he was eyeing Sansa in a queer fashion. When Barristan
realized she’d caught him watching the knight shifted uncomfortably.

“I apologize, I did not mean to stare.” He bowed. “It is just that... I have noticed how often
you’ve been visiting the sept. At Storm’s End, I recall you attending the godswood more
often than not. Do you no longer hold to the old gods?”

“I shall always keep the Old Ways close to my heart, they were the gods of my father. After
my brother broke the siege, Robb and I shared a prayer together within this castle’s
godswood. But I was raised in the Faith as well and was married before the Seven. It’s
important to my husband that we embrace such things, so I will implore the Seven to see to
his safety.”

Sansa was not speaking idly. Just as she had relied upon Jon to learn High Valyrian he would
need her to guide him in the Faith. A duty she would relish, for it meant they would be
together again. She lit candles for such a thing every day. To drive her fear away, to bring Jon
back to her. To protect all that their love promised for the future.

“Your prince surely has the Warrior’s favor.” Barristan said. “His feats speak to that. King
Robb’s as well. They prove themselves brave men-”

“Daryn Hornwood was a brave man.” She felt a pang of hurt to speak the poor lordling’s
name. “As were Torrhen and Eddard Karstark. They all rose to meet the threat that Prince
Jaime posed to Robb… and now they’re all dead.”

Whatever else Eddard Karstark was, he died nobly and I shall mourn him as a hero.

Poor Alys Karstark will be asked to mourn her two brothers, and her loving husband, Daryn.

Her child will grow up without a father.

Barristan did not get the chance to ease her mind as her uncle Edmure appeared in the sept.
The Lord of Riverrun was a Tully through and through, his auburn hair and blue eyes spoke
to that. She suspected that Robb would one day grow a beard very similar to the fierce one
that Edmure had.

“Ser Barristan!” Edmure’s happy voice rang out in the sept as he beamed to take in the knight
before him. “I sought you out earlier ser! I was having a disagreement with some men over
whether you slew only two or all three of the Hoare sons at Harrenhal.”
“It was only the two.” Barristan shook Edmure’s offered hand. “Enough blood was spilt that
day that two sufficed.”

“Then I was right! I remain an expert on your legend.” Edmure smiled broadly before
moving to kiss Sansa’s cheeks politely. “A good day to you, dear niece. Every time I see you
in here, I cannot help but think of Cat. She married your father just over there. I imagine you
looked just as radiant during your wedding. I wish I had been there.”

“Thank you uncle, you’re too kind.” Sansa curtsied, an honor a princess did not usually
accord to a lord but she needed her uncle to feel respected. “Though it surprises me to hear
you speak of enjoying my company. You seem quite eager to leave it.”

Edmure was taken aback by that. “There’s a war on, princess. As Lord of the Southern
Marches, I have duties that must be seen to. We have a chance to trap King Tywin and I mean
to take it. I can’t let my royal nephew have all the glory.”

The chance that Edmure spoke of was his plan to have the riverlords block the Lannister
crossing of the Red Fork. Something that bothered her greatly, especially since Robb had
been clear in his expectations of her uncle.

“My lord... is there not pride in defending one’s home and family? His people?” She asked.
“That’s what you said to Robb if I remember correctly, when you asked him to give the
riverlords leave to protect their lands. If Tywin Lannister means to leave their castles and
smallfolk in peace, after all this destruction... should we not allow him?”

“My my...” Edmure smiled and patted her hand. “Pious and spirited all at once, Catelyn’s
daughter to be sure. Do not fret Sansa. Leave the warfare to us lords and I promise that you’ll
be well taken care of. Why, you have Barristan the Bold here to watch over you! Perhaps
once I am gone, you can ask him for a tale or two on why noble lords must not allow villains
free reign in their lands.”

The lord’s tone was akin to how he would speak to his own children. Sansa was no child
though, not anymore, and she wished to point that out. Yet she held her tongue all the same, a
respectful tone was needed here.

“Barristan is lovely company.” She said demurely. “Yet as wonderful as his tales might be, I
think the ser’s counsel is of more value.”

“Surely that's so.” Edmure agreed. “Ser, you disappointed many when you chose to avoid my
war councils. Most of my bannermen fought beside you against the Hoares, and I'd have you
ride out with me against the lions, if I didn't think my niece would lose heart at your
absence.”

“This princess is not so easily shaken." Barristan countered, exchanging a knowing look with
Sansa. She gave a nod and the knight cleared his throat before setting to his task. "In truth, I
would not be so eager to take the fight to King Tywin. His army is bloodied and his lands are
being invaded. An animal is most dangerous when wounded."
“That's why we should trap the lions here.” Edmure pressed. “If Prince Benjen takes
Harrenhal and we hold the Red Fork-"

"Caging Tywin Lannister in your lands is a dangerous proposition, my lord. The King of the
Rock has already shown himself willing to perform wanton cruelty and destruction for small
gain. He did so while victorious at every step. Imagine the horrors that could befall your
people should he lose and become trapped here?"

Edmure grew quiet then. Clearly he had not expected the great Ser Barristan Selmy to
challenge him on his marching orders. Barristan might have served the Durrandons but all
manner of men still bowed and sought his favour. Many young lords had grown up listening
to tales of Barristan the Bold’s feats, some even witnessing them first hand as squires. Men
like Edmure.

“What of glory?” Her uncle asked, a tad crestfallen. “To make war against these fiends is my
right...”

Barristan grimaced. "Renly spoke of glory. Stannis of rights. After they both lay dead, it was
King Joffrey that triumphed. The Lannisters as well. Those men put their own wants before
their duties to the people. Your father lived by the words of House Tully. Family, duty, honor.
All of which lay here at Riverrun, Lord Edmure. Your king asked the lord to defend his lands
and as the princess says... that is surely a noble task.”

It filled her with hope to see Edmure’s confidence shake, the lord hanging on Barristan’s
words. Some of them were the knight’s own while many of the others were Sansa’s. She
could not let Edmure risk House Tully or the other riverlords' strength right now. Not when
Jon fought alone and outnumbered.

She had become spoiled by so much good news of late. After Jon crossed the Trident, the
Dark Order sacked Darry and a number of other holdfasts. They had even captured
Maidenpool with the help of the imperial fleet. Joffrey had not been there to stop them, he
was too busy laying siege to Duskendale. The Darklyns had rebelled against Joffrey’s rule,
Lord Royner declaring that no man from Duskendale would serve such a tyrant. Vain and
petty as he was, Joffrey sought to end the Defiance of Duskendale before meeting Jon in
battle. Not that Joffrey lacked for enemies.

In the south, Prince Aegon and the Dornish had launched their invasion of the Stormlands.
From all they heard, the Golden Legion and the Martells had come streaming out of the
Prince’s Pass and overwhelmed the castle Nightsong. The setback came at the Boneway,
where a host led by the Yronwoods had failed to capture Blackhaven. That left Aegon
without a third of his Dornish allies, which had created a delay in his plans to march straight
to Storm’s End. By all accounts, the Stormlords were rallying to meet this threat but were
rallying to send reinforcements to Joffrey.

Thousands more to help Joffrey murder Jon. King Tywin wants to lead his army out of this
fight and far away from Jon... and Edmure would stop him.

We need fewer enemies and more allies. Jon needs help.

“Sansa is right.” Edmure said then, rubbing his chin and nodding at whatever Ser Barristan
had just said. “Your counsel is sage ser. My father always said you were as wise as you were
bold. Some of my lords were… hesitant... to hold the fords. You’ve given me much to think
on.”

“Not I.” Barristan spoke humbly, gesturing to Sansa. “If you look for guidance-”

“Where better to seek it than here?” She stepped aside so that the statue of the Crone was
displayed to Edmure. “Roslin told me that she spent much of the siege here with your
children, praying for deliverance and your safe return from the Lannisters. I just lit a candle
hoping for wisdom in these dark times. It appears both our prayers have been answered,
nuncle.”

She did all she could to focus Edmure’s mind on his wife and children here at Riverrun. Robb
had told her that the lord’s first thoughts after being freed were of his family trapped in the
castle. Having Edmure think on those hardships might help harden his newfound doubt in
fighting at the fords. Whatever his faults, Edmure appeared to be a loving and caring father,
and it was not long before he was boasting to Sansa and Barristan of his children, any talk of
military matters completely forgotten. Young Hosten was only three but Edmure swore that
he’d make a fine squire. He was saddened to note the babe, Bethany, had her first name day
while he was held prisoner.

“I won’t miss her second though.” Edmure vowed in a sweet manner. “Or this next one’s
birth. It’s a sad thing to admit, but I’m glad Roslin only told me she was with child again
after my return. Worrying after my wife was hard enough in captivity without fearing for an
unborn babe too.”

Sansa cringed at that, earning a strange look from Barristan. Her uncle’s words were well said
and kindly meant. It was not his fault that they troubled her so. Rather than reflect on them
she pressed on, for there were other matters to discuss.

“Has there been any word from Maidenpool?” She asked. “Of my aunt? Of my husband?”

Edmure nodded. “We had a raven from Duskendale. Most of the Stormlords have abandoned
the siege, leaving only a token force outside the walls. I’m sorry Sansa, it looks like Joffrey’s
leading the main strength of his army north again. After Maidenpool fell, it would make
sense-”

“How many? How many men does Joffrey have?”

“Lord Darklyn wrote of eighteen thousand… perhaps twenty.”

His words felt like a punch to her stomach, which rolled in response and she fought back the
urge to retch. Here she was, safe and sound at Riverrun, while Jon warred against
overwhelming odds. Lyanna was doing her part to try and help him. Unhappy to simply wait
at Riverrun, the High Queen had set sail on a river galley to visit the lords of Crackclaw
Point. The Highguard had left with Lyanna, Rickon too, but her aunt had forbidden Sansa
from joining, promising to send for her as soon as their new allies were won over. As of yet,
no summons had come and Sansa felt utterly useless.
Aunt Lyanna might have failed, she worried, Uncle Benjen might not be able to take
Harrenhal.

Jon and his men will be alone… just like father…

After Edmure had shared a few more details of the war, her uncle took his leave of the sept.
Sansa took her own soon after. Barristan moved to escort her back to her chambers where
Jeyne and Talia likely waited but she refused. The thought of being in a room rather than the
open air made her feel stifled and nervous, the bile rising up in her throat again. So the knight
joined her for a walk upon Riverrun’s battlements.

The river lapped loudly against the lowest parts of the castle wall. Its strong current protected
them here but she couldn’t help but feel trapped. Her eyes swept over the lush green fields
and the woods of the Tully lands and she wondered if Jon was looking at a similar landscape.

The south is rich and lovely, yet all it's ever offered me is pain. Jon made me forget that for a
time… he gave me hope…

And I offer him nothing but prayers and tears.

“I hope I did well.” Barristan said, looking down at Sansa with concern. “Lord Tully
appeared convinced, though my words were not near any equal of yours.”

“Your words were as good as your heart.” She reached out and Barristan let her put a hand to
his arm. “Another man might have refused to speak on my behalf.”

“I owe you a debt beyond words, your grace. A better knight would be able to give you some
fine speech or spin some tale to set aside your worries. I’m little more than an old man who
can still wield a sword.”

“Yet one who wields it well.” Sansa knew the truth of that firsthand, having watched
Barristan best a score of knights larger in size and half his age in the practice yard. Yet it was
not his sword she wished to have now. “My uncle was right in the sept ser. Your counsel and
wisdom is most welcome. I’d ask your estimation of what Edmure spoke of, in regards to
Lord Darklyn.”

Barristan nodded. “I think he was right. House Darklyn were once kings in their own right
and are still strong. They could put enough knights and heavy horse in the field to threaten
Joffrey’s rear but Lord Royner is not likely to muster. Duskendale was willing to defy their
king's call to arms, yet their lord is a cautious man. His wife even more so. Their walls held
off a siege, they’ll trust in them for the- princess?”

Barristan reached out to steady her as Sansa paused her steps. The nausea was back again and
she had to seek the edge of the wall. The damp breeze off the river helped her fight back the
urge to retch but not the troubles in her mind.

“Edmure wants to march when he should stay put… the Darklyns hold back when they
should fight… why must lords be convinced to do the right thing?”
“The right thing is often in the eye of the beholder princess.” Barristan leaned against the
wall to her right. “I once ignored the crimes done to you, all because I thought that my duty
was to the Storm Kings. That seemed like the right thing. Many hold the Hound as a traitor
for freeing you but we both know he did the right thing. He inspired me to act as a knight
again.”

“Well how do we inspire House Darklyn to march?” She swallowed carefully. “My husband
needs those men ser, not Lord Royner’s excuses.”

“Robert had the same problem. During the war against the ironmen. The Darklyns paid
tribute to the Hoares and were content to refuse them that, yet little more. Even Hoster Tully
promising his daughter as a bride did not convince Royner. It took us showing up outside
Duskendale's gates and Robert shaming the lord to his face before the Darklyns rose up-”

“That’s it!” Sansa rose up from her place on the wall. She looked to Barristan and felt the
sudden urge to embrace him as well as retch. When her eyes darted to where a galley was
docked against the side of the castle, Barristan raised his hands up.

“Your grace-”

“Lord Royner’s defiance was bought with promises of trade but words on parchment cannot
win his might. We must inspire him to act. Shame him into it even, just as King Robert once
did.”

“We? Princess, tell me you mean the High Queen-”

“It cannot be Aunt Lyanna.” She wrung her hands as her mind worked away. “There’s no
telling which Crackclaw castle she’s at, or when my aunt would get our message. Besides,
Royner knows her not. For a decent case to be made, it must be made by those who know the
lord. You and I, Barristan. You and I. We must go to Duskendale.”

“Out of the question.” Barristan’s tone was stern and uncompromising. “Princess, your uncle
would never allow it.”

“Once the Lannisters retreat past the Golden Tooth, he can make no argument against it! Our
ships rule the Trident and the nearest seas. Nor is it in Lord Edmure’s power to hold me here.
I am sister to his king and wife to a Targaryen-”

“And with child.” The old knight spoke so simply that it took Sansa a moment to accept what
he'd said. She was still gaping when he pressed on. “Young lady, I have lived enough years to
know the signs. King Robert bedded many of his servants, and Cersei’s ire towards such
women was so horrid that most went to great lengths to hide the truth. I became quite adept at
spotting the symptoms in turn. If I am wrong in saying so, I will give apologies instead of
congratulations.”

Sansa could not meet the knight’s gaze as her hands went to her middle. There was little to
show yet, but she'd done all she could to hide the truth. Once it was her brand she worked the
hardest to keep hidden from the world. That mark of shame was a distant thought compared
to protecting the life growing within her. Jon had left her with more than a kiss, her prince
had given her a babe. She hadn't been sure until her second moon blood did not occur and by
then she knew the babe had to stay a secret.

I was barely allowed to come here in the first place. If Lyanna sent for me, I wouldn’t be
allowed to go to her.

Edmure worries on Roslin so much... if he learns I am with child he’ll never let me leave.

“Princess?” Barristan pressed softly. “I’m not wrong am I?”

“You’re not.” She whispered, meeting his gaze and failing to keep the smile from her lips. “I
am with child. I’m to be a mother. My prince, my Jon is to be a father.”

“A thousand blessings upon you then. A child is a gift from the gods in such foul times. It is
that babe you must think on now-”

“I do think of my child!” She argued, standing straight and pointing east. “I think of how my
father loved me so much. I think of how difficult it will be for my child to grow up without a
father. That is why I must go to Duskendale ser. I beg you to keep this to yourself… to join
me in my journeys…”

“Why us, child? Why not send your brother’s bannermen?”

“Your name still carries great weight, ser. Edmure wouldn't have been convinced by my
words. It had to be those of Barristan the Bold. You said men must be inspired to do the right
thing.”

Barristan grunted at that. “This is not my war. I hold no fealty to the Starks and neither do the
Darklyns. So how would Sansa Stark appearing at his gates inspire their lord?”

“You misunderstand, my purpose there would be to shame Lord Royner. He once spoke
against Joffrey’s treatment of me, for it offended his honor. It was a decent thing to do, but
the lord did little more, even though I sensed he wished to. I shall remind him of that and
give him the chance to confront Joffrey once more. To do as he wished to all those years ago.
Good men are often haunted by the deeds they failed to perform.”

There was no accusation in her tone but Barristan proved the truth of her words nonetheless.
The old knight appeared stricken, much as he had when they were first reunited at the Twins.
She should have let his shame lead him into doing as she willed but it felt wrong to hurt him
then, for Barristan had never hurt her.

“Please ser, you know that I bear you no ill will. In your time wandering the realm, I’m
certain you’ve saved a hundred maidens from fates far worse than mine. I’m only asking that
you help me spare my husband from the same fate as my father.”

“I’m an old man. My best years are behind me.” Barristan gestured to the castle around them.
“Riverrun is full of younger men, loyal to your family. Any one of them-”

“Is not half as noble as you.” She stepped forward to take his hand. “Brave. Strong. Wise.
You are all these things, but above all that, I know you to have a good heart ser. Those men
you speak of are loyal to the Starks but I am a Targaryen now. A dragon. I’ve none sworn to
me save Jon.”

“What of Queen Lyanna’s Highguard?”

“They are not here, off at Crackclaw Point with their Queen, for the simple truth is that they
are hers. Not mine. She told me that one day I would be able to choose my own protector… a
warrior I trust…”

Barristan closed his eyes. “Princess, if you seek a man worthy of the white cloak, I urge you
to look elsewhere.”

“None are more worthy than you.”

“I failed you before… I helped lead a great house to ruin…”

“Now you can help a new power rise from its ashes.” Sansa squeezed Barristan’s hand as she
placed another over her middle. “And if you wish to atone for what Joffrey did to me, I
beseech you now, help me spare my child from ever knowing such suffering. I beg it of you
ser. You couldn’t help me before… but now you can…”

“A princess should not beg.” Barristan spoke gruffly, pulling free from her hold and turning
to stare off into the distance.

Neither spoke as the breeze wafted over them. It came from the east, and the silly girl she
once was wondered if this wind had once caressed Jon's face before traveling all this way to
her. If the gods were good, soon Sansa would be able to touch Jon as she yearned to do each
waking moment. All of that depended on what Ser Barristan said next. She was growing
fearful on his answer when he finally straightened and made to face her again.

“Good men are haunted by their failures.” Barristan’s eyes burned into hers. “My mind
screams against doing as you ask. It tells me to go straight to your uncle and tell him of this
child and ride from this castle. Back to the hedges…”

“Ser-”

“You call my counsel wise but it’s led me to poor decisions before. Once I thought to spirit
you away from Storm’s End… and I balked. I did not heed the duty I knew in my heart was
true. To protect the helpless. To defend the innocent. To act a knight.”

Barristan dropped to one knee then before her. Head bowed, one hand on his sword, the other
to his heart.

“I will not make the same mistake again.” His voice echoed with the same strength it had to
slight Joffrey years past. “If it means I might right a wrong and spare you any pain, then
Sansa of House Targaryen, I offer you my sword. My shield. My vow. I will lay down my life
for you and your child. If you would have me.”

Sansa thought of her wedding then. When Jon had sworn himself to her, vowing to protect
and honor her. Binding his life to hers.
She had done the same for him and now Barristan the Bold gave her the chance to keep her
vows.

Lyanna acts as a High Queen should… Jon acts as a prince must…

With Barristan acting as my Highguard, it is time I did my part...

It is time I acted a dragon.

JON

“I curse you, dragon.”

Meryn Trant spit at Jon, the knight’s bloody mouth sending red tinged spittle onto his boots.
Asher answered that by punching Trant so hard in the gut that it drove the man to his knees.

Which is where Jon wanted him. The battle had left the knight’s armor dented and marred by
gore, his knees sinking into the torn and blood soaked earth of this field. His body was about
to join the countless others scattered about them and stretching far into the distance. The
groans of dying men were constant but Jon’s attention was for the knight who Asher and
Grenn held before him. Gendry watched all of this with his warhammer in hand, for it had
been him who had captured Trant.

“You eastern bastard.” Ser Meryn rasped between gasps. “I should be ransomed… I’m the
son… the son of a noble house… champion to a king…”

“Torturer of a princess.” Jon finished, tearing his gloves free and tossing them aside. “I know
who you are, Trant. My wife told me all about the tainted knight who beat her at the will of a
tyrant. You remember her don’t you? Sansa Stark?”

Ser Meryn’s eyes narrowed as Jon held out his hand, one of his men placing Dark Sister back
in his grasp. Ethan and mother had taught him that the old ways meant the man passing the
sentence should swing the sword. The blade was slick with blood and its handle felt cool
against his skin. He wanted no gloves or gauntlets between his hand and the sword now. Jon
wanted no confusion as to whose hand this man would meet his gods by. Nor any confusion
as to the reason why.

“Admit to what you did.” He held out the sword before him, pointing the tip to Meryn’s
chest. “Of how you brutalized a defenseless girl. How a knight trained to war against grown
men came to abuse a princess.”

“I did as I was told. As my king bid me.”

“Then let that comfort you now.” He nodded to Asher and Grenn, who then forced Ser Meryn
forward, baring his neck. “You are no true knight, Meryn Trant. Remember to thank Joffrey
when you meet him again in whatever hell I send you to.”
He did not invoke his father’s name as he often would. This war was being waged at the will
of the High King but Ser Meryn’s death was an act of justice, far removed from the interests
of the empire. His crimes were against a daughter of House Stark, done in the name of the
Durrandons, in a land not under Targaryen rule.

As he raised the blade high, Meryn’s eyes fell to the ground. Then the sword came down, the
strike swift and clean, so the next thing to hit the earth was the knight’s head. It rolled into a
puddle of mud near to Gendry, staring up at the warrior who grimaced in disgust.

“Fitting isn’t it?” Asher wiped blood spatter from his face. “Champion to a Durrandon.
Defeated by a Durrandon-”

“I’m no Durrandon.” Gendry frowned. “I remember when King Robert used to ride through
my village with this knight… I helped mend his plate once. I also remember him dragging
me from my home at Queen Cersei's word. This noble knight who gave me over to the
slavers-”

“Then we had justice for you as well this day.” Jon grasped Gendry’s shoulder, giving him a
reassuring shake. “I want this man’s head carried ahead of the Durrandon retreat and put on a
spike for Joffrey to see. Let the Storm King know there is no escape.”

“I’ll do it myself.” Asher said with a scratch of his head as he gazed off to the south. “I best
get a move on though. The buggers flee better than they fight.”

All turned to look south then. Bodies of both men and horses covered the length of the land,
as far as the eyes could see.

Fresh from a victory over the Stauntons and Buckwells near Rook’s Rest, two riders had
arrived to share with Jon news which pleased him greatly. The first bit was from his mother,
the High Queen announcing her imminent arrival with an army from Crackclaw Point. Two
thousand men to add to the levees that Jon had impressed from the defeated lords Darry and
Mooton. Altogether, with the Dark Order added in, he now commanded more than six
thousand men. Their enemy had three times their numbers so his new allies were shocked
when Jon had welcomed word that Joffrey’s army was approaching.

This land is ignorant to the Dark Order and its ways. They field brave and able warriors but
their concept of warfare lags behind like a man chasing a horse.

That ignorance is an advantage I will not let go to waste.

Nor had he.

Rather than heading to meet Joffrey’s army, the Dark Order and its allies had retreated north,
back through lands they were now familiar with. Lands of hills and ridges that hindered
scouting. For days Joffrey’s army chased after them until it rose one morning to find most of
Jon’s cavalry formed in lines to meet them while all his foot appeared to have fled.

Joffrey must have smelled blood, bringing up his considerable mounted strength to launch an
attack. Thoros counted five thousand knights and heavy cavalry, the Blackfish naming the
banners for them. Bucklers, Rosbys, Fells, Masseys and Stokeworths among them. All those
men rode under the golden stag of House Durrandon, charging forth to overwhelm Jon and
his men.

A charge that turned to a chase after the order fled. A chase their enemy was not prepared for.
Most of the knights rode warhorses not meant for long distances. The dark riders were able to
stay well ahead of them, leading Joffrey’s horse away from his foot. The longer they rode, the
more the Durrandon lines frayed, riders falling behind or rushing ahead while the order
stayed in formation. They led them straight to a point between two long hills where Black
Balaq’s archers appeared above to either side.

The archers did not lack for targets when they loosed down into the enemy riders. The
longbows caused precise damage, but it was the sustained barrage that bled the Durrandons
the most. The enemy tried to ride through the storm yet there was no end, Balaq’s men
mounting and riding ahead in ranks whenever the foe was nearly out of range.

A trail of dead and dying dragged on behind the Durrandons when those at the fore were
finally forced to halt. They had learned Jon’s allies had not truly fled, only reformed on a hill
of his choosing. A place where the fierce champions of the Crabbs, Brunes, and Pynes
awaited, their greatswords drawn. The missing thousand riders of the Dark Order were there
as well, waiting for the fight to come. When Jon wheeled his riders about, they found their
nearest foes as disorganized as they were weary. So what came next was mostly a slaughter.

With arrows chewing into them from above, and thousands of infantry streaming down the
hill from behind, Joffrey’s cavalry were given no time to reform. Those who fled likely
thought themselves wise rather than cowardly. Unfortunately for them, Jon had planned on
such a thing, hence why a third of his men had stayed rested and ready. Greenbeard led the
chase, riding down the exhausted Durrandon mounts one by one, finishing off those who
survived both Balaq's arrows and the combined Order and Crackclaw ambush.

The few who escaped back to Joffrey must have shared quite the tale. Instead of pressing the
attack, the Durrandons had broken ranks and retreated in a near panic. Fleeing south and
away from Jon’s wrath.

I want Joffrey on the run. I want him scared. I want him hurt. Just like he made Sansa feel.

Let him know her pain before the Dark Order comes for him. Before I come for him.

There were things that had to be seen to before that day could come. They made with haste to
a sept not far from the battlefield. Joffrey’s army had made use of it before the battle but
abandoned it to the mercy of the order in their retreat. His men now guarded the sept and the
sheer number of horses tied without told Jon he was late to this gathering.

Outside the sept lay six dead men in roughspun wools and leather jerkins which bore the
seven-pointed star. A man in makeshift armor knelt near the bodies while a pair of white
robed septons said prayers. Karl Bowden watched all of this with red-rimmed eyes, looking
only slightly better than the dead. They were not freshly killed and it was clear that crows had
gotten to their eyes.
“Lord-Commander.” Karl saluted as Jon climbed off his horse. “Ser Brynden has returned
from his scouting. He is inside with the High Queen. As are the lords Crabb, Pyne, Cave, and
Ser Bennard Brune-”

“Where is Margan?” He interrupted, searching the faces of guards for the Sisterman they’d
recruited at White Harbor. Every new order man was paired with another but he saw no sign
of Karl’s shadow now.

“He fell.” Karl struggled to say, looking back to the battleground. “We were closing in on a
knight and I speared the foe proper, just like I was taught. But when Margan went in for the
kill… the sword moved so fast and-and I couldn’t…”

Jon did not force the young man to say anymore. It was a tale he knew well. Each man in the
order had one just like it. All had lost brothers in battle. Many under Jon’s command.

“Was Margan avenged?” He asked. “This knight who killed your brother, did he suffer for
it?”

Karl’s eyes flashed with fury. “He did! I pulled off his helm and stuck a dagger in his fucking
eye my lord. I made him know Margan’s name first.”

“Margan died a man of the Dark Order. You honored him as such.” He pressed a fist to his
chest, saluting Karl as the young man did the same. “When night falls there is one more duty
to be done. Until then, look to Grenn, for he shall be your new shadow.”

Karl nodded as Jon turned his attention to the bodies and a kneeling warrior who had the look
of a northman. His full beard nearly hid the dark marks around his neck, bruises similar to
those on his wrists. When the man turned his eyes up to him, Jon saw the grief clearly.

“They were dead when we got here.” Karl explained. “Thoros found the septons locked in a
cellar and that one there in stocks around back. He says he’s a knight.”

“I am.” The stranger spoke up, rising to his feet. “I am Ser Theodan Wells, named Theodan
the True by the High Septon himself. A knight of the Warrior’s Sons… these... these were my
men…”

“I am Jonarys Targaryen, Lord-Commander of the Dark Order.” He gestured to the dead.

“From one leader to another, I offer my condolences for your men. What happened here?”

“King Joffrey wished to use this holy place as a base of warfare. To do so would defile it, so
my men and I stood with the septons to deny him such. The king called us insolent. By his
command we were overpowered. He made me watch from the stocks as he killed these brave
souls, my brothers… then he left them to rot…”

“Might be their killers got the same treatment.” Gendry inclined his head to the battlefield.
“Take heart, ser. The Dark Order gave King Joffrey a taste of justice this day.”

“I take no pleasure in such bloodshed.” Ser Theodan shook his head. “There’s likely good
and pious men laying dead in those fields. We’ll see to the burying of as many as we can...
but you sin against the Seven by treating your foes in the same manner that King Joffrey did
my men. Your Dark Order defiles this sept for war just as he did.”

Gendry and Grenn grew angry at that but Jon held up a hand, finding the comparison to be
apt in a way that bothered him.

“I am new to these lands.” He spoke to the knight. “Some of its ways are unfamiliar to me
but know that I was wed in a sept. It offends me to think of it being used as this holy place
has been. For that I apologize. I swear to leave as swiftly as possible. Karl, Grenn, help Ser
Theodan bury his men and see to whatever needs the septons might have.”

The men snapped to his commands and Theodan offered thanks, though Jon still caught the
knight eyeing his entry within the sept with displeasure. Once inside, he was greeted with the
sight of the High Queen holding a sort of court in the wide empty room. The Highguard men
stood watch as several others surrounded his mother. The High Queen made quite the sight
with Rickon and Shaggydog at her side.

If anything could steal one’s gaze from Ethan and Tum’s fine white armor, it was the black
direwolf who was chest high to the queen. Mother looked much like the dark beast, her
movements just as confident, her riding clothes and cloak as black as night. The red dragon
on the cloak stood out just as proudly as the blue gold crown upon his mother’s head. When
she caught sight of Jon a smile spread out across her face.

“My lords! Good men! Our victor arrives!” Mother curtsied to him, a very improper act
considering he was but a lord and her a queen. The other men raised no objection, only cheers
as they bowed at Jon’s coming. The Blackfish and Thoros were far more restrained, saluting
him as he made to kiss his mother’s hand.

“The victory was not mine alone.” He said before patting Rickon’s head. “All did their parts,
didn't they Rickon? Were you by my mother's side throughout the battle? Guarding her as I
asked?”

“Yes Jon.” Rickon beamed, throwing an arm around his direwolf’s neck. “Shaggy and me
guarded Aunt Lyanna and watched the whole battle! It was even better than the Whispering
Wood! What with the sun out and Sansa not trying to cover my eyes.”

The mention of Sansa shook him some. Jon hadn’t been altogether pleased with his mother
bringing Rickon to Crackclaw Point. Nor when he learned that she meant to send for Sansa as
well. Unfortunately, with the hurried nature of their allies mustering, there had been no time
to bring his wife to join the march. A part of Jon was glad that Sansa remained safe in the
care of the Tullys. His heart was far less reasonable. It was that part of him which hurt to
have Sansa so far. The part that desired to fall asleep with her in his arms and awake to find
her there still.

Yet to think of Sansa in the midst of war and death was to sully his memory of her. So he
pushed it away, making to address the highborns who mother had gathered here.

“This victory belongs to all of us.” He repeated. “When the High Queen told me she found
good men at Crackclaw Point I took her word for it. Not once did she warn me of what fierce
warriors would be joining our cause. Your men fought well, they fought bravely, so they must
be rewarded. We might have need for some armor and horses taken this day but I gift over
most of the riches and spoils to our new allies.”

A murmur of appreciation moved through the gathering of Crackclaw lords before one burly
knight, Ser Bennard Brune, let out a bark of laughter.

“We’ll put all that to good use, your grace.” Ser Bennard chuckled. “Though our men could
outfight the Durrandon dogs in shoddy boots and leathers. Wait and see what we can do
armored and mounted.”

His allies were united in good humor when one youth suddenly stepped forward and knelt
before him. Jon knew him as Lyman Darry, a lord at the age of fifteen, and a guest of Jon’s
since they took his castle moons back. To call him a captive would be unfair, since Castle
Darry and its lord had been held in the grasp of a castellan and garrison loyal to House
Lannister for years prior to the order freeing both.

Something that young Lyman was clearly eager to repay.

“My prince, let me fight in the next battle!” Lyman pleaded from where he knelt. “Queen
Cersei had my father executed! Prince Jaime killed my uncles! House Darry would be for the
dragons, just give me leave to show it.”

“Please, don’t call me prince. And the war’s a long way from being done.” Jon said, waving
Lyman to his feet and looking to the Blackfish. “The next battle might be closer than you
think, depending on what Ser Brynden has to say.”

All looked to the older knight as he and Thoros stepped towards a table and the red warrior
laid out a map of these lands.

“My riders did as you asked.” The Blackfish said, putting a finger to the map. “We followed
Joffrey’s army and found that it is in full retreat, heading southeast, towards Rook’s Rest
from my guess.”

“He seeks shelter and supplies.” Thoros added with a grim expression. “Their retreat was so
hurried, there was barely any fight when my company hit their baggage train. We were able
to spirit away with half their wagons before some Lord Fell drove us back. Most of the rest
we burned. A fine offering to R'hllor.”

“And good enough reason for Joffrey to seek Rook’s Rest.” He tapped the map and looked to
Brynden. “Can we make that route an unattractive option?”

Brynden grinned. “Few hours rest for the horses and I guarantee that we can be between
Joffrey and that castle in a day’s ride.”

“Good.” Jon then turned to Ser Bennard and the Crackclaw men. “I will be taking the Dark
Order to block Joffrey’s retreat to Rook’s Rest. I task you all with putting your knowledge of
these lands to use. With your new horses, I want you to visit every village, farm, holdfast, any
place the enemy might seek rest and food.”
“The elephant and the jackals.” Gendry spoke with some distaste. “Thought we left that
behind in the Braavosi foothills.”

“I’m sorry?” Mother asked, eyebrow raised. “What is this talk of elephants?”

“Elephant, my queen.” Thoros bowed. “It is a strategy used by the order to great success
against large, slow moving enemy forces. The elephant is mighty but ponderous, with a great
hunger and thirst. We are to act as the jackals. The order splits into companies that surround
the enemy. Wherever the elephants looks, he sees the jackal. The lands he travels through
will be burnt to ruin. All the while, the jackal nips at his feet, driving him on and on…”

“Until the elephant falls.” He finished. “Or he grows weak enough for the jackals to strike. To
tear their prey apart.”

The High Queen shook her head at that. “So much destruction and too much risk. Why not
simply trap Joffrey in along the coast? Have our fleet sail from Maidenpool and summon
Benjen’s army from Harrenhal-”

“That all takes time and we will lose the momentum of battle.” Jon pointed to the map, where
Harrenhal lay. “Benjen’s army is mostly foot and would take the better part of a moon's turn
to make it here. Not only that, but with King Robb warring in the west, I wouldn't wish to
deprive the Riverlands of my uncle’s protection. Joffrey is on the run so we must keep him
running. Lest this king remembers that he still outnumbers us and makes a stand that could
cost us dearly.”

His words echoed through the sept where most had become as silent as the seven statues
which stared down at him. His mother clearly despised this strategy as much as Jon did, yet
that would not stop him from seeing it through. These lands were lush and still pledged
loyalty to Joffrey. Each village or holdfast that the king’s army stopped at could offer food
and men for him to continue fighting. The longer the war lasted, the more suffered.

Tell yourself it’s better to burn a hundred villages to end the war in a few months than to see
a thousand destroyed as the war drags on.

Tell yourself that and pretend that Sansa married anything less than a monster.

He did all that and more as he made to lay out his plans in full. If they were successful in
driving Joffrey away from Rook’s Rest, the Order would divide into four columns. The
Blackfish would command the company riding at the fore of the Durrandon march, scouring
the land ahead. Thoros and Greenbeard would lead the companies at the flanks, doing much
the same while leading raids and hemming the enemy in. Jon would ride with the foot, the
larger force following at Joffrey's rear and giving the Storm King a constant threat to worry
on while driving his flight forward.

Before any of this could happen however, they needed to give Joffrey reason to flee. That
meant robbing him of food and fodder in these lands and it was a task that the Crackclaw
lords accepted with relish.
“None better than us to do so.” Ser Bennard smiled. “Brunes, Crabbs, Caves, all of us
Crackclaw folk have been raiding these lands since before the Andals came. We’ll burn the
crops and steal the cattle, aye, but what of the gold? Some of these villages and septs are well
off-”

“I forbid that the septs to be touched.” Jon spoke firmly, remembering Ser Theodan’s words
outside. The knight’s men had died to keep this place free from war and Jon would try to
keep some of his decency. “There must be places that the smallfolk we put out can seek
relief... and they must be allowed the safety to do so. No innocents or any in service to the
Faith, whether he be a septon or Warrior's Son, is to be molested by any under my command.
Wherever gold is found and bounty seized I want at least a half portion given over to the
nearest septry. Is that understood?”

“As you will it.” Ser Bennard nodded with too much grumbling. “Any sept I visit will hear of
the generosity of the dragons.”

“No, not of dragons.” His mind went to the reason he held the septs so dear. “Let it be in my
wife’s name that all carry these orders out. All relief and mercy shown shall be done by the
honor of Princess Sansa Stark. Rickon, does that not sound like something your sister would
do?”

“That’s Sansa for sure.” Rickon nodded enthusiastically, smiling up to the lords. “Even if she
was mad at me for poor manners or something, she’d always share her lemoncakes.”

A Pyne lord guffawed. “Dear boy, gold is tad more valuable than lemoncakes.”

“Try telling that to Sansa.” Rickon answered and Jon grinned, ruffling the boy’s hair.

“What of the prisoners?” Gendry asked. “We took hundreds in the battle and more that fell
behind in the retreat. Far too many to drag around with us at any rate.”

“Allow me to treat with the highborn.” Mother put in with a look to Lyman. “There might be
more lords or knights willing to abandon King Joffrey. We can welcome those men to our
cause and send the others worthy of ransom off to Maidenpool.”

“Most of our prisoners aren’t so well off.” Gendry crossed his arms, for he knew the most
common fate for prisoners during the kind of campaign Jon proposed. A quick death or a
long march to the slavers was standard in the empire.

There is to be no slavery in this land… killing them all would be the wisest course…

It’s not like I haven’t ordered such a thing before. These are Joffrey’s men after all. Men who
took up swords to defend the man who tortured Sansa.

What mercy do I owe them?

He looked to the statues of the Seven then. His eyes fell on those of the Mother and Father.
The pair of gods that had watched over Jon and Sansa as they wed. When his bride had been
terrified and him worried that she was marrying a monster. He had done everything he could
to spare Sansa that.

“We’ll spare them.” Jon said to the surprise of many. “Any unwilling to join our march shall
lose their weapons but not their lives... have Ser Theodan put them to work digging graves
for the fallen. Perhaps he can even find work for some of the stronger ones guarding septs as
new levees for this Faith Militant… it matters not, just let it be known-”

“That this mercy is done in Prince Jon’s name.” Mother interrupted, grabbing at his arm and
shooting a fierce glare his way. “May all in these lands see, even in the midst of a horrible
war, how my son and his wife are good and caring people. Who respect the Faith and its
teachings of mercy… something that the tyrant King Joffrey scoffs at.”

He didn’t care for how mother interjected herself into the affair, yet the others responded so
well to her words that he let them pass without protest. Just as Ser Theodan and the septons
allowed Jon and his party to leave the sept without admonishing them. After being told of all
the help he was soon to receive for grave digging and guarding nearby septries, Ser Theodan
actually bowed to Jon briefly when he rode away.

While men set to stripping and preparing the dead of both friend and foe for burial, the Dark
Order’s dead were treated in a far different manner. Each fallen brother was bound in their
cloak and tied to a horse. When it came time for Jon to lead his men on towards Rook’s Rest,
the order’s dead went with them.

One last ride with their brothers.

When night fell and camp was struck, nearly every order man pitched in to help build the
pyres for their comrades. Nearly three score had fallen in the fighting, relatively few
compared to their enemy’s losses, yet a blow all the same. A glance to Karl Bowden proved
that. The young warrior moved as if in a daze as he and Grenn carried the cloaked form of
Margan to lay upon the pyre. They had only known each other for less than half a year, but in
that time Karl and Margan were rarely separated. They rode together, they bedded down
together, and they rose to serve again each day together.

Gendry and Jon had called each other brother before joining the Dark Order, yet it was their
time acting as each other’s shadow that made them brothers in everything but blood. He
looked to Gendry then and the sergeant met his gaze, the pair of them sharing a silent
understanding. A grim one.

Were it Gendry that fell today, it would be me carrying him to the pyre. As he would do for
me.

It was strange to think that soon both would be free of their vows. Their time in the Dark
Order would come to an end. No longer would it be the order that Jon lived and died for. Nor
his brothers that he would bed down with and wake to each new day.

Once he was free of this vow, it was the one he swore to Sansa that would become his new
purpose. It was his wife that he would serve for the rest of his days. Her that he would live
and die for.
Until then, Jon still had duties to perform. When all the dead were in their places, the order
took theirs. A great black ring, as dark as the night sky above, surrounded the pyre. Just as
the sky was lit here and there by stars, so did torches burn among the dark riders. No prayers
were spoken aloud, the faiths of the order were as diverse as the men. All were united in
looking to Jon as he stepped forward. As lord-commander, it fell to him to do honor by the
dead.

“Look.” He spoke clearly into the cool night air. “Look hard into this night. They are quiet
now but our brothers are here still. They wait for us to send them on, to where all shall go.
Where we will meet again.”

“We will meet again.” Three thousand voices repeated in the night.

“The flames will take them, our brothers riding the smoke up into the black. It was in the
darkness that we found each other. Against the terrors of the night, we are brothers.”

“We are brothers.”

“They ride on into the shadows. To stand bravely against all fear. To bring order to the chaos.
A Dark Order.”

“A Dark Order.”

All became silent as Jon raised his hand up and made the signal for the men to ride on. Thus
the torch bearers made to light the pyres. The flames spread quickly, the men well practiced
at building such things. As the fire grew and enveloped the cloaked forms of his men, Jon’s
mind wandered to what lay ahead.

These men will not be the last to fall. The fires we set here will spread out across this land.

Just let Sansa’s name ring out as well. A mercy to the afflicted. A light in the darkness.

Far from this hell.

SANSA

The night was dark and full of death.

Burning arrows and torches surrounded her. Men with swords and spears fighting and killing
one another. There were hundreds of them. Thousands. The dead already on the ground were
enough to feed her pack for weeks.

This was no time to stop and feed though. Men were trying to kill her. She was running swiftly
through the trenches, climbing their man-made earthen mounds and darting between
sharpened tree branches. Arrows stuck in the ground near her, spears stabbed her way, one
metal warrior was so foolish as to come to her with a sword.
His screams mingled with the rest, ringing in the air as she wrenched his sword arm free with
her jaws. The steel hurt her fangs as she tightened her jaw and yanked with all her might.
The hard skin beneath held firm to a point but had enough give for flesh and bone to tear
under the bent steel. Blood was running in rivers from his shoulder when she leapt off and
continued out into the fight.

Some of the men meant her no harm. They fought the ones who would like to kill her. The old
warrior was there, just ahead of her. One who smelled so old should not be so fast. Even her
eyes had trouble catching how quickly his blade moved in the night. His fight had taken him
to the top of the last large dirt mound. Others were climbing to join him when she rushed by,
reaching the top just as he felled two more foes. Two others were moving in on his back, a
smaller boy being pushed ahead by a fatter man.

A man she knew. He was clad in the warrior’s steel and over it he wore a green cloth with two
black porcupines. She disliked those beasts, but it was his sweaty face with quivering jowls
and flat nose that inspired her hatred. That face had once smiled greedily as it hurt her.

Boros Blount. His name was Boros Blount. It was Boros who used his fists against a scared,
weak thing. All while a golden monster watched with his cruel green eyes. He would laugh.
Boros would laugh. They all laughed at her tears. Her pain. Her fear.

Boros was the scared one now as he pushed his comrade on to attack the old warrior’s back.
She growled to warn him, giving the old one time to whip around and meet the sword thrust.
Boros made to strike before the pair disentangled but he never made it so close. His war cry
turned into a scream of pain as she lunged at his leg.

Blood ran into her mouth as she pulled him down. His cry made her happy. The fear in his
eyes gave her power. Hurting him felt right.

His flesh tasted good.

‘Please! Stop!’ Boros pleaded as she tore into him. ‘Don’t- ah! Don’t hurt me!”

Those words made her stop. In another life she’d said the same. A time when she could not
imagine anyone being so cruel as to take pleasure from hurting others. The blood in her
mouth no longer tasted sweet. Boros’s suffering did not make her happy.

Yet her pause gave him the chance to grab his sword. Boros was making to stab her when the
old one stepped over him and drove his own sword down into the knight’s throat. There was
no scream. Only a gurgle as the fat foe died. The fires around reflected in his eyes but there
was no light behind them anymore. Not like the light in the old one’s eyes as he looked to her.

‘Thank you Lady.’ His blues stared into hers. ‘I owed you one.’

She licked at his face and tasted the blood but beneath it was only a sweet man. One who
cared for her. It was the old one that the others rallied around when they climbed the mound.
Then it was him who led them all down into the camp ahead. Where their foes were making
lines and making to kill them-
“Kill them all!”

The child’s cry caused Sansa to jerk and sway. She felt lost and confused as she took in the
battlements around her and the dark sky above. When hands grabbed to steady her she almost
screamed, fearful that they were enemies about to attack.

“Sansa? What’s wrong?” Talia asked, the young lady’s face full of worry as she drew in tight
to her right. Jeyne was to her left, holding her arm and sharing Talia’s concerned expression.

“Do you feel faint?” Jeyne reached up to touch Sansa’s forehead and everything came back to
her at once.

She was standing on the walls of Duskendale. The ladies were part of an audience gathered to
watch the battle outside the town. The siege lines Joffrey had left in place after his departure
were formidable enough to keep the defenders wary and penned in, yet did little more. In the
moons since Joffrey’s departure, the siege of Duskendale had amounted to little more than
raids and skirmishes.

Tonight that was all to end. After weeks of prodding, Lord Royner had finally agreed to
launch an attack against the siege lines. All it had taken was Ser Barristan agreeing to lead
the attack and Aurane Velaryon adding his men to the effort.

That and unending patience from Barristan and myself, she thought. There were times I
thought to attack the siege lines with my own hands I grew so wroth…

It was a strange thing to feel that she'd actually been a part of the battle raging outside the
town walls. She was thinking about Barristan and Lady being down there and somehow let
her mind wander. There were foggy memories of men fighting and dying, and of her taking
part. Yet it was clearly all nonsense. The most Sansa saw of this battle were the glimpses of
flaming arrows and torches flashing in the darkness.

And now she acted as if that was too much for her. Talia was rubbing Sansa’s back as Jeyne
waved forward a page with a cup of water.

“Here Sansa, drink.” Jeyne held the cup out, her eyes falling to Sansa’s middle. “Maybe your
aunt was right. This is no place for a woman with child-”

Her friend’s words were cut off by the enthusiastic cheers of a boy leaning against the
parapet.

“Go father! Kill them all!” Robin Darklyn shouted. The thirteen-year-old heir was jumping
up and down in excitement. She knew men were dying out there, and to see a boy treating it
all as sport caused her to frown.

“Look at that Jeyne.” She spoke the words so only her ladies would hear. “My aunt thinks I
should stay at the castle but lets her child bask in the horrors of battle. Foolishness I name it,
for I am fine and will see this night through.”
A howl then reached her ears and many of the Darklyn household seemed amused by that,
young Robin especially. The skinny boy whirled about, his long hair nearly touching his
shoulders. It framed his pale face in such a way that his dark eyes looked like holes in a pale
mask. It was an unsettling comparison, especially considering the smile that stretched across
his face.

“That’s your wolf isn’t it?” Robin asked. “Is it howling because it killed someone? Tore their
throats out? Ate them up?”

“I have no idea. Though I doubt she cheers on any killing.” She chided the young lordling.
“That would be in poor taste. Men on both sides likely fall as we speak.”

Robin rolled his eyes at her. “That’s what battle is.”

“Quite right my son.” A woman broke free of the crowd. “And that is why war is a man’s
duty, not a lady’s.”

The voice belonged to Sansa’s aunt and Robin’s mother, who now stepped forward to put a
hand on her son’s shoulder. In the same motion, Lysa turned to glare Sansa’s way, for there
was little love between them. That her mother and Lysa were sisters was plain to see, though
Sansa believed that most would be hard-pressed to guess that the Lady of Duskendale was
younger. Lysa was an attractive enough woman, a tad thinner than Sansa’s mother and
willowy in look, yet her lips always had a pinched, disapproving manner about them.

It was that same expression that Lady Darklyn bore as she shook her head at Sansa.

“Your words do not match your actions it seems Lady Sansa.” Lysa turned up her nose.
“Wasn't it you who pushed for this battle? You insinuated that there was a lack of martial
spirit within House Darklyn, bothering my dear husband so. Yet when he fights your foes,
you shame his son for taking pride in his father’s brave deeds?”

“I meant no such thing.” Sansa bit back her irritation. “Lord Royner shows himself to be a
brave man, one willing to fight for good causes. My lady must take heart and see that her
objections to this battle were as misguided as my chastisement of young Robin.”

Lysa’s eyes narrowed at those words, her lips pursing even more. She had looked much the
same when Sansa and Ser Barristan convinced Lord Royner to launch this attack. An action
that Lysa had argued vehemently against.

When Sansa set out to reach Duskendale she’d had to endure many obstacles. First came
Edmure’s protests when she made to depart Riverrun. Then there was the delay in securing a
proper escort at Maidenpool. At the time, she’d thought the worst part of the journey were the
storms that forced them to anchor at Driftmark and seek shelter at the castle High Tide.

Yet Aunt Lysa proved to be the greatest barrier to Sansa's efforts. Whenever Barristan sought
to inspire bravery in Lord Royner, Lysa would fill his head with fears, for the fate of their son
should Joffrey win the war, for the fate of their castle and people should it be sacked. When
Sansa would remind him that Joffrey’s cruelty knew no bounds, Lysa would point out that the
Darklyn army had limits and should not be wasted. Her aunt did all she could to paint Sansa
as a frightened young wife, willing to risk anything to safeguard her husband’s life.

To that end, Lysa had gone so far as to betray her niece’s closely guarded secret. The travels
by sea were horrible for Sansa, the nausea that came from being with child only worsened
with the bucking waves. Even after arriving at Duskendale, the mere smell of saltwater would
cause bile to rise in her throat. Sansa had sought out the Dun Fort’s maester for relief,
claiming to be ill and foolishly believing that the man accepted her lies. The next day, all in
the town knew she was with child, courtesy of Lady Lysa.

“It’s wonderful news.” The shrew had said, with false smiles and feigned cheer. “I can only
imagine the joy on Catelyn’s face when the raven I sent reaches Winterfell. Or Edmure at
Riverrun. Even Benjen Stark at Harrenhal. I would’ve gladly delivered the announcement to
your husband but he sacks castles more often than he guests at them.”

While Lysa tried to imply that Sansa’s being with child made her unreasonable, the horrible
woman had also tried to use Jon’s victories against him. Her aunt claimed that if Jon could
burn half the lands north of the Blackwater then he had scant need of Darklyn men. Indeed
she went even further, pointing out that all the recent setbacks to the Lannisters and the
Durrandons proved the alliance as needing little more from Duskendale.

Robb continued to war in the west, sacking the castles Ashemark and the Crag, all the while
threatening to move on Lannisport. More importantly, he had captured Cersei’s daughter,
Princess Myrcella Durrandon. From what they heard, Myrcella had been sent west when the
war began and was between castles when Robb’s men overtook her party. Sansa could only
imagine Cersei’s fury as the golden queen sat besieged at Storm’s End.

The Golden Legion and the Martells had won a great victory over the Stormlords near
Grandview. Word had reached Duskendale only days before their arrival that Storm’s End
itself was now under siege by Prince Aegon. Jon’s brother had taken all the horse from his
own men and the Martells and rode hard to invest the Durrandon seat after smashing their
host south of the castle. A feat easily accomplished, since Cersei had sent nearly all her
remaining men north.

Joffrey was now driving his beleaguered army at all costs to meet those reinforcements at the
mouth of the Blackwater. In a way, Sansa felt almost thankful to Cersei for sending those
men north, for it was their approach that she used to convince Lord Royner to act.

The Lord of Duskendale was an indecisive man but not a stupid one. He knew full well that if
Joffrey defeated Jon, the king would turn his cruel gaze on House Darklyn next. Thus, to
Lysa’s chagrin, the lord had committed his scores of knights and thousands of men to break
the siege. Ser Barristan led the main attack through the main gate, which served as a
distraction for Lord Royner and his selection of knights to ride out from a postern gate and
set fire to the siege engines.

It was those three large trebuchets that now lit up the night. Robin gave a cheer and Lady
Lysa led her household in a round of applause at the sight of the burning weaponry.

“Father did it!” Robin beamed. “I bet Ser Dontos and father killed a hundred men all alone!”
“Your lord father is surely capable.” Lysa smoothed her son’s hair behind his ears. “I will
impress upon the importance of throwing a feast in honor of his courage! Days of celebration
to show the strength of our walls and lord both! To the Defiance of Duskendale!”

More applause followed that as Talia leaned in to whisper to Jeyne and Sansa.

“If it was up to her there’d be nothing to celebrate. The Darklyns would still be sitting on
their arses.”

“Talia! You sound like Asher.” Jeyne grinned for a moment before it fell away as Lysa
continued to prattle on. “Gods Sansa, I know she’s your aunt but that woman is infuriating.
Did she say days of celebration?”

“She did.” Sansa fumed. “The Lady Lysa knows full well that Barristan and I wish for her
husband to follow this action up with a march, and at great haste. She clearly means to delay
Lord Royner…”

“Maybe this fight will get his blood up.” Talia put in. “Rodrik and Ash always said that after
a battle they feel like they can take on the world. ”

Jeyne smiled wickedly then. “Or perhaps the lord will simply ride out to escape Lysa’s shrill
voice.”

“Jeyne!” Sansa said before her laughter escaped and she was forced to cover her mouth. Talia
did much the same but the damage was done, for Lysa regarded them all once more.

“From disapproving of violence to laughing at a world aflame.” Lysa gestured to the chaos of
the siege lines and the tents being fired as well. “With a war lord and a dragon for a husband,
I imagine you must become used to such carnage. Though I worry on how you keep
attracting the most violent of men, young lady.”

“Your grace, Lady Lysa.” She corrected, holding her temper to only that as Lysa’s mouth
opened in disbelief. “My father is King Eddard Stark. My mother, your older sister, is his
queen and thus I am a princess. I will be addressed properly and not hear my husband
slighted.”

Lysa bristled. “Well, your grace, do you deny that Jonarys Targaryen ravages the
countryside? That wherever the dark menace rides, fire and death go with him.”

“I will not deny it.” She shot back. “Nor will I speak to how a war is being waged far beyond
these walls, for I would be doing so in ignorance. As ignorant as any who condemn with
certainty my husband’s actions. Surely you would not do so, dear lady, for war is a man’s
duty. Is that not what you said?”

Lysa scowled at Sansa throwing her own words back at her and did not dare answer, instead
turning back to watch as enemies began to flee into the darkness. Sansa could make out men
deep in the lines waving Darklyn banners in victory. Less numerous were the Targaryen
banners, though a large one stood out as it was raised high on a pole above the burning
Durrandon pavilions.
Lysa’s accusations came back to haunt her then. It was not the first time that foul rumors
regarding Jon had reached her ears. Joffrey’s retreat across his northern holdings had led to
hundreds dropping dead from disease or want of food in only a few weeks. Worse tales spoke
of the Dark Order burning villages with the smallfolk barred within their homes, others being
put to the sword. Barristan was quick to note that most ravens claiming such things came
from castles loyal to Joffrey, like Rosby and Stokeworth.

They spread lies to besmirch Jon’s good name, she told herself, my love could never perform
such horrors.

A part of her was not so convinced. She’d once blinded herself to Joffrey’s evil and she’d
spent more time apart from Jon than with him. How well did she truly know her husband? By
his own words Jon had named himself a monster.

But I’ve known monsters… in my heart I cannot think that way of Jon, for he’s good and kind.

If Jon does violence, it is for the sake of all of us. For this child he does not know exists.

Her hands were at her middle still when the last of the fighting ended. A summons came for
the Darklyns and Sansa’s party greeted the returning lord.

The Lord of Duskendale was among the first through the town’s gates. Royner Darklyn was
comely for an older man, his brown hair flecked with only a few bits of grey. His cheeks and
neck were clean shaven but his beard grew so long below his chin as to touch the top of his
chest plate. Beside him rode a far more ordinary looking man who was, in truth, a rather
extraordinary knight. Ser Dontos Hollard was kin to the Darklyns and the finest swordsman
and rider in the town. The gathered ladies clapped for him just as loudly as they did for their
lord. The next man to arrive had his share of admirers as well.

Aurane Velaryon’s grey-green eyes were captivating to look upon and his long silver-gold
hair was quite lovely. In all ways he was handsome and charming, to a point where Sansa was
somewhat wary of him. It was unfair of her to think so though, for Aurane captained the
Alysanne, the ship which had brought her party to Duskendale. It was also Aurane who
arranged for a portion of the imperial fleet to deliver hundreds of Velaryon men-at-arms to
assist in this battle. He was the acting Master of Driftmark, and had fought hard to win Jon
the support of the Darklyns. Yet something in his constant flattery and needling for
information from her made Sansa liken him more to a fishmonger than a friend.

Still, when Aurane smiled and bowed to her from his horse she smiled back. Only half as
widely as she did to see Barristan and Lady appear through the gates though. Her knight was
bloodied, as was the direwolf, yet both were in good health as they came to her. Lady
pressing her head against Sansa’s middle in such a caring manner that she did not care one bit
at blood staining her gown.

“That wolf is something, my princess.” Barristan said as he held out a bundle to her. “A gift,
courtesy of your Lady and myself.”

She unwrapped it, somehow knowing what it would be. Namely the torn tunic of Ser Boros
Blount. Sansa could picture his dead eyes as clearly in her mind as she could see Lady’s
golden ones staring up at her now.

“Where is my son?!” Royner shouted as he wheeled his horse about. “Where is my little
lord?”

“Here father!” Robin was ushered forward by Lysa, the boy running to stand before the lord’s
horse.

“Robin! You’re too young to take up the sword, but you're old enough to carry mine back to
the castle!” Royner laughed as he unstrapped his swordbelt and handed the sheathed weapon
to the giggling boy. Lysa managed a smile herself as Royner displayed to his wife that he still
bore her favor on his wrist.

“You’re well my lord?” She asked fretfully. “The fiends did not harm you?”

“Not with the valiant Ser Dontos by my side!” Royner gestured to his champion. “We routed
the foe and put them to flight! They ran like the dawn would show them for the cowards they
are!”

A cheer met the lord’s claims and he was clearly in good spirits as he basked in the glory of a
victory. She glanced to Barristan who took all of this in with a stoic manner before meeting
her gaze.

“Indeed they fled.” The ser said simply. “Thousands of men... heading south. If they don’t
move to link up with Joffrey at the Blackwater, I’d be shocked your grace.”

“As would I.” Aurane added as he led his horse over to them, a sly smile on his charming
face. “I worry now that those men might make to seize the crossing over the Blackwater
Rush. If we wish the fleet to do as Lord Jon tasked, we’d best send a raven to Driftmark now.
Should the crossing remain in enemy hands-”

“It would be a disaster.” She finished. “One we created by driving this enemy army off,
adding to the threats facing my husband. Let us see about bringing some friends as well.”

With that, Sansa joined the crowd forming around Royner, who was regaling his people with
tales of his heroics. The lord was standing with his son cradled to his side and Lysa holding
his arm. It was her aunt that caught sight of Sansa’s approach first and her expression
darkened.

“My lord.” Lysa pulled on her husband. “Surely you are tired. Perhaps hungry? Let us retire
to the Dun Fort.”

“What say you, Dontos?” Royner hailed his champion. “It’s a tad early but shall you share a
cup of wine with your lord?”

Dontos grunted. “You know me. One cup before bed, if that. Wine dulls the reflexes-”

“But not your fighting spirit!” Sansa smiled to say as she blocked Lysa’s attempted departure
with her husband. Royner was taken aback by her sudden appearance and she curtsied
quickly. “Dear nuncle, your men fought like the Warrior himself was at their backs! I beg the
honor of pouring the first cup for you.”

“A princess pouring my wine?” Royner blinked in bemusement. “I would never allow such a
thing. I would however raise a toast in your honor. I let my men know that we acted to show
Joffrey’s lapdogs what happens to those men who abuse princesses.”

“She’s truly grateful.” Lysa added. “And understands that such heroes will need rest-”

“I’m more than grateful.” She spoke with deep conviction. “My lord has left me proud to
name him an uncle. I will let all of my new kin in the Targaryen imperial family know of his
great deeds. When the war is at an end and I am presented to the High King, I do hope you
attend us-”

“You’d have me meet King Rhaegar?”

“Why, yes.” Sansa held her hand up to the lord. “At the imperial court. If you and my aunt
would join my retinue.”

“Of course!” Royner took her hand and kissed it in awe. “The High Queen promised she
would visit Duskendale, but no Darklyn lord has ever been welcomed to Summerhall. To
travel so far…”

She did not let Royner’s hand escape her grasp and the lord pulled away from a frowning
Lysa to welcome Sansa on his arm. Robin was distracted by Lady and she stole Royner’s
attention as they made their way to a waiting carriage.

“A journey to the empire, it shall be a first for me too. It would be good to have friends by
my side. I can call you a friend, can’t I? To myself and my husband?”

“Yes, I’d beg that you to do so.” Royner’s eyes were distant, his mind likely bubbling over
with possibilities for influence and future grandeur. “Whenever and wherever my royal niece
shall go, I and House Darklyn will be your firm friend and escort.”

“I’m so happy to hear that.” She let the lord see her put a hand to her middle. “There’s much I
need to keep safe now and Ser Barristan does worry. He’s quite concerned that the Velaryon
company is too small to intimidate the Durrandons from attacking once we give chase to
them-”

“They are far too few!” Royner was aghast. “I thought for sure you’d stay here in
Duskendale-”

“My place is with my husband... who fights to begin a new era in Westeros.” Sansa blinked
several times as she looked to the lord. “And if I am to be worthy to travel to Summerhall and
be presented to the High King, I must make this shorter journey.”

“Shorter yes, yet far more treacherous.” Royner spoke with fatherly worry as he stroked his
whiskers. “And one a true friend would not let you make alone.”

“Husband!” Lysa tried to break in. “We should speak before-”

“Hush my lady, I am speaking with the princess.” The lord snapped, which took Lysa aback
and forced Sansa to hold in a smile as Royner helped her up into the carriage. “You must tell
me if this carriage is to your liking princess. After we depart, I’d have you and your ladies
ride in it under guard of my finest men. I cannot keep you behind my walls, but if my army is
to escort a Targaryen bride, she would travel as befitting her rank…”

Sansa was all graciousness and charm as Royner went on and on about the arrangements he’d
make for her travels. The words she clung to were of the numbers of knights and spearmen
now being pledged to Jon and his future battles. How the lord would send riders out to seek
her prince’s army to share their plans with Jon.

He even offered to let Sansa send a letter on as well but she couldn't settle her mind to think
properly on that.

She was too lost in the idea of seeing Jon again. Of being able to tell him of their child.

To be there when the monsters fell and Jon proved himself a true prince.

JON

“The wind’s not the worst.”

Balaq dropped a bit of dirt into the air to prove his point. The gathered captains and sergeants
watched in earnest as the dust was carried gently toward the west.

“The arrows will climb but we’ll need to get closer than I like.”

“How close?” The Blackfish asked and the Summer Islander’s grin was almost wolfish.

“Close enough to smell the stink off those Westerosi bastards. All you lot smell of shit and
piss.”

While the men laughed Jon did not feel right joining them. Not while his army prepared for
battle against an enemy in a far better position. They’d trapped Joffrey just north of the
Blackwater Rush, the river waters running strong and swift at the farthest edge south of the
battlefield. Three hills dominated a landscape filled with grassy fields, bogs, and trees. The
men had taken to calling the tallest hill Aegon’s hill, after the Conqueror himself. The smaller
two they styled after his sister-wives, Visenya and Rhaenys.

The Dark Order and its allies were arrayed into battle lines between the sisters’ hills but it
was Aegon’s Hill that Jon’s eyes were drawn to. That was where the enemy had amassed
itself. Most of the Durrandon men were formed into shieldwalls at its lowest approaches
while companies of archers were higher up, right below a token force arrayed upon the
hilltop. Jon could see the royal banner of King Joffrey flying there. Even at this distance it
appeared faded and frayed, much like the tunics and armor of the Durrandon army.

They’re better off than the thousands we left starving between here and Rook’s Rest.
Weeks spent riding and killing. Hunting and burning. Acting monstrous towards a monster.

After the Battle of the Ridgeway Sept, the enemy had numbered around fourteen thousand.
By the time they reached the Blackwater there was barely more than ten thousand left in
Joffrey’s army. It had been a mighty force… yet one with needs, with weaknesses that the
Dark Order exploited. He couldn’t count the number of villages and farms that they set
aflame. Those ruined places all blended together like the emaciated corpses of Joffrey’s dead
that Jon rode by during their pursuit.

The smallfolk might have faired just as poorly if Jon hadn’t kept true to his word. After
Joffrey marched through the decimated lands the order would leave whatever supplies they’d
seized at the roadside. Travelling members of the Faith Militant would then take such
supplies and distribute them among the septs and smallfolk. What had started as a passing
idea to spare some innocents had become routine by the end of their march.

While the Dark Order spared the septries, the Durrandon army was not so merciful. Nor did
they extend any mercy to the smallfolk, who they would often capture and torture for
supplies and secrets, whether they had such or not. The bodies of the dead were usually found
hanging from trees. Septons and septas, men and women, old and young, it made no
difference. Their bloated, purple faces all had the same accusing expressions when Jon
ordered them cut down and marked for the Faith to bury.

Joffrey strung them up but I drove him to this. I knew what desperate men are capable of.

It’s the weak and innocent who suffer when monsters roam free…

He sometimes dreamt of the dead. There was one maiden with bright auburn hair that stuck
out in his memory. Joffrey’s men had stripped her naked and burned the mark of a stag on her
breast before hanging her. Jon would thrash and shout at night when he dreamt of her. The
nights when he woke without that girl’s face changing into Sansa’s were the ones he was
most thankful for.

Thinking of his wife bid him to look north, where the Darklyns were formed up below
Rhaenys’s Hill. Somewhere behind their lines was his wife, at a higher point of the hill and
safe. He’d been surprised to hear a few thousand Durrandon men and a Darklyn army were
racing to reach the Blackwater first. That surprise fell away to shock when he learned that
Sansa was among them.

“That girl is full of surprises.” Mother had smiled at the news. “Here I thought that Sansa
would be angry with me for not sending for her, stewing over her idleness like I might.
Instead she moved to gain us fifteen hundred men, many of them knights! Thank the gods for
Sansa Stark…”

Jon wanted to do more than thank her. He wanted to rage at her. To speak words of love to
her. To hold her. To kiss her lips and run his fingers through her hair. He wanted so much
more than the short, sweet letter she’d sent along with the rider. In it had been words of love
and hope, a desire to share some fine tidings with him.
The letter was tucked beneath his mail and close to his heart even now. Yet that was as close
as Jon would let Sansa come to him. There was a battle to be waged and he needed to keep
his mind focused. Sansa caused such turmoil in him and Jon wasn’t sure he could do what
needed to be done to see his men through this fight with her watching.

A battle they were already hard-pressed to win.

“They’re dug in good and proper.” Greenbeard ran a finger down the length of his blade as he
glared up at the hill. “In Tyrosh we have a saying. Better to let the foe piss down on you than
try and climb his mountain. We should just starve them out.”

The Blackfish nodded. “I’d say the same… except that’s what Joffrey wants. They’ve got
superior numbers and reinforcements coming from the south. If those forces hit the crossing
while we’re besieging Joffrey here, we’ll have to split our forces.”

“Then there’ll be more than piss coming down that hill.” Asher spat and Gendry narrowed his
eyes on the enemy.

“They’ll roll right over whatever men we leave here… one way or another, we’re facing
another bloody fight.”

Gendry was right. They all were. Whatever plans Aegon and Jon had worked out together in
Summerhall had gone to shit. Aegon was meant to keep the Stormlords occupied in the south,
but Jon now faced nearly half their strength alone. The fleet was supposed to seize the
crossing at the Blackwater with levees from Dragonstone, Driftmark, and even White Harbor,
yet only a token force arrived. Aegon had pressed more than half of their ships into joining
him at the siege of Storm’s End. That meant Jon’s hold on the Blackwater crossing was not as
secure as it could be.

So I must defeat Joffrey now or face worse odds on the morrow.

I’ve fought in battles like this before… commanded my men to ride into certain death… even
been ready to die myself.

This time was different though. Jon had never had so much to lose before. The freedom of
countless masses. The survival of the Kingdom of the North. A new realm here in Westeros.

A future with Sansa.

“Brothers.” Thoros broke through all their talk and Jon’s worries. He threw his red cloak over
the dark armor he wore and held out his arms to beseech them. “My dark brothers, our doubts
are well-founded but they don’t change what must be. The Dark Order fights when it has to,
not when it wants to. We fight, and we win.”

Asher scratched his head. “Don’t start saying your red rahloo is going to see us through. I’d
rather charge up that hill ass backwards with my breeches down than have to hear about the
glory of-”
“I pray that R’hllor will let me survive this day.” Thoros grinned as he patted Asher on the
back. “But my faith rests in my brothers. And our Lord-Commander, whose strategy is as
sound as we can ask for.”

“Arse kisser.” The Blackfish chuckled and many of the others did the same. All save for Jon,
who just took in the moment for what it was.

The calm before the storm.

“Thoros is right, you know your duties.” Jon put a fist to his chest, saluting his men. “Go and
see to them. After this is done we’ll meet again.”

“We’ll meet again.” The men answered in a chorus before departing to their different stations
for the fight ahead. Gendry and Asher’s place was with him though, and they were not the
only escort that Jon had as he made to take command of the army.

Ghost and Shaggydog kept a respectful distance from his horse but Lady made it difficult to
mount his steed. The grey direwolf pressed and nuzzled at him so much that Jon was forced
to gently push the beast aside. Still, Lady followed behind with the other direwolves as the
three men rode to the center of the army.

Most of the Dark Order was mounted and ready yet their role would be a far different one
than usual. They were to act as a reserve during this battle while Balaq’s archers and their
allies’ foot would lead the attack. The Darklyns made up the left, the Crackclaws the center,
while the Velaryon, Mooton, and Darry men united to form the right. Marching behind the
center would be Balaq’s archers, dismounted and with orders to thin the enemy shield wall as
best they could.

The ranks of spearmen and archers were forming a half moon around the hill while Jon’s eyes
were drawn to Rhaenys’s Hill again and again. He could make out a small party there, two
white-cloaked warriors among them. If he strained his eyes, he could almost see his mother
standing beside a woman with hair the color of fire and soft to the touch. Eyes as blue as the
sky. A body as perfect as a Lyseni goddess, not marred in the least by the many cruelties done
to it.

“She got your letter.” Gendry spoke quietly, causing Jon to feel embarrassed for being caught.
“I delivered it like you asked. Won’t lie though, I wasn’t the man she wanted to see. The
princess didn’t cry or anything but she was upset that it wasn’t you to learn about…”

“Learn about what?” He asked when Gendry’s voice trailed off. “Is Sansa alright?”

“She’s fine Jon… as beautiful as ever. Just trust me, you should have seen her.”

“I will when this is over.”

When I drag Joffrey before her in chains. He is the hostage that will win this war for us.
Whatever else happens, he’ll know the price for what he’s done.
“Good enough reason enough to live.” Asher smirked. “I for one am glad the ladies are here.
After all this time at war, I’d welcome one of Talia’s songs. Something sweet… something
peaceful. She’s got a fine voice you know. One day I hope that it will get her a finer man.
Until then, she’ll have to waste a song on her big brother.”

“I’d beg you to share such a thing.” Jon said. “There’s not many minstrels about and Sansa
does like music… she might dance to a singer.”

Asher bowed in his saddle. “If it gets my lord a dance, I’ll gladly share Tal’s song.”

A different song was played across the battlefield when Jon signaled the advance. Trumpets
sounded to drive the ranks of foot forward, their spears and swords at the ready. Horns blew
as the archers drew up behind. It was queer for Jon to see the black clad bowmen of the order
walking rather than riding. Karl and his longbow would be there, and Grenn with him, one of
many men carrying shields to cover their archer brethren.

They would need to be shielded. Joffrey’s archers further up the hill began to call to ranks.
The enemy had the advantage of high ground and those arrows would cost them. Jon would
make it worth the trouble as he led his line of horse to follow the advance. The Blackfish and
Greenbeard held the flanks while the Darklyn knights ambled in from the north and
Crackclaw riders pushed in along the river.

A breeze moved over the field and through his hair. It caused the tall grass to ripple like
waves that broke over the massive bodies of the three direwolves. They moved as a pack
before him, powerful and serene all at once. The wolves seemed out of place at first, until all
three bore their fangs.

Balaq chose that moment to show his own teeth. The longbowmen stopped advancing to
loose a volley up at the defenders. The arrows flew into the lines of men making up the
Durrandon shieldwall. Shouts and cries rose up as some found their mark. More hadn’t or
were blocked by shields. In the time it took for all this to happen, Balaq had already loosed
another barrage.

Then the enemy archers took their own shot. Hundreds of arrows arched down from the
hillside to hit the front ranks. Jon cringed to hear more men screaming than he expected,
scores falling to the ground. Yet the advance did not fall apart, instead it charged. Balaq had
all his archers stop to loose straight at the shieldwall as thousands of men ran up the hill.

The crash when the two armies met echoed across the field. Thousands of shields crushed
together. Swords met swords. Spears stabbed into flesh. Men fought while others died.

He frowned to see the enemy ranks bending but failing to break. Archers continued to loose
from both sides, trying to bleed the numbers of those pushing back and forth. The archers
were fair game too, for Balaq had his longbowmen firing freely into their Durrandon
counterparts.

Still the line did not move. This stalemate seemed to drag on and on.
The sun travelled farther across the sky than the Durrandon shieldwall moved upon the hill.
Jon watched as wounded and dying men were carried down from the battle, in greater
numbers with each passing hour. He knew it was only a matter of time before the inevitable
happened. Jon wasn’t surprised when the attack began to falter. Towards the center, the
Crackclaw line was being slowly pushed back. Once something like that started, it would not
be long before men began to flee.

“It is time.” He said firmly, hefting his helm up to his chest. “The center is weakest so we’ll
have them pull back. Greenbeard’s column will come too, we’ll need his men.”

“Fuck.” Asher cursed. “I was really hoping they’d be too exhausted to hold.”

“They’re desperate.” Gendry’s voice echoed behind his dark helm. “We have full bellies and
open lands to flee to. They are starved and have nowhere else to go.”

“There is no retreat for them.” Jon agreed, donning his helm. “Nor for us. Not today at least.
We are going up that hill Gendry…”

And some of us will never come down… if I fall, mother will look to Sansa… she’ll get her
back to Winterfell.

I’ll just be a bad memory, though I pray not as bad as some.

His anger towards Joffrey boiled up again as he pulled Dark Sister free and pointed the
Valyrian steel up the hill. Gendry and Asher raised their spears and a thousand others did the
same before Jon led them all towards the fight. The center was buckling, its leaders already
pulling their men back. That’s when the Dark Order drew near to the foe.

The enemy shieldwall loomed ahead, holding steady with spears and pikes aimed downward.
He’d faced worse in the Unsullied, but rarely ever uphill. That didn’t stop Jon or his men
from forcing their horses to start the climb.

“For the order!” Greenbeard’s voice rose up from somewhere to the right. His loud bellow
pierced through the sound of pounding hooves. “For the empire!”

“For the empire!” Asher answered, he and Gendry both cutting in front of Jon.

It was a mad attempt to spare him harm and it meant his friends hitting the shields first. A
spear barely missed Gendry’s throat as he drove his own into the shoulder of another man.
Asher’s horse shied away at the last moment, rearing and kicking at the pikes raised against
him. Jon cut one down with Dark Sister as he tried to urge his horse through the press of men.

“Fucking monster!” A scarred man screamed as he sent his spear against Jon’s shield. “You
killed my brothers!”

He had no answer for that but Asher did. The northman skewered the screaming foe yet there
were thousands more fighting for their chance to kill them. They’d broken through the front
ranks of the shieldwall in some places, a chaotic skirmish of riders and infantry. Ghost and
his siblings worked as one, grabbing at the exposed legs of the enemy and pulling a man
down for the others to finish. Yet more men rushed to fill those gaps, holding back the order
and pressing them hard.

Jon cleaved about with Dark Sister, keeping spears at bay but doing little damage otherwise.
Worse was being done to his men all around him. Horses and riders were being impaled all
down the line, falling in ever growing numbers. Then the arrows came, Joffrey’s archers
loosing down into the fight, striking just as many of their own men to get at Jon’s. One
chewed into the mail at his side but failed to find purchase.

Greenbeard was not so lucky.

Pello of Tyrosh he was named. He had served more time in the Dark Order than Jon had seen
years, and he fell before Jon’s eyes. Greenbeard had lost his horse and helm at some point,
his green hair flying about as he continued to fight afoot. That was where the arrow found
him, plunging through Pello’s neck and out the other side. Even then, it still took two men
stabbing their spears through Greenbeard’s chest to bring him low.

The captain’s body was added to the hundreds of other Dark Order men already slain. To
anyone watching, it was clear that they weren’t winning. If they continued to fight like this
defeat was certain.

Yet still the Dark Order fought on. They would not retreat until their Lord-Commander
ordered it. An order Jon could not give, not yet. Through the slit in his helm and the sweat
stinging his eyes, Jon could see the last of Joffrey’s reserves farther up the hill. A force of
men he needed to tempt downwards and into the fray.

Come on… come on, he urged as blood leaked from his side, look at us, we’re falling to
pieces.

My men are dying… move in for the kill… overwhelm us…

Please… don’t let me be the only monster on this hill…

An arrow then struck into his shield and a spear cut through his horse’s armor, the poor beast
kicking and snorting in pain. Ghost killed the man who’d landed the blow while Jon
struggled to get his mount back under control. Gendry threw aside his broken spear and lifted
his warhammer one-handed to bring it crashing down on the half-helm of a foe. He was
hefting it up again when he gave a shout.

“Jon!” Gendry pointed up the hill. “They’re charging! They’re coming!”

He was right. The reserve ranks were doing just that. Charging down the hill, running to join
the fight and overwhelm the order. Jon silently thanked Vhagar, the seven, the old gods, and
any other god he could think of to see such a sight.

Finally, he could act a coward.

“Retreat!” He roared, raising his open hand up to the sky and shouting again. “Dark Order!
Fall back!”
The men did not need to be told twice. They broke like a rabble of hares, their flight panicked
and marked by men beating their horses and screaming. As they fled down the hill the enemy
cheered, shouting curses and insults. After weeks of being hunted by the order night after
night, the Durrandons finally felt powerful and their bloodlust was up. Few hesitated to give
chase, not with reinforcements at their backs and a broken foe ahead.

Their charge was brave yet chaotic, men forcing shields and swords to clamor together up as
they raced after the dark riders. This meant that the enemy began to roll over the attacking
right and left flanks as well, all the makings of a disaster. Every part of this looked like the
type of retreat that would break an army’s morale. The kind of flight that led to defeat.

Yet this retreat was not borne of fear or defeat. It came from discipline.

Joffrey realized this too late. The enemy still uphill could see what those chasing after Jon’s
men could not. Trumpets tried to call a halt to the charge but most of the men couldn’t hear
over their own war cries. That’s why the Dark Order used silent signals. His captains and
sergeants knew where to look and understood without explanation when Jon signaled them to
form columns.

Bloodied and exhausted, the men did just that. The mass of riders formed together into tight
columns so Balaq’s archers further back could get a glimpse of their targets. They had to do
so quickly, for the Blackfish and Thoros’s reserve riders were now charging forward through
the gaps. The red priest made quite the sight, raising a burning sword to Jon as he rode by.
The Durrandon men, hungry for blood only moments before, stopped in their tracks to behold
the Dark Order’s reserves charging at them over open field unopposed.

Some made to hastily form a new shieldwall but the arrows already sailing through the air
shredded that effort to pieces. Balaq’s men were able to send three volleys up and over Jon’s
head and down onto the enemy’s before the Blackfish and Thoros’s charge met them.

The cavalry rode right over their confused and disorganized foes. Spears stabbed and cut,
hooves crushed and killed. The dark warriors were outnumbered but they crashed through the
enemy all the same. Cutting an opening through their lines and opening up a path to the hill
above.

With a way forward now open to them, Jon quickly ordered the retreating columns into
swinging around. The Crackclaw foot had reformed and ran forth to follow Jon and the others
as they rejoined the fight, hungry for vengeance. They all rushed as swiftly as they could
through the gap and up the hill. The direwolves raced ahead of him until Ghost and
Shaggydog hit the broken lines and both found foes and fell behind. Gendry’s horse took a
blow meant for Jon and he too dropped back, his friend shouting encouragement while the
rest pressed on.

When the hill became too steep for his tired and injured horse Jon dismounted, continuing the
climb despite his chainmail weighing him down. Asher did the same, Thoros as well, the man
now wielding a pair of fiery swords. The warrior likely made a tempting target to Joffrey’s
archers as they charged right into the line of fire. Fear helped their advance, as only a small
number of enemy bowmen continued to loose while most broke and fled uphill. Those brave
enough to hold their ground simply met swifter deaths when the Blackfish’s men overran
their position.

No mercy was shown by the order, his men slew any they found. Some went so far as to force
cornered foes to the edges of a ridge by spearpoint. Those who did not leap to their deaths
were stabbed all the same. There were men cowering on the ground that Jon could have killed
but he passed them by.

It’s not them I want. It’s not here the fight will end.

The top. I have to get to the top. This doesn’t end until I reach the top.

That’s where everyone was heading. The Durrandon army was breaking, fleeing to the hilltop
where their king awaited. Right on their heels was the Dark Order and its allies, Jon among
them. Each step up the hill brought a new enemy to fight, the climb itself becoming a blood-
soaked hell. Men who fled were killed. Men who fought were killed. Those who pled for
mercy were killed.

He saw a young squire with a blue rooster on his doublet nearly split in two by the blow of a
greatsword. A man-at-arms stumbled by, gurgling in agony through a face smashed into a
mess of flesh and bone. An old praying on his knees had his throat slit by a Velaryon marine
who did not cut deep enough, leaving his victim to sputter and drown in his own blood.

Jon saw little more before a flail knocked his helm free, the blow caving in a part about his
eye and cutting it painfully. The blood ran freely down his face but it was his foe’s that Jon
tasted when he cut through the man’s windpipe. Another red mist sprayed through the air
only moments later when an arrow sliced across Asher’s cheek. The northman cursed in rage,
taking his fury out on a Fell swordsman that he opened from gut to groin. When a longaxe
nearly took Jon’s head off, it was Lady’s turn to get bloody, the direwolf barreling into the
attacker and sinking her fangs into his neck.

They were all a gory mess by the time they crested the hill. Jon’s breathing was labored, his
legs burning as he took in the flat, spacious hilltop. Durrandon knights and men-at-arms were
still fighting valiantly but they were being overwhelmed by the steady stream of men flowing
over the northern crest. The Darklyns must have had an easier climb than the rest of the army,
which was fine by Jon. At the moment they were decimating the remaining fighters.

A sight that enraged a gold-clad rider as he wheeled about and screamed at his men.

“Throw them back! Back! You cowards! Fight for your king!”

Jon had always pictured Joffrey’s looks to match his vile reputation. Yet the king was not
ugly. In fact, he knew that some would find Joffrey handsome, though Jon thought his
features somewhat girlish. Joffrey’s long hair was curled and shining in the sunlight, much
like the golden crown upon his head. It was bejeweled with fine stones, the rubies matching
his crimson cloak, the emeralds shining as green as his eyes which burned now with fury. His
pouting lips twisted into an evil sneer as he watched his men fall trying to defend him from
spear and swordpoint.
“Kill them!” Joffrey screamed, waving a sword around wildly and kicking at his horse. “All
you had to do was kill them! Mother was coming! We could’ve killed them all!”

“JOFFREY!”

Jon’s bellow was loud enough that it drew the king’s eyes, which widened in fear at the sight
of his approach. His legs had already begun to carry him forward without his knowledge. Jon
used his teeth to tear away his gloves. He wanted nothing between his hands and Dark Sister
now. Guards around Joffrey rushed to his defense, just as others made to clear the way for
Jon. Asher took the knight to the right, Thoros two men on the left, and Lady drove back a
fourth.

Leaving a king for Jon. One who was mounted and had a sword pointed right at him.

“Do you know what I am?” Jon asked, spitting blood away from his lips. “I see you Joffrey
Durrandon. Tell me what you see.”

“Some eastern bastard!” Joffrey snarled back, kicking his horse and charging forward. “Some
dead fool I’ll carve my name into! I’ll kill you all!”

The king rode straight at him, sword slashing downwards. Jon was faster, meeting the blow
and throwing it aside as Joffrey passed. His foe wheeled about and readied for another pass
so Jon tightened his grip on the Valyrian blade.

“Sansa Stark.” He growled, watching that name give Joffrey pause. “I am Sansa Stark’s
husband… and you’ll answer for her. You’ll hurt no one else. That I promise you.”

“You married that whore?” Joffrey laughed. “The filthy fucking northern savage!? I had to
brand her so she’d stop spreading her legs for every stable boy and peasant at Storm’s End. I
had to remind that slut who owned her, now and forever-”

“Liar!”

Jon surprised Joffrey by rushing him this time. The king recovered soon enough, snapping his
reins and charging again. Both closed much quicker than before. Joffrey was a poor
swordsman and left an opening below his arm that Jon could easily use to kill him. Yet he
wanted Joffrey to suffer. To feel some fear. So instead he sidestepped the king’s attack and
cut at the horse’s leg.

Both Joffrey and the horse screamed horribly as the beast tumbled and threw him from the
saddle. The king went rolling end over end until he collided with the bodies of his men.

“Jon!” Gendry’s shout let him know that his friend had gained the ridge. The Blackfish was
there too, Ghost and Shaggydog following after. “Jon! They’re laying down arms all across
the hill! We’ve won!”

Others heard this and cheered while most of the Durrandon men still fighting began to drop
their weapons. The rest did the same when three more warriors led a large party up the
northern crest. Ethan looked terrifying with his longaxe at the ready while Tum stood
shoulder to shoulder with an older man who looked formidable and familiar to Jon.

“You hear that you little shit!” Asher shouted, pulling his sword free from a dead knight’s
chest and hurrying to Jon’s side as they closed in on Joffrey. The king was crawling over the
bodies of his men, attempting a hopeless escape.

“Hold Joffrey.” Jon commanded while Asher laughed.

“Yeah, hold still. I wonder how many pieces we should cut the coward into my lord?”

Jon was about to tell Asher to quiet himself when Joffrey did something curious. The craven
king stopped crawling beside the body of a dead man, pulling and struggling to roll the
corpse over. Jon was confused by this until Joffrey turned around, a crossbow in hand.

“I’m the king!” Joffrey raged as he pointed the weapon right at Jon. “Not a coward! The
king!”

Before Joffrey even pulled the trigger, Jon knew he was about to die. They were too close. He
had no shield. His mind turned to Sansa as Joffrey fired… until Asher jumped into his
thoughts and the bolt’s path.

The bolt took Asher right in the chest, the northman grunting from the impact and falling to a
knee soon after. The bolt had gone right through his mail, burying itself so deep in his chest
that the fletching was barely visible.

“No! NO! Asher! Asher no!”

Jon tried to hold his friend up but Asher’s body had grown limp and heavy. The northman
slumped to the ground, his face turned upwards. Blood was tricking down his mouth as his
eyes looked about in a daze, finally locking on the bolt in his chest.

“Oh gods… hear me.” Asher rasped, his voice a whisper. “Tell Rodrik… take care of them…
of home…”

“I will but just hold on-”

“My mother...” Asher’s eyes moved to his, the usual rebellious strength that was always there
lost to sadness. “I didn’t get… to see her… to ask…”

The man’s final words drifted away, his last breath lost on the nape of Jon’s neck. His eyes
were wide and unseeing and Jon swallowed a sob to feel the life leave Asher’s body. Asher
was a man who had never backed down from a fight and relished every moment he got to
prove it. Now he was silent and still while his killer struggled to reload the crossbow.

“Murderer.” Jon croaked as he rose up, laying Asher on the ground. “You murdering piece of
shit!”

“Another step and you’re next!” Joffrey was almost giddy as he cocked the crossbow back
and made to raise it again. Yet when he looked up, his joy turned to terror, for Jon was almost
upon him. “No! No wait! I surrender! I order you-”

Joffrey tried to point the crossbow at him but never got the chance to fire. Dark Sister lashed
out at the weapon, cutting into it so hard that the sword stuck in the wood. The king screamed
in terror and both men let their weapons fall away then. Joffrey tried to turn and run when Jon
grabbed a hold of his hair and wrenched him back. His foe was squealing like a pig when Jon
struck him square across the face.

His crown fell away as blood spilled forth from Joffrey’s broken nose. He stumbled
backwards but Jon stayed with him, hitting the golden king in the face again as he drove the
whoreson into the ground. In his mind, he saw Asher collapsing once more so his fist came
down again. He saw Pello’s death so Jon landed another blow. He thought of poor young
Margan and cut a knuckle over Joffrey’s teeth.

Someone was shouting Jon’s name but all he could see was the dead girl from the road. The
memory of the maid’s bloated, purple face and the brand on her flesh fueled Jon’s rage until
all he saw was red. Joffrey’s face was an unrecognizable, bloody mess when Jon wrapped his
hands around the king’s throat. He tightened his grip until it was as tight as a noose. He felt
Joffrey’s struggles for air, the monster clawing at Jon’s hands as he squeezed tighter and
tighter.

Then other hands were pulling at Jon, wrapping around his body and trying to separate him
from Joffrey. Voices that sounded like Gendry and Brynden were shouting his name as they
fought to break his hold around Joffrey’s throat. They tried to pry his hands away as Joffrey’s
face turned purple before Jon’s eyes. The king’s green eyes were bulging out from his skull,
white turning red as the life was choked out of him.

The only eyes that mattered then were Sansa’s. Bright blues eyes, eyes that had been filled
with fear and shame when Jon saw her brand for the first time.

A monster had done that to her. It was a monster’s blood that stained Jon’s hands. A
monster’s hands that slowly seized their frantic efforts. A monster who made one final
choking gag as Jon strangled the last bit of life from him.

By the time he let go of Joffrey’s throat, no one else was touching him. He raised his
bloodied fingers up to look upon them, slowly realizing that others were looking to him as
well. Gendry and the Blackfish gazed at him with grim expressions and Ethan looked much
the same as he held out an arm, barring the High Queen from getting any closer.

His mother’s expression was one of shock as she looked to her son.

None of that mattered when he saw who stood just behind Ser Barristan. The knight held
Sansa’s arm as she stared down at Jon and the corpse of Joffrey beneath him.

Her eyes were locked on his bloody hands.

Eyes full of fear… like she was afraid of him.

Or some monster.
 Chapter 6
Chapter Summary

Victory brings trials of its own. Times of death and woe. The perils of peace.

The Conquests

The Targaryen Empire is the largest and most populous realm of its kind. Yet, in its
past, the empire was once far grander.

After Aegon the Conqueror built his empire out of the ashes of the Valyrian Freehold he
turned his gaze to the free city of Braavos. Twice were great swathes of Braavos burned
to ruin by Aegon and his sisters' dragons. Yet no army was ever able to overcome the
Titan of Braavos or the treacherous trails of the Braavosi hills. Nor did any campaign
cost Aegon as dearly. During the second attempt to conquer Braavos, High Queen
Rhaenys, Aegon’s beloved sister-wife, was killed whilst attacking the Titan atop her
dragon, Meraxes. The beast was struck by a scorpion bolt and both queen and dragon
sunk into the depths of the city’s lagoon.

Many still question why Aegon did not press his invasion and it remains a mystery to
this day. Some credit it to the visit of a mysterious Braavosi envoy, known only as ‘The
Kindly Man.’ Whatever was spoken between the High King and this stranger has never
been learned. What is known is that Braavos was spared Aegon’s wrath and the
Ghiscari suffered instead. By the end of his reign Aegon ruled all the cities of Slaver’s
Bay.

Later kings would lose those domains and it was not until the reign of High King
Daeron, the Young Dragon, that the Targaryens would reach new heights of greatness.

After crushing the Ghiscari once more, Daeron built himself a vast armada. The Young
Dragon used his unmatched sea power to conquer the rocky Stepstones, the pirate-laden
Basilisk Isles, peaceful Naath, and the distant Summer Islands. The plunder from these
campaigns enriched the imperial coffers and filled the slavers markets with exotic flesh.

Emboldened by these victorious campaigns, Daeron set his sights on a different kind of
sea altogether. When the Young Dragon set out to invade the grasslands of the Dothraki
Sea, he did so with his famed Golden Legion and an army of no less than one hundred
thousand men. Daeron boasted he would sack the Dothraki capital of Vaes Dothrak and
rescue all the gods stolen by the horselords.

It was never meant to be. The Dothraki slaves Daeron used as guides to navigate the
grasslands led him right into the jaws of his enemies. The khalasars that fell upon the
imperial army blotted out the sun with their arrows. The Young Dragon would reach
Vaes Dorthrak but not as a conqueror. The Dothraki carried his corpse there as a
trophy.

Only one in ten of Daeron’s army would make it home again. While the Dark Order
would recover the bones of the Young Dragon in a daring raid, most of his conquests
were lost within a year of his death.

The empire has not seen the like of The Conqueror or the Young Dragon since.

SANSA

“How could he be so reckless?”

Sansa fumed in anger at Lyanna’s news while Jeyne finished tying off the back of her gown.
Her irritation only grew with how uncomfortable the dress felt.

“It’s tight, isn’t it?” Lyanna put a hand to Sansa’s middle, where it looked like she was trying
to smuggle a melon under her gown. “Jeyne, we shall have to get to work on new gowns for
Sansa. Having her bed down in this camp is bad enough, we can at least have her be
comfortable in her own clothing.”

“This is a new gown.” Jeyne frowned. “The seamstress finished it only last week, she’s
growing as fast as we can make them.”

“Thank you Jeyne!” Sansa snapped. “Your grace… aunt, I think we have more pressing
worries than my gowns.”

Her frustration could not be restrained. They were right of course, Sansa’s middle had grown
obscenely over the last couple months. It was a daily struggle in her pavilion to find garments
that fit and her back often ached come morning. She felt horrible for those complaints since
Jon had done everything he could to see to her comfort.

The pavilions of two defeated lords had been remade to create one expansive shelter for
Sansa and her ladies. The floors were made of newly felled logs and covered with clean
rushes daily. Fresh flowers and incense were on hand and if she wanted for anything, three
pages awaited her beck and call at all hours.

Yet the one thing Sansa had wanted this was morning hadn’t been there when she awoke.
She’d silently cursed to find the bed empty beside her, Jon having snuck away at some point
in the night. Foul dreams often tainted what little rest Jon allowed himself these days, terrors
that he refused to share with her. Sansa was at a loss for how to help Jon but at least she knew
where to find him. Before she could dress and seek Jon out though, Lyanna had arrived,
bringing dark words with her.

“Sansa, this is not your problem.” Lyanna cupped her cheeks and placed a kiss to her
forehead. “Your duty is to give Jon an heir and me a grandchild to spoil. None will hold you
to account for-”

“You’re a poor liar, Lyanna.” She met her aunt’s gaze. “We both know my duties aren’t
limited to the birthing bed or you would not have brought this letter to me first.”

Her aunt smiled then. “I pray this child has half your wits. Yes Sansa, I knew I had to come to
you with this. It wouldn’t be wise of me to risk earning the ire of the princess who can
conjure up armies out of thin air. On the other hand, none here know Robb as well as you
and, considering his actions, your counsel is a necessity. Be honest, do you think Robb has
betrayed us?”

“No, he wouldn’t.”

Not on purpose at least.

The war in the Westerlands was far removed from the battles here in the east but word still
reached their ears of Robb’s campaign. Her brother and King Tywin had met in battle at the
ruins of Castamere, the wolf besting the lion in his own lands. Robb’s victory in that battle
and Uncle Benjen’s sacking of the Golden Tooth meant the Lannisters were in dire straights.

Though they were not so badly off as the Kingdom of the Storm.

Or what was left of it.

With Joffrey dead and his armies defeated or in disarray, little remained of the Durrandon
realm. Young King Tommen and Cersei were besieged at Storm’s End, where Prince Tyrion
Lannister continued to defy Aegon’s many assaults against the castle. Most of the Stormlords
had bent the knee or were facing certain defeat in the days to come. Their enemies were on
their last legs, the victory Jon and Robb had envisioned before leaving Winterfell within their
grasp.

So it defied all sense why Robb chose to marry one of their most important hostages,
Myrcella Durrandon. To Sansa, Myrcella had always been kind and charmingly willful, yet
she was an enemy to both Stark and Targaryen.

Now she’s my goodsister, she thought sourly, Robb has crowned a Durrandon as Queen in
the North.

How could he? How could he insult father’s memory like this? How could Robb turn his back
on Jon and the empire?

Her eyes went again to the letter in her hand. Recently delivered from Rosby, it gave her
Benjen’s account of Robb’s marriage to Myrcella at some sept in the Westerlands. A folly her
uncle had not been invited to.

“Benjy’s not happy.” Lyanna summed the letter up well. “Nor is he any man's fool, he sees
this as I do. Even you must admit to how it appears. Like a king making a separate peace
with our enemies... perhaps even joining with them against us.”
“No.” Sansa shook her head again. “Whatever Robb is doing, it’s not that. He would rather
die before fighting beside Tywin Lannister. Or siding with Cersei. His bannermen would
never accept it!”

“Not the Greatjon that’s for sure.” Lyanna sighed. “But what of others? Ones whose lands are
under threat by the krakens? Robb has to have heard of the Greyjoys attacking the North by
now.”

“And if he has, Robb will know that Bran has it well in hand.” Sansa countered.

That’s what Bran’s letter had said anyway. Some weeks back, the ironmen had launched
several attacks against the North. Bran wrote of the Flint Cliffs being overrun and villages
along the Stoney Shore being ravaged. The silver lining was that Moat Cailin had defied an
attack by King Balon's younger brother and captain of the Iron Fleet, Victarion. Lord
Bowden’s archers had cut down hundreds and threw back multiple assaults. Bran was not idle
in all this. He had set the remaining lords of the North into mustering men and defending
their coasts.

While the Greyjoys had split off their forces in search of easier prey.

“The krakens aren’t just attacking the North.” She reminded her aunt. “They’ve taken Fair
Isle and hit other fishing villages in the west. The Greyjoys might not be our allies but if
they’re weakening the West then that surely helps Robb. Why would he sue for peace now?”

“I’ve no idea.” Lyanna admitted. “All we know for certain is that Robb wedding Myrcella
creates a real threat to my husband's plans for Storm’s End. Plans that Robb claimed to
support after Jon agreed to wed you.”

That was something that Sansa was already dwelling on. Jon could have had married any
number of highborn women better suited to being a Targaryen wife. Instead he’d accepted
Sansa, with her tainted reputation and scarred body. All to gain the North’s help in
conquering new lands for the empire.

I got to marry a brave and kind man, she thought, only for Robb to betray the only benefit
that Jon got out of this marriage.

“It’s not right.” She whispered. “I’ll write to Robb myself… to mother… to anyone. Jon
earned my brother’s loyalty. I’m sorry, Lyanna, I know that… that I’m not…”

“Not to blame? Quite right.” Her aunt took her arm and leaned down to speak to Sansa’s
middle. “Little one, if you’re listening, let your mother know we wouldn’t be winning this
war without her help. That I seek her keen mind, not to blame her for another’s follies.”

Sansa couldn't help but smile at that, for Jon often did the same thing when he thought she
was sleeping. His words would be mere whispers, as gentle as his touch, and always in High
Valyrian. What little she would hear and understand had confused her, until she realized that
Jon was merely repeating the lyrics to Jenai of the Sorrows. Other times it would be his
marriage vows with small alterations.
“I am hers…” He would whisper. “She is mine… and you’ll be ours.”

She never roused when he did so, fearful to interrupt. In those moments she could imagine
Jon’s eyes filled happiness, just as they had been when he first learned of the babe. A few
short moments before the sadness and pain had returned. Ever since the battle to win this hill,
it was like a cloud hung over her husband.

When Lyanna asked where Jon was, Sansa knew the answer in an instant. He would be in the
same place that he always went when dread dreams came. They decided to seek Jon together.
The three women wouldn’t be alone though. When they left the pavilion arm in arm, they
found the Highguard warriors and Barristan waiting without.

“Your graces.” Barristan bowed, throwing his grey cloak over a shoulder. It was far less
handsome than the white cloaks that Ethan and Tumco wore but the knight stood proudly all
the same.

“Good ser.” Lyanna said while raising an eyebrow at her protectors. “You two are lucky that I
don’t let Barristan take your fancy cloaks after the thrashing he gave you yesterday.”

“The sun was in my eye.” Ethan grumbled while Tum grinned widely.

“I don’t think this man will need our cloaks, my queen. Some day soon, High King Rhaegar
will give him his own, I swear it on the harpy.”

“They’re fine warriors.” Barristan added humbly. “Fortune smiled on me during our practice,
that is all.”

“Oh Barristan, you know you had help.” Sansa looked to Ethan. “The sun was it not?”

Ethan grunted as Lyanna and Tumco’s laughter mixed with the sounds of the waking camp.
The top of Aegon’s Hill was a bustling settlement of horse lines, tents, and larger pavilions.
Sansa still marveled at how quickly the order’s engineers could raise a palisade wall of
sharpened logs around the hilltop. From below it looked like the hill had been crowned and
the view from the top was just as impressive.

Tens of thousands of men were camped along the approaches to the hill. The Dark Order’s
disciplined line of tents butted up against the sprawling camp which seemed to grow larger
every day. Upwards of sixteen thousand men had joined Jon’s grand army and he had taken
thousands of more as captives. Those men now acted as laborers, helping to raise the palisade
wall and build the makeshift docks along the edges of the Blackwater Rush. Two score
warships were tied off at anchor now, a mix of Manderly galleys and Targaryen dromonds.

They crossed through a sea of heraldry as Lyanna and Sansa led their protectors across the
camp. Lord Royner’s pavilion dwarfed Jon’s and was the largest after her own. Near to it she
saw tents bearing the plowman of House Darry, the red salmon of House Mooton, and the
Velaryon seahorse. Several banners which had previously flown with Joffrey’s army were
now raised alongside theirs. The Bar Emmons, the Hayfords, the Masseys, and the
Wendwaters had all come over after Jon spared the lives of their lords.
“The Stauntons should be here today.” Lyanna said as they continue their walk to the far side
of the hill. “The Buckwells too. We were right to send the Blackfish into coaxing them out of
their castles. Your great uncle can be quite intimidating.”

“I find Uncle Brynden quite courteous.” Sansa said. “It surely helped to have hundreds of
Dark Order men with him.”

They likely feared their castles being taken like Rosby and Stokeworth.

Or meeting the same end that Joffrey did when he met Jon in battle…

That day was still etched into her memory. The battle had been terrible, worse when the
Durrandon lines broke and the long climb up the hill began. Barristan said the battle was over
then, but to her the screams only grew shriller and higher as the fighting ended and the killing
began. None of their guards had agreed when she and Lyanna decided to travel to the hilltop.
The women would not be deterred though. The horrors that Sansa saw during their ascent
nearly made her retch, half in disgust, half in fear to find Jon among the dead or dying. A
victim of some monstrous violence.

When she reached the top to find her husband alive, tears had sprung to her eyes. Jon had
been in the midst of a group of grappling men, his hands choking the life from Joffrey. Seeing
her tormentor’s face flooded her mind with memories. The searing touch of the brand. His
laughter. She could still hear it as Jon strangled the last breath from Joffrey.

In that moment she didn’t recognize Jon, for his hands had only ever held her with care.
When it was done and Jon knelt over Joffrey’s body, she saw that his hands were bloody and
shaking, his broken armor betraying ghastly wounds. Her prince looked like he’d been
through hell.

When he turned her way, Sansa feared that he was lost in that hell. Jon’s eyes met hers, the
grey awash with such grief and turmoil that they couldn’t focus. No one could stop her from
going to him then. Her gown was ruined by mud and blood and worse but she hadn’t cared.
All she wanted was to get him away from Joffrey. To save him from whatever torment Joffrey
had put him through. A pain she knew well.

One that Jon had yet to escape.

They found Jon where she knew he would be. Standing near the spot where Joffrey and
Asher Forrester had been killed. His shoulders were slumped, his stern expression etched
with hurt as he stared down at the patch of grass where Asher fell. Wildflowers, some
withered, dotted the ground as Talia knelt to lay new ones there.

“They don’t live long.” Talia spoke softly to Jon. “The flowers… I pick new ones everyday
and they just wither away. They’re not strong enough to last, not like my brother. I would
plant some but Ash would make fun of me. He would say flowers are for fields and girls who
deserve them.”

“Sounds like Asher.” Jon replied quietly and Talia sniffed.

“I have to do something. At home, everyone tried to forget Ash. No one would even say his
name. I won’t let that happen again. I want people to remember who he was…”

Talia began to weep then. The night that Asher’s body had joined hundreds of other Dark
Order dead in burning, Talia had sung a song for her brother. A lovely piece that drifted like
the smoke and embers from the hundreds of pyres to rest high into the quiet night. Towards
the end, when Asher’s body was lost to the flames, Talia’s tears had come in earnest and
Sansa could do nothing but embrace her. Her friend had allowed such comfort while Jon
stood alone, grim faced as he took in the growing inferno.

She watched now as he raised a hand towards Talia, perhaps to reassure the poor girl. Yet it
stopped far from her shoulder. After a moment’s pause it fell away. It was often the same
when Sansa tried to make Jon speak to her of his worries, of whatever nightmares awaited
him at night. He would come so close to sharing that pain... before his eyes would cloud over
and the walls would go up again.

They come down for the babe though, she reminded herself, Jon finds his way out for the
babe.

He’s not lost to us, to me. I just wish I knew what to do for him…

She knew what to do for Talia at least.

“Talia, those flowers are lovely.” Sansa said as she announced their presence to the pair,
moving to put a kiss to both of Talia’s stained cheeks. “You’re my dear friend and when you
hurt, I hurt with you. Please, let me help. Might I join you today in picking some fresh
flowers for Asher? We shall think of a way to honor your brother in a way that befits him.
Together.”

“Thank you, Sansa, I would like that.” Talia nodded as she pressed her face into Sansa's
shoulder. Her grief could dampen Sansa’s shoulder but the tears would dry with time. The
hurt she saw on Jon’s face was nearly constant.

It did not falter at all when Lyanna squeezed his arm, earning only a curt nod of
acknowledgement.

“Jon, I’d like permission to send Gendry on a quest of sorts.” Lyanna whispered before
waving Jeyne forward. “Talia, sweetling, I’m sorry to ask this of you now, but Sansa’s having
a frightful time with gowns. Would you and Jeyne be so kind as to join our newly made
captain and some men for a ride to Castle Stokeworth? The ladies there seemed... generous
enough in size. Their gowns might be hemmed to Sansa’s uses.”

“A ride would be nice.” Sansa smiled to Talia, swallowing her annoyance as all gathered
gazed at her swollen middle. “I’m jealous of you both, truly. You can play the game of
making Gendry blush.”

“That is fun.” Talia grinned. “And I like his stories about Asher. It’s nice hearing what my
brother was up to when he was away from us.”
“Gendry’s a captain now so he can take the fifth company of riders.” Jon said with an eye to
Sansa. “We hold Stokeworth but there’s broken men about and it’s best to be safe. I also want
Stokeworth’s maester brought here. I was told that the Lady Tanda suffered from a broken hip
for many years before her death. He might have more experience in easing Sansa’s back pain
than our healers.”

It was touching that he thought of her pain, especially since Sansa tried not to complain of
her aches. She didn’t want to be a bother.

“Jon really, being with child is not a broken hip. I’ll be fine…”

“You won’t be.” Lyanna sided with her son. “It’s only going to get worse, Sansa. I’ve no idea
how Tully women carry, but your middle is as big as mine was when Jon was at seven
moons. You are sure it’s only been five?”

“I’m certain.” She blushed some. “My last moonblood came after we left Moat Cailin and
didn’t come again after the Twins.”

“Fine work, Jon.” Ethan’s scarred face pulled into a rare smile. “It sounds like your son is
going to come out strapping enough to head straight to the training yard. A sword in his hand
before he can walk.”

It was meant well but Jon grimaced. “I pray that isn't so… I want my child to have some
peace. More so, I want his mother to be well. Sansa could suffer if this child is too large.”

“Maybe its twins.”

All eyes turned to Talia then, whose eyes were now lively and full of cheer.

“When my mother had me and Ethan, she said that we made her swell up twice as big as the
others did.” The lady smiled sadly then. “Asher said it was because Ethan’s head was so fat…
and my heart was so big.”

“Of course, I’m an old fool.” Barristan struck his forehead then. “King Steffon and I visited
Casterly Rock when Queen Joanna was this far along with her twins. All the ladies could
gossip about was how quickly she grew… by the seven, I would have made a poor midwife.”

The others laughed while Sansa came to grips with what they were saying. A moment before
her mind had been awash in worries for the babe. Now she was stunned. Twins had never
even occurred to her. Nor to Jon it seemed.

“Twins?!” He repeated agape. “As in two? Two of them? In there?”

“Well where else?” Lyanna smacked his shoulder.

Jon smiled then. A handsome, genuine smile that made it seem like some veil had been lifted
away, that the man Sansa married was returned to her. The joy spread all the way to his eyes,
which gazed at her like they had that night at the Twins. When they’d proclaimed their love
in the midst of making it. Through the darkness of their rooms, she’d seen the truth of Jon’s
words borne across his face. She liked to think that that was the night their babe was
conceived. Or babes.

His expression of happiness right now was just as genuine at it was then, his touch as loving
when he put his fingers to her middle.

“It would please you?” She asked, enfolding her hands over his. “If it was twins?”

“Twins...” Jon blinked in astonishment, his smile still bright. “Two of them… they’ll be
ours…”

Yes, they’ll be ours. Please let it be true. Then he can smile that smile everyday.

“A m-maester.” Jon sputtered, looking about in a panicky manner. “We need a maester. A
healer, an expert on twins. Get Thoros up here! I want riders heading to whatever castle or
town will have someone learned in birthing twins. Send a raven to Lady Forrester... in fact,
maybe we should send for her…”

Jon was too sweet for her to interrupt his frantic commands but Lyanna finally did so. She
reminded him how all of that could be done later and that Sansa was doing fine so far. After
Jeyne and Talia were sent off to find Gendry she knew what was coming next. All the good
cheer left Jon’s face when Lyanna told him of Benjen’s letter. He remained silent while both
ladies shared their opinions on the matter and remained quiet long after.

“Benjen gave no reason for the marriage?” He asked finally, remarkably calm.

“I fear my brother understands this as little as we do.” Lyanna answered, to which Jon merely
nodded.

“Then we shall have to wait and hope to hear from Robb soon.”

Sansa exchanged looks of worry with Lyanna at that. She felt relieved that Jon was not
enraged, a lesser man might have blamed her for Robb’s actions but her husband proved
himself to be a better sort. Yet to show no emotion at all seemed a bad sign.

“Hope to hear from him?” Lyanna’s voice betrayed some anger. “Jon, this war is being waged
to conquer a new realm, including the Storm Kingdom! Your chief ally just married one of
the claimants to Storm’s End! Robb must be taken to task for this betrayal!”

“Who am I to condemn Robb?” Jon shot back. “So he married his hostage? At least he didn’t
kill her in cold blood. At least Robb is no murderer…”

There it is… oh Jon… you’re not that. You could never be that.

“Joffrey Durrandon died as he lived. Like a fiend.” Lyanna pointed to the flowers on the
ground. “He tried to kill you and murdered a good man in the attempt. He sealed his fate by
doing so. All you dealt him was justice.”

“That’s my mother talking.” Jon shook his head. “Not the High Queen. I know what she
would say. That Joffrey was more valuable as a prisoner. That with him in our power Storm’s
End might have already yielded. That many of those who still fight us might have laid down
their arms. The battles at the Rosby and Stokeworth would have never happened. Thousands
would still be alive.”

Jon’s eyes were shut and fists clenched tight. As much as he tried to hide it, she saw how
every fight since Aegon’s Hill had weighed on him. A routing of Joffrey’s reinforcements had
led to few casualties on their side but Jon had spent hours watching those graves be dug. He
had not slept that night nor the next when news of Stokeworth and Rosby came. Then
Aegon’s ravens delivered word of yet another failed assault at Storm’s End. Jon could not
watch those graves being dug but she had no doubt where his mind was focused now.

On the dead.

“How many?” Jon asked with his head lowered. “How many did I doom on this hill? How
many more will have to die before this ends? How much more blood will be on my hands?”

“Some.” Sansa answered honestly. “But less than Joffrey would have gladly spilled if he'd
lived instead of you.”

She left the others to stand before Jon, who watched her coming numbly. When she was close
enough to feel his breath on her face, Sansa took one of his hands in her own

“Sansa…” He sighed, unable to meet her gaze. “I could have lived and spared Joffrey. Instead
I killed him.”

“You did.” She whispered back, gently easing Jon’s fist into unclasping. “Perhaps that was a
mistake. Some might think so. Others will sing a song about an evil king being brought low
by a hero.”

“This is not a song… men will die because I lost control…”

“Men might have died anyways.” She whispered back. “How many people have you spared
in this war, innocent and enemy alike? Joffrey would have done neither. If you did something
horrible here then you must atone for it. That’s what good men do.”

Sansa pressed Jon’s open hand against her middle. She willed all the goodness and hope that
came from their child into him.

“I married a good man, not a perfect one. None of us are perfect. Watching you kill Joffrey…
it was horrible, yes, but less because of what you were doing. More because I wanted him
dead… and that scared me.”

“I’m sorry, Sansa.” Jon whispered, his hand still on her belly. “I never wanted you to see me
like that… a man as ugly as his deeds…”

“Nothing about you could be ugly.” She touched his face, near to his newest scars. “What
Joffrey did to me, what he did to Asher, that made him ugly. Not you. I wanted him dead for
all he’s done. He filled us both with vengeance and hatred... but now we can let our demons
die with him.”
Sansa bid Jon’s face to look to the flowers that Talia had laid out for Asher.

“Let us be better, like Asher was. It is his sacrifice that we should remember, not Joffrey’s
evil. Your friend was a good man who did his duty. Who safeguarded others before himself.
We shall mourn him and do honor by his memory… for our children.”

She felt her words foolish and feeble. After all this time, thinking night after night on how to
reach Jon, this was all she could offer. Some whispered words over a place that haunted him.
She was certain she failed when Jon pulled his hand from her belly, that he would walk away
and her husband would be lost to her again.

Until Jon gripped her shoulders and pulled her closer to him. He brought her near enough to
press his brow against hers, his hard stomach touching her middle.

“I don’t want to be what I was anymore.” Jon’s lips moved but inches from hers. “I want to
be this. Your husband. A father. A good man. Worthy of what Asher died for… worthy of
having you.”

“I am yours.” She replied in High Valyrian. “You are mine… they’ll be ours.”

Sansa ended her words by kissing his lips and pushing her middle against him. Others were
watching but she didn’t care. They had all watched Jon kill Joffrey at this spot. Let them see
him for who he truly was.

When the couple broke apart, Jon ran a hand through her hair, and while the sadness
remained in his eyes, Sansa saw a bit more of her husband in his face. More in the wicked
grin that pulled at his lips as one hand brushed down her side.

“I take it that it is too early to retire to your tent?”

“Far too early. Something to look forward to this evening perhaps?” She smiled, blushing
some to catch Lyanna and Barristan pretending not to watch. “Besides, your mother is right,
we must do something about Robb. There are also more lords coming in to discuss terms
with you-”

“With us.” Jon kissed her hand. “Treating with the others went so well because of you, Sansa.
Be by my side when these new lords arrive, and let us speak of Robb until then.”

She did so gladly. Lyanna did not push to learn of what Sansa and Jon spoke of privately yet
was clearly delighted by the results. The three broke their fasts together, Jon sitting beside
Sansa with a hand on her leg, and went over how Robb’s actions affected things and other
concerns. Jon disdained how long the siege at Storm’s End continued, while Sansa worried
on the growing number of smallfolk seeking shelter at the edges of the camp. Many had
come from lands ravaged by fighting and few were eager to return while bandits roamed
about and the war still on.

They came up with possible solutions to many of these problems. Some Sansa welcomed,
others that upset her greatly. Yet it was clear what had to be done.
So when Uncle Brynden led the lords into Jon’s tent, they found Sansa and Lyanna by his
side. Their allies stood with them, chief among them Royner Darklyn, Lyman Darry, Aurane
Velaryon, and Ser Myles Mooton.

“Kneel before her grace, High Queen Lyanna.” Ethan demanded, thudding the end of his long
axe against the floor.

“And her grace, Princess Sansa.” Barristan added.

The two men did not hesitate, Ethan’s fearsome appearance and Barristan’s reputation driving
them to their knees. When they rose, Uncle Brynden introduced the arrivals.

“Here stands Symon Staunton, Lord of Rook’s Rest, and Ser Jarmiah Buckwell, Lord of
Antlers.”

“Thank you both for coming.” Jon said. “We have water and wine if you have a thirst.”

“I did not come here to drink.” Lord Staunton spoke brusquely. “I came here to spare my
castle a siege by your men and myself the same fate as King Joffrey.”

Jon’s expression darkened but Sansa would not let him face this alone.

“A fate that Joffrey chose for himself.” She said. “He had many crimes and his rule was mad.
Who here did not foresee a day when a good man would hold Joffrey to task?”

“And your husband certainly had reason.” Lord Buckwell nodded to her before addressing
Jon. “The princess calls you a good man. I’ve seen the burnt farms and dead men to argue
otherwise. And yet... I’ve heard the septons and the dispossessed who sing your praises. I
come here to learn the truth of things, to see how I might keep my home. So I ask, Jonarys
Targaryen, what do you want from me?”

“I want what you want, my lord.” Jon said. “For both of you to keep your castles and lands so
that you may rule over them tomorrow as you did the day before. In peace and security.”

“We ask for little in return.” Lyanna added. “Merely that you submit to the rule of House
Targaryen. Swear fealty to us and join with my son in any battles that are to come.”

“Many others already have.” Sansa gestured to Royner and Lyman Darry. “Do so and my
husband will honor you as befits your titles and put your lands under the protection of the
dragon's might.”

“Half my lands have been burned.” Lord Staunton argued. “The rest plagued by bandits. If
my men march with you then things will only get worse. Joffrey is survived by his brother,
King Tommen. The Durrandons could still prevail, especially if Tywin Lannister returns.”

Lord Buckwell nodded. “A Lannister pays his debts. You people are strangers to these lands.
Foreign. One defeat and you’ll sail back to the Targaryen Empire and leave us all to the
mercy of the lions.”
Both men started when Jon suddenly drew Dark Sister from its sheath, the fearsome blade
sucking all the air from the room. Yet he did not threaten any, merely laying the sword’s end
across his palm.

“This is Dark Sister, wielded during the Conquest.” Jon explained. “The High King gave it to
me before I departed for Westeros. Just as it was once used to forge an empire, my father
willed that I use Dark Sister to found a new kingdom here in these lands. A new realm,
prosperous for your people and ours. My lords, by this blade I swear, a new order shall soon
reign. Should any stand in its way, it shall be this sword that meets them.”

“Trust in that.” Sansa said, hoping to do to justice to Jon’s words. “My husband is as brave as
he is just. He plans on sending men to hunt down the bandits who plague your lands and
deliver seed and fodder to the smallfolk, so that the ravaged lands can be tilled anew. Tell me,
have the Durrandons or Lannisters ever been so generous?”

Royner chuckled. “Cersei Lannister is as giving as she is kind, we all know that. Come now,
Jarmiah, Symon, the lions ate the stags years ago. Those golden bastards were happy to look
down their noses at us but no more. They can’t stand against the dragons.”

“Tell that to Storm’s End.” Lord Staunton remained unconvinced. “Mark my words, as long
as Cersei and her boy king stand against the siege, Tywin Lannister will return-”

“He will not have the chance.” Jon declared, turning to look to her as she braced herself for
what was to come. “No army, no fortress, no power in the known world has ever stood
against the combined might of the Golden Legion and the Dark Order. So I will lead my men
to Storm’s End and force the Durrandon capitulation.”

The announcement drew a flurry of activity from the assembled men. Their allies fell over
themselves to join the march, the most recent converts proving more than eager to prove their
loyalty. The lords Staunton and Buckwell agreed to join as well, as long as their men could
continue defending their lands.

Jon accepted that condition with ease, though worry creased his brow all the same. Sansa
held her own doubts yet for different reasons. Her husband likely regretted agreeing to let her
come with, for she would not be left behind again.

She couldn’t leave Jon’s side, not after everything he’d endured.

Storm’s End was a place of horrors for her. Whatever terror that castle inspired, she would
not let Jon face it alone. As he protected her, she would protect him.

They would face these trials together.

JON

“You can’t storm that… hence the name.”

Gendry might have been making a jest yet his tone lacked any mirth as the pair looked to the
castle in the distance. They stood at the entrance of Aegon’s pavilion, amidst the siege lines
thrown up around Storm’s End.

Its huge drum tower rose up into the sky like a fist challenging the gods above. A massive
outer curtain wall surrounded the castle, so smooth and wonderfully curved Jon that thought
of the Valyrian-built Summerhall. Built on the edge of a cliff, the castle’s seaward side faced
a sharp drop into Shipbreaker Bay where their fleet anchored below.

Lady and Ghost rested at his feet while most of his men were still making the climb up the
hill from the beach. Jon and his party had been taken straight to Aegon’s tent, which offered a
brief respite from the rain. Of course Aegon hadn’t been there to greet them at the landing,
nor in his pavilion when they arrived.

Jon would be more annoyed at his brother’s discourtesy if he weren’t so relieved to have
Sansa warm and dry.

Sailing to Storm’s End had been hard on her, not that she uttered one word of complaint.
There was no need to. It quickly became apparent that his wife was simply not made for sea
travel. The motion of the waves made Sansa so sickly that he'd insisted on the fleet laying
anchor at every beachhead they found to spare her health. Helping his wife face her demons
had been more difficult.

When Sansa first saw the castle, her eyes had gone wide and she made fists so tight that her
knuckles turned white. His wife usually had a soft, delicate touch, yet in her desperation she'd
nearly crushed Jon’s hand when he offered it. He’d borne it gladly. Sansa gave him reason
each day to rise with hope in his heart. If she needed his strength, it would be there.

Turning back within the tent, he found Sansa warming herself by a cook stove. Jeyne had
stripped her damp cloak away while Talia rubbed at her back tenderly. While Sansa had
confided to feeling like a whale of late, to him she was as beautiful as ever. He barely noticed
the other women in the room as he joined Sansa by the hearth, though courtesy demanded he
do so.

Aegon might not see fit to grace them with his presence but others had been in the tent when
they arrived. Three women he knew well.

Of all the people Aegon could bring on his march… of all the ladies in Dorne… why did it
have to be the Sand Snakes?

Jon kept those thoughts to himself as he watched Sansa and her ladies make polite
conversation with three daughters of Prince Oberyn Martell. While the Dornishwomen acted
pleasant now, he knew them too well not to be apprehensive. High Queen Elia had hosted
many of her natural born nieces at Summerhall during her reign, visits that left an impression
on him.

Tyene Sand’s golden-hair and innocent blue eyes hid a mischievousness he did not trust.
While Tyene might dress in gowns as white and pure as a septa’s, she had a reputation for
treachery, hence why Ser Barristan eyed her every moment warily. Sarella Sand stood in stark
contrast to her half sister. The light tan of Sarella’s robes complimented her dark brown skin
and curly black hair. Her soft smile and black eyes betrayed a wisdom few might expect from
one so young.

It was the eldest of the three that commanded the most attention, for Lady Nym was never
one to be overlooked. Slim and slender as a willow, Nym wore her straight black hair in a
long braid which called attention to her high cheekbones and full lips. The daughter of a
Volantene noblewoman, Nym had been a frequent visitor to the imperial capital and greeted
Jon in perfect High Valyrian.

“Jonarys Targaryen.” Nym bowed her head and pulled her silken skirt to the side in a grand
gesture. “Son of Rhaegar Targaryen, High King. I bestow the welcome of the Golden Legion
and House Martell upon you. Your brother’s camp and its humble servants are yours.”

“We are grateful for the hospitality.” He spoke for Sansa and the others as rain pelted the
pavilion’s roof. “In weather like this it is greatly appreciated.”

“Aegon insisted you be given the utmost care.” Nym spoke in perfect High Valyrian. “I am
sorry to say we lack the comforts of Volantis or Summerhall. Though, I imagine anything
feels quite hospitable after enduring the cold and barren North.”

He did not miss the barb towards Sansa’s homeland. Nor did his wife.

“You are… most kind.” Sansa’s words were slower but her Valyrian accent was well done.
“The North… is colder. Yet… I think… not so barren.”

Sansa ended that by running her hands over her stomach, calling attention to how heavy with
child she was. All three Sand Snakes looked to each other before laughing in a cheerful
manner.

“What a pleasant surprise.” Tyene said sweetly. “It is rare to find companions who speak the
eastern tongue here in the Seven Kingdoms. Is that how you Stark women ensnare so many
dragons?”

“Not at all.” Sansa smiled. “Truly, I’m still learning. I knew little of Valyrian before Jon and I
married but he’s done his best by me.”

“That was less than a year ago, was it not?” Sarella cocked an eyebrow. “Quite impressive.
Many of the most learned men of Westeros are ignorant in such things. You must have an
excellent teacher.”

“Nonsense.” He wouldn’t let that strand. “Trust me, the credit rests with the student.”

“What a charming couple.” Nym inclined her head towards Ser Barristan. “One worthy of
winning the loyalty of Barristan the Bold himself.”

“A great warrior.” Sarella said. “Missing for a time and greatly missed by many.”

“Not by Dornishmen though.” Tyene smiled still. “For he slew our great uncle, the beloved
Prince Lewyn.”
Barristan did not bat an eye at that. “Ser Lewyn was a brave man. A skilled knight. It was on
his challenge we met in that duel. We fought for different kings and he fought well. My blade
might have ended his life but not my respect for the prince. He died a knight.”

Tyene looked ready to retort but Jon was having none if it.

“Past battles are not what brought my army here. Our fleet carried five thousand men to help
bring Storm’s End to its knees, so tell me, where is the man tasked with commanding this
siege?”

“Why, likely off commanding this siege.” Nym answered, running a hand down her braid. “I
imagine he’ll be here shortly, none could miss the arrival of the legendary Dark Order.”

“Or its infamous commander... the Kingslayer.”

He managed to keep from flinching at Tyene’s words, though he felt the shame nonetheless.
Sansa was quick to point out Joffrey’s attempt at killing him and the murder of Asher, yet it
did stop his memory of strangling the vile king. Of watching Asher die in his arms. Or the
hundreds of Dark Order men that burned alongside his friend.

All dead because of him. Them and many more.

I can be a better man, he told himself, Sansa says in the Faith, men can atone for their sins.

Let me spare lives instead of taking them… let me make peace rather than war… let me be a
good man rather a killer.

For her.

While Jon struggled with his own demons, Sansa was busy learning all she could from the
Sand Snakes. The three had accompanied Aegon on his march from Sunspear, alongside their
father and elder sister. Prince Oberyn and Obara were waging war in the Rainwood, putting
down the last of the resistance there. As Lady Nym described the Red Viper’s daring deeds,
Jon made note of how at ease she was ordering about stewards of the Golden Legion. As he
took in the lavishness of Aegon’s pavilion, and the silk scarves and gowns arrayed about, it
became clear that at least one lady was sharing this space. It was surely not Aegon’s wife, for
Rhaenys was back in the empire.

Aegon’s philandering was the least of his worries though. When they’d arrived at the camp,
Jon had seen evidence of recent battles around Storm’s End. Aegon’s siege engines were
quiet now but the piles of broken stone and rotting corpses below the castle walls were
troubling. Jon had explicitly sent word for Aegon to forego all attacks until he arrived, to
prevent any further wasted life.

Tyene was beginning to turn her attention to Gendry’s brooding when the tent flaps were
thrown open.

Aegon had finally arrived.

His brother walked alongside several of his commanders and allies. Jon recognized the
legion’s spymaster, Lysono Maar, and its cavalry commander, Draze Rogare. The others were
Dornishmen he knew not. There was no mistaking Aegon when he threw back his hood, for
the man looked much as Jon remembered. His silver-gold hair and deep purple eyes only
added to Aegon’s handsome features. He wore banded armor over his chest, each overlapping
plate as polished as the last. Fastened across his breast by leather straps was a solid gold
dragon with its wings outstretched, the emblem of the Golden Legion.

Aegon’s arms stretched out just as wide to behold the sight of them.

“Jon!” Aegon smiled widely, moving quickly towards Sansa and her ladies. “Before you do
anything, you must introduce me to these lovely women saddled with your presence.”

“Aegon, this is the Princess Sansa Stark, my wife. These are her companions, the ladies
Jeyne Poole and Talia Forrester.”

“How am I supposed to remember all that when their radiance blinds me to reason?” Aegon
kissed both ladies’ hands, his eyes meeting theirs in a way that caused Talia to blush and
Jeyne to titter some. When he kissed Sansa’s hand, he did so in a drawn out manner, his lips
lingering on her skin. “Your grace, when I heard that Jon had wed, I couldn't believe it. Now
that I see you with mine own eyes, I wonder instead how Jon could win the heart of a such a
beauty.”

“You are too kind.” Sansa spoke modestly. “Though my lord’s confusion surprises me. Surely
you know that your brother is no stranger to victory? He is a dragon, after all.”

“That he is.” Aegon clapped Jon on his shoulder and lowered his gaze to Sansa’s middle.
“And soon to be a father! Jon, most of our family has not even welcomed Sansa to our
number. Now you mean to overwhelm our father with a grandchild as well?”

Aegon laughed again and embraced Jon warmly, his brother’s good cheer surprising him. All
knew that Aegon disdained his marriage to Rhaenys since it had borne him no heirs. Jon had
half expected Sansa's being with child to add to the rivalry between them. It was a glad thing
to be proven wrong and Aegon seemed intent on maintaining the good mood.

“Balerion is smiling on us, brother.” Aegon said. “On our whole family. Tell me you heard of
father’s campaign in the east!?”

He hadn’t and Aegon was eager to share what he knew. When their father had led his legions
forth to challenge the burgeoning Ghiscari and Dothraki alliance, he found their enemies
already under attack by a deadlier foe. A plague of the bloody flux had hit the Yunkish camps
and spread out to afflict the khalasars as well. Thousands died before the Dothraki fled back
to their grasslands and the Ghiscari to their pyramids.

“Father should be returning to Summerhall any day now.” Aegon said. “Though I dare say
he’ll find it deserted. Uncle Aemon sent word that Daenerys has retired to his estates in
Valysar, and Rhaenys is off doing a pilgrimage to some Red Temple or another. Do tell me
that Sansa is not a follower of those R’hllor fanatics.”
“Sansa keeps the old gods and the Faith.” He drew Sansa in close. “We married before a sept
and she’s been teaching me its ways… and being remarkably patient about it.”

“He is too hard on himself.” Sansa said to Aegon who laughed.

“Likely not, we were horrible students. Though not as bad as Viserys. Princess Arianne has
her work cut out for herself with him.”

“Arianne Martell?” Sansa asked.

“The heir to Dorne, yes. Prince Doran didn’t want her to marry a Dornishman so I brokered a
match between our dear uncle and the princess.” Aegon leaned back to whisper in Jon’s ear at
the end. “Father owes me for getting that fool away from court. In truth, Viserys doesn’t
deserve Arianne, her delights are too numerous to name. If the Martells didn’t follow the
Faith, I would have taken her as a second bride. Not that the trip to Dorne didn’t offer other
pleasures…”

Jon cared less about Aegon’s lustful conquests than he did the idea of Viserys being a consort
to the future ruler of Dorne. Such concerns drew his mind back to the matters at hand,
namely that of a kingdom they had yet to form.

“Aegon we must speak.” He said, looking to the number gathered here. “On imperial
matters.”

“Always so eager to put a damper on things.” Aegon sighed before turning to the rest.
“Forgive my brother, the Lord-Commander of the Dark Order prefers to work in the shadows.
If you’ll all follow Tyene, she’ll take you to my guesting pavilion where there should be food
and wine waiting.”

While most of the others filed out, Jon and Aegon both held back confidants. Aegon
appeared intrigued when Sansa and Gendry remained at Jon’s side, though their company
was less scandalous than that of Lady Nym.

“Aegon, these are private matters. Not for just anyone's ears. I’m sorry my lady, but I cannot
see how your presence is warranted.”

“Forgive me, Jon.” Aegon waved Nym to him, the lady enfolding herself around his arm.
“Nymeria and I have become quite attached these last few months. I’ve taken her as my
mistress, officially. You can trust in her as you trust in me.”

Just as I'm sure Aegon puts his trust in Nym’s Volantene kin. Another bit of favor he can use
to push himself forward as father’s heir.

“How… lovely.” Sansa spoke without her usual poise. “I hope you make each other very
happy.”

“Thank you, Sansa. Do not fret. I won’t raise any objection to your presence.” Aegon’s eyes
moved from Sansa to Gendry then. “I see my new goodsister intends to follow in Lyanna’s
footsteps. Attending to Targaryen matters is commendable, though have you adopted Gendry
as well?”

“As this concerns Storm’s End, it involves Gendry.” Jon replied. “You know full well his role
in things to come.”

“Forgive me, Gendry.” Aegon said. “I wasn't sure if you were still being given Storm’s End. I
assumed, with Robb Stark marrying that Durrandon princess, that things might have
changed… oh Jon, don’t look so shocked. Lysono is a good spy and a king trying to steal a
second throne is quite scandalous. Shouldn't it be Robb Stark apologizing to Gendry? For
laying claim to his castle-”

“It is not my castle.” Gendry protested before Sansa defended Robb.

“My brother is not trying to steal anything. Robb accepted that Storm’s End was to become
part of the Targaryen realm. He might not have known Gendry’s role but-”

“Gendry didn’t know Gendry’s role.” Gendry grumbled, crossing his arms.

His friend had been acting cross ever since his role in things was revealed. Sansa might have
had her reasons for disdaining a return to Storm’s End, but so did Gendry. Mother understood
this, yet still the High Queen had insisted that Gendry be raised up to lordship over the castle,
to act as a loyal vassal to the new Targaryen crown.

“The Stormlords loved Robert and despise his Lannister progeny.” Lyanna had explained. “If
we want to win the hearts and minds of those lords and have them accept Targaryen rule, you
are our best chance, Gendry. You have the look of your father, if not the family name. His
strength as well-”

“I want nothing of his!” Gendry raised his voice to the High Queen, something he had never
done before. “Nothing! That’s all I ever had from King Robert. He didn’t want me! He didn’t
give two shits about me before or after that golden bitch sold me off. My life didn’t start until
I left that place! Until you found me! With you and Jon, I mattered. At Storm’s End I’ll just
be a bastard again.”

“You are so much more than that.” Mother had grabbed Gendry’s face and bid the far taller
warrior to tilt his gaze down to her. “Powerful, loyal, caring, what more could a people want
in their lord? I gave birth to one son but I’ve raised two. Just as I want the best for Jon, I will
not accept less for you, my child. Years ago, Rhaegar pledged that he would grant you leave
to found a family and rule a home of your own. We just never expected it to be your actual
home.”

Gendry’s anger and disdain for the plot lessened with mother’s gentle ministrations yet was
still fretful at the prospect of being Lord of Storm’s End. All of which was just talk until the
castle actually yielded and the Durrandons were dealt with.

A subject that Jon made to press Aegon on.

“Whatever Robb Stark’s actions, our primary concern is ending this siege.” He drew Aegon’s
attention to him. “As long as Storm’s End stands defiant, Cersei Lannister inspires her father
to fight on. We take this castle, we end the war here. Peace in the west will surely follow.”

“An interesting statement.” Nym leaned her head against Aegon’s shoulder. “If you were so
eager for a quick end to the war, perhaps killing King Joffrey was a tad… rash?”

“If not for my husband this war would have been lost long ago!” Sansa rebutted. “He faced
horrible odds and won victory after victory from nothing. Each time he was outnumbered-”

“The Dark Order is always outnumbered.” Aegon interrupted. “Or so they’re fond of saying.
Take heart princess, my brother’s value is well known to me.”

“Yet my words mean little.” He took a step towards Aegon. “Did you not receive my letters?
The ones telling you to hold off any more assaults?”

Aegon’s face reddened. “Yes, I received your letters but I do not take orders from you, little
brother. Keeping the castle garrison on edge and fearful was key to my strategy. Trebuchets
may have little effect against those walls but throwing charges of men and elephants against
the gates fill our enemies’ hearts with terror.”

“You fill the trenches with your dead!” He wouldn't stand for Aegon’s indifference on this. “I
told you that Ser Barristan was coming with us. He lived in Storm’s End for decades and
assures me that he knows of secret ways in. He could have us inside the castle without
spilling a drop of blood. We could spare hundreds of lives, thousands of them!”

“Perhaps.” Aegon shrugged. “Though I put more faith in your reputation breaking this siege
than some old knight.”

“My reputation?” Jon was taken aback, his rage settling into disquiet. “Make sense.”

“Come now, Jon. Whatever the reasons, you did kill Joffrey Durrandon with your own hands.
Tales of the Dark Order’s ruthless ways have spread throughout these lands like wildfire. I
dare say that the Kingslayer inspires great fear among the Stormlords. Quite a bit more in
Cersei Lannister.”

Aegon moved away to pour some wine then, continuing to speak as he did so.

“After my last assault, I invited the queen and her little Imp to treat with me. Cersei’s a lion
alright, if looks could kill I would be torn to shreds. Yet when I made mention of your
imminent arrival, the lioness drew back. Nym saw it too so we made use of that fear. I told
the queen of King Robb forcing Myrcella to wed him. Of how you were on your way here to
kill young Tommen, just as you did Joffrey, to secure the Stark hold on Storm’s End.”

“I would never.” Jon said as much to the others as to himself. “That boy has harmed no one.
We will find him some safe exile-”

“Yes, yes, but Cersei didn’t need to know that.” Aegon returned to offer Jon a goblet. “All
she needed to hear was that the man who murdered her first son was coming here to kill the
last one. Nym made it clear that unless she surrendered the castle to me upon your arrival, I
wouldn’t be able to spare poor little Tommen your wrath-”

He struck the goblet from Aegon’s hand, sending it flying through the air and spilling its
blood red contents all over the floor. In the blink of an eye Jon was but a hair from his
brother’s face, his eyes burning holes through Aegon's head.

“You would name me a murderer of children?!” He raged. “I’m not the one who sacks cities
and throws orphans into slavery just to line my own pockets.”

“It was a feint!” Aegon shoved him back, reverting to their mother tongue. “Just like that
noble display you put on! Jon the Honorable! Jon the True! Jon the False more like! Is this
how you stole Dany from me? Pretending to be better than you are?”

“You arrogant shit!” Jon yelled as Gendry threw himself between the pair. His friend kept
both men apart with ease yet nothing could hold back their words. “Daenerys has nothing to
do with this! You lost her all by yourself by treating her like you did! Like she was yours to
own and use as you wished! That’s what you do! You use people!”

“You’ve always been jealous of me!” Aegon shouted back. “Wanting what’s mine! Don’t
think I don’t know about your last visit at Summerhall! I was there longer you know, and I
showed Daenerys the truth of things! The better man won again!”

“Fucking stop!” Gendry roared, using his strength to send Aegon and Jon both back several
steps. Then Sansa was there, standing in front of him and grasping at his chest.

“Jon, please!” She looked up at him and pleaded. “You’re better than this. You are!
Remember our vows.”

While Aegon continued to curse him, Jon could not spare his brother a glance. Sansa’s blue
eyes had a hold on him, her words reminding him of the man he wanted to be. Not the brute
he acted like now.

“He was wrong.” Sansa continued. “So prove that to him. Be as noble as I know you to be.
Act my prince.”

He took a deep breath and let Sansa’s soft voice and gentle touch cool his anger as Gendry
and Nym saw to Aegon’s. His brother had ceased shouting, and when guards appeared from
outside Aegon sent them away, a sign that he too wanted an end to their argument. A part of
Jon wanted Aegon to continue though, for he was left with questions.

What was all that talk about Dany? The truth of what? Better man winning?

Those thoughts troubled him and that's when he took notice that Sansa appeared much the
same. Aegon and his barbs had been spoken quickly so he wondered how much Sansa
understood.

I’ll have to explain about Aegon and Dany later… I guess my role in all that as well.

That’ll be strange, speaking to my true love about all the follies of young love.
Now was not the time though.

“Aegon.” He said, letting a hand run over Sansa’s stomach. “There are more important things
than our quarrels. No matter what I think, what's done is done. We have a war to win, so let
there be peace between us.”

“Fine then.” His brother declared, jerking away from Nym and facing Jon again. “I still think
my threats might work, especially with your men parading about the walls for all of Storm’s
End to see. But I suppose, just in case it doesn’t, we'll bring that old knight of yours in here to
lay out our plans.”

Barristan seemed to sense the unease in the room when he arrived yet Jon made no move to
explain it. He had no doubt that the knight would be just as upset about Aegon’s threats
against Tommen. Barristan had pled with Jon only days before to spare the young king’s life.
Whatever crimes Cersei and Joffrey were guilty of, Sansa and Barristan both believed
Tommen to be innocent and Jon had agreed.

The boy would have to be exiled, so he could never serve as a symbol to rebel lords, but Jon
had high hopes that his father might accept Tommen at the Targaryen court. At Summerhall,
the young exile would have the finest tutors and one day, when he became of age, Tommen
could be matched to a noblewoman and given some lands in the empire. There he could
spend the rest of his days in peace.

I killed Joffrey but I can provide a future for Tommen. One of happiness and comfort.

To do all that, they had to get into a castle which seemed impervious to attack. Thankfully
Barristan held knowledge of a watery passage at the base of the cliffs.

“I believe that was how the Hound freed the princess.” Barristan nodded to Sansa. “I doubt
any in the castle even know it exists. Even I would have to get down there to find the
entrance again but if nothing’s changed, only some old iron bars block the way up into
Storm’s End.”

“A night assault would be best.” Aegon rubbed his chin. “Lead my men within and the castle
will be ours.”

“At what cost though?” Jon asked. “The battle could drive Cersei and Tommen into that drum
tower and we’ll be waiting them out once more. I say we let Barristan take a small group
within. No more than a score, the best from both our armies, then they seize-”

“Commander!” A Golden Legion captain rushed into the pavilion, his face flushed as he
saluted.

“I said we were not to be disturbed.” Aegon frowned, returning the salute lazily. “What is it?
An elephant get loose again?”

“No, Commander! It’s the castle garrison! They’re surrendering!”

“What!?” Jon and Barristan said in unison while the others gaped at the herald. Aegon
recovered the quickest, clapping his hands together in celebration.

“I knew it!” Aegon shouted. “Excellent! Simply excellent! Assemble the Dornish lords and
my captains! Let’s make a grand showing for this king when he bends the knee!”

Jon couldn’t quite believe it as he bundled Sansa in her cloak and they took off, hand in hand,
to seek the truth of this matter. Gendry sent a man ahead to ready the Dark Order for battle
while the Golden Legion appeared ready to celebrate. The camp was bustling with shouts of
surprise and even some singing. Sansa was in no mood for such a thing.

“Something’s not right.” She said, clutching his hand tightly. “Nothing’s ever been right
about this place Jon. I don’t trust this…”

“Neither do I.” He returned her squeeze. “My men will be ready if this surrender is a feint.
Gendry and Barristan are with us and I will be at your side. This place will never hurt you
again, I swear.”

“As do I, princess.” Barristan spoke from behind them and Gendry put a hand to his sword.

“If Cersei tries anything, she’ll meet her end.”

As if to bolster those words, the direwolves pressed in closer around Jon and Sansa both,
Lady and Ghost acting wary. He wondered if they sensed what he did. Sansa was right,
something felt very wrong. It was in the air. The stormy midday sky was far more
foreboding now than it had seemed when they first arrived. A glance ahead to Storm’s End
made its massive tower seem like a dark giant, ready to strike.

None of that made sense though. Sansa appeared to share his worries as they joined Aegon
and his retinue before the main gates of the castle.

Dornish spearmen and warriors of the Golden Legion lined the approaches. They were
leaving themselves open to archers but Aegon’s confidence knew no bounds. Yet Jon saw no
sign of men along the walls or at the arrow slits. However large the castle garrison, there
were thousands upon thousands of armed men arrayed around Aegon. If a sortie was
launched from the gates it would be cut down long before it reached them.

Still, when the portcullis began to rise with a sharp creaking, Jon’s sword hand flexed above
Dark Sister.

Rather than a charge of knights riding through the gate, one lone rider emerged waving a
seven-colored flag up high for all to see. As he rode on, more appeared behind him, men who
tossed their weapons on the ground beside the gate as they exited. The clattering of their steel
rung through the air for a time but soon some commotion could be heard from back within
the castle. Aegon’s men tensed as a group of Durrandon men-at-arms passed beneath the gate
yet their shouts and taunts were meant for the chained, naked woman they drove forward.

Even at this distance, Jon could tell that this woman was beautiful. She had old marks of
childbirth about her stomach but was still long-limbed and straight-backed. Slender of body
and fair of skin, her long golden hair hung low enough to help hide some of her breasts but
otherwise she was completely bare. Her hands were chained and firmly planted in front of her
sex as the shoves and shouting of men drove her toward them.

“By the gods.” Sansa rasped, her eyes narrowed in fury. “That’s- that’s her. The queen...
Cersei Lannister.”

“That’s Queen Cersei?” Jon blinked in disbelief at the disgusting treatment that the woman
was receiving. Barristan scowled at the sight as well.

“Princess, I know her crimes are legion but I must beg your leave now. When I entered your
service, I vowed to become a true knight… one who would not accept such treatment of a
lady again.”

He thought that a brazen thing to put before Sansa, especially from a man who had allowed
Cersei and Joffrey to abuse her. Yet Sansa did not react as he expected. While he still saw
anger in her eyes, they began to glisten as well.

“Jon… I hate her. I always will.” She looked to him. “But if I take joy in this… I become like
her. I don’t want to be that. Please, can you make Aegon stop this?”

“Likely not.” He looked to Aegon chuckling alongside Lady Nym at the spectacle. “So I beg
you to forgive me for sharing my cloak.”

Sansa was confused by that, even more so when he left her in the care of Barristan and
Gendry. He strode forward, ignoring Aegon’s shouts and the stares of those he passed on his
way to Cersei Lannister. Men parted before him but the ones pulling on the Storm Queen's
chains had not noticed his coming. A particularly violent shove from one man knocked the
woman off balance, sending her sprawling into the mud whilst she wept.

“Get up you murdering bitch!” The man bellowed down at her. “Not so high and mighty
anymore, are you? Ordering us to our deaths!? No one’s ever going to die for the likes of
you!!”

Cersei’s tormentor was raising a boot to kick her when Jon struck him soundly and sent the
brute onto his arse. His companions were angry but none were armed and he made sure they
did not miss Dark Sister on his hip.

“This ends now or I’ll end you.” He warned as he unhooked his cloak and bent down to drape
it around Cersei’s trembling form. The others dared not interfere, one even pushing his
compatriots away.

“He’s Dark Order.” That man warned. “That’s their garb... I seen it from the walls.”

“Dark Order?” Cersei repeated shakily, her green eyes locking on Jon’s face as he helped her
to her feet. He was thinking of something to say when Gendry appeared, his expression cold
and hard.
“Not letting you do this alone.” Gendry glowered at Cersei. “But damn you for making me
help this woman, Jon.”

He wanted to apologize to Gendry for just that when Cersei suddenly lunged at him.

“You!?” She screeched, trying to claw out his eyes with her nails. “Murderer! You killed my
babe! My golden boy!”

It took the combined efforts of both men to end Cersei’s attack, Gendry wrapping the
struggling woman in a bear hug. Still, she continued to scream and curse at him.

“You took them from me! Monster! Murderer! I wouldn’t let you! Not again! NOT AGAIN!”

Wouldn’t let me? Wouldn't let me what? What does she mean?

He doubted he would get any answers from the queen as she continued to spout off bile, and
he didn't have a chance to try. Jon's place among the surrendered garrison put him in the path
of a wagon being led by a pair of horses. A crimson clad dwarf, who Jon could only assume
was Tyrion Lannister, followed behind, his hands bound together by a rope tied to the wagon.
His mismatched eyes were reddened but they didn’t appear able to focus on anything.

He simply he stared at what lay inside the wagon.

Jon had seen enough shrouded bodies to recognize one when he saw it. The corpse was
covered in a golden banner, bearing the crowned black stag of House Durrandon. Three cats
were curled up beside the body, mewling up at him.

“I thought she was comforting him.” Tyrion choked out. “Preparing the boy for being taken
prisoner… to spare him from the dark prince… I never thought Cersei could…”

Jon reached out and pulled aside the shroud to reveal a young golden-haired boy. Somewhat
pudgy. Far too pale.

“I would never let you have him!” Cersei raged through her tears. “Never! You took Joffrey!
Stole Myrcella!”

“Tommen was all I had left!”

“And now he’ll never be yours!”

SANSA

“I have you, sweetling, don’t worry.”

Her mother spoke soothingly as she rubbed at the swelling around Sansa’s ankles. While
Sansa lay back in a large canopied bed the Queen in the North sat at her feet, tending the
aches that tormented her so.
“Mother, please, a queen should not do such things…”

“I am a dowager queen now, and your mother first.” The older woman admonished as gently
as she worked Sansa’s swollen flesh. “So do as I say, relax and let me care for my little girl.”

Sansa wanted to protest further but all her exhaustion and aches made her feel a child in need
of her mother once more. When she arrived at Harrenhal to find her mother waiting, Sansa
had not been able to hold back her tears. It would have been embarrassing had mother not
wept as well.

She’d already been excited to reach Harrenhal, for it was the largest castle in the Seven
Kingdoms and surely the only one she could still fit within. Sansa had felt more a cow than a
princess of late and a burden to all. Her belly was so enormous now that she had to be
propped up on a mountain of pillows just to watch mother rubbing her fat and puffy ankles.

“I feel horrid.” She admitted. “You didn’t travel all this way just to hear me complain and
tend to my ankles. Mother, I beg you, courtesy dictates-”

“Oh, hush. It is a joy to see you through this.” Mother shot her a knowing look. “Do you
harangue Jon this much when he does the same?”

Her surprise must have been obvious for mother smiled and glanced to the doorway of the
chamber.

“Jeyne told me. Do not be cross with her, she was not gossiping. I did not trust you to give
me a truthful answer on your care. It put my mind at ease to hear how our dark prince tends
to your aches himself.”

“Don’t call him that.” She said sharply. “Jon’s good to me, he is. All the foul things people
say about him are lies-”

“I meant no offence, Sansa. He is your prince and he commands the Dark Order, it was but a
title. If it bothers you so I won’t use it again.”

“I’m sorry, mother.” She sighed, putting her face in her hands. “It is just so common now for
horrible rumors to be spread about Jon.”

“As lies were once told about you.” Mother grabbed her knee and gave it a kindly squeeze.
“Now lords I’ve never met and who were once your foes come up to me singing your praises.
Your actions speak louder than gossipy whispers and one day the truth of Jon will be-”

The chamber door swung open then as Rickon and Shaggydog burst into the room, Barristan
hot on their trail. Both the boy and the wolf were panting, Shaggydog’s tongue hanging low
while Rickon’s red face bore a smile ear to ear.

“This castle is great!” Rickon exclaimed with his arms stretched wide. “We found bats at the
top of one of the towers and Shaggy ate three of them! I definitely want Harrenhal!”

“I’m sorry, your graces.” Barristan averted his eyes from Sansa’s bare legs, staring up at the
ceiling instead. “The lad moves quickly and the wolf was too large to hold back.”
“No apologies are needed from you, ser.” Mother moved swiftly towards Rickon. Shaggydog
whined and backed away as she came to tower over the boy. “Who raised you? I want the
name of the lady who raised you right now, young man.”

“Um… you?”

“That cannot be so. For no son of mine would go bursting into a lady’s chambers without
being announced! If this is how you conduct yourself with the Targaryens I will have you tied
to a mule and sent on back to Winterfell! I’m sure Bran and Arya would welcome your
return.”

“No! No, I’ll be good! I’m sorry!” Rickon put his hands together and pleaded. “Don’t send
me back. Not now, mother. I really, really want to see Robb. If I’m good he’ll give me
Harrenhal, won’t he?”

Sansa was enjoying herself as she watched their mother berate Rickon’s horrible manners. It
was good to see his wild ways be taken to task. Better still to see mother and son together
again. While the queen was certainly angry with Rickon, she was also careful and tender
when she raised his chin to face her.

She’s firm but mother would never hurt him. She loves us all too much to ever cause us pain.

But would mother ever go so far as Cersei did?

Once Sansa had dreamed of a day when all of Westeros would see Cersei for what she was.
Vain, manipulative, and cruel. Yet even she had never expected Cersei to be named a
kinslayer.

Poor Tommen… he was a sweet boy… an innocent child.

We wanted to spare Tommen his brother’s fate, not bury him as well.

Storm’s End was theirs but the cost was great. Tyrion Lannister told them that during the final
hours of Tommen’s rule, Cersei had been adamant in her belief Jon would brutally murder
her son. The castle garrison was unwilling to risk Jon’s wrath, nor face an army with
Barristan the Bold among its number. With her men preparing to surrender Cersei made to
protect Tommen in the only way she could think of, by poisoning him. A form of salvation as
twisted as Cersei's mind.

The Kingdom of the Storm was conquered that day. Whatever fight was left in the Durrandon
bannermen fell away at the news of Tommen’s death. Between them, Jon and Aegon now
controlled a kingdom that reached from the Sea of Dorne to the Bay of Crabs and the Vale in
the north. A conquest soured by Tommen’s murder and the anger that now festered between
the two Targaryen brothers.

Jon had barely spoken to Aegon since Storm’s End, blaming his brother as much as himself
for Tommen’s fate. Sansa’s younger self might have been smitten by Aegon’s comely face
and charming ways, yet she was a woman grown now. She saw in Aegon more pride and
arrogance than she cared for. All of which had been on display when Aegon cursed Jon for
denying him a triumph at Storm’s End. Jon had insisted on burying Tommen as a king and for
days of mourning to follow.

You would be so proud of your papa, Sansa spoke silently to her unborn child, he showed
honor and respect when others wouldn’t.

Your grandmother’s right. By the time you’re old enough to understand none will dare name
him a murderer. A warlord.

A Kingslayer.

She thought Jon acted a king after Storm’s End. Tyrion and Cersei, quite mad in her grief,
had been taken into Jon’s care. He also gathered lords from across the Stormlands to secure a
lasting peace. Some of the most prominent stormlords had accompanied them here to
Harrenhal. Men of influence, like Beric Dondarrion, Jon Connington, and Selwyn Tarth. It
was here, at the site of King Robert and her father’s defeat of the Hoares, where this war was
to end.

With his allies defeated and all his children held prisoner, King Tywin had sued for peace.
Robb and the Lannisters had come to terms but it was at Harrenhal her brother was to meet
the Targaryens and broker the final peace.

Robb’s army would be arriving today while others had been here for weeks. Edmure had
come from Riverrun, with Jaime Lannister in tow. Many of Jon’s allies from Aegon’s Hill
joined their voyage up the Blackwater to reach Harrenhal on the north shore of the God’s
Eye. Unfortunately for Sansa, Lysa and Robin had been among those who made the journey.

Lysa had been full of comments on how Sansa would never regain her figure after this
pregnancy. Whatever headaches her aunt caused were forgotten when Sansa laid eyes upon
her mother though. All were surprised to find Queen Catelyn so far from Winterfell yet
mother made it clear her presence was needed.

“I wanted to come as soon as I heard you were with child.” Mother had said during their first
embrace. “It was Robb’s marriage that forced my hand though. I wasn’t about to sit waiting
at Winterfell to hand off my crown. I helped forge this alliance and I feel as responsible for it
as I do you, Sansa. So I shall care for both.”

Sansa was happy enough with how mother’s scolding of Rickon was shaming the boy.

“Apologize to your sister.” Mother demanded as she pet Shaggydog. “Now, Rickon.”

“I’m sorry, Sansa.” Rickon mumbled so sadly she could not help but tease him some.

“I couldn’t quite hear you, Rickon. Perhaps you could apologize again while you rub my
feet?”

She wiggled her toes and Rickon made a face. “Gross!”

“Your sister is not gross.” Mother sighed, pushing him back towards the door. “Go on now,
find Robin. Get to know your cousin.”
“He’s gross too.” Rickon pouted. “His nose is always running and he’s scared of Shaggy and
cries when I hit him.”

“Then don’t hit him!” The two women said in unison as Barristan escorted Rickon out, a
notable feat since the knight’s eyes still remained locked on the ceiling.

Mother was soon back soothing Sansa’s aches and speaking of her joy at the possibility of
twin grandchildren. Jon had gathered no less than three maesters and five healers at
Harrenhal, all claiming experience with twins. None could say for certain if she was carrying
two babes and, truly, her prayers were focused mainly on having a healthy child.

“Have you thought of names?” Mother asked and Sansa hesitated to answer.

“When father died I thought to one day name a son after him. But Jon could be High King,
mother. Lyanna said small things like the names of his children might influence the council…
am I horrid for wanting to choose a Targaryen name?”

“Of course not.” Mother leaned up to kiss her cheek. “You have three brothers and a sister
who could all name their sons after Ned. In my youth I dreamed of southron names but was
happy to name all of my babes in the northern fashion. I’ll love a grandchild with a Targaryen
name all the same. Did you have any ideas?”

“Perhaps Rhaegar.” She suggested. “Or Aemon. After Jon’s uncle, a man he respects.”

Mother thought both were wonderful choices but, before she could ask about daughters’
names, Barristan interrupted them once more. This time it was Jon who had come calling,
flanked by Lady and Ghost.

“He’s here.” Jon said, stroking her forehead and kissing her hand. “Robb sent a rider on
ahead, he’ll be through the gates with his men soon enough.”

“Then help me up.” She replied, putting a finger to his lips before he could argue. “I did not
come all this way to sit idle in bed.”

He leaned in to whisper in her ear. “Since when have you ever been idle in our bed?”

Sansa answered that with a gentle slap to his shoulder, thankful mother hadn’t heard.

Soon all were descending the unending stairs of the Kingspire Tower, the largest and tallest
of Harrenhal’s massive towers. Jon could have claimed the spacious lord’s chambers far
higher up but have given them over to Aegon. He wanted lower rooms to ease Sansa’s
journeys up and down the stairs.

She was eight moons along now so their descent went at sluggish pace. By the time they
entered wide courtyard before the main gate several hundred of Robb’s men had already
arrived. Benjen was among the first she spotted, he was shaking the hand of Harrion
Karstark, who had acted as Harrenhal’s castellan since its capture. The growing number of
northmen soon provided more familiar faces.
Maege Mormont and her daughter, Dacey, rode side by side. The Greatjon was draped in the
spoils of war, including a fine cloak of sable, and raised a golden horn of ale in greeting to
all. Rickard Karstark’s decorations were grimmer, for tied to his saddle were several bloodied
Lannister banners. It was well know the lord had slain a number of Lannisters in the west,
including Stafford and Lancel Lannister. She wondered if that was enough to sate the lord’s
bloodlust after losing his sons. Only Grey Wind looked as fearsome in her eyes.

Robb’s appearance brought with it a far more pleasant mood, for hundreds cheered at the
sight of the King of the North.

Her brother wore heavy furs and his bronze crown, yet Robb’s smile was only for the woman
at his side. Myrcella bore such a striking resemblance to Cersei she felt Jon’s hand jerk in her
grasp. The young woman’s hair was a magnificent mane of blonde ringlets, which the
sunlight turned to spun gold. She had a woman’s figure and, when she caught Robb staring,
her fair skin made the reddening of her cheeks quite noticeable. The young lady Sansa had
known at Storm’s End had grown into a woman.

One that differed from Cersei in a striking manner. Rather than being clad in the gold and
crimson of House Lannister, Myrcella wore a simple gown of grey wool.

“She dresses in the northern fashion.” Sansa whispered to her mother, who watched
Myrcella’s every move.

“From the looks of the Greatjon he left little in the Westerlands for her to wear.”

Jon stifled a laugh while Talia could not hide her joy when she caught sight of her eldest
brother.

“Rodrik!” Talia cried out, running through the press of men into Rodrik Forrester’s
outstretched arms. His face bore the scar of some battle yet Rodrik’s smile was a handsome
thing to see as he lifted his little sister high for a touching reunion.

Sansa’s attention was then drawn to how Olyvar Frey sought Jeyne out. She thought the
young warrior likely to grab hold of Jeyne and kiss the lady just like some knight from a
song. Jeyne was clearly willing, for she closed her eyes and tilted her face up to welcome a
kiss. It never came though. Olyvar had stopped but a step from Jeyne, awkwardly holding out
some object shrouded in a fine blue cloth.

“Were we ever that awkward?” Jon asked.

“Yes.” Mother and Gendry replied without hesitation, Rickon nodding as well.

It was then Sansa noted who wasn’t in the yard. Aegon and most of the Sand Snakes were
absent, save for Sarella who watched all this with curiosity. Lyanna was missing too but that
was to be expected, the High Queen waited elsewhere for what was to come.

“Now there’s reason to celebrate!” Robb shouted, staring openly at her size and laughing as
he came to them. “Victories and conquests aside, look at how my little sister glows! Mother,
be honest, who are you more proud of?”
“It is not a competition.” Mother accepted Robb’s kiss to her cheeks. “I leave those to you
and Jon.”

“So what’s the tally now?” Robb asked warmly, kissing Sansa’s cheek before shaking Jon’s
hand. “We’ll drain a barrel of wine comparing victories, but I’ll happily concede you being
the first to father an heir. My congratulations to you, Jon. To both of you.”

Those kind words were followed by more praise and compliments from Robb. All of which
were welcome yet it was clear to Sansa how Robb was trying to keep the mood jovial. Which
made sense when he finally turned to beckon the waiting Myrcella forward.

The young woman did not move. Myrcella had her mother’s green eyes yet Sansa had always
found them softer, in a good way. Now they were filled with fear as she stared at Jon. When
Myrcella realized Sansa was watching her eyes dropped and she swore a tremble went
through the lady.

“Cella?” Robb went to Myrcella, taking her hands in his. “It’s alright. All is well. This is my
family and I’m right here with you…”

Their conversation fell to whispers after that. Mother shared a worried look with her and Jon
shifted uncomfortably.

“I shouldn’t be here.” He said. “Her brothers are dead because of me.”

“My husband is dead because of her family.” Mother whispered a reply. “You’re staying, Jon.
I’ll hear no more talk of who deserves to be here. For my Ned surely does.”

Sansa took mother’s hand when Robb finally bid Myrcella to come before them. All eyes on
were on the Durrandon lady yet she kept her own lowered and curtsied well all the same.

“Queen Catelyn, I am so honored to be in your presence.” Myrcella took a tone of deference.

“I treasured my visit to Winterfell all those years ago. You were the kindest host, I still have
the needlework I made with your daughters.”

“Septa Mordane spoke well of your work.” Mother nodded. “We treasured Mordane and her
opinions, my husband and I. Ned quite enjoyed your visit as well.”

The mention of father and Mordane caused Myrcella to flinch and Sansa to remember her
septa’s rotting head and father’s statue at Winterfell.

Robb acted quickly. “You should hear Myrcella talk of Winterfell, mother. Her tales make it
sound like I’ve taken our home for granted. Truly, I look a fool in her telling! I was too busy
practicing at swords to realize I had a princess for an admirer...”

“He was dashing, he still is.” Myrcella brightened to look to Robb. “I followed him about and
cherished every word between us. I was so shy I had to use Tommen as an excuse…”

Her voice fell away at the mention of Tommen and grief spread like a shadow across
Myrcella’s face. For the briefest of moments she glanced to Jon and Sansa swore she saw
accusation there.
“Your grace.” Jon bowed stiffly. “My condolences on the loss of your brothers. Know that
Tommen was buried as befit a king… I wanted to have him treated so…”

“Tommen had a goodness to him.” Sansa added. “A light he never failed to share with all
those around him. Jon and I very much wanted to protect that light. We mourned when Cersei
chose to dose it.”

It was a harsh thing to say but she was in no mood to spare Myrcella the truth. While Sansa’s
back screamed and feet ached she knew Jon’s pain was a deeper one. She would not stand
here and let anyone twist the blade guilt had plunged into his heart.

Robb appeared disappointed in her but had little chance to speak to it. Edmure and Harrion
interrupted to beg permission to lead the northmen and riverlords in to the Hall of the
Hundred Hearths. There the men would be made good and drunk on captured wine, awaiting
the arrival of the royals to truly begin the celebration.

They will be waiting some time, she suspected, there’s much to be decided before we can truly
declare peace.

The victory is won but now we must battle for the spoils of war.

Lyanna was eager to do just that when the royals met her in the godswood. The walled area
was a good twenty acres with a small stream running through the trees and brush. A long
table had been set up beside that stream, with tall, thin poles holding up a yellow canopy to
offer shade to those who sat beneath it. Lyanna and Aegon were already doing so, the High
Queen wearing her crown of blue-gold roses and Aegon in a doublet of deep violet.

“Well this is a surprise.” Robb said after the introductions were made. “This castle doesn’t
lack for halls and solars, why set up your own here?”

“To remind all of how we came to this place.” Lyanna tapped her fingers on the tabletop.
“This alliance began in a godswood, may this one bring to mind all of the promises made
there.”

“It is quite lovely.” Myrcella observed politely. “When my Uncle Kevan ruled here his
daughter Janei and I used to lay down a blanket just over there. We would fall asleep
listening to the stream running over the rocks.”

“We must hope Lord Kevan finds a new home in the west.” Lyanna said before catching a
small nod from Sansa’s mother. “Speaking of sleep, you must be tired from your journeys,
Myrcella. Rickon, be a good little prince and escort your brother’s wife to her chambers.
There’s a feast she must prepare for.”

Rickon was as disappointed as Myrcella to hear Lyanna’s words. Yet Robb, forewarned by
mother, quickly agreed that his wife should attend their chambers. Sansa wondered if
Myrcella saw through the ploy, if she did the lady gave no sign as she kissed Robb farewell.

Robb watched Myrcella’s departure with an expression similar to one Jon would give Sansa
whenever she left their bed. One of love and longing.
When Robb turned back to face them he was met with hard looks of disapproval.

“I know what you’re going to say.” Robb raised his hands. “Trust me, my bannermen had my
ears ringing after I married Myrcella but hear me out.”

“That’s what we intend to do, Robb.” Mother folded her hands before her. “I’m sure all here
assume you have good reason for marrying as you did.”

Reasons to explain upsetting your allies and scorning future ones.

Robb could have made peace with the Reach and asked for Margaery’s hand once more. Or
made firmer friends of the Martells by wedding Arianne.

There was even a chance of a Targaryen bride…

Sansa stopped short of naming Daenerys Targaryen, for the name made her nervous. There
was some history between Jon and his aunt that fueled his rivalry with Aegon. She knew that
from what little she understood of their argument at Storm’s End. After Tommen’s death, and
the guilt Jon bore for it, Sansa had refrained from prying into his past or Daenerys’s role in it.
Jon had never pressed her for details on her life before they married, content with whatever
she was willing to share. She marveled at how accepting her prince had been of a bride that
came to his bed sullied

“It was done out of love.” Sansa explained after their first time making love. “Joffrey always
threatened to do rape me but never did… I chose when I did it and with who… I’m sorry if
that upset you… ”

“Why be sorry?” Jon had asked. “As much as you’ve suffered, I am thankful you had love in
your life.”

Such understanding was a sign of the good heart she’d married. Yet it was a view Sansa
struggled to adopt when picturing Jon with another woman. A Targaryen princess. A better
match for a High King. A bride Jon might have chosen if he wasn’t forced into a marriage
with her.

“I love her.” Robb’s declaration interrupted Sansa’s worrying, his voice loud and firm. “I fell
in in love with her. Myrcella was my captive and I hated her family as much as mother or
Sansa. Yet Myrcella was nothing like her kin. She was innocent to their crimes and I treated
her as Sansa should have been treated. As father would’ve wanted.”

Robb paused then, his attention shifting to her.

“When we heard Joffrey died, Myrcella wept. Her tears were not for him though, they were
for you, Sansa. They were for you and all the others Joffrey hurt and deserved to die for. She
felt horrid that had you suffered at all and a fiend for being thankful her brother was dead.”

“Let me guess.” Aegon spoke up, a goblet in hand. “The talk went on and on so you tried to
quell the lady’s tears. Her beauty and grace bidding you to do so. Some wine was shared,
some laughter. Your eyes met, an errant touch, and then, sweet love.”
“You mock me?”

“I salute you.” Aegon raised his goblet. “That’s a tried and true strategy for winning the
hearts of captive ladies. Charm is the sport of kings and the prizes, well...”

“Myrcella was no prize!” Robb slammed a fist into table, wiping the grin from Aegon’s face.
“She was a princess, my captive, a lady of noble blood and pure repute. My father taught me
to treat woman honorably. With respect. Not to take advantage of them at their weakest.”

Mother put a hand overtop his fist. “Oh Robb, transgressions are sometimes made...”

“Not by me. Not by a son of Eddard Stark. Myrcella won my heart, I would not break hers.
I’d treat her well.”

Sansa felt Jon’s touch then, he had slipped his hand below the table to grasp hers. He said not
a word and she found no disdain at Robb’s words in his expression. No condemnation of her
brother, who had married so poorly, yet loved his wife all the same.

Lyanna was not so forgiving. “A stain to your honor would surely have been preferable to
you breaking the terms of our alliance, Robb. Storm’s End and all the Durrandon holdings
were to be ours, not yours.”

“Do not think the worst of me.” Robb shook his head. “I never meant to interfere in your new
kingdom. Nor will I. Name whatever castellan you want to rule Storm’s End. Let them hold it
in trust until Myrcella gives me a son that can serve as your vassal and rule over her claim-”

“Claim?” Lyanna’s expression darkened. “Dear nephew, Myrcella has no claim to Storm’s
End.”

“What do you mean? She is the last child of King Robert. His rightful heir.”

“Rights? Whatever rights Myrcella had to Storm’s End were lost the moment it was
conquered by House Targaryen. She’s welcome to try and press her claim to it, if she means
to fight the Dark Order and Golden Legion to do so.”

The silence that followed was filled with the sounds of birds singing and the wind blowing
through the trees. Lyanna’s tone had never risen beyond a mild chastisement yet Sansa saw
more a queen than a caring aunt across the table from her. Robb saw something worse.

“Do you threaten my wife?” He asked, rising from his seat and causing Ethan and Tumco to
move to Lyanna’s sides.

“I warn her husband-”

“You do no such thing.” Jon broke in, standing as well. “Robb, what my mother is trying to
say, is that we wish you and Myrcella well. I hope her journey to Winterfell is pleasant and
you rule the North together in a long and splendid reign. Your kingdom is vast and full of
wonder… but it does not include Storm’s End.”
“Nor will it ever.” Sansa said, touching Jon’s arm as a sign of support that caught Robb by
surprise. “You married Myrcella out of respect and love. Not for her lands, which belong to
the Targaryens now. As you agreed they would.”

“What of my bannermen?” Robb grew wroth. “If I walk away from here, abandoning my
wife’s rights, what kind of king does that make me?”

“The very kind you wanted to be when you married Myrcella. An honorable one. A king who
stands by the pledges he swore in good faith. Father would surely have kept his promises to
Lyanna. I pray you uphold the one you made to Jon as he has honored his vows to me.”

She put touched her stomach and returned the fierce glare Robb sent her way. It was a
challenge of sorts, to Robb or any other who would deny Jon had given her all he vowed to
before the sept. Robb was her big brother and she loved him so, yet she wasn’t just his little
sister anymore. Or a Stark.

I’m a Targaryen now. A wife to a dragon. I shall be a mother of dragons.

I must act the part.

“Robb, Jon, please.” Mother spoke then, gesturing for both men to take their seats. “I have
had time to think on this and Lyanna has shared much of late that makes me believe there is a
solution which benefits us all. So sit and hear me.”

Jon sat with no hesitation whatsoever while Robb stayed standing for a moment or two. He
looked somewhat foolish with no challengers to face so, with a grumble, Robb took his seat
as well. Their mother then ran a hand through her auburn hair in a thoughtful manner.

“As Lyanna tells me she is set on naming Gendry as the new Lord of Storm’s End.”

“Gendry?!” Robb jerked in his seat. “A sergeant will take Myrcella’s castle?”

“Captain.” Jon corrected. “Gendry’s a captain now. He’s also a fine warrior and a son of King
Robert.”

Mother raised a hand “A bastard son. I am the first to say it is easy to look upon Gendry and
see Robert or Renly Durrandon in him. I’m sure many Stormlords will see the same but, first
and foremost, they’ll know him as a bastard. He will have to marry well to earn some
respectability.”

“Very true.” Lyanna agreed. “Even with the esteem granted to Gendry by Rhaegar’s favor, a
well-connected bride is needed. I’ve thought to offer him to a daughter of House Estermont
or Jon Connington’s niece.”

Mother shook her head. “Neither match helps Robb save face with his bannermen. To that
end I suggest we honor an old marriage pact once made between the kings of Winterfell and
Storm’s End. If a Stark son cannot rule over the Durrandon castle, let a Stark daughter
become its lady.”
When Sansa grasped her mother’s meaning she snorted in mirth. Not at the expense of her
little sister though. Nor at the idea of arranging Arya’s marriage. Rather it was the image of
quiet, shy Gendry facing off against her willful sister in a wedding gown.

Robb and Jon shared the same bemused expressions at mother’s proposal while Lyanna
leaned back in consideration.

“Should I summon Gendry?” Jon asked and Lyanna shook her head.

“He’s in the hall with the Blackfish. Likely well on his way to getting drunk.”

“That sounds like a son of Robert.” Robb put his face in his hands. “I’ll have to do the same
if this match happens… I can just hear Arya now…”

The discussion on that subject lasted most of the hour, as much depended on decisions the
High Septon had yet to deliver to the imperial envoys in Oldtown. As their talk continued
Storm’s End proved to be the biggest hurdle to agreeing on the peace.

Tywin Lannister had already paid hefty tributes for Robb’s army to depart his lands and more
gold was expected following the ransoming of his children. Jon had no issue with the Starks
keeping the vast majority of the wealth, much to the chagrin of Aegon.

“We came here for land, not gold.” Jon reminded his brother curtly. “There were plenty of
ransoms for the prisoners taken in the Stormlands. More to come if Tywin wants Cersei
back.”

Jaime and Cersei would both be returned to Casterly Rock yet Jon had rejected the feeble
payment Tywin offered for Tyrion. Instead he decided to keep Tyrion as a hostage to
Lannister good conduct in the future. Aegon had already acceded on behalf of the Targaryens
to the Martell demands. Half the Dornish Marches would now belong to Dorne, namely the
lands around the Prince’s Pass and Castle Nightsong. What was left of the Storm Kingdom
and the lands north of the Blackwater would come under Targaryen rule. Their northern
border resting near Castle Darry and where the three forks of the Trident converged.

“The riverlands east of the God’s Eye and Blackwater Rush are yours.” Robb said, running
his land over the map. “Everything west and Harrenhal itself is mine to rule, as we agreed.”

“You are welcome to it.” Jon looked about at the massive towers and walls. “This dragon has
little want for such a place. I feel trapped by these walls.”

“Rickon is quite taken with them.” Robb grinned for the first time in hours. “I’ll be giving
Bran the Dreadfort and I can’t have Rickon thinking I love him any less. When he’s old
enough, he’ll be Lord of Harrenhal. Though we’ll need a castellan in the meanwhile.”

“Choose a Frey.” Sansa suggested. “Ask Lord Stevron for a suggestion. It’ll foster some
goodwill between Rickon and his future in-laws.”

Robb chuckled at that. “I remember when all you talked about were dances and songs. Now
you’re telling me which lords to name and how to act a king. Is this your influence, Jon?”
“This is the only Sansa I’ve ever known.” Jon answered, smiling his rare smile and speaking
to her in Valyrian. “The love I am thankful for. Every day.”

“What’s that mean?” Robb furrowed his brow in confusion as Aegon finished his wine and
pushed away from the table.

“Well, if this is all finished with I hear there’s a feast awaiting us. Nym is likely growing
impatient.”

“Myrcella as well.” Robb rose and helped mother do the same. “Mother, would you mind
coming with? Cella is nervous and it be good if you could share some kind words.”

“Robb, I’d prefer to stay with Sansa.”

“I’m fine, mother.” She lied as Jon helped her to her feet.

The whole discussion had been terribly stressful and the chair very uncomfortable.

Her back and legs felt like they were on fire and painful cramps added to her woes. The
cramps were common enough these days and usually went away with time. While she didn’t
feel well enough to attend the feast just yet, Sansa would not deny everyone else to going on
to celebrate.

“Go with Robb.” Sansa urged her mother and leaned against Jon. “You can go too, Jon. I just
need to stretch my legs before sitting again.”

“A walk sounds fine.” Jon said softly. “Unless my wife would prefer I carry her.”

That earned a small laugh from her and Jon smiled to act Sansa’s escort as the others
departed.

Soon it was just the two of them, walking a well-worn path through the strange godswood.
Evening was swiftly descending and the cooler air caused her to shiver some. Jon held her
even closer after that, his touch helping to drive off the cold and aches for a time. The
godswood was empty, their only companions being the tall trees and the birds within them.
Everything around the couple was at peace and Sansa breathed deeply in relief.

“It’s over.” She said without believing it. “The war, us having to rush from battle to battle, it’s
finally over. I feel so strange to say that… I mean, this what we are, Jon. Our marriage, it’s
always been about war.”

“I thought it was about hope.” Jon touched her chin. “For my family, for yours. The war is
over but there’s a kingdom to build in this peace. One I want to share with my wife,
something I wouldn’t be able to enjoy without her.”

“I want that. I want us to be happy. Soon you’ll be free of the Dark Order and I’m about
ready to burst… what happens after all that? Are we to go back to the empire?”

She paused then, struggling to find some comfortable stance as the aches took their toll. Jon
rubbed her shoulders and pressed his cheek against her hair, breathing deeply.
“My father usually keeps his plans secret until he is ready to put them in motion. If we are
lucky, word of the conquest here will reach his ears soon and we might have some answers. I
know one thing for certain, whatever my father’s designs, I will not make war for him
anymore. I’ve never asked for much from the High King but I’ll demand some position that
keeps me by your side. Some place where our children can be happy and all can marvel at my
beautiful wife.”

“Aegon and Robb should take lessons from you on charm.” She lifted her lips so they could
meet Jon’s. Again, the pain drifted away as their lips and tongues touched and slipped over
one another’s.

“Let those two shine at the feast.” Jon said between kisses. “The whole hall can fall for their
charms. I want to be at your side. I want you.”

His kiss was passionate and hard to break but she had to.

“I don’t want to go to the hall…”

“Really?” Jon began kissing at her neck. “Sansa... people will notice. Not that I don’t want to
lay you down…”

“No, Jon, not that.” She grunted as her stomach felt like it made a tight fist within her.
“Ugh… I’m not feeling right… it hurts.”

“What?” Jon jerked back. “What hurts?”

“Everything.” She wheezed, clutching at her middle. “My stomach… I need to lay down… it
hurts…”

“Sansa? Sansa!” Jon’s face twisted in terror and he turned away to roar into the distance.
“Help! Someone get help! Fetch the maester!”

While Jon was panicking she tried to focus on what everyone had told her about birthing
babes. They were supposed to come at nine moons.

She was only at eight.

Her babe was coming early.

Shattering whatever peace had reigned in the godswood for those few short moments.
 Chapter 7
Chapter Summary

Dragons.

Those new and old. Some bring mystery. Others folly. All coming to Westeros.

THE BLACKFYRE EXODUS

Of all the rulers of the Targaryen Empire, High King Aegon IV is held to be the worst.
So poorly did the council decide in their choice of heir it was they who first called him
Aegon the Unworthy.

Aegon’s failings were legion, none more so than his unrelenting lust. He gathered
mistresses from across the world, preferring those from the distant Sunset Kingdoms.
The bastards born from those dalliances ensured Aegon’s legacy of rebellion and folly.

The greatest of these bastards, Daemon, was given leave by the king to form his own
family, House Blackfyre. Under Daemon’s charismatic leadership and with the support
of his half-brother, Aegor the Bittersteel, commander of the Golden Legion, the
Blackfyres swiftly became one of the empire’s most influential families. Some believed
Daemon could follow his father as the next High King.

Yet it was Daeron, Aegon’s legitimate son by High Queen Naerys, who rose to the
throne. Following Daeron’s ascension, Daemon and his allies adopted a strange faith
that widened the divide between them and the Targaryens. The Blackfyre claimed a seer
had foretold the end of the Targaryen Empire through a second Doom. A cataclysm of
ice that could only be avoided through a war unlike any other. The Blackfyres held that
fabled war to be the invasion and conquest of Westeros, like Aegon the First had
wanted. A new realm which would be ruled by Daemon, who the Blackfyres viewed as a
natural warrior and savior rather than the bookish Daeron.

The Blackfyre cult preached these views far and wide. They slandered the king, spread
fear among the commonfolk, and many questioned whether Daeron was truly Aegon’s
son. In that they went too far, and the doom the Blackfyres warned against was soon
brought down upon them.

Fearful of these fanatics, King Daeron turned to Brynden Bloodraven, another royal
bastard and the Lord-Commander of the Dark Order. Cunning and ruthless,
Bloodraven moved swiftly to deal with the Blackfyre threat. His Dark Order violently
purged Volantis of the Blackfyre taint and influence at all levels. Most legions were loyal
to the king or the council and those that weren’t soon found their leaders’ heads
adorning the Long Bridge.

His followers falling in droves, Daemon rallied the Golden Legion and his supporters to
the ruins of Ny Sar, where Princess Nymeria had once ruled. It was there Daeron’s sons,
Baelor Breakspear and Maekar, brought five legions to join with the Dark Order to give
battle to Daemon and Aegor.

Unlike Nymeria, who guided her people away certain death, Daemon led his followers
straight into its jaws.That folly cost Daemon his life, and those of his eldest sons. The
Golden Legion was crushed and Aegor fled with the rest of the Blackfyre survivors to
Dragonstone. Throughout the empire, their cult was driven underground, its followers
hunted by Bloodraven and his thousand eyes. With his enemies distant and isolated,
Daeron felt content to leave the Blackfyres to their exile on that dreary island.

To the Blackfyres this was an exodus, like the one Aenar Targaryen had led from the
Freehold. Dragonstone was a holy place to them and, in time, their strange beliefs
hardened. They prepared for the coming war, raising gold by launching slave raids into
Westeros. Such was how a young lad was delivered to Essos and would grow to become
the famed Highguard, Duncan the Tall.

Now and again, the Blackfyres returned to the empire, launching short-lived uprisings
before slinking back in defeat to Dragonstone. Decades would pass and several High
Kings would rise and fall before the Blackfyre cult was finally crushed.

So bloody and cruel was its end that even High King Aegon V condemned it. In its
aftermath a great man was banished to the Wall. The prophecy of a second Doom and a
new realm was largely forgotten. The few Blackfyres left alive were scattered to the
winds of exile.

The Blackfyre Exodus enduring to this day.

JON

The cradle was made of the finest polished oak, dark and smooth to the touch. The headboard
bore carved depictions of dragons and wolves. All watching over whatever laid within.

Yet the cradle sat empty. Its white sheets were pristine, smooth and untouched. A drop of
rainwater dripped off his cloak and landed within as lightning flashed. Outside, the wind and
rain assailed Harrenhal with a horrible fury. When the boom of thunder reached his ears, Jon
gripped the cradle’s edges suddenly.

The castle hadn’t seen a storm like this in a moon’s turn, the night that Sansa had taken to her
birthing bed. The sound of the wind had been as loud as the direwolves howling without, all
of it climbing up the tower as Sansa screamed in pain and fear.
Jon suddenly felt himself there again, on that fateful night, standing outside Sansa’s chamber
doors with Robb and Gendry. The healers’ panicked words had made little sense to him as his
mind reeled in terror his wife and unborn child. Sansa’s cries had shaken him worse than any
battle. In the end that was what broke him. When Sansa screamed his name, Westerosi
customs were all but forgotten. He had fought his way past Robb and Gendry and broke into
the birthing chamber.

Never had the sight of blood chilled him so. Sansa bore the agony with clenched teeth, her
face drenched with sweat. Their mothers each holding one of her hands. Her eyes were for
him though.

The tears ran like the rain itself. Her screams louder than thunder.

Jon was a warrior. The son of a king. A commander of the Dark Order.

Yet he learned what it meant to be powerless that night. Weeks later, and still his strength had
not returned. Staring down into the cradle weakened him even more.

The drain only grew when the chamber door opened and Ghost appeared. The white direwolf
ambled ahead of two queens, both carrying bundles in their arms. Two tiny lives that now
held such power over him.

For there, nestled in their arms, were his children.

“Jon, when did you return?” Mother smiled, rocking one of the bundled babes. “Fantastic
timing, they’ve just been bathed and smell like the heavens themselves.”

“We only just arrived.” He said, giving his damp hair a shake. “I see Ghost kept a good watch
while I was away. How are they?”

“They’re perfect.” Catelyn answered, cooing down at the second bundle. “The storm doesn’t
trouble them one bit. Such brave little treasures.”

“They take after their mother.” He said as they brought the twins before him. “In so many
ways.”

Two tiny faces looked up at him then with innocent eyes. That alone took command of his
body and soul in a way that only Sansa ever had. He barely felt mother kissing his cheek
before she addressed the babes themselves.

“Say hello to your papa, girls.”

The twins were far too young to do such a thing, yet his heart leapt when the tiny girl in Lady
Catelyn’s arms gurgled a bit.

Rhaegina, this little one can only be Rhaegina.

Jon knew he was right when the babe’s dark indigo eyes focused on his face, a shade of
indigo so much like his father’s. His eldest daughter rarely ever just glanced at anything.
Those who found themselves under her gaze always mentioned how intently Rhaegina stared
at them. Mother liked to say that it was the dragon in her that made the babe so bold. Sansa
thought it marked her as having a keen mind. Either way, Rhaegina was a treasure to him.

A small cry came then from his youngest girl, who was also the noisier of the two.

Aemma, you go right ahead and make all the noise you want.

He was thankful Aemma could wail at all. She was the one that they’d almost lost. While
Rhaegina had been born strong and wailing, Aemma had come out quiet. Sansa and Jon had
held their breath to learn that their daughter drew none. The healers had tried everything.
Dunking her in water, smacking her small back. In the end, it was Thoros who saved their
child. The warrior priest had put his lips over Aemma’s and breathed life back into her.

Her first cry was the sweetest sound that Jon had ever heard.

Jon began running his finger down Aemma’s brow, to stop her fussing. Her deep blue eyes
stared up at him then, darker than Sansa’s yet just as lovely. The babe’s cries must have acted
like a siren’s song of sorts, for his wife arrived in the twins’ room soon after.

Sansa’s hair was unbound, an auburn wave flowing over her shoulders and down the comely
robe of blue. Soft rabbit fur lined the collar and sleeves and it looked almost as warm as her
weary smile.

“Is that Aemma again?” Sansa asked with a yawn, walking to him so they could embrace and
kiss one another.

“Yes, but I welcome the sound. My daughter welcomes me back with a sweet song.”

Jon kissed Sansa again, savoring the lips that he’d gone two days without feeling. The short
journey was a trial for him, for it was the longest time he had spent away from Sansa and the
girls since they were born. He had not slept right the whole time, yearning to hold Sansa as
tightly as he did now. Sansa mentioned being bothered by the weight she’d gained from
childbirth, but it didn’t matter one bit to Jon. If anything he lusted after her even more. Sansa
accepted his attentions with an equal hunger, their kisses drawing out until someone cleared
their throat.

When Sansa drew back, they found two sets of highborn ladies watching them with guarded
interest. The younger pair was less comprehending than their amused grandmothers.

“See, little ones.” Mother grinned. “That’s what led to you two coming about.”

“My apologies…” Sansa said, touching her lips in mild embarrassment. “Did you bathe the
girls? I thought their nursemaids were tending them.”

“They were, but we sent them away.” Catelyn lifted Rhaegina up to kiss babe’s head.
“Bathing this child was a joy I’d keep to myself. I did not realize how much I missed it.”

“Thank the gods there’s two of them then, else we’d be proper rivals.” Mother laughed with
Catelyn before turning to Jon. “Speaking of, how did things turn out at Darry?”
“Well enough.” Jon cupped Aemma’s head as she continued to fuss. “I made it clear to the
Vale envoy that our troubles are ended for the time being. We’re content with the peace we
have.”

The Kingdom of Mountain and Vale had lacked any sort of peace for years now. After Jon
Arryn, the Falcon King and friend to his father, had died of illness, his kingdom had been
torn asunder by rival claims to the Vale. Two men, Prince Elbert Arryn and Ser Denys Arryn,
both styled themselves the new king. After a war of savage bloodletting and lengthy sieges, it
appeared neither side had gained an advantage against the other.

A stalemate that Elbert thought to end. The aspiring king had sent a party of envoys to Darry,
demanding the right to speak with High Queen Lyanna and Jon himself. He made the trip for
both of them, meeting a Lord Lyonel Corbray in Vyman Darry’s small hall. Once the
pleasantries were done, it was made obvious that the swift collapse of the Durrandons was
not lost on Elbert, who now wished to elicit Targaryen help for his cause.

“The mere appearance of the Dark Order on the field of battle is all our king asks for.” Lord
Lyonel had spoken over their meal. “The Usurper’s forces will surely lose heart when faced
by the black riders of the Kingslayer.”

The lord meant it as flattery but Jon hated that title. That was but the first of many missteps
that Lord Corbray had made in their meeting. The second was when he assumed that the
Dark Order was some sellsword company to be bought. The form of payment he offered was
equally offensive.

“Young maidens of radiance and virtue, for you to take as wife.” Lord Corbray grinned in an
obvious manner.

“I am wed.” He’d replied simply, to which the lord had laughed.

“Yes, but you Targaryens are known for enjoying the charms of many wives. Though you
need not wed them, perhaps you could take one as a mistress. Then you can shape the girl to
your uses. I can assure you that King Elbert, unlike the dreaded Joffrey Durrandon, has been
chivalrous with all of his lady hostages. They are untouched and un- um… unmarked…”

Jon’s glare might have been enough, but his sword hand forming into a fist on the table
signaled to lord to change tactics.

“There are certainly other considerations.” Lyonel had dabbed at his sweating brow. “We also
have many highborn widows in our care, ladies proven to be fertile and capable of bearing
sons. A prince would surely be in need of a proper heir…”

That had sealed Jon’s dislike of the lord and the king he served. Lord Corbray left Darry
disappointed, just as many others were when Sansa gave birth to their little girls rather than a
son.

Queen Catelyn and Robb had been overjoyed to welcome the twins’ arrival. After himself,
Robb was the second man to hold the girls and bore a sincere grin to say he saw much of
Sansa and Arya in them. The Starks’ enthusiasm was a sharp contrast to that of Jon’s own
family. Aegon’s smile appeared genuine enough, but not for the right reasons.

“Fine looking girls, Jonarys.” Aegon had proclaimed. “Truly, who needs a son when they
have such darling daughters?”

However thankful Aegon was that Jon had been denied a son, his mother’s reaction hurt far
worse. When both twins were declared to be girls, he saw the disappointment flash across the
High Queen’s face. He had no doubt mother loved the girls, but it was clear how much she
had hoped that Sansa would give him a son.

A dream that Sansa had shared as well. The first time that the parents were left alone with
their twins, Sansa held the tiny girls against her bosom, her joy tempered by shame.

“I’m so sorry.” Sansa had spoken to him in a weak voice. “Lyanna told me how much it
would help if I gave you a son…”

“I have two daughters.” He had kissed her and stared in awe at the babes. “You gave me more
than I could have ever dreamed. More than I deserve. Look at them. They’re perfect… what
do we even call them? How can you put a name to something so beautiful?”

When she had prayed for sons, Sansa thought to name them after his father and uncle. Jon
saw no reason why they couldn’t do the same with their daughters.

Sadly Jon was still too wet from the storm to hold his darling girls, so he had to be content
with kissing Rhaegina and Aemma before they were laid down in the cradle.

“Uncle Edmure was too kind in having this made.” Sansa said, running her hands along the
oaken carved bars. “He and Roslin have a newborn of their own to worry on.”

“I’m sure little Perwyn is well looked after.” Catelyn spoke of the newest Tully son in a
whisper, trying to avoid disturbing his quieting daughters. “Bran wrote from Winterfell, he
speaks of Wynafryd and her children settling in quite nicely.”

“I do hope Benjen gets to visit Winterfell.” Mother added. “Poor man hasn’t seen his own
children in over a year. Little Lyarra might not even recognize him. Damn the Greyjoys.”

While the lions were tamed here in the south, the krakens had risen in fury throughout the
Sunset Sea. Balon Greyjoy was using his massive fleet to torment the western coasts of
Westeros, including the North. The Greyjoys had taken Deepwood Motte and Torrhen’s
Square and Bear Island were feared to be next. Almost the entire Stark army had departed
Harrenhal, heading north to defend their homelands. Benjen commanded the march in Robb’s
stead, for the King in the North still had business here in the south.

They all did.

Such business was why Jon couldn’t linger as long as he wanted with the babes. The Darry
excursion had been the last task to conclude before they could depart Harrenhal for
Dragonstone. The High King of the Targaryen Empire would await them there. His father
was coming to the Seven Kingdoms. It was a rare event which would soon draw the most
powerful lords in Westeros to the stormy island.

Aegon had left for Dragonstone as soon as they learned of father’s plans. His brother said he
meant to ready the small castle for such a historic event, yet mother believed otherwise.

“He’s hoping the High King will arrive before we do.” Mother told him later. “That way he’ll
have Rhaegar all to himself. Aegon’s version of the war will, no doubt, paint him in a
wonderful light and you in a poorer one.”

That won’t be hard to do, Jon lamented, I prolonged the war by killing a king in my rage.

I ended it by causing the death of a child, with nothing but the use of my name.

Amending his tarnished reputation was one of the reasons that Sansa and Queen Catelyn
were leading him to Harrenhal’s sept. Septon Luceon, the envoy sent from Oldtown, was
leading prayers there at this very moment. His stated purpose was ensuring the Targaryens
respected the septs and other such holdings of the Faith throughout their new domains.
Catelyn suspected it was more likely that Luceon was here to report back to the High Septon
on the imperials and all their dealings.

Thus Sansa had dedicated herself to ensuring any reports on Jon would be glowing.
Lightning flashed in the distance as they journeyed through Harrenhal’s expansive hallways
on their way to the sept. They were crossing a covered bridge between two towers when
Sansa took hold of his wet cloak.

“It will look good that you come tonight.” She said, rain pattering against the roof above him.
“Riding out of a storm and seeking the sept soon after, it demonstrates piety.”

“You never told me that the Seven hold such high regard for soggy boots.”

Sansa smiled. “Really make them squish. Then surely you will rise higher in Luceon’s eyes,
though I’m sure he already respects you, Jon. It was no small thing that the Septon anointed
the girls with the seven oils for us. He’s a member of the Most Devout, the highest council of
clergy there is. A truly rare honor.”

“I’m still surprised he did so.” Catelyn said. “Luceon’s a son of Walder Frey and certainly
acted as such when I asked him to anoint the twins. He refused to give me a firm answer one
way or another. He did the same to Olyvar and some of his kin after Robb bid them to ask as
well. Your brother did not take Luceon’s dithering well…”

“I remember. It was sweet of Robb.” Sansa replied. “In the end it all worked out though, after
we showed charity to the Faith.”

He wanted to think that Sansa was right, but he doubted it. The ransoms they received for
captured stormlords, along with their sack of Storm’s End, had yielded Aegon and Jon
respectable amounts of plunder. When he gave over a portion of the Durrandon wealth to
rebuild some damaged septs, Septon Luceon had acted mildly grateful. Truthfully the weasel-
faced man seemed disappointed not to receive a greater share.
Myrcella, on the other hand, appeared genuinely surprised to be given anything at all. Jon’s
family was stripping away Myrcella’s castle and lands but he could not abide taking
everything from the lady. She acted frightened when he’d arrived at her chambers carrying a
small chest but Robb’s presence reassured her.

“He means well, ‘Cella.” Robb had kissed her hand. “Hear him out.”

Myrcella’s unease abated only the smallest bit, her green eyes following Jon’s movements
carefully as he placed the chest on her dressing table. If she expected a snake to leap out at
her when the lid was opened, he was happy to disappoint. Instead she found a number of
items that he’d managed to save from Storm’s End.

“I knew not what was yours among the plunder, but Prince Tyrion was of great assistance.”
He explained when Myrcella lifted up a golden necklace with large, square rubies. “What
happened in the war cannot be undone… I wish it was different, but that is the truth. Soon
you will make a new home in Winterfell, and I thought to let you take some tokens of your
past along the way.”

“My mother gave me this.” Myrcella whispered as Robb fastened the necklace on her. “It was
her favorite piece…”

Within the chest Myrcella would find a diadem bejeweled with emeralds along with other
such baubles. Yet it was a small wooden lion that caused tears to spring to Myrcella’s eyes.
When she pulled free a small blanket with a black doe stitched along the middle, the lady had
clutched it tight.

“These were Tommen’s.” Myrcella sniffed at the blanket and looked at him thankfully. “I
made this for him… he slept with it every day until mother made him stop… it still smells
like him. I never thought to see any of this again. I thank you.”

“Please, don’t.” He had urged. “I do this not for thanks. Nor forgiveness.”

“Why then?”

“For my daughters. For Sansa. They are worthy of a better sort than me. I want to be worthy
of such a family.”

Myrcella accepted the meager offerings with grace, as she did when the loss of Storm’s End
was made known to her. None of which upset Myrcella as greatly as the day she bid farewell
to her mother. The newly made Queen in the North was wearing her golden necklace when
Cersei and Jaime Lannister departed for the west, leaving Tyrion and Myrcella behind. Prince
Jaime had accorded himself well enough, staying silent save for the occasional barb or
challenge sent Robb’s way.

Myrcella was not spared either, for Cersei had shared desperate, whispered words with her
daughter that left her pale and shaking. The woman was prone to mad fits ever since
Tommen’s death, so when Cersei pointed to Sansa and Jon with hate in her eyes, Jon thought
he was ready for the worst.
Yet it seemed he knew nothing.

“May your children die in your arms!” Cersei had screamed in the yard. “By the Seven, by
whatever dark sorcery that gives you strength, I curse you child-killer! Child-murderer! You
and your dim-witted whore of a wife! Your children are doomed!”

The woman was still cursing when Jaime and several other westermen had forced Cersei into
her wagon. Her ravings drifted in the air until they were through the gates and on the road.
The whole affair had troubled Sansa almost as deeply as Myrcella.

Fortunately Septon Luceon agreed to anoint the twins the next day and Sansa’s worries over
Cersei’s curse were set aside by their daughters’ blessings.

When the time came, Harrenhal’s sept was packed with onlookers, bright light streaming
through its ornate windows. It was a far different place than the one that Jon and the ladies
arrived to this night.

The sept was a long room with tall ceilings that were largely hidden by shadows at this late
hour. The scores of candles burning before the statues of the Seven barely held against the
darkness of night. Luceon’s soft-spoken sermon to the few faithful in attendance couldn’t
compete with the sounds of the storm.

Jon spotted Robb and Myrcella then. While the lady knelt before the Mother’s statue, Robb
stood a ways back, appearing bored until he caught sight of their entry.

“Oh no.” Catelyn muttered as Robb approached them, looking less than pleased.

“There you are.” Robb whispered harshly. “What happened to you, mother? We were
supposed to share a quiet meal together, just you, Myrcella and I. We waited for over an
hour…”

“I’m sorry. Sansa went down for a rest and I took the chance to care for the twins. The dinner
just slipped my mind.”

Robb scowled. “Myrcella was looking forward to this. Gods, she’s not asking much. Just talk
to her. She’s trying so hard and you won’t even give her a chance. Myrcella isn’t her family.
She didn’t choose them.”

“And I didn’t choose her.” Catelyn shot back. “You did. She’s your wife, Robb, your
responsibility. Whatever you see when you look at her, I only see the husband that I lost
because of her kin. I see the people who tortured your sister. The woman who cursed my
grandchildren.”

“Mother-” Sansa tried to calm the situation but Robb moved in to whisper sharply.

“Myrcella is not Cersei. What the queen said about Sansa and the girls… Myrcella spent
most of the night crying about it. The rest of the time she was here, praying. I didn’t see her
smile again until the twins were blessed. You saw that too, didn’t you Sansa? How happy she
was for you?”
“I saw.” Sansa drew closer to her mother, giving Myrcella an uneasy look. “I saw her with
Cersei too. Sharing whispered words, plotting perhaps, I don’t know. I do know Cersei means
my children harm… Myrcella could mean the same…”

“Are you serious?” Robb looked horrified by Sansa’s words. “Myrcella wishes to hold my
nieces, not hurt them. She’s forgiven all our wrongs against her, can’t we do the same for
her?”

Robb shook his head at that while Jon stepped back, hoping to avoid being dragged into the
conversation. He liked Robb, very much so, and when he thought of how much he loved
Sansa, he understood the king wanting to defend his new queen in all ways. Yet this was a
matter for the Starks to work out, no matter how personally responsible he felt for Myrcella’s
misery.

He then glanced over at Robb’s wife, noting how she had not moved from kneeling in prayer
this entire time. Her gown was simple and unassuming, perhaps as a sign of humility before
the gods.

From all that Sansa has taught me, they seem to like that type of thing.

Myrcella even removed her jewels. She couldn’t bear to be apart from them when I left-

“Prince Jon!” Septon Luceon called to him, holding out his hands in expectation. “A fine
night to seek the Seven, come, come.”

He was all too happy for the excuse to leave the Starks and their family squabbles. It was
almost worth having to bow and kiss Luceon’s weathered, aged hand.

“Rise, my lord.” Luceon grinned to lead him by Myrcella and the rest of the faithful. “Your
presence was missed during my sermons. You were off at Darry, were you not?”

“I was. Lord Vyman was gracious host.”

“Ah, yes, but will Lord Corbray leave with the same impression?” Luceon chuckled at the
surprise which crossed Jon’s face. The visit from the Vale envoys had been kept quiet, or so
he thought. “Mayhaps the lord was disappointed? Will King Elbert be as well? Or is it King
Denys who will rue whatever was discussed?”

“I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning.” He said as Luceon stopped them in front of the
Crone, amused once more.

“Do not fear to unburden yourself to me, young man. From the lowest serf to the highest lord,
even kings themselves, every man seeks the wisdom of the Faith and its humble servants. We
make it our duty to understand the state of our earthly realm, to better guide the pious to
salvation. Seven Kingdoms there may be, but the Faith is not bound by borders or fealty to
any one crown.”

They are powerful, he thought, that’s what I’m to take from this.

Am I meant to be intimidated by this power? Or enticed to make it mine own?

Luceon bid them to kneel in front of the statue then, bending his head in prayer while doing
anything but.

“A frightful situation in the Vale.” Luceon made a disapproving sound. “Prince Elbert was
the chosen heir yet not overly popular… especially with High Septon Hugor. Ser Denys is far
more amiable, eager to seek the counsel of the clergy. Is it any wonder that Denys was
blessed by the Mother with two heirs while Elbert has none?”

He did not bother to answer. Jon was no fool. The old septon was building to something and
he saw no point in playing along. Luceon finally saw fit to continue after a long silence.

“I speak with certainty when I say that His Holiness trusts in the Seven to end the conflict in
the Vale. If any outsiders were to interfere in the war, especially on Elbert’s side… the High
Septon would be displeased. Things should be left-”

“To the Seven, yes.” Jon said, deciding then to give the man something so they could end this
farce. “I find myself agreeing with the High Septon. May the Vale find a peace of its own.
My focus is only on the lands we Targaryens now rule.”

“Praise the Seven.” Luceon raised his hands to the statue above them. “I must say, Oldtown is
brimming with talk on the empire’s designs for this new kingdom. Some are excited… others
wary. The prospect of a strange rabble populating these lands is somewhat… troubling. I
heard the High King intends on settling hundreds of thousands of slaves here.”

“Not nearly so many.”

Father hopes it won’t come to that. We all do.

The time was drawing close for the true purpose of this conquest to begin. Slavery was a
blight on the empire, one that his father wished to end. Yet if the High King freed all the
slaves today, by tomorrow his power would be gone. The chaos that such an act could cause
would be all encompassing, tearing the empire apart. So, rather than hacking the rot of
slavery away, his father planned to heal it over time.

The High King’s effort would focus first on Volantis, the imperial capital. It was the empire’s
greatest city and the most addicted to slavery, with five slaves to every free man. The aim
was to cut that number in half within a generation through a number of edicts and taxes. An
influx of freedmen brought problems of its own however, such as finding them work and
lands. The politics of land division in the empire did not lend itself well to father’s plan.

Expanding east meant full-scale war with the Dothraki, a conflict that would likely never end.
Yet to look across the Narrow Sea was to see tracts of sparsely populated lands of no
consequence to imperial interests. They had known for many years that the nearest lands to
Dragonstone were fertile and lacking in any great settlements.

The whole area held great promise, according to his uncle Aemon. To both the freed slaves in
search of new lives, and House Targaryen itself.
“Aegon the Conqueror once thought to look west.” Aemon had spoken a year ago at
Summerhall. “The Blackfyres believed our future lay there as well. It is in our power and our
wisdom to build something magnificent in the west. There will be fire and blood to be sure…
but from the ashes of such destruction, something beautiful could grow. A new realm. A
better realm.”

Father and mother both believed in such a dream. Jon did as well.

We Targaryens have been destroyers and slavers long enough.

Let us build a kingdom where no man is another’s slave.

Jon rose from his knees at the thought, offering a hand to help Luceon do the same.

“Ten thousand, maybe twenty.” He said simply. “That’s how many new freedmen my father
hopes to send this first year. Mostly those with no homes left to return to, wandering the
streets without purpose. Men and women who were born into bondage.”

“All of whom will embrace the Seven, yes?” Luceon pressed. “That was what High King
Rhaegar promised His Holiness. The false gods and faiths of the empire should never taint
the Seven Kingdoms.”

“This kingdom will hold to the Faith of the Seven. Conversion is the price that the freed must
pay to reach Westeros.”

That was his father’s decree, yet Jon suspected that many of the new converts would be
mummers at best.

Most slaves had little to call their own, save their gods. They’ll say the Seven’s words… but I
doubt many will hold them dear.

Not like I do… for I said them for Sansa.

“That is comforting to hear, from you especially, my prince.”

“I am a lord, not a prince.”

“Married to a princess though.” Luceon gestured to where Sansa now knelt in prayer while
Robb and Catelyn continued their discussion to the rear of the sept. Myrcella and Sansa were
now the only ones left actually praying, though as far apart as could be. “I speak often with
the princess. She insists that you are dedicated to the Faith and its teachings.”

“I am as dedicated to the Seven as I am to my wife. Sansa has helped me view the Andal faith
in a way no-”

“A woman’s teachings.” Luceon dismissed with a wave of his hand. “It would be better if
you enlisted a septon to continue your lessons. There are several I could recommend. Good,
loyal men. They serve me faithfully and would do the same for you. I trust them… as the
High Septon trusts me. He is quite eager to hear of my visit here… though I fear to
disappoint him.”
“Oh?” He eyed the septon rubbing his hands together, his eyes narrowing in a way that Jon
didn’t care for.

“Your words sound pleasant yet we have a saying here in the Seven Kingdoms. Words are
wind. Marrying before the Seven, showing mercy to the faithful, these are all fine and good.
Yet you remain an outsider to us. That could change if you were anointed in the seven oils.”

Jon kept the grimace from his face. The twins’ ceremony had been lengthy and tedious. The
only part he enjoyed was how long he got to hold Rhaegina during. Kneeling for hours so this
old weasel could drip oil upon his brow held little appeal to him. Yet Luceon appeared
excited at the chance.

“I would be happy to perform the rite for you.” Luceon bowed somewhat before his greedy
grin returned. “Though salvation is no easy thing to grant, nor cheap to afford. I am a
member of the Most Devout, I cannot anoint just any. I’d expect a similar, hmm, endowment
as the one I received for your daughters.”

“Endowment?” Jon asked, thoroughly confused. “What do you mean?”

Luceon’s chuckling grated on his patience again. “I’ll admit, it was clever of you to try and
purchase my favor by donating your spoils to those Blackwater septs, His Holiness will be
won over by such news, but you erred somewhat. The septons in charge of those funds owe
loyalty to other clergymen, so your gold went to their pockets instead of mine. The direct
approach worked far better. The jewelry will gain me much favor with certain young
septas…”

He began to piece things together and struggled to keep his anger in check as thunder and
wind shook the sept.

“You anointed Rhaegina and Aemma because someone paid you?” Jon spoke carefully,
keeping his temper so as not to shame Sansa by taking umbrage with Luceon before all.
“Who did so?”

“It was not you? My, my, this is interesting.”

Luceon raised a hairy eyebrow and a gnarled finger to point towards Robb and Catelyn, who
were now joined by Myrcella. The young queen had no sooner curtsied to her goodmother
then Queen Catelyn offered whispered words to the married couple and sought Sansa’s side
instead. Myrcella stared in shock and despair at the spot where Catelyn had stood moments
ago as Robb swiftly enfolded her in his arms.

“It was her, the Princess, er- I’m sorry, Queen Myrcella now.” Luceon said as Robb and
Myrcella left the sept together. “She sought me out. Offered me a fine necklace made of
Lannister gold, of the most quality craftsmanship. I do love rubies so and the lions know their
craft.”

“Myrcella gave you that?” He blinked as the storm raged without, lightning flashing lances of
light over the statue of the Maiden. “Robb would never ask that of her…”
“I thought it was you who bid her.” Luceon shrugged. “When I asked her why, she said that it
was for your daughters. For your wife.”

“To be worthy of such a family.”

SANSA

“Thank you Myrcella.”

She did her best to smile sincerely as Jeyne handed Aemma over to Robb’s wife. Rhaegina
was sleeping peacefully in Sansa’s arms, but Aemma had been fussing some before Myrcella
offered to take the whimpering babe. Myrcella now held Aemma so that young queen’s
tumbling hair acted a golden shield against the sun and breeze here on Driftmark.

“It’s my pleasure, really.” Myrcella took one of her golden curls and dangled it over
Aemma’s face. “Did Robb tell you how jealous I was that he got to hold the girls? I’ve been
looking forward to this. Haven’t I, little one?”

Aemma quieted down at the sight of Myrcella’s curls, her daughter showing none of the
unease that Sansa felt right now. Before she could stop herself, the image of Myrcella twisted
into that of Cersei. The vile woman clutching Aemma in her horrid grasp.

All at once Cersei was gone and Myrcella returned, the young woman cooing down at the girl
in her arms.

Myrcella’s not her mother, Sansa reminded herself, she wouldn’t hurt my children.

Cersei cursed my girls, but Myrcella had them blessed.

Myrcella had her gratitude for that, yet others were not so easily won over. Sansa needed only
to glance at her mother to see the truth of that. The dowager Queen in the North watched
Robb's wife carefully as they continued their walk along Driftmark’s seashore.

The sand twinkled like thousands of tiny diamonds on the windswept beach. The waves
lapping against the shore were calm, the air carrying a scent of salt. She much preferred to
enjoy the sea in this manner rather than aboard a rocking and pitching ship.

Their overnight stay at High Tide had been a welcome respite. The Jaehaerys might have
made Dragonstone by nightfall but Jon had refused to try. The skies had been grown dark
with clouds and her husband feared a storm brewing. He refused to risk their children’s lives,
or hers. Nor did he entertain the notion of leaving them behind while pressing on to
Dragonstone, as Lyanna did in the Alysanne with Gendry and Tyrion Lannister.

High King Rhaegar has been at Dragonstone for days now, Aegon whispering in his ear thw
whole time.

Trying to steal a crown that I know Jon is worthy of.

To Sansa’s shame, she had likely helped Aegon in those efforts. Her heart filled with joy to
think of Rhaegina’s purple eyes or Aemma’s tuft of soft auburn hair. The twins had been a
part of her and they always would be. But as much as she loved her two daughters with all
her being, Sansa knew they were worth less than a son.

Jon might not fault her for the girls, yet she had failed him all the same.

On Dragonstone she was to meet Jon’s family. He would present her as his wife, but that
wouldn’t change what she really was. A broken woman, married into the most powerful
family in the known world.

The power and prestige of House Targaryen was apparent in the company the High King’s
visit had drawn from across Westeros.

At this moment Sansa walked amidst several of those highborn guests, following after
Aurane Velaryon as he showed off Driftmark’s beaches. On the arm of the handsome lord
was Princess Margaery of House Gardener. The only daughter of King Mace, Margaery was a
pretty, confident young woman, able to bandy about witticisms with the lordling in a carefree
manner. Her thick, softly curling brown hair bounced whenever she laughed, which was
often.

Following closely behind were the ladies from Margaery's retinue, daughters of the Gardener
bannermen like Desmera Redwyne, Talla Tarly, and Leonette Fossoway. Behind them walked
Alynne Connington and Eleanor Mooton, who came from lands newly won over by Jon.
Though of course, the most familiar faces were those from the North. Wylla Manderly had
come with her father, Ser Wyllis, and his party, while Mira Forrester had arrived with her
husband, Brynden Blackwood.

While Talia and her older sister kept close together, enjoying their reunion, none of the Reach
or Stormland ladies dared to approach Myrcella. All likely knew her, whether as a Durrandon
princess or from her time with the Gardener court at Highgarden, yet still they kept their
distance. Whether out of fear for Myrcella’s new allegiances or her old ones, she couldn’t say.
The whole thing reminded Sansa of when she was an outcast at Storm’s End, shunned by
many.

A lonely, dreadful time that she wouldn’t wish on anyone.

So Sansa reached out to Myrcella herself, allowing her goodsister to hold Aemma. Myrcella’s
jewels had helped bless the girl, it seemed the least she could do in return. The gesture
appeared to gladden Myrcella greatly, for her green eyes ignored the scenery to gaze upon
Aemma as she hummed a tune.

“There’s another Lannister on this island.” Mother spoke quietly, the words clearly meant for
her ears alone as she watched Myrcella. “Genna Lannister, Tywin’s sister, a princess of the
Rock.”

“Yes, Robb told me.” She whispered back. “She’s guesting at Hull with her husband and the
other Reach lords. Aurane clearly thought better of inviting her here.”
“Genna’s no fool. She’s a shrewd, with decent influence among the Gardeners. A dangerous
woman. It would be a good thing to keep these lions apart.”

“Myrcella helps us in that.” Sansa said, to her mother’s surprise. “She rejected an invitation
from Genna’s handmaiden just this morning, then burned her aunt’s letter without reading it.”

“Who saw this?” Catelyn asked suspiciously.

“Her maid. Rickon as well.” She was unhappy to admit it. The two of them had recruited
many to spy on Robb’s wife. Sansa took as little joy in that as Mother did to hear this report.

“Dragonstone will be the true test. Tyrion and Genna must not be permitted any private
meetings with each other, nor Myrcella. I worry of what Robb shares with his wife, and what
she could share with her kin. I wish he had not brought her here. It was smart not leaving
Myrcella at Harrenhal, many there served Kevan Lannister before us. Still, Robb should have
sent her to White Harbor.”

“Myrcella does well here.” She bid her mother to watch Myrcella fawn over Aemma. “Not
just with Aemma. Or the bribing of Luceon. She told Robb not press her claim to Storm’s
End any further, and promised she would say the same to the High Septon. Truthfully mother,
I am… I am glad Myrcella is with us.”

Mother grew quiet, letting the waves and the chatter of other women fill the silence between
them. All she said was already known to her royal mother, save the last part. When mother
looked to her then, there was no anger in her eyes, only a sort of sadness. One that grew
deeper when her gaze moved to Myrcella with Aemma, who now slept peacefully.

“She’s good with her.” Mother said after a time, her face like stone. “Tender, caring even.
With a family like hers, I did not think it likely… not after everything they did to you.”

“Those who hurt me are dead or gone away.” Sansa whispered back. “I cannot fear Myrcella
like I did Joffrey. Or how Cersei feared Jon. I cannot stop thinking that Robb is right.
Myrcella wants to be one of us… is that foolish of me? To want to believe the best in her?”

Mother sighed, reaching up to adjust one of Sansa’s braids. “No. That makes you the sweet
girl Ned was so proud of. Our little lady, who shames me by finding the strength to do what I
cannot…”

Her mother’s morose words clashed greatly with the sound of Margaery and her company’s
laughter then.

“Queen Catelyn!” The princess turned about to address them. “I must commend you on your
daughter’s splendid escort!”

“Her escort?” Mother asked in a confusion, looking about at Sansa’s ladies and then back at
Barristan, who followed at a respectful distance. “Do you mean Ser Barristan?”

“Margaery isn’t speaking of Sansa.” Myrcella noted, pointing farther up the beach. “Is that
not Arya?”
Sansa swallowed a groan to catch sight of her sister in the distance. Making a spectacle of
herself, as always.

Arya was riding towards them atop a massive black stallion that she kept close to the surf, its
hooves kicking water into the air. The five Stark direwolves collected on the island ran with
her, Nymeria and Shaggydog leaping up to snap at the splashes. Arya acted just as wild,
standing high in her stirrups with her cloak flapping in the wind.

When they arrived at Driftmark, Arya was there waiting. Somehow she had won over the
Velaryons to such a degree that they gave her free reign over their stables. A privilege Arya
continued to abuse, despite mother’s insistence that she attend some seamstresses in
preparation for her wedding.

“Princess Arya!” Aurane hailed when she drew close. “Do we catch you returning from
another ride to Spicetown?”

“Ha! Farther than that.” Arya tossed some errant strands of hair from her face before grinning
at the twins. “So that’s the reason! I wondered why Lady and Ghost took us this way. They
must have caught the girls’ scent as far off as those cliffs, even though the wind is all
wrong…”

“They truly are magnificent.” Margaery spoke admiringly as her gaze moved from the
wolves to Arya. “My brother Willas boasts the largest hounds in the Reach and they are only
half the size of your pets.”

“A direwolf is not a pet.” Sansa corrected while Arya dismounted. “They are too strong to be
treated as such. Respect must be given to them if you want any shown in return.”

“They’re as fierce as they are loyal.” Arya added with a toothy smile. “Well, loyal to those
who are loyal to them.’

Margaery raised an eyebrow. “Then a direwolf can never truly be tamed?”

“Tamed? No.” Mother said simply before stand in front of Arya, brushing some sand from
her shoulder. “Nor should they be. There is a beauty in their wild hearts, for those willing to
seek it. That is, if they are given the chance.”

Arya lowered her eyes then. A marked difference from how she glared at Robb when the
sibling first reunited at High Tide. Arya’s intense stare had broken their brother, who she was
evidently furious at for promising her to Gendry. Long forgotten were the smiles and stolen
looks that Arya had sent Gendry’s way at Winterfell. Her sister’s heart had apparently
hardened against her betrothed.

Sansa had tried to speak to Arya about the betrothal but her sister ignored that in favor of
playing with the twins. She might have pressed things further if Arya’s tickling and foolish
faces hadn’t had such an effect on Rhaegina. Both sisters swore that the babe smiled her first
smile for Arya.
“No smile for me today?” Arya asked Rhaegina now, leading her horse onward so she could
get a look at the sleeping girl in Sansa’s arms. “That’s alright, you rest up to howl at some
dragons.”

“I pray she does no such thing.” She swatted at Arya. “I want the girls to be as peaceful as
they are now when Jon presents them to his family.”

Arya scoffed. “They’re practically septas compared to most of the men on this island. I’ve
heard nearly every lord complaining about having to wait here before going to Dragonstone.
The worst is the Greenha-”

“Thank you, Arya!” She cut her sister’s slight towards Margaery’s father there. “Let’s hope
all get to welcome the High King to Westeros soon enough.”

While she lacked in courtesy, Arya was certainly right. Besides the High Septon, only the
Stark and Martell royal families were permitted to sail straight on to Dragonstone. All other
guests of the High King were to await summons at Driftmark. Mace Gardener considered that
an insult, believing his status as a king should afford him the same privileges as Robb. Jon
had spent much of the night treating with the Gardener King, promising that his stay at High
Tide would be a short one.

Not so short as their own though.

Arya was not the only member of their family to interrupt Aurane’s tour. Uncle Brynden and
Rickon rode up soon after, with carriages and word from Jon. The skies were clear and the
ships were ready.

The final leg of their journey to Dragonstone was set to begin.

Their farewells to Margaery and the others were hurried. Their journey back to the docks
swift. The High King of the Targaryen Empire surely deserved such haste.

When she met Jon upon the deck of the Jaehaerys, the rocking of the boat was only part of
the reason she felt queasy. Men were moving all about, preparing the sails and oars to depart,
yet it was her that Jon worried on.

“This will be a short trip.” Jon said, kissing her brow and rubbing her shoulder. “A few hours
and we’ll be on Dragonstone. After that, I swear, no ships for at least a moon’s turn.”

“What if your father wishes you back to the empire at once?” She asked, watching Arya and
mother carry the twins about the deck. Jon’s eyes followed them as well, a grin pulling at his
mouth.

“I doubt that very much.” He spoke in High Valyrian, more practice for what was to come.
“The High Septon brought five ships and hundreds of his people to Dragonstone. I’m
guessing there’s more talks ahead. I’ll likely be called upon for such, or to advise the new
viceroy of these lands. From what Aurane has told me of Dragonstone's newest guests, this
isn’t going to be a short stay. Father wouldn’t bring our entire family here otherwise.”
“Your whole family?” She felt both nervous and excited all at once.

Jon nodded. “Well, I could do without Viserys... but it'll be nice to present you and the girls
with Aemon there. Daenerys too. Don’t worry if Aemon takes to touching the twins’ faces
some, he lost his eyesight long ago and…”

He was still speaking when her mind seized on the name. Daenerys. The ship was pulling
away from the docks at High Tide, leading Robb’s galley and many others on to
Dragonstone.

Yet Sansa’s mind was back at Harrenhal. To a night where she laid abed with Jon, wrapped in
his arms. A moment when she’d finally found the courage to ask her husband something
she’d worried on for months. Ever since Aegon’s angry words at Storm’s End first planted
the idea of a dalliance between Jon and his aunt. The murder of Tommen, the ending of the
war, the birth of their girls, so much had kept Sansa from asking the question she could no
longer ignore.

“Jon, I wish to ask you something…” She’d laid a hand upon his bare chest, over top the
heart he swore beat for her. “It’s about Daenerys. It’s about what your brother said at Storm’s
End”

“Ah.” Jon had cringed some. “Aegon always had a big mouth… I didn’t know how much you
understood of our talk.”

“Enough.” Sansa could not meet his eyes. “Aegon... he loved your aunt, yes?”

“He says he did.” Jon grumbled before shaking his head. “Damn, that’s not fair. Aegon loved
Dany. Not as much as himself I think, but she was his first love and he was hers. They had
something special for a time.”

She dared to look into his eyes then. “And you? Did you love Daenerys?”

Her deepest want was for him to say no. Perhaps even act offended at the question. That if he
had loved Daenerys, it was simply the love of a nephew for his aunt. Instead Jon simply
nodded.

“Yes, many years ago. We were lovers. I was young, and I loved Dany with all my heart. I
owe her a great deal.”

The simple manner in which he spoke and the lack of humility he had admitting to such, hurt
her deeply. Men were like to boast of their fornications yet Jon was not such a man, nor did
he speak of Daenerys Targaryen in that manner.

He spoke her name with love. She saw the truth of that in his eyes.

She was who he was meant to marry. A Targaryen princess.

Not some scarred girl whose family forced him into it.
“You wished to marry her.” She had choked out, separating their bodies and looking down
upon her husband. “Didn’t you?”

“I did. She rejected me. Twice.” Jon took hold of her chin and bid her to meet his gaze. “And
for that I will forever be in her debt. Had she said yes, I would have never found you. I was a
young boy, ignorant to the world, fumbling about at what he thought was love. The man who
came to Winterfell didn’t believe in true love anymore. He knew nothing.”

The last part he spoke in High Valyrian and she understood well enough. Jon was professing
his love to her, yet all Sansa could think about were comparisons between herself and this
woman she had never met. Daenerys would speak Valyrian fluently of course. Her body was
likely free of scars. She would be wise in the ways of the empire. A proper Targaryen
princess.

Stop! Stop! This is madness. You would never compare Jon to Sandor.

That’s not how love works… not really… they are not numbers added up in a ledger…

A cry had erupted from beyond their chambers doors, one of the twins waking in their
nursery and waking her sister as well. Sansa had risen to tend them, with tears in her eyes,
when Jon barred her path. She spoke not a word of her turmoil yet he knew. He knew and he
forced her to hear him out.

“Sansa... the life I led before you is over, my life with you is the one I want.” Jon pledged as
he ran his hand through her hair. She loved it so when he did that. “Whatever loves I’ve held,
whatever loyalties I had, this is the family I shall love and cherish before any other. I am
yours. You are mine. They-”

“They are ours.” She finished as the twins began to wail and Jon kissed her again.

Her heart had ached only slightly worse than her breasts at that moment. The twins needed to
be fed and her body joined with them in telling her so. When she left to nurse the girls, Jon
had followed. Sansa still had a thousand more questions to ask about Daenerys but watching
Jon cradle Aemma as she nursed Rhaegina caused them to drift away.

The pride she took in her family overtaking her worries.

Though now Sansa fretted over impressing Jon’s family. Their ship was moving swiftly
through Blackwater Bay and the Targaryens grew closer with each passing moment

The next few hours were spent readying herself and the twins for their arrival at Dragonstone.
While the girls napped, Jeyne and Talia came to see to her dressing. Her gown was a gift
from Royner Darklyn, who would be a part of Jon’s retinue at Dragonstone. An honor that
the lord clearly esteemed, for her new dress was wonderful. Made of the softest black silks,
Sansa was especially fond of the white embroidery stitched about the bust and sleeves. The
skirts were wide and billowing, meaning her every step would draw the eye.

Since she wore Jon’s colors, so would their babes. Rhaegina was garbed in a long gown of
black with pearls sewn all along the sides. Aemma’s gown was white with black obsidian
sequins. Neither child cared for the uncomfortable clothing, yet by the time they reached
Dragonstone, their cries had calmed again.

Barristan knocked lightly on her cabin door to announce their imminent arrival. When she
bid him within, the older knight blushed as he was wont to do.

“How do they look ser?” Sansa asked, gesturing to the babes in Jeyne and Talia’s arms. A
smile creased Barristan’s weathered face. He reached out to let Aemma take hold of his
finger.

“I wish there were three of me, so I might lay down my life for three great beauties.”

Jeyne shot a glance to Talia. “Not five? Ser, you do offend.”

“Are we so ugly?” Talia blinked her eyes in mock hurt.

“N-no! No, you mistake me!”

Barristan was one of the finest warriors in the Seven Kingdoms. Yet when her ladies played
at torturing him, it was too easy to be called sport. Jeyne and Talia had Barristan nearly on his
knees in apology before she saved him, requesting that he escort her back to Jon.

“I’m nervous.” She admitted to the older knight as they climbed to the upper deck. “Like my
wedding day all over again.”

“The best swordsmen are always wary.” Barristan patted her arm. “Overconfidence is a
failing. As is cowardice, yet you persevere. You might not wield a sword, your grace, but
you’re more sensible than most knights I’ve known. I believe the Targaryens will see that.”

She wanted to believe Barristan yet she found herself wishing for some overconfidence when
the island of Dragonstone appeared ahead of the Jaehaerys. A large volcano jutted from up
the rocky isle and, upon its face, stood the Castle Dragonstone. The port they sailed towards
had been a simple fishing village in Aegon the Conqueror’s time. Now it was a sprawling
town with guard towers and keeps dotting the harbor. What looked to be scores of ships were
anchored there, nearly all flying the Targaryen banner.

The town itself was well ordered, its buildings and pillars made of black marble, the streets
teeming with life as trumpets and bells announced their arrival. Ghost and Lady did not care
for the noise, the two wolves pressing close to Mother and Arya as they held the twins.

When they docked a large carriage of foreign design and Highguard warriors awaited them.
So while Robb and the rest of their companions were still sailing into the harbor, Jon and
Sansa’s party was spirited through the town. Arya took in the strange place with wide eyes,
mother also displaying some curisouty as she peered out the carriage windows. Outside them
Barristan and Uncle Brynden clung to either side of the carriage, on guard like the direwolves
which followed behind.

Jon was holding her hand when their travels brought them to the dark fortress of
Dragonstone. She had never seen a castle of its like in her life. Its black towers were carved
in the shape of dragons using some sort of masonry beyond her grasp. Hundreds of gargoyles
lined the walls and everywhere she looked there were dragons. The beasts were even carved
into the gates that they passed beneath to enter the castle.

Two men awaited them without, taking Jon quite by surprise. One was a young man that
Sansa nearly mistook for Aegon, with his silvery hair and handsome features. Yet this
stranger was lankier and armored like a knight. His shield bore a black dragon on red, which
she had a vague memory of from one of Maester Luwin’s lessons. Before she could rightly
remember it Jon moved towards the second man.

He was of middling age, with dyed purple hair and whiskers. She thought him of Valyrian
descent and he wore armor similar to the Golden Legion yet plainer and dented from battle.

“Legate Qoherys.” Jon saluted in the imperial fashion, which the stranger returned. “It is
always good to see a man of the Ninth Legion. Though I thought you had retired from your
command, Garmon?”

“Where Targaryens lead, House Qoherys follows, yes?” The man spoke the Common Tongue
with a heavy Valyrian accent. He then gestured towards the inner castle. “High King, he wait
inside. Happy to see the son again.”

“His son and his family.” The young knight added, his queer blue eyes blinking with
nervousness. “Lord-Commander, princess, if you would follow us. The court awaits.”

Jon eyed that one in a wary manner and she caught him hiding a hand behind his back,
signaling Brynden in two swift movements. Whatever this meant caused her uncle to whisper
something quickly to Barristan, whose expression was stern. She only caught one of her
uncle’s words as the men moved in close around them.

‘Blackfyre.’

This knight is a Blackfyre? I thought the cult of pretenders was wiped out.

Why would Rhaegar have one with his court?

Her confusion only grew as they were led to a building carved into the shape of a huge
dragon lying on its belly. Its tall doors were set in the dragon’s stone mouth, which gave
Sansa the sensation of being swallowed by the beast when they went inside.

They found a spacious hall within and their path ahead flanked by lines of Highguard
warriors. Each of their number wore white cloaks and armor yet Sansa spotted all manner of
men among them. Westerosi knights, Tyroshi bluebeards, Norvosi axemen, all quite ordinary
compared to some others. There was a copper-skinned Dothraki who had a braid full of bells
and a curved blade at his waist. Another man, possibly the tallest she had ever seen, wore a
spider silk sash and watched her with coal black eyes. The oddest was a short, bowlegged
man, whose large head peaked like a cone and bore only a single strip of hair down the
center.
Some frightened her but she kept her face impassive. It helped to have Arya and her mother
so close, and the twins in her arms. She held her head high as the three generations of Stark
women passed the ranks of staring strangers.

No, not strangers. Subjects of the empire.

People you must learn to care for, should Jon become High King one day.

That was where their path took them. Straight to the High King of the Targaryen Empire.

The Targaryens awaited their coming on a raised marble platform. Around them stood three
tall pillars, each with an obsidian statue of dragon atop it, their wings outstretched and
mouths gaping. Sansa understood the feeling when she saw the king.

Rhaegar sat upon a black throne, handsomely garbed in purple silks as dark as the first signs
of dawn. His crown was a simple gold band with different colored stones inset. Beneath it his
hair was a lengthy, pale mane which fell to his chest. One of the king’s hands was entwined
with Lyanna’s, who sat in a throne of her own at Rhaegar’s side. Her aunt wearing her rose
crown and a strained expression.

There were others on the platform too. More dragons eyeing her approach.

Aegon kept an awkward distance from a lithe woman with Dornish features who wore a
bright red gown. She thought perhaps that to be Aegon’s wife and Jon’s half-sister, Rhaenys.
Near to Rhaenys stood an ornately dressed man, who shared in Rhaegar’s good looks, yet
Sansa did not care for how his lip curled in a dismissive manner. Sansa named him Viserys
but paid Jon’s uncle less care than the odd pair closest to Rhaegar.

There an ancient, shrunken looking man sat in a simple wooden seat, peering about out with
sightless eyes. He nodded now and again at whatever whispered words were spoken to him
by the striking young woman to his side. She wore a billowing gown of violet, but its
loveliness could not compare to her long, silver-blonde hair and aquiline features.

In this woman, Sansa saw the beauty of Old Valyria. This was Daenerys Targaryen, the
princess that Jon had loved before her. A beauty who now smiled widely at Jon, in a manner
that made Sansa want to take hold of her husband.

Yet she could not. Now was not the time for her to make any claims on Jon. Soon it would be
him presenting her to the king.

When they halted in front of the platform, Sansa handed off the girls to Jon, who
disappointed her by stirring some.

“They’ll be fine.” He whispered as she smoothed her skirts. “As will you. Sansa, you know
this rite better than I by now-”

His words were lost as Ethan Glover stepped off of the platform, beating the end of his
longaxe into the floor.
“Who comes before Rhaegar Targaryen, Highest of Kings?” Ethan demanded, his scarred
face offering a small smile.

“His son!” Jon’s Valyrian was spoken with elegance. “I am Jonarys Targaryen, a proud son
of Summerhall and the empire. Raised beneath the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
Wed to this woman, who I beg leave to present to my king. To my father.”

“Let her be seen.” Rhaegar’s iron tones rang throughout the hall. “Let her stand before the
dragons.”

Sansa took hold of her skirts and walked on, leaving Jon and the girls behind. None could
come with her. Not mother, nor Arya or Barristan, she had to do this alone. The brand on her
back suddenly hurt as it had years ago. She feared it burned so bright it would be seen from
beneath her gown. A mark to remind all of how unworthy she was to wed Jon or to kneel
before the likes of the High King.

Yet she did so anyway, ignoring the instinct to lower her head as well. The Targaryen custom
demanded that Sansa face the man who judged her. She watched as Jon’s father rose from his
throne, his violet eyes meeting hers.

“You are bold to meet my gaze.” Rhaegar spoke firmly. “Who are you to do so? By what
right do you challenge the blood of the Conqueror?”

“It is my right.” Her words were careful, every bit of attention given to her accent. “I am
Sansa Stark, born a daughter of the North. Now I am bound to a dragon. He names me a
dragon. I embrace the power of fire and blood. I challenge any who would deny it.”

“I am High King.” Rhaegar began to descend the marble steps towards her, his fists raised
before him. “You must bend to my will alone. You are loyal to me before all others. I am the
power you must fear. I am the blood.”

She spread out her arms but not in submission. Instead Sansa was meant to appear as if
tempting the towering king to strike her.

“I serve my king, I kneel to my king, but a dragon is no slave. There is none I am more loyal
to than my husband. He is the only dragonlord I shall ever have. For the rest of his days and
mine. Until then we are together. Soaring as one.”

Rhaegar paused above her, as silent as the hall itself, save for the fussing babes. She wanted
to go to them, to be back with her family. Sansa thought she could see herself in the king’s
unyielding stare. A small thing, pretending to be something she wasn’t.

“Sansa Stark.” Rhaegar unclenched his fists and lowered his open hands down to her. “By
the fire and blood which forged our realm, I raise you up. Whatever you were when you knelt,
rise now a dragon of House Targaryen.”

He took Sansa by her hands, which felt small in the king’s grasp, and helped her rise.
Rhaegar smiled to plant a kiss upon the back of her hand.
“Welcome to our family, my daughter.” Rhaegar spoke softly in the Common Tongue.
“Forgive my delay in saying so. Rituals and pretense must be served. Would it be alright if I
kissed you as a father might?”

“I would be honored, your grace.” She felt a blush climbing her cheeks when Rhaegar did so.

“Rhaegar, or father if you would allow.” Rhaegar guided her to face Jon and the rest of the
onlookers then. “Allow me to present Sansa Targaryen! Let all know that I look upon her as a
daughter! That I name her a princess of the empire! To Princess Sansa!”

“Princess Sansa!”

Hundreds of voices answered in several accents. None as loud as Arya or Barristan, though
even they could not best the shrill cries coming from the twins. Jon looked somewhat like an
overwhelmed juggler as he tried to calm them.

“I’m sorry.” She apologized to the king. “They are still very young and all the noise-”

“Look at my son.” He sighed in a sad way. “I feared that I would never see him with children
of his own… that he would die before ever knowing such joy. I thank you Sansa. You have
my eternal gratitude. For this gift, for all my wife has said that you’ve done for my house and
Jon. Might I meet my granddaughters now?”

The introductions fell to Jon again. He walked proudly with the twins in his arms, only
wincing a little as Aemma’s cries reached shrieking levels. The king was chuckling when
Rhaegina was passed to him. The Targaryen rite for accepting the twins proved to be far
simpler. Jon merely claimed each girl as his, and Rhaegar lifted one after the other into the
air, shouting their names for all to hear.

“Rhaegina and Aemma Targaryen!” Rhaegar boomed. The applause that followed rose high
enough to cover the girls’ wailing for a moment.

Afterwards, she made to spare the king any more noise by taking Aemma from him but the
High King waved her off.

“I’ve become accustomed to this sound again of late.” Rhaegar said as Lyanna joined them,
Aemon and Daenerys following after. “It will be just like it was at Summerhall, after you and
I were crowned my love.”

“I imagine it will.” Lyanna said with little cheer as she made to kiss Jon and Rhaegina.
“Though Dragonstone is no Summerhall, husband.”

“After the war, Summerhall was dreary enough.” Aemon’s weathered voice added, his eyes
moving about, trying to seek the source of the crying. “The little children made it a better
place. I remember. It was common then to hear three little dragons, singing at once. Jon,
Aegon, Daenerys. All babes, all born within a year of each other, all eager to be heard.”

Daenerys laughed happily. “At least that will never change. Not like everything else it seems.
Jon, Jon, Jon... you left a warrior and come back to us a father! Congratulations!”
The princess went straight to Jon, doing as Lyanna had done, kissing Sansa’s husband, then
her children. A pang of jealousy sprung in Sansa's heart, tainting the happy moment. She
stamped that feeling down when Daenerys turned to her and curtsied in the Westerosi
fashion.

“Congratulations, Sansa.” Daenerys put a hand to Jon’s arm. “You have a fine husband, and
I’ve never seen such lovely little girls. I am almost jealous.”

“You are too kind.” Sansa answered in High Valryian. “As lovely as my daughters are, they
are surely just as loud. I fear these tales of babes making a palace shake with their cries will
be a bad influence on them. There’s only two of them but they might be noisy enough for
three.”

It was meant to be a jest but no one laughed.

“They’ll have help, trust me.” Daenerys said before shooting a knowing look to Rhaegar. The
king nodded and raised a hand to some unseen person at the edge of the hall. Jon shared
Sansa’s confusion in this.

“Why?” He asked, inclining his head to where Aegon, Rhaenys, and Viserys still stood
watching on the platform. “Is Viserys going to pitch a fit over something?”

“Do be courteous, Jon.” Rhaegar chided gently. “Remember what I taught you. Courtesy is
important to a peaceful court. That is why Daenerys waited to do this until after your new
wife and daughters had a moment to all their own.”

Daenerys was smiling when the Highguard parted to allow a dusky-skinned, golden-eyed girl
to pass. She carried a bundle of black cloth in such a way that Sansa knew it to be a babe.
One Daenerys soon cradled and held out for all to see.

“Jon, I want you to meet my son.”

His eyes were the color of amethysts. His hair as pale as the king’s.

His demeanor as silent as Jon’s.

Her husband, who now paled as he stared down at the child. Likely thinking the babe to be
exactly what she feared.

Everything Sansa had failed to give him.

JON

All of Westeros lay before him.

The massive, painted table stretched from one end of the chamber to the other. It was carved
in the shape of Westeros itself, a detailed map made to guide a conquest Jon’s ancestor had
abandoned in favor of a grander one.
“Would the Conqueror smile to see us now?” Aemon’s voice carried over to him.

The old man was sitting near the northern part of the table, near to where the Wall was
depicted. Aemon’s words bid a grin to pull at the High King’s mouth as he strolled along the
other side. His father had summoned them both here, to the top floor of the Stone Drum. The
large, rounded chamber had four tall windows facing the north, south, east, and west. Each
offered an excellent view of Dragonstone’s approaches and illuminated his father in the
morning’s heavenly glow.

“You and your brother brought us here.” Father said, running his hand near to Lannisport.
“My sons, waging war to establish a Targaryen realm here in Westeros. Something the first
High King only ever dreamed of.”

“The Conqueror wanted far more.” Jon shook his head. “Look at this map, there are no
borders. He sought to conquer all the Seven Kingdoms, not just one of them.”

Aemon chuckled. “Balerion the Black Dread began as a mere egg. Our empire was born of
this tiny island. Beginnings Jonarys. Humble beginnings for great things.”

He pushed away from the table then, growing impatient. The summons had come at dawn,
the steward finding Jon already awake in his chambers. That’s where he had tried to sleep
after the argument with Sansa, which proved to be a fool’s errand. When the light of a new
day broke he had hopes to mend what Daenerys had broken between them.

None of this is fair to Sansa, the burden should be mine to bear alone.

Not shared by my wife.

Sadly, Jon had no choice but to follow his father’s messenger here. He had expected that
matters regarding this new kingdom would call for his involvement, but never with such
urgency. Setting things right with Sansa would have to wait, which made waiting on his
mother even more maddening as father refused to speak on any issues of import until she
arrived.

Something was off between his parents, Jon had sensed that during Sansa’s presentation.
Mother’s smiles were strained, her demeanor towards father bordering on cold. Nor was she
the only one in poor spirits among his family. The successes the High King and his sons
enjoyed of late had left Viserys acting petty and jealous. Rhaenys’s ire had been stoked as
well, his sister begrudging father’s welcoming of the High Septon and his Andal faith to the
island, for her red god was a jealous one. Though her anger paled in comparison to Aegon's,
who likely stormed about Dragonstone's keep in a black rage even now.

Aegon has reason to be angry. With Daenerys. With me. Even himself.

None of us are innocent in this.

Unlike Aegon’s temper, the skies around Dragonstone were calm for once. The sun’s golden
rays lifted the bleakness from the rocky isle. A fine day for Jon to take his wife and children
on a walk about the grounds... if Sansa would have him.
Those thoughts lingered still when the High Queen finally arrived. Her hair was done in two
tight northern braids, her grey eyes refusing to even glance at her husband.

“Am I late?” Mother asked of no one in particular, making her way to Jon. “I do apologize,
my rest was fitful. Unlike my last stay on Dragonstone, I could find little peace when I bed
down.”

“Peace?” Jon noted with surprise. “Mother, when you here a battle waged without. You
nearly died birthing me.”

“Yes, but when I held you in my arms for the first time... all that war and pain went far, far
away. In the end we both survived. Aerys’s fleet was broken and my little prince of
Dragonstone slept against my breast. So quiet. So full of promise.”

Father smiled at that. “Which you have lived up to, Jon. Time and time again. I will be
honest, I did not sleep either. For the first time in a long while, I can sense House Targaryen
on the cusp of something great. A feeling I could not wait to share.”

“Then it was good we bedded in separate chambers.” Mother shot father a sharp look that he
endured in his stoic manner. This only fueled the queen’s annoyance. “Did you tell him yet?
Or did you wait to crush Jon in my presence? Why not gather his wife and babes here as
well?”

“Lyanna…”

“Crush me?” Jon asked, mindful of how somber the room became. A worry began nagging at
the back of his mind. “Father, you cannot mean to send me on another campaign? My service
in the order is nearly done. I promised Sansa that we would be free of marches and war. I
want-”

“Jon, Jon.” The king came to grab his shoulders, steadying him. His father cupped his face,
and his strength made Jon feel like a boy again. “May the gods of Old Valyria help give your
family such a life. Let the Seven do the same. I would weep with joy to know my son had
such happiness.”

“We all would.” Aemon spoke, rising from his seat with a wrinkled hand to his heart.
“Remember that, and remember that your father knows your worth.”

Mother cringed then, and father released him. The king's eyes were twin storms of purple
turmoil. None of which made sense to Jon.

“So I will not be sent to war?”

“No my son. I swear, you will never again be commanded to war on my behalf.” Father
spoke in iron tones. “Not by me or my successor.”

The words were so welcome that it took him a moment to comprehend what he heard. When
the meaning sunk in he spoke to it without hesitation.
“You’ve made your choice, then.” Jon said numbly. “Aegon will be named heir. You will
support him and not me.”

Father’s nod was a small one. “That is how it must be. With my approval, and his support on
the council... Aegon will be named heir within the year.”

He was surprised at how much it hurt to hear that. The crown had never appealed to Jon. It
was forever a duty that his mother and others pushed him toward. What hurt more was his
father judging his two sons... and finding Jon wanting.

“A fine choice, your grace.” He managed to salute his father. “May your reign be long, and
Aegon’s longer still.”

“We must hope so.” The High King became grim. “Know that this decision was not made
lightly. The empire enters a difficult time. Possibly one of its darkest.”

Aemon tapped his cane. “Today we have victories, glory. Tomorrow our enemies will rise
again. The Dothraki grow bolder. The Ghiscari seek alliances with Qarth and Asshai. Then
there are the threats from within the empire.”

“Rebellion? Treason?” Jon was startled by the thought.

“Perhaps.” Father answered. “There are those who dislike how I rule. Others who dream of
an end to the empire and a land of free cities. To survive, the empire will need unity. You
inspire fierce loyalty among your men, Jon, yet they are few. Aegon has earned the love of
many across the entirety of the realm.”

“Like slavers.” Mother’s tone was ice cold. “Lyseni money lenders. Warmongers. The worst
of the empire-”

“And the best.” Jon’s words were as much a surprise to himself as they were to his mother.
“Archons, triarchs, legates, many fine men hold great esteem for Aegon, more than me. They
would follow him. As will I, when the day comes.”

That was his duty after all. He would not play the selfish fool and lead the Targaryens into
another dance over petty differences between him and Aegon. Things were broken between
them now, but they were blood before anything else. Such wounds could heal with time.

He is my brother. I will always be loyal to him.

May he feel the same for me.

“Lyanna, look at our son.” Father clasped the side of his head, a touch of tenderness quite
rare of the king. “Clever, noble... and true. You shall make a fine king, Jon. Better than me, of
this I have no doubt.”

He blinked. “King? Father, you just said Aegon would be-”

“The next High King, yes. Aegon will inherit my realm, but you shall rule another. A
kingdom of your own.”
His father took hold of Jon and brought him before the table, running his hand over their new
holdings in Westeros.

“This is what I give to you, my son. The burden of a crown. The power of a king. Freedom
from any other’s rule. A new beginning.”

“A realm apart.” Aemon shuffled over to his side. “Something we have not seen before. A
union of Westeros and the Targaryen Empire, yet beholden only to the lands and people it
calls its own. Capable of building a better legacy than its parents.”

“Which will be a challenge but one we trust you to overcome.” Father spoke as much to him
as to mother. “Jon, you were born to rule this kingdom. Destined for greatness.”

“These people won’t have me.” He shook his head, remembering the war and all his follies.
“They call me Kingslayer. I burned half these lands and the other half names me the murderer
of kings. One of them a child.”

Aemon put a shaky hand on his arm. “Aegon the Conqueror did worse, I assure you.
Thousands of noblemen and their beloved leaders, fathers, brothers, sons, all killed in the
conquest. The survivors still knelt and did fealty to him. And he is still remembered fondly
for his great accomplishments.”

“He had dragons-”

“And you will have allies.” Father pointed to the north and south parts of the map. “The
Martells and the Starks here in Westeros, the empire across the Narrow Sea. We need these
lands to settle the newly freed, so should you be in need, we shall be there.”

“The Dark Order will stay with you.” Mother broke her silence, breathing deeply and
crossing her arms. “For a time at least, I insisted on that. Rhaegar is also sending Garmon
Qoherys and thousands of other veterans here. They shall settle the lands you give them, to
tend and protect your kingdom, their swords and spears loyal to their new king. A better
king.”

“We can only hope.” Father replied, to which mother shook her head.

“No, we can do more than that. We can help.”

The three royals all began to speak in earnest then. They discussed what other resources Jon
would have to build his rule here in Westeros. Of gold and loans, ships and craftsman, all
things that would come in the future. Yet his mind was stuck on the problems that he faced in
the present. He thought of the past, and all the actions which brought him here.

“Sansa.” His words interrupted their conversation, all three turning to him. “I must speak to
my wife.”

They would make her a queen. Queen of a fragile realm in a land prone to war.

This is not the life I promised her… would she even want it?
“That can wait.” Father admonished him like a child. “Robb Stark and Arianne Martell must
be told first, to respect your alliances. Much needs to be discussed with the High Septon as
well. I underestimated his cunning. He wrangled many promises from me before he would
agree to anoint you as King of-”

“Are you set on naming me king?” Jon interrupted his father. Something few dared to do and
never in such a tone. “Ruler of a free kingdom?”

“I would have no other rule such a realm.”

“Then I do not need your leave to seek my wife.” He met his father’s gaze. “Sansa should
have been here. If we are to discuss her fate and that of our children. Sansa has earned that
much.”

His parents were stunned when he left their side. He wore no crown but he felt its weight in
that moment. Something he would not burden Sansa with like he had so much of late. He
strode by the Highguard at the door and was halfway down the dark stone corridor when he
heard the tapping.

“Jonarys.” Aemon’s voice called down to him, the small man leaning heavily on his cane as
he followed after. “Jon, dear boy. Would you begrudge the company of an old man?”

He would. Aemon had a hand in much of the woes that had awaited Jon at Dragonstone.
There was little doubt in Jon's mind that the old man had helped push father into naming him
king as well. Growing up, Aemon had been like a grandfather to him. A teacher. Someone to
respect.

Now he saw Aemon for what he really was. A puppet master of sorts, pulling all their strings,
having them dance to a tune of his making. All while blind to the world and making Jon feel
much the same.

Following Dany’s revelation in the hall, every bone in Jon's body had yearned to learn the
truth of her son’s parentage. Sansa was no fool. When that boy was presented in that manner,
with no father being named, she shared the same thoughts as him.

That this could be his child.

She barely accepted that Dany and I were once lovers…

Andals and First Men... they think themselves so different from each other, yet in this they are
exactly the same.

To them, sex outside of marriage is a sin and a folly… and I might have proved that last part
correct.

Much was wrong in how things unfolded after the hall. He was forced to separate from Sansa
and rather than meeting with just Dany, Jon found himself cramped and crowded in Aemon’s
chambers. The blind man’s presence was odd, yet Aegon took up Jon's full attention, his
temper flaring before Daenerys could even start explaining.
“Why? Why must you always be so defiant!?” Aegon had demanded of her, cursing to see
Jon and Aemon present at well. “Don’t you dare, Jon! If you try and steal this from me, I
swear-”

“Jon has stolen nothing from you!” Dany had bared her teeth in fury at Aegon. “You might
think everything you want is yours by rights, but not me! Not again, Aegon! Not my son!
Never my son!!”

That Aegon laid claim to Dany’s child was no surprise. His brother had long wished for a
son, and lusted for Daenerys longer still. Evidently they'd reconciled at some point following
Dany and Jon’s last night together. That peace had clearly fractured as Aegon and Dany
continued to battle. A conflict Jon was eventually drawn into.

“Is that my son?” Jon had cut through their shouting. “Dany please, tell me honestly, is that
child mine?”

“Baelyon.” She whispered, her hands at her middle. “His name is Baelyon and he is mine.
Before anyone else’s, he is mine.”

That answer did little to impress him, nor Aegon. His brother accused Jon of trying to steal
his son, to make up for the one that Sansa had failed to give him. That had nearly led them to
blows.

It was all nonsense in the end. In truth, he would be happy if the boy was Aegon’s. If Jon was
the father, he would have no choice but to care for the child. A duty which would shame him,
for it would hurt Sansa more. He knew he would care for such a son nonetheless, it was his
way. So for Sansa's sake more than anyone, he wanted the babe to be Aegon’s. To be
anyone’s but his.

Which turned out to be the case.

“The child is mine.” Aemon had startled Aegon and Jon both, pressing them apart with his
cane. “I am to be father to Daenerys’s son.”

“Have you gone mad, uncle?” Aegon had asked and Aemon clucked in disappointment.

“My brother Aerion was mad. As was your grandfather, Aerys. Not I. Not quite yet. So hear
me well, the both of you. Baelyon Targaryen is my son.”

Aegon scowled, and Jon had found it hard to believe as well, even when Dany moved to
Aemon’s side.

“No Aegon, it is not nonsense. Aemon has adopted Baelyon as his son and heir. Rhaegar has
already granted his imperial seal to the adoption. To spare the imperial family any further
scandal.”

Things made more sense after that. Aemon was not claiming to have fathered Dany’s son, but
by all the laws of the empire, the babe would be his lawful child. Such a thing was a common
arrangement for older statesmen with no children of their own. It was a way to keep their
estates within the family and reinforce old alliances. As Aemon’s son, Baelyon could inherit
fine manses and the position of triarch of Valysar.

Jon saw the wisdom in such an arrangement, but hearing the news broke something within
Aegon.

“Daenerys, why?” Aegon had reached for her, tears glistening in his eyes. “When I saw the
boy… I-I could feel it. I knew. Why have Aemon pretend to be his father when I am right
here? Just tell me the truth. Let me know that boy is mine-”

Dany had pulled away from him, her face wrinkled in disgust.

“All you care about is what you can claim. I trust Aemon. Do not pretend that my son would
be anything more to you than some pawn in this game of thrones that you like to play with
Jon. Either of you could be Baelyon’s father, and neither of you will ever use him. If that
upsets you seek out your wife. Or your mistress. Just not my son. His only father will be
Aemon.”

“Dany…”

Aegon looked torn between rage and heartache at her words. Jon remembered him looking
much the same when Dany ended their first relationship. Aegon had departed Summerhall
without a word to join the Golden Legion after that, just as he had departed Aemon's
chambers, slamming the chamber door behind him.

“You must think the worst of me.” Dany had said after a moment, looking to Jon with a
strange detachment.

“No more than you do of me it seems.” Jon replied, trying to tamp down his annoyance. “I
would not use your son to gain the council’s favor, Dany. I am not Aegon. I thought you
knew that.”

“But you could. When I learned I was with child, I knew what would happen. I saw it in my
dreams, many a restless night. If I were to name either of you as Baelyon’s father, the council
could choose an heir based simply on that. I would not let my son become the kingmaker. ”

“Or a target of war.” Aemon’s grim tone sent a shiver through Jon. “I have lived long enough
to see how easily we Targaryens can turn on one another. Let the boy do as I have done,
become an observer rather than a player in this game. I can protect Baelyon. Offer him a
good life, a peaceful one. Could you do the same?”

“I will give my daughters that kind of life.” Jon had returned, evading Dany’s attempt to take
his hand. “Do you truly have no idea if the boy is mine?”

Dany paused and glanced to the door then, a brief betrayal of the truth he suspected. Yet one
that she refused to give voice to.

“All men want to claim what is mine. If Baelyon was yours, you would want to raise him, as
your mother's Northern honor dictates. And Aegon, he... he’s good deep inside, but he can be
so jealous at times and... and if he believed Baelyon to be his son... I just know he would
snatch my boy away from me... force me to wed him…”

She was right. If Dany named Aegon the father of her child, by law he had the rights to take
the boy away and raise him in any way he saw fit. A part of Jon wanted to think his brother
could never do such a thing to Dany. Yet Aegon had disappointed him before.

“All of that is harder for Aegon to do if Baelyon is named my heir.” Aemon had finished for
her. “Not impossible though. Hence your role in this Jonarys. Aegon's desire for a son is
great, but his pride is greater. He would never move to take the boy if there was a chance...
any doubt... that Baelyon is another man's son...”

Aemon had taken hold of Jon’s arm then, just as he did now in the stairwell of the Stone
Drum.

“This changes nothing.” Aemon whispered as they climbed down the winding steps. Each
step was a possible broken hip for his uncle if Jon did not steady him. “With Daenerys. With
the boy. You understand this?”

“It could.” Jon had already thought on this. “I am to be a king, uncle. With a kingdom of my
own. Dany and Baelyon could live here, someplace where they would be happy. I could
protect them, the truth could be known, and I would-”

“Risk the wrath of the next High King.” Aemon wheezed some. “It is the doubt that protects
the boy. By refusing to claim or deny the child, you shield him. Like these walls once
shielded you.”

That wasn’t what Jon wanted to hear. Mostly since they confirmed his own arguments against
using the new kingdom to host Dany. And he knew Sansa wouldn't have welcomed that
solution at all. Sansa knew the truth of this plot, and she made her disdain of it plain. Aemon
could reason all he wanted, but none of that eased the hurt that Jon did to Sansa in accepting
his role in Baelyon’s life.

Whisperers will name me his father. Baelyon Targaryen. My bastard son.

Tales that already do Sansa harm.

After he and Aemon parted ways, it was Sansa whom he sought. She was not in her
chambers, instead he found Catelyn minding the twins. The queen was courteous when
answering his queries yet he sensed that she might be one of those thinking the worst of him
now.

His search took him to the best part of the castle, Aegon’s Garden. Built near to the arch of
the Dragon’s Tail, it was a lovely place. Tall trees and wild roses grew to all the sides of the
walls. His mother had told him once that she would bring him here as a newborn, to enjoy the
smell of pines and remind herself of the distant north.

Many were enjoying the garden this morning, far more than he expected. Two parties of
ladies sat upon blankets, watching a sparring match. Sansa was with Arya, Talia, and
Myrcella on one, while Arianne Martell shared hers with Tyene, Sarella, and Gwyneth
Yronwood, her goodsister. No one noticed him at first, their eyes all locked on Gendry as he
sparred against the Blackfyre knight.

“Daegon Blackfyre.” The High King had named him. “A hedge knight Varys reached out too.
I lifted his exile in hopes that he could be of use to us. The Blackfyres once held great
influence. He represents the last of that line.”

A long line of rebels and fanatics as far as Jon knew. He saw little of that now though as
Daegon and Gendry battled. Daegon’s face was calm, his strikes careful and defense firm
whenever Gendry launched an attack. Both wore light armor, suitable for training. Ser
Barristan watched with an appraising eye while Ser Olyvar whispered observations to Jeyne
as they stood beneath a tree together.

Sansa believed they made a handsome couple. She expected Olyvar to write Winterfell any
day now, begging leave of Vayon Poole to wed Jeyne. Something his wife welcomed more
than she did Jon’s arrival before the women.

“Ladies.” He bowed as Sansa averted her eyes from him. “I was not aware the garden had
become a training yard.”

“Things change quickly these days, my lord.” Arianne laughed. Her smile was warm but her
eyes were sharp as she brushed back some of her long, lustrous black hair away from her
buxom form. “Your wife invited us to break our fast with a picnic. I thought we should liven
things up more. Add some spice to our meal.”

“A pleasant distraction.” Sansa added, moving to fix Arya’s hair some. “Gendry was kind to
agree to the match. You should have given him your favor, Arya.”

“Why?” Arya blushed. “It’s not a tourney. They’re just poking each other with practice
swords. He’s best with his hammer anyways.”

“He would be pleased if you say so.” Jon said quickly, trying to help Sansa ease the
awkwardness between Arya and Gendry. “My brother might not act like it, but he’s a glutton
for compliments. Especially from fair maidens.”

“Brother?” Gwyneth eyed him in confusion. “I thought Captain Gendry was King Robert’s
son.”

“He is.” Myrcella spoke softly, pulling at her golden hair as Gendry pushed some coal-black
locks off of his sweaty brow. “Anyone can see that.”

“Queen Myrcella is right.” He said. “Gendry is King Robert's son, but my mother found and
raised him like he was her own blood. We grew up together, fought together. He will forever
be a brother to me.”

Gwyneth brightened then. “Oh! So he was a ward. Like Quentyn was to my father before we
wed.”
“Well, not exactly-”

“Targaryens do things differently.” Sansa's voice was sharper than she probably intended.
“Their ways can be strange. Foreign. Hard to understand-”

“Ow!” Arya cried out before slapping Sansa's hands away. “Gods, Sansa. Keep that up and
I’ll be as bald as Rhaegina.”

After Sansa muttered an apology, he begged a chance to speak with her in private. He feared
for a moment that she would reject him but she proved herself the better person. Soon
enough, they had disappeared together to a small corner of the garden. He pointed out the
rarer flowers as they went, the ones brought from Valyria which survived the Doom itself,
hoping to pique her curiosity. Sansa merely nodded, following in silence until he believed
they had privacy.

When he stopped, Sansa continued on to a rosebush, admiring it in an idle manner.

“I met with my parents this morning.” He said, causing her hand to pause just above the
petals of one rose.

“So that’s where you were. I sought you at first light and could not find you. I wondered if
you’d slept there at all.”

“Where else would I...”

She thinks I would go to Dany. That I could share another’s bed when all I wanted last night
was to be in her’s.

I want nothing more than her.

“People are already whispering.” Sansa made a fist at her side, her shoulders tensing.
“Spreading that woman’s lies, tarnishing your name. Has she no shame? She forces my
husband to perform some mummery for the sake of a child you believe to be Aegon’s.
Mother and Robb both asked me about it-”

“What did you say?” He pressed her, already unhappy at how loud her words grew near the
end. “Sansa, I asked you to never speak of this to anyone.”

“I told them the truth!” Sansa snapped. “That as far as I’m concerned, you are father to our
daughters. How they are the only children you owe any duty to. Not Daenery’s bastard, never
him. That’s all they need to know.”

It was a relief to hear her say so, yet her harshness towards Baelyon tore at his heart. His wife
was a gentle, caring soul, and he had pushed her too far. He could have excluded Sansa from
the lie, let her think the worst of him. Had the girls been born as boys, he might have. Yet that
would be too cruel. To allow Sansa to believe that Dany had given him the son that she did
not.

What was his was hers, that was Jon’s vow before the sept, so he had shared the truth with
Sansa. She was given no choice in playing along though. Strangers had once died outside
these walls to protect him as babe. He would do no less for his newborn cousin.

“The boy is my blood, Sansa.” He spoke brusquely. “That’s all anyone need know. Let them
see how I only act as a father to our children. My daughters. That is truth enough.”

Sansa said nothing more to that. Her fingers moved deftly over the leaves and petals of the
roses. When they slid down the stem of one, her thumb lingering about a thorn, he feared she
might hurt herself. Perhaps worse than he already had.

“Is that what King Rhaegar wished to discuss?” Sansa asked, thumbing the thorn. “The boy?
I saw Aegon this morning. He was most displeased.”

My brother will have plenty of reason to be happy soon enough.

“I am not to be my father’s heir.”

The words came out so plainly that they almost sounded like jest. Sansa was in no jesting
mood however. She spun about so quickly her skirts twirled some and he thought of their first
dance at Winterfell. Sansa had smiled for him then. Now her eyes were widened in disbelief,
her sweet lips twisted in shock.

“Aegon.” He went on. “It is to be him, if the council agrees. Which they will.”

“Oh, Jon… I’m-I'm sorry.” Sansa took a small step toward him “This is so sudden… Lyanna
led me to believe that such a decision would be years away.”

“My father has his reasons.”

“Was it…” Sansa lowered her eyes and wrung her hands then. “Was it something I did during
the ceremony? Our marriage? Did he wish you had wed another?”

“No Sansa, that has-”

“Is it the girls then?” She raised her chin up proudly, yet her voice was heavy with sadness.
“After the hall, your father seemed so taken with them that I thought… I can still give you a
son, Jon. Not one made of whispers. Tell your father I can, please…”

He closed the space between them and took hold of her hips, the touch sending a jolt through
him. This was not a touch of lust though. His pull brought her a step closer so that there was
no chance of her mishearing his words.

“None of this, not one bit, is about you and the girls. Who I am, and what I did long before I
met you, these things made the decision for my father. Heed me, Sansa. Father bears you no
ill will. In truth, he wants to make you a queen.”

Like it was for him in the tower, it was Sansa’s turn to be baffled. He explained it all the best
he could. It was strange. They had come to Dragonstone with so much uncertainty
surrounding their future. Now that the High King’s plans and their role in them had been
made clear, Jon could not say he felt any more assured. Their futures would soon be tied to
the fate of a kingdom built on the ashes of another.
A reality that Sansa accepted with such swiftness it baffled him.

“Where shall you rule from?” Sansa pressed two fingers pressed to her lower lip. “Will it be
Storm’s End?”

“Never.” He would not abide returning Sansa to her former prison. “Somewhere else.”

“Dragonstone then?” She asked, but he realized then that he wasn't sure if the island would
be counted among his domains or remain with the empire. “No, it will not do. It is far too
removed. Your name is spreading, Jon, but to most you are still a stranger. Your lords must
learn to love you. Renly had more men than Stannis and Joffrey because he lured them to
Tumbleton first. It was easy to reach and bustled with life. He held feasts and jousts- ”

“This is what you want?” He asked, searching Sansa’s eyes for fear. Instead they appeared
lively and bright. “I can reject the crown if you want. Insist on some quiet life in the empire,
if that’s what you would like.”

Sansa put her hands to his chest, running her fingers over his doublet as her brow furrowed in
thought.

“This is not the crown that Lyanna wanted for you. We spent so long talking about you being
High King. I wanted that for you. The idea of the empire scared me, but in my heart, I know
you would make a good kin. If you cannot be a king of the empire, then I wouldn’t deprive
Westeros a ruler of your like.”

“I am the Kingslayer-”

“Stop that.” Sansa snatched at his chin, her usually tender touch now firm and unyielding.
“Daenerys already has you pretending to be something you’re not. Don’t add to it. Take the
crown, husband. You have my blessing.”

“I want more than that.” He took one of her hands and tried to ignore how unsure Sansa acted
at his touch. “I need you as my queen Sansa. To rule by my side. To be the one I trust most.
This must be our reign. Yours and mine.”

These were no idle words. If this kingdom were to have any chance at success, it would
depend on Sansa. She knew the lords, the customs, and she him better than most.

Father sees me as the union of the Targaryen Empire and Sunset Kingdoms, but he’s wrong.

I am a son of the empire first and foremost. My wife is a daughter of Westeros.

It is in our children that my father’s dream is made reality.

“I swore vows.” Sansa held his hand in her soft grasp. “We share in all things now. Whether
fair or foul. Winter is coming, and when it does, I shall be at your side.”

He wished to kiss Sansa then. To embrace his wife tight and show her what such words
meant to him. Yet Sansa made no move to close the gulf between them and he would not
force it.
Enough had been asked of her and more was surely to come. He settled for presenting Sansa
his arm, to lead her back to the Stone Drum. His parents were waiting for them there, their
future kingdom as well.

“I would check in on Aemma and Rhaegina first.” Sansa took his arm in a formal way, a
small smile breaking free. “If my king would not mind a delay to see our little princesses.”

“He would welcome it.” His heart bid him to say. “To hold both pride and joy in his arms.”

“And do his queen’s bidding.”

 Chapter 8
Chapter Summary

The closing of an old era, the beginnings of a new one.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

THE FALCON AND THE MAD KING

Aerys, the Mad King, did much to earn that title. A High King who delighted in
burning men alive and came to think of himself as a dragon in the end. To his shame,
Aerys nearly became something far worse before his death.

A kinslayer.

Prince Rhaegar’s rebellion against his father was raging when he sought a safe harbor
for his pregnant wife, Lyanna Stark. Princess Elia and her children had already been
spirited away to Qohor by the Highguard, Arthur Dayne, but Rhaegar trusted none in
Pentos to care for Lyanna. Thus he sent her on to Dragonstone, believing it to be too
distant for Aerys to bother about.

Sadly, Aerys did learn of Lyanna being hidden away at Dragonstone. His fury towards
his son was so great the Mad King dispatched an entire fleet to the far-flung isle. Their
orders were not to capture Lyanna, or her child, but to put them to a traitor’s death.
Surely both would have perished if not for Jon Arryn, the Falcon King.

In his youth, Rhaegar had visited the Kingdom of Mountain and Vale. The older king
took a liking to the young Targaryen, with some Vale lords saying King Jon treated
Rhaegar like the son he never had. So there was little doubt when Rhaegar sent word to
the Eyrie, pleading for aid against Aerys’s fleet, that the falcon would soar.

When the Targaryen fleet arrived at Dragonstone, they found an Arryn armada out of
Gulltown awaiting them. For two days the battle did rage, on the seas and on the isle,
reaching the walls of the castle itself. Ships burned, men died, and during all this
savagery Lyanna gave birth to Rhaegar’s second son.

Jon Arryn and his valiant men would defeat their foes, driving off Aerys’s fleet and
securing Dragonstone for the rebel cause. The king asked for no reward for his deeds
yet Lyanna insisted on honoring him all the same.
Thus the princess who would one day become High Queen named her first and only son
after that noble king. Jonarys Targaryen, the first Targaryen in be born in Westeros
since the times of Aegon the Conqueror.

SANSA

“You’re Samwell Tarly, aren’t you?”

Her question was put gently, her smile a genuine one. Still, the large lordling she addressed
quivered under her gaze. Samwell Tarly was soft-bodied, with dark hair and a large-moon
face. He outweighed her by a vast amount yet his pale eyes were wide with fear as he looked
up from his book. The alcove the lordling sat within barely fit his girth, which made his
efforts to rise all the more awkward.

“I-I am, your grace.” Samwell stumbled to his feet, knocking a plate of cakes he’d been
snacking upon onto the ground. One splattered upon her skirts, staining them dark with
blackberry juices. “Forgive me! I, uh, I’m so clumsy! I did not mean-”

“I’ve suffered worse, my lord.” She folded her hands before her, continuing to smile. “A stain
is a small price to pay to discover a truly peaceful corner to read in. Especially on such a
dreary day.”

They both turned to the window within the alcove, where the rain could be seen falling on the
castle without. She had hopes the storm would be a passing one, since the twins disliked
thunder so and it could clash with tomorrow’s events.

“Aegon’s Garden is a fine spot as well.” Sansa continued, having grown quite fond of
Dragonstone’s small garden. “I’m there quite often, have you had a chance to visit it?”

“I have.” Samwell nodded in a nervous manner. “A short visit really. It can become crowded
at times, the men bring their ladies for walks there after the practice yard. I like to read in
peace… to have moments all to myself. Escapes of sorts.”

“I understand.”

Truly she did. To look at them, few would think Sansa and Samwell Tarly had much in
common. He was a son of the Reach, her a daughter of the North. Him a lordling, her a
princess. Yet they shared one crucial experience few others could attest to.

Samwell was a captive, much like Sansa had once been.

The eldest son and heir of Lord Randyll Tarly, Samwell had been captured by the Dornish
two years past during a raid. Ever since he’d been kept captive in Dorne, a hostage of Prince
Doran Martell. Though by all accounts he was not as valuable a prize as the Martells had
hoped.

“Lord Tarly cares little for Sam.” Sarella Sand had told Sansa when she inquired about the
lordling. “His father is a warrior, the finest commander in the Reach, and the slayer of a good
many Dornishman. The only thing Sam has ever slain is his father’s expectations of him.”

Sarella told Sansa how, rather than ransom his son, Lord Tarly had made several attempts to
provoke the Martells. As if he was trying to force their hand, whereby Samwell would be
slain. Sansa thought that a sad thing, yet felt altogether confused as to why Sarella chose to
share that with her. The Dornishwoman had not batted an eye to explain herself.

“You’re to be a queen of a new kingdom.” Sarella explained. “A court shall soon spring up
around you and Samwell could be a part of it. He might not be a warrior but he has the
potential to do good in this world. My uncle Doran sees that too, but his bannermen would
take it for weakness if he simply freed Sam. Yet to trade him… that’s a different matter.”

Though intrigued and sympathetic to Sam’s plight, Sansa needed to learn more about him
before considering Sarella’s suggestion. Thus she now came to him with an invitation.

“Samwell, may I call you Samwell?” She asked and he nodded sheepishly. “Splendid, well
I’ve come to invite you to attend my sister’s wedding on the morrow.”

“Me?” Samwell blinked incredulously. “Prince Quentyn spoke of the wedding as a small
affair. Only for the likes of royals and their closest retainers. I’m but a captive-”

“As is Tyrion Lannister and he shall be attending. I’ve already sought the permission of
Princess Arianne, and if you’re willing, she’s granted you leave to join us. It be a great boon
for Lord Gendry if more stood on his side of the sept. Outside of the High Queen and my
husband, he has few to play such a role.”

“I’d be honored.” Samwell smiled then, an earnest cherubic grin that faded too soon. “Oh.
I’ve no gift. My mother told me never to come to a wedding without a gift. Truly I don’t have
much to offer… this is embarrassing…”

May that be the worst embarrassment suffered during this wedding, Sansa thought, Let Arya
be calm and Gendry keep his nerve.

I’ll count my blessings if Aegon remains civil…

Or kiss the High Septon’s hands if Daenerys stays away altogether.

Sansa had a bad taste in her mouth when Samwell suddenly jerked his book up between
them.

“Would Princess Arya enjoy a book?” He asked excitedly. “I brought several here. Not this
one mind you, I borrowed it from the castle’s library. A Targaryen version of Red Sands, all
about the conquest of Dorne by the Reach and Storm kings. It really is a marvelous read. The
imperial scribe takes a much different take on things. Red Sands is all about the folly of a
king trying to rule lands he doesn’t understand or belong in, but this scribe argues…”

Samwell paused awkwardly, obviously acknowledging the parallels between the failed
conquest of Dorne and the new kingdom that Jon and Sansa were meant to build. It wasn’t an
example she’d considered yet, not that such worries were new. She simply did not have time
to wallow on them now.

“A book would be most welcome. Our maester at Winterfell called them the gift of wisdom,
the most important trait for any person to have.”

Samwell lowered his gaze. “My father would say strength is more important. He doesn’t care
much for maesters or books. Or me, really. Though I do have a book your sister might care
for. Is it true that the princess named her direwolf Nymeria?”

When she nodded the lordling perked up. Samwell had a book all about the Rhoynar warrior
princess and Sansa agreed that it would be a perfect gift. They continued to speak about
Samwell’s stay on Dragonstone after that. She learned that he was quite enamored with
Aemon Targaryen but was hesitant to voice an opinion on Viserys, who was to marry
Princess Arianne.

Talks like this had become routine during her stay at Dragonstone. In the last several weeks,
Sansa had met with nearly every highborn guest here on the isle. Those were weeks of
feasting and balls, where minstrels and performers from across the empire and the Seven
Kingdoms enthralled a crowd just as diverse. Many were brought to tears when the High
King and Princess Margaery played their high harps together. Those from the North could
take pride in Talia, who sang so wonderfully that none in the hall dared to touch their food
until she finished.

Arya’s wedding was meant to be another grand occasion. Unfortunately, like many other
things on Dragonstone, it proved to be a confusing and stressful affair.

She was still speaking with Samwell when they were discovered by one of those who
frustrated her of late. The poor lordling caught sight of Robb first, his eyes growing wide
with fear at the king’s choice of companions.

“Oh by the Mother… they’re so much bigger than I thought…”

Her brother was striding down the corridor with Grey Wind and Lady flanking his approach.
The two direwolves inspired such fear in Samwell that he was pressed up against the wall by
the time they arrived.

“They won’t bite.” Robb eyed the lordling with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Not unless I
tell them to. Or they’re hungry. Perhaps if they become bored…”

“Robb!” Sansa chided her brother before offering Samwell her hand. “I’m sorry we
interrupted your reading, my lord. Do enjoy your book. I look forward to seeing you on the
morrow.”

Samwell kissed her hand graciously. Whether for the invitation or for leading Robb and the
direwolves away, she couldn’t be sure. Once Samwell was out of hearing, Robb’s smile
melted away.
“You have to speak to her.” Robb took her arm as an escort, or to make sure she didn’t try
and escape. “She won’t listen to reason…”

“Which her are we speaking of?” She sighed. “Arya or mother?”

“Mother.” Robb frowned. “Wait, why Arya? Is she still being stubborn?”

“Arya’s being Arya. The last we spoke she agreed to go through with the wedding but I’m
worried she’ll change her mind again-”

“I’ll speak to Arya if you’ll speak to mother.” Robb shook his head in anger. “I can’t believe
her. She’s adamant about not coming back to Winterfell with us. It’s her home! Whatever
welcome Uncle Edmure offers at Riverrun won’t last forever. And it will be even worse at
Duskendale with Aunt Lysa. Her place is at Winterfell with her children. Sansa, you have to
help her to see-”

“It’s mother who will be helping me.” She took a deep breath, preparing herself for Robb’s
wrath. “She’s asked to stay with us when Jon and I move to our new home. Jon’s agreed and
she will be welcome to stay as long as she wants.”

Robb stopped midstride and looked at her like he did when they were children, as if she was
a naïve little girl and not a woman grown.

“Stay with you? Where? At that fort on the Blackwater?”

“At Castle Rosby for a time… and then yes, at the Aegonfort, when the work there is
finished.”

There was no denying that much work needed to be done to make that place fit for her family.
A palisade wall and timber keep had been raised by the Dark Order’s engineers atop Aegon’s
Hill in a relatively short time but Jon wanted more amenities built before he would even
consider moving the girls there permanently.

For one day it would be the capital of their new kingdom. Unlike his decision regarding
Daenerys’s bastard, Jon had sought her insight on where to build their new home.

“You’re sure about this?” He’d asked, pointing to where the three hills nestled against the
mouth of the Blackwater Rush. “There’s very little there Sansa. Everything we need we’ll
have to build ourselves. It’ll take time and we’ll lack for luxury-”

“It’s perfect.” Sansa couldn’t help picturing a paradise of their own making springing up
where those empty fields and hills now sat. “What better place could there be then the very
spot where you won the kingdom? That’s what the singers will remember when people speak
of how your dynasty started.”

“It is a strong position.” He had agreed, “The hills are easily defended, and when it comes
time to build walls the lands all around are flat. Storm’s End and Duskendale would be near
enough and I do like how the docks there are already built… the first landings of freedmen
could come tomorrow if we wanted.”
“And we will be there to welcome them! Any who wish to work can help us build our new
home. It will be a port unlike any other. A sanctuary, a haven for all…”

One day perhaps they would build such a place. Until then Sansa would have to find space
for her mother in the simple, martial fort that now sat upon Aegon’s Hill.

“Mother would choose a damp stack of timber over Winterfell?” Robb asked. “Father built a
sept for her there. They raised all of us there. They built a life there…”

“And now father is dead.” Her words caused Robb to flinch. However put out he sounded,
she sensed that much of this came from his wounded pride. “Robb, this isn’t about Myrcella.
However father’s death hurts us, it hurts mother more. I can’t imagine how she must feel, the
idea of returning to Winterfell without him there…”

“What of Bran? What am I to say to our little brother when I return home without her?”

“Bran’s almost a man grown, and you’ll be sending him on to rule the Dreadfort soon
enough. Rickon’s still young and he is staying with us. Mother wants to enjoy his last few
years of boyhood and to watch the twins grow. She loves them so, Robb. Please don’t make
her feel poorly for wanting to be with them.”

“I know she loves the girls.” Robb ran a hand through his auburn locks, furrowing his brow.
“I didn’t just ride south to avenge father. I wanted to protect our family. We won the war
and… and now I feel like I’m returning to Winterfell in defeat. I’ve lost all of you.”

“You won’t ride through the gates alone.” Sansa leaned up to peck at her older brother’s
cheek, cupping his bearded jaw to steady his gaze upon her. “Myrcella will be there. You’ll
come back a victor of great battles with a beauty of a wife on your arm. Father had to wait for
that. Mother came to Winterfell without him and you were already been born when he got
back. Take heart in your fortunes.”

“I do… I will.” Robb’s blue eyes, which all said were like her own, glistened some. “It’s
just… after seeing how good mother is with the girls, I wanted her to be there when… well,
when Myrcella has my child.”

“I’m sure she would make the journey…” She trailed off, for something in Robb’s tone gave
her pause. “Wait, is Myrcella with child? Robb?”

His smile was all the answer she needed. A moment later her happy cry echoed down the
corridor and Robb’s smile broke free as they embraced. The wolves whined some at the
sudden activity but Sansa was too intent on squeezing her brother so tight she felt her arms
might break.

“Cella didn’t want to take away from all your happy news.” Robb explained when they
finally parted. “She only told me because I noticed how sick she’s been lately… I’m so thick.
I thought Lady Genna’s pestering was the cause-”

“Forget Genna Lannister! You’re to be a father!”

Whatever squabbles the two siblings had, they were forgotten as Robb shared his joy with
her. She was truly happy for him and Myrcella, though that joy was tempered by how guilty
she felt for suspecting worse than Robb had. Myrcella’s absence from morning meals and
other activities had made mother suspicious, and Sansa in turn. It was a welcome thing when
Ser Barristan reported no meetings or messages between Myrcella and the other Lannisters at
the castle.

Though not for a lack of trying by Princess Genna. The Lannister woman was a force unto
herself. When Genna and her husband were first presented before High King Rhaegar and
Lyanna, the lioness made such the impression Sansa doubted any could describe the lord
afterwards. Princess Genna was the rare type of handsome beauty that came to women of her
age. Her form was shapely if not a little plump, with the green eyes and golden curls that
marked her a Lannister.

Yet by marriage, Genna came before them an Osgrey.

During Sansa’s captivity at Storm’s End, Genna’s marriage was often the subject of ridicule.
King Tytos Lannister could have secured any number of marriages for his only daughter, yet
he’d handed her off to a minor marcher lord of the Reach. Eustifer Osgrey came from a house
that once held great esteem, but their steady decline over the years left them a minor family.
With Genna as their lady, House Osgrey’s esteem had risen in recent years so that they were
now a part of King Mace’s court. Some remarked that the king’s mother, the Queen of
Thorns, enjoyed trading barbs with lioness.

Myrcella plainly did not. While Myrycella had enjoyed several meals with Tyrion among
mixed company, she steadfastly refused to do the same with Genna. Sansa’s mother, while
remaining wary, spoke well of Myrcella for that. Genna earned their ire for her repeated
requests of minstrels to play the Rains of Castamere.

It spoke volumes that the Lannister lady was only Sansa’s second least favorite woman on the
isle.

Daenerys Targaryen… men call her beautiful but I name her a liar… that and worse.

The confusing arrangement Daenerys had forced Jon into still enraged Sansa every time she
thought about it. He was a good man, a caring man, and the silver princess had exploited her
husband’s unending kindness. Whenever Daenerys was near, Sansa made it a point to turn her
back. When Rhaegar or Aemon suggested that the twins and Daenerys’s son share a cradle, as
Jon had done with Aegon and the princess, she refused to consider it.

Baelyon Targaryen was an innocent child. She knew that in her heart, and wished no harm
upon the little boy, but he wasn’t Jon’s son. That Jon could allow such rumors to persist not
only embarrassed her, it made her fear for their children’s future.

What if Daenerys isn’t content with Aemon’s lands in the empire? What if she wants her boy
to steal what rightfully belongs to our children here in Westeros?

What if I never give Jon the son he needs?

She was thinking on this after Robb left her side to seek Arya, while Sansa returned to the
twins. They would be growing hungry soon, so Sansa was pleasantly surprised to hear no
cries as she neared her chambers.

Yet when she entered, Sansa found something else to be upset about.

“Arya.”

She almost groaned her sister’s name. Arya was kneeling beside the bed with Nymeria by her
side, both focused on entertaining the two mewling babes laid out across the blankets.
Rhaegina and Aemma were both lying on their chests, lifting their heads to follow the toy
that Arya dangled before their faces. Aemma was calm as Rhaegina giggled and waved her
arms at it. Perhaps that was why Nymeria begin licking at Aemma’s cheek, to liven her up.

It certainly worked, for the babe began to kick in excitement as the direwolf’s tongue lapped
over her face.

“Nymeria, stop that.” Sansa softly chided the wolf as Lady ambled by her to force the other
direwolf back. “Arya, I’ve told you not to let her do that. Where are Jeyne and Talia?”

“I told them to go away.” Arya cradled her head in her arms, refusing to look away from the
girls. “And that I’m not getting married.”

Mother above, give me strength.

“You didn’t say that. Tell me you didn’t.” She pled with both Arya and the gods. Only her
sister answered, with a long exhale.

“I didn’t… but I should’ve. Jeyne wouldn’t shut up about her gown and Olyvar being her
escort. Let her get married if she wants a wedding so bad.”

“Arya please, we talked about this.” Sansa shut the door and moved quickly to drop down
beside her sister. She had to pull Arya about for the princess to even look her way. “This is so
important. Gendry needs a highborn bride, with ties to House Stark and respectable enough
for the Stormlords to accept. After Robb married Myrcella-”

“That’s not my fault.” Arya grumbled. “Why do I have to marry that dumb aurochs just
because Robb married a Lannister? I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“This isn’t a punishment.” She groaned which set Rhaegina to whining, so Sansa set to
rubbing the babe’s back while trying to ease Arya’s mind. “I know you’re scared. So was I.
Marrying Jon was terrifying but when it was done and we were together… I’ve never been
happier.”

Arya scowled and rose to her feet, dropping the toy which Aemma happily stuck in her
mouth. There was no mirth in Arya as she began to pace about the room.

“That’s different! You and Jon are perfect for each other.”

“We weren’t, not at first-”

“Sure you were, everyone saw it. Even Hodor.” Arya went to the window and stared out at
the rain. “Gendry’s a lord now. A new lord with a new house, so let him find a new betrothed
instead of me.”

“It’s not that simple.”

That was true. Rhaegar and Jon’s negotiations with the High Septon were successful in many
ways. The Faith would accept the founding of a new kingdom, with a Targaryen king, as long
as some conditions were met. Yet their attempts to have Gendry legitimized as a Durrandon
had not borne fruit.

“It would be an affront to the Seven and lords alike.” The High Septon had said, his bushy
eyebrows rising in alarm. “King Robert acknowledged the boy Gendry as a bastard, but never
as a son. To raise a bastard up when trueborn children still live would create a dangerous
precedent across the Seven Kingdoms. You may name him as Lord of Storm’s End, but I
cannot name him a son of that castle, nor the noble house of the Durrandons.”

Lyanna was furious until Jon proposed an entirely new option. Rather than trying to name
Gendry as heir to an existing house, he sought to resurrect an extinct one.

“House Baratheon.” Aemon had spoken the name with a grave respect. “Orys Baratheon was
Aegon the First’s greatest commander and his strong right hand. Yet when he died, his house
died with him. Orys left no heirs of his body… none in the empire that is.”

Aemon had produced scrolls, written by Orys’s own scribes, which declared him the father of
the Storm Queen Argella Durrandon’s bastard son, a boy who saved the unmarried Argella
from being the last Durrandon. That bastard heir had allowed the Durrandon dynasty to
survive by fathering a line of kings.

“You are not the Durrandon heir by the laws of bastardy.” Rhaegar told Gendry with grave
significance. “Yet if you were to take the esteemed and old name of House Baratheon, you
would have irrefutable blood rights to that once great house.”

Gendry accepted their will, jesting dryly that he had no better ideas. The High Septon held
little objection to blessing a restored house with an esteemed name to match it. Yet Gendry
Baratheon would require more than just a name, and the Faith’s approval, to rule the
Stormlands. He needed what Arya represented, namely the backing of both the Targaryens
and the Starks. Nor could any child of Myrcella and Robb’s union make to claim rights to
Storm’s End without facing the prospect of kinslaying.

None of that served to comfort Arya it seemed. Her sister was trembling when she hugged
herself and turned her back to Sansa.

“I don’t want this, Sansa. I don’t. Please don’t make me…”

The last part had a pleading note to it. One Sansa couldn’t ignore. Up until then, Arya’s
complaints were mostly about Gendry’s alleged stupidity, or that Robb should be the one to
marry Gendry to mend his folly with Myrcella. Protests which sounded immature and
stubborn, considering how few ladies were ever consulted before being handed off in
marriage.

Most weren’t given the choice Sansa had and she couldn’t help but look to the twins then.
She felt ashamed to be pressuring Arya in front of them. With a new sense of understanding,
she rose to seek Arya. Lady leapt up onto the bed in her stead, laying near enough to Aemma
and Rhaegina to comfort them as Sansa made to do the same to her sister.

“Oh Arya.” She laid a hand upon Arya’s shoulder, taking notice how a tear traced a tear down
her sister’s face. “I swear I won’t force you to marry. Neither will Jon. If I tell him how you
feel, he’ll stop the wedding. He’ll find a way.”

“Really?” Arya wiped at her face and she nodded.

“He would. Jon was willing to spare me such once. To be honest, I think Gendry is of the
same sort. If he knew how much you didn’t want this, he would understand. All I’ve heard
him speak about is treating you right.”

Arya said nothing to that but her fists flexed in such a way that confused her.

“We weren’t trying to make you unhappy.” Sansa continued. “Mother and I thought you
might be happy with Gendry. You seemed quite fond of him at Winterfell.”

“Winterfell was awhile ago.”

“Did something happen?” She grew worried. Perhaps Gendry had fooled them all like Joffrey
had fooled her. “You danced with him at the wedding… did he try and force you to do
something more?”

“What?” Arya screwed up her face in anger. “No, Gendry didn’t do anything! I mean, it was
me who kissed him.”

“You kissed Gendry?!” Sansa cried in shock before Arya stuck a hand over her mouth to
quiet her. They both looked back at the twins, who were more interested in swatting at Lady.

“You’ll set the girls off after I got them all quiet.” Arya shook her head and lowered her hand
away. “I kissed him, after we left you and Jon. We didn’t go back to the feast, only the
godswood. He had a skin of wine and it tasted good. I figured he tasted better. So I kissed
him.”

Sansa wanted to be upset but who was she to judge? A part of her found it somewhat
romantic. Arya and Gendry, standing in the godswood, the stars shining over them as the
princess stole a kiss from the warrior. It fit bold little Arya well. What didn’t fit was Arya’s
reaction now.

“Was it a bad kiss? Did he go too far?”

“No…” Arya bit her lip. “It was nice. Jeyne went on and on about his muscles, and I like
that, but his lips are soft and I like that too. I liked … I liked all of it. Then the idiot ruined
everything. He made us stop and started apologizing, acting like he was the one who kissed
me! Saying things like, like how a bastard had no right to kiss a princess, that he was being
unfair to me. He wouldn’t listen to me and then- and then we were fighting! He made me feel
like a fool for kissing him at all- Hey! Stop smiling!”

“I can’t help it.” Sansa admitted, trying to force the grin from her face. A part of her wished
she could have seen the whole thing. “Arya, it sounds like Gendry was trying to be gallant.”

“He was being an arse. The rest of the time he was at Winterfell, he wouldn’t even look at
me. Like nothing even happened! Not that I cared. I was too busy ignoring him. Now I get
down south and he’s trying to give me flowers and talk about riding… I can outride him any
day…”

“So this is why you won’t marry him?” She asked, eyeing how Nymeria was once more
moving towards Aemma’s face. “Because of some silly fight? Arya, Jon and I were awkward
as well-”

“Really awkward.” It was Arya’s turn to grin. “Bran thought Jon was going to faint at the
wedding. I wagered his new bow that Jon would retch first.”

She bit her tongue to hold back her defense of Jon’s nerves. He might have acted nervous but
he had also been caring and gentle with her. Memories from their wedding came flooding
back and it stung to think how far they’d come since then… only for Daenerys to drive this
wedge between them.

She didn’t steal him away truly, it was I who pushed him from my bed.

He makes to dance with me but none we’ve shared here have been as sweet as those in
Winterfell…

I miss the dancing… I miss his touch... I miss him.

She forced herself to focus on Arya once more. Nothing Arya mentioned seemed to be what
was stoking the girl’s turmoil so Sansa pressed her.

“I think you like Gendry.” Her words caused Arya to make a face that she ignored. “I would
go so far as to say that you are fond of him, a feeling which could grow if you gave it a
chance. So why fight this marriage? You’ll have to tell Jon something if he’s going to argue
for any changes to the High King’s plans for Storm’s End.”

“It is Storm’s End!” Arya snapped. “Alright? I don’t want it! How could you think I would?
After everything they did to you there!? I hate that place!!”

“You’ve never even been there-”

“I still cursed it! For years and years! For every day they had you, I prayed it would break
and burn so you could escape! After you came back and I saw what they did... I wanted it
gone. I wanted Storm’s End to be torn apart! To be scorched and ruined!”

Like Joffrey did to me…

No… like he tried to do to me… I must remember that.

She tried to comfort Arya but her sister turned back to the window again, her eyes as grey as
the clouds as she watched the rain falling with a stubborn pride.

“All of you want me to live in a castle I cursed. Robb and mother go on and on about how I’ll
have to help Gendry rule and make the Stormlords our friends. Our friends? How am I
supposed to do that? A few years ago they were killing northmen and helping Joffrey keep
you prisoner!”

“They served a foul king but now they will serve a new one.” She put a reassuring hand on
Arya’s back, surprised that her sister didn’t shake it off.

“Not if you make me Lady of Storm’s End.” Arya bit her lip again. “Gendry could be a great
lord but I’d only ruin things. Septa Mordane couldn’t make me a lady. They killed her at
Storm’s End. My new home. You are sweet and kind and know all your courtesies and the
sigils and look how they hurt you.”

“The guilty have suffered for that-”

“And your kingdom will be worse off if I marry Gendry.” Arya pressed her face into her
hands. “I’m glad you’re a queen now, Sansa, really I am, but I can’t rule over those people.
I’m not like you… I can’t do this.”

All this took Sansa off guard, Arya had done well in hiding these worries. There was no
question that Gendry’s lordship of Storm’s End would be hard for others to accept, leading to
difficulties and, perhaps, more fighting. Yet the idea that the Stormlords might not accept
Arya as a lady had never been a great concern, to Sansa or to the others.

“We’re very different, you and I” She leaned against the wall, preening Arya’s hair some.
“You’re right, you’re not like me. You’re more like mother.”

Arya laughed without mirth. “You’re mad.”

“I’m not. Think of mother and how it was for her when she first came to Winterfell. A
southron flower suddenly made the Queen in the North. She had to face Roose Bolton, the
Greatjon, Rickard Karstark, the mountain clans, but did she ever hide from them?”

“Never.” Arya spoke with pride. “I remember the time the Greatjon got too drunk and made
Bran cry so she had the servants deny him wine. She kept the Greatjon from wine! He nearly
flipped a table but mother stood her ground.”

“I’m sure she did. Some would call that stubbornness though.” Sansa was now smiling at all
she’d never considered before. “To earn the respect of father’s bannermen, mother had to be
strong, and brave, and have a stubborn dedication to winning them over. Does that remind
you of someone?”

“That’s different! You’re twisting things around!”

“Arya, you make friends with everybody. Already you stand up to men who other ladies shy
from. Any you don’t win over at least learn to respect you. That’s why we want you at
Storm’s End. I never once worried about how you would rule. If anything, Gendry needs your
help. We all do. I trust you to do this Arya.”

Sansa meant it with all her heart. Somehow in the midst of her words, her hand had started
stroking Arya’s cheek. The sisters had never been close but something felt natural about this.
Arya didn’t pull away from her touch. In fact she leaned into it some, like the direwolves
would when Sansa acted so tender with them.

It was Nymeria who broke them apart. The wolf had started licking Aemma’s face again and
this time it set the babe to wailing. Sansa made to snatch the little one into her arms but
paused mid-step.

“Would you mind?” She looked to Arya, who acted confused at first but quickly had Aemma
cradled against her chest. When Arya offered the babe back to her Sansa shook her head.

“Give it time. She’ll settle.” She lifted Rhaegina up into her arms, being sure to show Arya
how the babe’s purple eyes were locked right on her aunt. “They trust you too, my girls. It’s
them I worry on. All of this is about more than a new kingdom for me, Arya. It’s about
building a future for these two. For all of us.”

“What if I keep you from that?” Arya asked, lifting the calming Aemma up so they were face
to face. “I love you, Sansa. I love Aemma and Rhaegina. I’m pretty sure I like Gendry. I
don’t want to ruin things for any of you.”

“You could never. Not this lady who holds my daughter with such care. Storm’s End was a
place of nightmares for me, Arya. For me and many others. You are strong enough to change
things. Storm’s End needs you. I need you.”

Those words came from her heart, so she was distressed when Arya sighed at them. The
princess’s gaze moved ponderously between Rhaegina and Aemma before Arya closed her
eyes and furrowed her brow in thought. When they opened, Arya kissed Aemma’s tiny brow
and rested the babe against her shoulder. Aemma nuzzled there as Arya leaned down to
whisper in her daughter’s ear.

“I thought Bran was going to have a hard time with the Dreadfort.” Arya whispered, closing
her eyes again. “Can’t let him look better than me now can I, little one? I couldn’t help your
mother when she needed it so I can’t very well let her down now. Let us make a deal,
Aemma. When you’re older, you and your sister, you must come visit me at Storm’s End. I
swear it’ll be a better place by then.”

Arya met Sansa’s gaze and the two sisters reached out to hold each other’s hands.

“I’ll marry the fool.” Arya’s face was firm with determination. “I’ll marry him and tell him
about my promise to the twins. That we have to make Storm’s End the best damn castle in all
of…”

She paused then and cocked her head in confusion.

“Hey, I still don’t know its name. What are you calling your kingdom?”

JON

“To the Kingdom of the Highlands!”

Ser Dontos Holland raised his sword in victory, earning a mighty cheer from the many
onlookers. Hundreds ringed the castle yard or watched from the stands as Dontos’s challenger
was being helped to his feet. The crowd was becoming livelier as the day went on, though
none more so than Rickon, who jumped up and down between Robb and Jon.

“The Daunting! That’s three now!” Rickon clapped excitedly until Robb cuffed him upside
the head. “Hey! What was that for?”

“You spilled my wine!” Robb frowned and Rickon quickly searched the boards, finding no
sign of any wine.

“No I didn’t!”

“Oh, well my cup is still empty.” Robb smiled Jon’s way. “Could I bother you by sending
having your squire fetch me some more wine, King Jon?”

He nodded to Rickon’s dismay. “I’m sure he would be honored, King Robb.”

“Oh no, please! I might miss Thoros! He always sets his blades on fire!”

“Then you had best hurry.” Sansa leaned in from Jon’s other side, her expression stern. “And
it is a poor squire who argues against the wishes of his king.”

Rickon grumbled at that but took Robb’s cup nonetheless before running off. His movements
were so hurried that he jostled Myrcella’s chair some and Robb made to swat at his brother
again.

“That little- Jon, let me take him back to Winterfell. I’ll have him mucking out stables until
he’s cleared out more shit than he has in his-”

“It was an accident.” Myrcella reached out to take Robb’s hand, her other hand pressed
against her middle. “No harm done, we’re all still here.”

The Queen in the North wore a jade gown which brought out her eyes yet paled in radiance to
the smile she gave Robb. Their happiness matched the jovial mood of the festivities. The
duels being fought today were the last in a long contest, drawn from the finest warriors
gathered here on the island. Westerosi knights and lords joined with imperial warriors and
members of the Highguard in fantastic displays of skill.

The High King and Queen sat upon the tallest part of the stands where Jon’s father showed
little interest in the duels, preferring to converse with King Mace one seat below him. The
seating had been carefully arranged, with the Dornish and the Reach lords kept as far apart as
possible. The Martells sat to the left of Robb’s party, the Gardeners to the right of the
imperial family, with Jon’s party spread out in between.

It was queer to see Queen Catelyn and Tyrion Lannister sitting side by side. The dowager
queen had insisted on such an arrangement. Sansa explained that it was to keep Tyrion and
Myrcella as far apart as possible. It didn’t escape his notice that this also created distance
between Sansa and Daenerys as well. His wife wanted nothing to do with Dany, and Jon
would not force her to act any differently.

Not when things were finally getting better between them.

A trumpet broke into his musings as the next challengers appeared in the dueling square.
Murmurs of excitement went up when Mace’s third son, Prince Loras, strode into the yard to
challenge a Highguard warrior, a Sarnori who towered over the knight. Jon was more
interested in how Sansa’s hand entwined with his own. Such a simple touch, yet one he still
felt unworthy after all his failings.

“The Prince of Flowers must be mad.” Sansa blinked in disbelief. “That man is taller than the
Mountain! What manner of person is he?”

“A Sarnori.” Arya answered before he could. She sat to the other side of Sansa with her eyes
glued on the challengers as well. “They’re called the Tall Men and there’s not many of them
left. The Dothraki destroyed their kingdom, right Gendry?”

“My lady has a good memory.” Gendry nodded from Arya’s right, earning a mild slap to his
shoulder for that.

“Don’t call me my lady.”

“As you command, lady wife.”

That earned another slap from Arya but a laugh as well. Sansa squeezed Jon’s hand some to
watch the newlyweds behave so warmly.

Things had been going well since the wedding, a truly touching event that Jon counted his
blessing to have witnessed. Arya was smaller in stature than Gendry, but in her wedding
gown she’d made an impressive sight. Her slender shape had been complimented well by the
white dress she wore that day. The blue flowers interwoven through her dark braids had made
Arya look every bit a true princess.

It fell to Gendry to make her the new Lady of Storm’s End.

He might not have been able to use the Durrandon name, yet mother made sure that none
would question who Gendry’s father was. The new House Baratheon had adopted the
Durrandon sigil and words, so when Gendry draped the goldren bridal cloak over Arya’s
shoulders it bore a black, crowned stag. The whole affair was a strange one for Jon. Seven
years ago he and Gendry had donned the black cloaks of the Dark Order together as sworn
brothers. Now they were free of those vows, and made good brothers by marriage. Their
futures tied to the new vows they swore to their wives.
It was during Gendry’s wedding feast that Sansa gave Jon the chance to act a proper husband
again. They danced for Arya and Gendry’s happiness and then for their own. No mention of
Dany or Baelyon was made. Only talk of their beloved daughters and all the hopes that Sansa
held for them and their new kingdom. Not long after the bedding, Sansa had invited Jon back
to her rooms and shared her bed with him once more. Little rest was had that night, and his
exhaustion the next morning was of the most welcome kind.

It would be good to wake that tired on the morrow… perhaps Catelyn could watch over the
girls so that I might tend to their mother…

“Jon, that’s not kind.” Sansa jerked on his hand some, bidding him to pay attention to the
dueling warriors below. “How can you smile at poor Loras’s suffering?”

“I didn’t realize I was.” He spoke truthfully, for he barely registered the young prince being
knocked down by the Highguard. “Loras is not done yet. Look, he rises as we speak.”

Not only did the Loras gain his feet again, but the handsomely armored prince took his
challenger to task for daring to dirty his gleaming armor. Loras’s sword became a blur, his
attacks carefully timed to take advantage of the Highguard’s wide arcs. Jon and Gendry
shared a nod of respect for Loras’s abilities. They agreed earlier that the Reach prince was
one of the finest swordsmen either of them had ever seen. Thus it came as little shock when
Loras succeeded in knocking the taller man off balance, and then onto his knees, where the
prince forced him to yield.

“Loras!” Margaery cheered her brother, standing to clap. “Loras! Highgarden!”

Half the castle joined in the applause at Loras’s victory. Sansa and Jon did the same but her
expression betrayed some worry.

“Oh no.” Sansa whispered to him as they sat down. “That means Barristan could face Loras
next. I fear that Loras is too fast for my dear knight.”

“I wouldn’t worry about Barristan.” He placed his hand over her leg in comfort. “He’s the
last man I’d want to face in this contest. If I was to wager on the victor, my coin would be on
the Bold.”

“A king should not wager.” She smiled and raised her chin a haughty way before teasing him.
“Were you made a king only yesterday?”

“At least three days past, by my reckoning. Alas, I will never match my queen in grace or
refinement. My children were fortunate to take after her in looks-”

“Ugh.” Arya rolled her eyes before turning to Gendry. “Don’t you ever speak to me like
that.”

“Yes, my dear lady wife- OW!”

Gendry was battling off Arya’s attack when he suddenly stiffed and stared at something in the
yard, jerking his chin to grab Jon’s attention.
“Jon, it’s the Blackfyre.”

Indeed it was. Daegon Blackfyre stepped out into the cobbled yard in a dull grey suit of
armor. The brightest thing the exile carried was his shield, painted bright red and bearing the
black dragon of his house. What Daegon lacked in decoration the knight made up for in
martial skill. He held a string of victories over stiff opponents and his next challenger was as
fierce a fighter as any.

“It’s Thoros!” Rickon’s bellowed as he returned, the squire holding two goblets of wine in his
hand. Only one of which he gave to Robb. “Ser Daegon challenged him! I saw it! The Dark
Order men were shouting things at him and then he called out Thoros. I don’t think the order
men liked that.”

“No, they wouldn’t.” Jon watched Thoros square off with the Blackfyre, an oiled sword in
each hand. Both men glaring at one another. “The Blackfyres and the Dark Order have a long
and ugly history.”

“It might get uglier in a few moments.” Gendry added to which Robb raised an eyebrow.

“I thought the Golden Legion were the order’s rivals?”

“There’s more blood than rivalry between us and Daegon’s family. The Blackfyres once
named us their blood enemies.”

“The order, not you.” Sansa touched his shoulder. “Not any longer. And your father said that
was all in the past. Would he lift Ser Daegon’s exile if it wasn’t so?”

“Thoros is still in the order though.” Rickon sipped from his goblet, eyes locked on the yard.
“Do you think they might fight to the death-”

“Hey!” Robb grabbed at Rickon’s wrist. “Whose wine is that?”

“Mine!”

“You mean Lord Baratheon’s.” Jon commanded gruffly. “Give it over to Gendry before I
decide my armor needs polishing.”

A sharp clang interrupted his admonishing of Rickon, for the duel had started. Thoros began
as he always did, striking his swords together so sparks ignited the oil on his blades. The
flames drew an awed sound from the spectators before the two warriors came together in a
flurry of steel and fire. Daegon and Thoros battled less like men in a sporting duel and more
like two combatants locked in a fight for survival. Gone was the calm grace Daegon had
shown while sparring with Gendry in the gardens.

Thoros appeared intent on hacking away Daegon’s shield bit by bit. The knight’s sword
lashed out like a whip to defend against Thoros’s burning blades before launching strikes of
his own. Jon wasn’t surprised when blood was shed. One of Daegon’s cuts sliced through the
mail on Thoros’s side, his blade coming away reddened. Sansa gasped then. She held a
special liking of Thoros after what he did for Aemma.
Thoros showed no signs of slowing though. The warrior priest waved his swords between the
dueling warriors again and again, an old trick where the flames confused the eyes. When
Thoros struck again, Daegon moved his shield a bit too far to his left, the following blow
loosening his grip terribly. As the knight fumbled to regain it, Thoros cut with both blades
against Daegon’s one, tearing the sword from his grasp. Without a weapon, Daegon tried to
fight with only his shield, which was hacked half to ruin by the time Thoros pointed the fiery
tip of his blade inches from the knight’s face.

“Yield, ser.” Thoros spoke breathlessly. “You fought well, you drew blood. The insult was
answered. Yield.”

Daegon looked ready to spit when he spoke. “Yield.”

The crowd swiftly took to clapping afterwards, with Rickon shouting Thoros’s name so
loudly that his voice cracked. Yet Jon took no joy in the bout. As Daegon stormed into the
sidelines several order men eyed the knight with dangerous malice. That caused Jon to feel a
pull of responsibility too hard to ignore.

“If you would excuse me, I feel the need to stretch my legs.”

“But Darkstar is next!” Rickon pointed to the yard. “Aren’t you mad at him for what he did to
Tumco?”

“Tumco will heal.” Jon waved the boy off but found Sansa gripping his arm.

“This is about the order, isn’t it?” She whispered up to him. “You’re the King of the
Highlands now, not their Lord-Commander. Let someone else-”

He leaned down to kiss her cheek. “There is no one else, not yet at least. They haven’t elected
a new leader and if I can head off trouble I will.”

Sansa wasn’t convinced but she still let him go all the same. He wanted to prevent any further
bloodlshed between the order and Blackfyres, even if he still wasn’t convinced of his father’s
reasons for bringing Daegon to the island.

“The Blackfyres saw this day coming.” Father had told him. “The day a Targaryen would
forge a kingdom here in Westeros. This young man has done us no harm, and through him we
could set aside troubles of the past. Give him a chance, my son.”

A fresh beginning was something Jon could appreciate. As he descended the stands, he
passed many men who had once taken up arms against him. Riverlords and Stormlords, lords
from north of the Blackwater, many had fought him but now all called Jon their king. Some,
like Royner Darklyn and Myles Mooton, regarded him warmly and smiled when he passed.
Others, such as Jon Connington and Selwyn Tarth, were more cautious, and he worried for
how many outright despised him.

He was in the middle of making a silent list when a voice called out to him.

“King Jon!”
He turned to see Tyrion Lannister atop the stairs he’d just climbed down. The dwarf prince’s
mismatched eyes stared back into Jon’s as he hobbled with his strange gait.

“I overheard you saying you wished to stretch your legs. Seeing as mine are quite crooked, I
thought I would join you. Unless I’m meant to be chained to my seat?”

“Queen Catelyn gave you leave to follow me?” He asked his captive, noting how Tyrion was
being followed by two Targaryen spearmen.

“I told her I needed to use the privy. Do not fret, I intend to let one of my protectors help me
wipe, and to task the second one with comforting the first.”

Jon frowned at the jest, feeling quite sure he did not want Tyrion Lannister following him as
he dealt with this Blackfyre business.

“It would be better if you went back. I have matters to attend to. This is no true pleasure
stroll.”

“And I do not truly have to shit. So let us talk on what else we have in common, besides
being liars.”

Jon was incredulous. “You name me a liar?”

“You just named yourself a liar. I simply agreed.” Tyrion grinned in a lopsided manner. “Your
grace, a few moments of shared words during your walk and then you can discard me at your
leisure.”

A cheer went up from the crowd and he knew he’d been delayed long enough, so Jon nodded
and bid Tyrion to follow him. As they moved about the edges of the spectators, many bowed
before his coming.

Jon sighed. “If you mean to ask for your freedom once more, I must refuse you again.”

“Actually, I beg leave to write a letter to Casterly Rock.” Tyrion replied. “To inform my
father and the rest of my family that Myrcella is with child. I also hope to secure a stipend
from my father for my needs here in your new kingdom.”

“King Tywin has made it known that he does not recognize the Highlands as a kingdom.”

“You would be surprised at the ugly truths that my father has grown to accept.” Tyrion
replied. “I for one am quite intrigued to see how this all works out. You’re aiming to raise a
new port at the mouth of the Blackwater. Will you be building in the imperial or Westerosi
style?”

“A mix.” Jon paused then, hearing a commotion off to the side of the yard.

Out of a group of Highguard, Ethan appeared. The scarred man donned his helm and lifted
his axe before heading on to the dueling yard. It did not take Jon long to realize who Darkstar
had challenged for his next bout.
He just hurt Ethan’s comrade and now Darkstar wants to risk his wrath?

Is the man as dim as his name suggests?

“Ethan, he is an ally.” Jon said as the grim warrior walked by. “Try not to hurt him.”

“I’ll try.” Ethan grunted unconvincingly as he moved through the onlookers to meet his
challenger.

“Charming man.” Tyrion watched Ethan’s departure. “Queen Lyanna’s Highguard, is he not?
I think I saw him nearly smile during your coronation. A fine affair, the High Septon was in
top form. You purchased the best of the Faith.”

Jon grimaced at the truth of that. Unlike Luceon, the High Septon came off as a kindly old
man. Yet to win his support, and the Faith’s, much had been given. The empire would build a
grand new septry in Andalos, near to the sacred hills of Hugor, the first king of the Andals.
Father pledged imperial protection for all pilgrimages by the faithful to the holy place. The
High King intended to join the High Septon in the first of such journeys and had already sent
word to Volantis for Arthur Dayne to prepare a magnificent procession for them when the
time came.

All of this earned Jon the right to have the High Septon anointed him with the seven oils and
placed the crown upon his head. A crown his father had gifted him, the same crown that
Aegon the Conqueror had worn during his reign. Jon held a healthy respect for that crown,
yet had not worn it since that ceremony, declaring that he would only do so again when Sansa
had a matching crown of her own.

How can I act a king without my queen?

“Have you exercised the king’s right yet?” Tyrion asked. “To choose your advisor from the
Faith? The Most Devout might select the High Septon, but it is for you and any other king to
choose which of the Faithful will serve you in all things.”

“Yes, the High Septon told me of this. He has offered a list of men who he thinks are
capable-”

“Throw it away, all spies and lickspittles no doubt. If there are any lords you trust, seek their
views on who to choose. You must have a man beholden to you and not the High Septon. It
matters not if Holy Hugor cares for your choice, only that you make the right one.”

That made sense to him. What didn’t make sense was why this advice was coming from a
Lannister. He was about to question Tyrion’s motives in offering such wisdom when a loud
crash and a wave of gasps bid Jon to look toward the yard. He saw Darkstar crumpled on the
ground, his helm smashed in and twisted nearly all the way around. As the man writhed
about, Ethan departed the yard with a small smile, secure in his victory, his longaxe resting
against his shoulder.

“I said try and not hurt him.” Jon said when Ethan drew near.
“I did.”

“And you hurt him.”

“I did.”

The Highguard’s unapologetic crushing of Darkstar was something mother would have to
deal with, or perhaps Sansa. He imagined one of them was already seeking Princess Arianne
to soothe any insult done. Yet when he looked to the royal viewing stands, he saw Viserys at
the princess’s side, whispering in her ear.

There was no reason to suspect Viserys’s words to be any sort of poison. The couple was
betrothed after all but his uncle made it easy for Jon to think the worst of him. Such was why
he had kept Viserys from taking part in Arya’s bedding. Viserys had made one too many
vulgar comments regarding his taste for northern flesh for Jon to feel comfortable allowing
him a hand in the strange bedding custom. As the women started to strip Gendry of his
doublet, and the men lifted Arya onto their shoulders, Jon had ordered Viserys to keep his
seat.

“Whatever Rhaegar’s follies, you are no king of mine.” Viserys had hissed in Valyrian before
trying to rise again. Jon had taken hold of his shoulder then, causing his uncle to wince.

“I could break your collarbone right now for a thousand reasons, uncle. I show restraint, so
do the same. Having the power to do a thing does not mean it should be done.”

“Soon I will have power of my own.” Viserys shot back, his eyes full of rage. “An entire
kingdom! Then it will be you who is dealt some lessons, nephew.”

The threat felt idle at the time, yet the prospect of Viserys one day ruling Dorne beside
Princess Arianne was not a pleasant one. Jon prayed that Prince Doran would live many years
more. He hoped the same for his father as well, if only to give him and Aegon time to
become civil again. His brother had not bothered to attend the day’s festivities, unlike Jon’s
coronation where he had smiled smugly the whole while.

I am granted a kingdom whereas one day Aegon shall rule the empire.

Two realms bound together in a fraternity that eludes my brother and me.

“Hear me!” A steward bellowed from near to where father and mother sat. “The final
matches are set to begin! Taking part shall be as follows: Prince Loras of House Gardener, for
the Kingdom of the Reach! Ser Barristan Selmy for the Kingdom of the Highlands! Ser
Dontos-”

“The name is stupid.” Tyrion’s spoke over the herald, earning a sharp look from Jon. “No
offense intended your grace. Some genius named my family’s lands, The Kingdom of the
Rock. Not the most attractive of names. What made you settle on Kingdom of the
Highlands?”
“My wife and mother chose it together.” Jon grumbled as he quickened his pace, having
caught sight of Daegon leading a few order men through a nearby gate. “High King,
Highlands, they thought it the best way to harken imperial roots-”

“Yes, yes, clever. What of this new capital of yours? Is it to be called Hightown? Highport?
King’s Fall, perhaps?”

Jon stopped midstride and wheeled about to face the smaller man. His fists clenched and the
sounds of the crowd caused the battle of Aegon’s Hill to return to him. Asher’s face sprang to
mind, his friend choking on blood. Then Joffrey’s face came, purple and bloated as Jon
strangled the life from him.

“Your nephew earned his fate.” He growled as took a step forward, causing Tyrion to back
away some. “Good men died to bring an end to his tyranny and I will not have you make
light of that.”

“A poor jest, sorry.” Tyrion said, looking somewhat abashed. “Though you must know, some
will call it that, no matter what name you settle upon. That or worse. Even among your own
supporters I’ve heard the word Kingslayer whispered-”

“Enough of your needling.” Jon waved to Tyrion’s escort. “Take the prince to the privy. From
what I’ve heard, he’s clearly in need of one.”

Tyrion tried to protest but Jon refused to hear any more, giving the prince leave to write his
letters before he was off again. That the Lannister offered sage advice one moment only to
insult him in the next breath was maddening. He found Tyrion to be good company at times
but less welcome than the white direwolf that padded to his side now.

Of late Sansa had been pressing him into accepting his own contingent of Highguard but he
felt Ghost was the only escort he truly needed most days. Yet when he entered one of the
inner courtyards the scene he came up made Jon wish he had made the time to look into
Sansa’s proposal

Daegon stood with his back against a stone wall, three order men surrounding him. All had
their hands to their swords yet none had drawn them so far. It did not take long for Jon to
recognize Daegon’s opponents.

Chief among them was Craghas, a Myrish sergeant who cursed Daegon in the low Valryian
of his homeland.

“In Myr, mothers still scare their children with tales of Blackfyres coming to snatch them
away for sacrifice. They remember well your crimes there.”

“My family never murdered children.” Daegon shot back in Myrish. “Unlike the Dark
Order.”

“You enslaved the young though.” Brendel Byrne barked. “That’s how my family came to
Essos. Blackfyres stealing us away from our homes to be put on the auction block.”
“And you serve an empire that does far worse.” Daegon replied. “Our quarrels are ended. The
High King bid me to lay down my vendetta against the Dark Order and I have.”

Brendel grunted. “Didn’t look like that to me. Not with Thoros all cut up.”

“That’s our sworn brother.” Malo added as the three closed in. “We stand with him and you
did him harm. The High King never commanded us to forgive that.”

“Then hear me do so.”

The order men spun about at that, each one driving a fist to his chest in salute while Daegon
merely watched.

“Lord-Commander-”

“I’m not your commander, not any longer.” Jon walked about, looking the three up and down
as if inspecting them. “If I was, I would be forced to punish you for threatening a guest in this
castle, a man under the protection of House Targaryen.”

“He drew first blood.” Malo snarled and Jon went straight to him, coming so close that their
faces nearly touched.

“In a contest, one Thoros agreed to take part in. Thoros gave every bit as much as he got. He
was content with his victory, so should you be. Now go back and add your voices to his
cheers.”

“And leave you here?” Brendel asked, jerking a thumb at Daegon. “With that?”

“I am well-guarded.” He gestured to Ghost but none of the order men were won over.

“You might not be our commander, but you are a king.” Craghas spoke for lot of them. “A
brother for life. Let our spears and swords be with you.”

Despite his disappointment with them, Jon was heartened by his former comrade’s loyalty.
He accepted the three as guards yet made them step back a ways while he took stock of the
Blackfyre before him. The two men had not spoken more than a handful of words in weeks
and if Jon was to accept Daegon as a part of his new realm, he would need to know this
former enemy better.

“I apologize for my- for them.” He eyed how Daegon’s hand remained on the pommel of his
sword. “You have no reason to fear me ser. Not so long as you keep the vows you made to
my father.”

The young knight surprised him by laughing at that, shaking his head and lowering his guard
as he stepped away from the wall.

“You’re all so worried about me.” Daegon ran a hand through his long, pale hair. “If I’m such
a threat, why am I the only one terrified of this place? Of all of you Targaryens.”

“If Dragonstone does not appeal to you why did you return?”
“Because I’m sick to death of running.” Daegon bent down to pick up his shield from the
ground. The black dragon had lost two of its heads and the knight frowned to look upon it.
“I’m the last of the House Blackfyre. Once, this island was full of its sons and daughters. My
mother said they prayed every day to reach a better land, for a great warrior to arrive and lead
them there.”

Daegon faced him again and there was no missing how he restrained his rage.

“The savior never came. Only Bloodraven and the Dark Order. You know the tale, don’t
you?”

He did. The story was as infamous as it was bloody. The Dark Order had done foul deeds in
service to the empire, but few as ugly as what Brynden the Bloodraven did to the Blackfyres.

“It was here, in these walls.” Daegon moved his gaze across the yard. “Bloodraven came
under a banner of truce and all thought peace could be made. Then it turned to slaughter.
Men, women, children, all put to the sword-”

“A horrible crime.” Jon agreed with a foul taste in his mouth. “Such was why Aegon the
Fifth condemned Bloodraven to exile. He was sent to the Wall, where criminals of this land
are often sent.”

“Will that be where you send me?” Daegon asked. “After the High King leaves I will be at
your mercy. Will I be chained up and sent to the Wall or will you simply have my head off?”

Many might welcome such a thing, and that bothered Jon some. The Blackfyres were once a
great threat to the empire. Now all that was left of them was a young knight, surrounded by
people who wished him dead. To his surprise, Jon could not name himself among their
number.

“I intend you no harm.” He told the knight. “My father has granted you safe passage, and as
long as you keep the peace in my kingdom, peace you shall have. Soon this realm will be
welcoming thousands of people to its shore, all seeking new beginnings. I once needed such a
thing myself. I won’t deny you the same opportunity, Daegon Blackfyre.”

“I pray that’s true.” Daegon slung his shield over his back and almost saluted him before
thinking better of it. Instead the Blackfyre bowed, as one of Jon’s vassals would. “My family
wanted a kingdom in Westeros… all I want is a home. A home and a king I can serve-”

“There’s no lack of them here!”

Aegon’s call bid both Jon and Daegon to take notice of the heir entering the courtyard
through a wide arch. Unlike the armored Golden Legion men who flanked his approach,
Aegon wore flowing robes of black and gold. The only metal Jon spotted on his brother was
the golden jewelry adorning his neck and wrists. While not to his taste, Jon surely preferred
baubles to the swords and spears of Aegon’s protectors.

“Brother, we missed you at the duel.” Jon said as the Dark Order men formed up around him,
Ghost pressing in even closer.
“My apologies. I go there now to meet Nym.” Aegon’s smile was all teeth and only grew
wider to glance at Daegon. “You keep good company these days, Jonarys. Here I thought that
wolf of yours was the most lowly of your court.”

“Enjoy yourself at the contests.” He inclined his head and moved aside to let Aegon pass. Yet
instead of doing so, Aegon stopped part way and blocked the path himself.

“Giving me orders? Viserys said this newfound power was going to your head. Normally I
wouldn’t put much stock in his ravings yet here we are. Tell me, is it true what my spymaster
says? That father means to hand Dragonstone over to you?”

It wasn’t entirely true, yet this was the reason father wanted to discuss those matters with
Aegon before announcing them to all. Dragonstone was a minor holding, yet its symbolic
importance was great.

“Things aren’t so simple.” Jon started to explain. “Driftmark and Claw Isle are to become
part of the Highlands but Dragonstone is another matter. Father wants to make it a shared
holding between the empire and the new kingdom. A place of unity, where the two halves of
House Targaryen-”

“Is there no end to your greed?” Aegon flexed his sword hand, his eyes becoming a violet
storm. “I would’ve put you on my council. Let you act as a triarch to guide our freeing of the
slaves. You’re my younger brother, your place was by my side, but you were never content
with that. You had to have kingdom all to yourself, one that I helped you win. Nothing can
ever be fully mine. Nothing.”

Jon wanted to call him a fool, to tell Aegon that the Targaryen Empire and all its vast wealth
would be his. The Highlands would likely struggle to survive for many years while Aegon
lounged at Summerhall, yet he held his tongue.

This is about Daenerys and the boy again... until his rage about that passes, there’s no
reasoning with him.

Let his rage calm, like when we were children, let the storm pass…

“You’re my brother Aegon.” Jon reminded him. “I wish you only the best and covet none of
what comes to you. If you’ll excuse us, we’ll make our own way back to the duels.”

After waving the others on, he made to leave the yard with the order men falling in behind.
They did not go far. Aegon put himself right in Jon’s path again, the legion men following
suit.

“We’re not done here.” Aegon put a hand to Jon’s chest, holding him in place. “I’m speaking
now and will be heard. If you wish a duel so badly, there’s no need to leave.”

The only person that Aegon’s men ignored was Daegon, who clearly wanted none of this
ugly situation. The Blackfyre knight strode away from the standoff, back through the gate to
continue on to the duels. The shouting now echoing off the walls meant another fight was
about to begin and he feared that Aegon meant for one to start here.
“Aegon… let me pass.”

His tone was civil but the mood between the two parties was tense. The legion and the order
men glared at one another, Ghost baring his fangs in a silent snarl. Still Aegon pushed at
Jon’s chest, his nostril’s flaring.

“Ask it of me.”

Suddenly they were little boys again. Aegon keeping a toy Jon wanted from his grasp. Not an
heir meant to rule the greatest empire in the world. Nor a king of a land that so many hopes
rested upon.

“Ask me… or are you beyond that now?” Aegon carried on, leaning in close. “Am I expected
to grant your every whim, your grace? Like father already does?”

The simple way out of this was to ask, but Jon feared what would happen if he did and Aegon
still refused. What would be left after that?

“King Jon!”

The shout was followed by the heavy thudding of footsteps as Barristan and Thoros appeared
through the gate, a mixed company of order men and Darry guardsmen following after. He
spotted Daegon next to Lyman Darry, and it became apparent that the numbers no longer
favored Aegon.

“Your grace, there you are.” Barristan’s gaze moved warily over Aegon and his men. “I’ve
been challenged by Prince Loras to a duel, and it would strengthen my blade to have you
watch.”

“We sent a man on to the High King.” Thoros added. “To ask for a delay until his sons could
attend. All await the sons of Rhaegar.”

“Hear that, brother?” Jon put to Aegon, trying to play along. “I’ll go first, so your entrance
may be the grander one.”

Aegon stood there, his jaw working, and Jon recognized the signs of his brother trying to
control his own temper. He took the chance to ease Aegon’s hand from his chest, which the
heir allowed with no struggle at all. It was only then that Aegon took a deep breath and gave
a curt nod.

“Go on. I meant what I said though, Jonarys. Things between us are not done. I will be
heard.”

They were permitted to leave after that, Jon and his men heading back towards the gate
together. He was not so foolish as to think that this was good fortune and looked to Daegon.

The Blackfyre knight met his gaze and Jon inclined his head in thanks. It was an altogether
odd thing, a Targaryen thanking a Blackfyre. Stranger still for a Blackfyre to prove himself
worthy of such thanks.
May he prove worthier still, of both my praise and my trust.

For unless I can resolve things with Aegon, I will need all the help I can get.

SANSA

“I thought the Dark Order were warriors, not builders.”

Jeyne marveled up at the work done to Aegon’s Hill since they’d last been there. Back when
the Aegonfort had been little more than a martial camp sitting upon a hill.

In half a year much had changed, not just on Aegon’s Hill, but for all the hills and fields
which lay between the bay and river. A palisade wall and numerous turrets now encircled the
crest of Aegon’s Hill. Rising up from behind the defences was a tall wooden keep made of
newly felled logs. Whatever else lay within the fort Sansa couldn’t see from her place near
the riverside docks.

She was surprised at how busy the modest harbor was. More than warships now docked at
the quays, with scores of smaller cogs and fishing ships anchored there as well. Jon and
Aegon had left thousands of men behind to hold these lands hills and it appeared they had
been joined by even more smallfolk. Whether in hopes of plying their trades or to start anew
after the war, thousands of people had put down roots here and a small settlement now
stretched from the river to the base of Aegon’s Hill.

The shacks and hovels near the river were arranged in a haphazard manner, unlike those built
closer to the hill, which appeared more orderly and well-made. That was likely due to the
Dark Order’s influence, whose camp was closest to the Aegonfort. Farther off Sansa could
see where the Golden Legion had raised watchtowers and barracks upon the other two hills.
Sheep and cattle grazed about the edges of Rhaenys’s Hill and it looked like a septry was
being raised near Visenya’s base.

It was more than she could have imagined. Had someone told Sansa all this could follow
from Jon’s horrible battle with Joffrey, she would never have believed it.

To think all that death could help so much life to spring forth… and there’s more to come.

More life. More people. Some in the coming days, thousands more after them.

Sansa had only just arrived herself, along with Jon and their families. With so much nobility
moving about the docks, quite the commotion was being raised. Servants and stewards ran to
and fro while guardsmen bellowed for the smallfolk to move aside. Acting aloof to the
clamor, Rhaegar and Lyanna walked about with ease, each holding one of the twins. Jon
accompanied Sansa’s mother, the dowager queen grasping his arm as he led her away from
their ship to where Gendry awaited them.

Arya was not as patient as her husband, and moved quickly to join Talia and Jeyne in gazing
about the settlement.
“Gods, Sansa. Were you lying to me?” Arya asked. “I thought you said there was nothing
here.”

“There wasn’t really.” Jeyne blinked at all the smallfolk gathering to stare at them. “Nothing
like this at least. In the North this would be a proper town.”

A snide cackle rose up from behind them as Viserys crinkled his nose at the settlement.

“I’ve seen larger slave markets.” He glanced towards Lyanna before continuing in Valyrian.
“With better quality flesh as well.”

“More will come.” Sansa replied. “This is only the beginning.”

What she wanted to say was far more rude, for Jon’s uncle was a thoroughly disagreeable
man. Still, he would one day be consort to the Princess of Dorne and Sansa would be
courteous. Good relations were foremost on her mind when she caught sight of Rhaenys, who
had disembarked with Sarella Sand and a number of servants. Jon’s half sister wore a gown
with a vibrant red pattern that shimmered like flames when it caught the light in a certain
way.

“Your grace!” Sansa hailed Rhaenys, who appeared surprised by her actions. “Would you join
us? I heard you inquiring about the victory won here.”

“I care little for the battle.” Rhaenys waved off her attendants so that she and Sarella could
approach the northern women. “It was the flames that followed the fighting which were of
interest to me. Thoros told me how hundreds were burned here, a pyre so bright it turned
night to day. A fine offering to the Lord of Light.”

“My brother was no offering.” Talia glared at Rhaenys and Sansa took hold of her arm to
comfort her.

“Talia’s brother died a hero on Aegon’s Hill. My husband lives because of Asher Forrester
and his was a sacrifice I shall never forget. Nor the bravery of hundreds of Dark Order men
who fell winning the day.”

“I see.” Rhaenys nodded, turning her attention to Talia. “No offense was meant, I pray
R’hllor’s grace helped guide your brother and all those other souls into the eternal light.”

“A place of welcome and warmth.” Sarella finished with a soft smile. “My cousin speaks
often of her faith to me. Perhaps too often, though I wonder if she does it to unnerve me
during our games of cyvasse.”

“Do you play, Sansa?” Rhaenys asked and when Sansa said she hadn’t the future High Queen
raised an eyebrow. “You should. Some think it a man’s game, a contest of military strategy
alone, and that is truly a narrow-minded view. Nym and I believe all queens should play
cyvasse, for it is excellent practice in running a proper court.”

It was a strange thing to hear Rhaenys speak so fondly of Lady Nym. As she did so, Aegon
and his mistress could be seen sharing a laugh with Aurane Velaryon. Sansa was often hard-
pressed to speak Daenerys’s name and that woman was merely a liar, not some mistress her
husband paraded about for all to see.

When Sarella caught Sansa staring at Nym, the darker Sand Snake winked in a knowing way.
She had done much the same back on Dragonstone when the topic of Aegon and Nym came
up.

“My sisters and I, we love dear Rhaenys.” Sarella had grinned. “Nym more than any. Nothing
is quite as it seems, your grace. The sand can play tricks on the eyes, create mirages to lead
unwitting travellers off course.”

She hadn’t taken Sarella’s meaning yet wasn’t too troubled by that. The Dornishwoman often
spoke in riddles. What did bother Sansa was how Rickon now led the direwolves in running
about the settlement. The young squire and wolves were happy to be free of the ship yet
Sansa whispered to Jeyne to go and put a stop to the frolicking. The antics clearly terrified
the smallfolk.

Will the freedmen fear the wolves as well?

The first ships carrying settlers were due any day now. A thousand or so, specially recruited
by Rhaegar to aid Jon in establishing their kingdom. Veterans of imperial legions were
promised lands in return for defending them. Freedmen who had toiled under artisans and
builders in the empire could lend their abilities to the works that lay ahead. Better still was
how the High King had purchased the contracts of master builders and smiths to aid in the
grander tasks Jon had planned.

She told Rhaenys all this while the two women walked along the riverbank. Barges crossed
back and forth across the river, loaded with timber from the large Kingswood forest. While
Sarella eyed this with interest Rhaenys was more impressed when Sansa mentioned the name
Tobho Mott among those soon to arrive. Apparently the Qohorik armorer was well known in
Volantis.

“Warlords from across the world seek his talents.” Rhaenys spoke as she waved away a fish
peddler. “I myself had Mott forge a special barding for Aegon’s horse for a wedding gift. I
imagine Aegon will be jealous to hear of his departure.”

“Jealous?” She paused, looking back towards the docks and Aegon. “There’s no need. Mott’s
contract is only for two years, he’ll likely return to the empire after.”

“Ah yes, but nowadays Aegon views Jonarys and himself at different ends of a scale. Mott is
just another pebble on Jon’s side, increasing his value and Aegon’s ire. He’s viewed things as
tipped in Jon’s favor for some time now.”

Sansa wrung her hands. “It is Aegon who will be named heir, not Jon. The entire Targaryen
Empire will be his, what is this small kingdom to all that splendor?”

“Aegon will have power, yet that’s not all he wants.”

Rhaenys’s dark gaze moved from the river to where Rhaegar was holding Aemma up so the
smallfolk could bow to Sansa’s daughter. Rhaegina was soon given the same treatment by
Lyanna, which set Aemma off into a bout of loud squalling. The royal grandparents laughed
at this, but not Rhaenys, whose expression was a distant one.

“Jon was always a solemn child.” Rhaenys spoke softly. “So silent and serious to Aegon’s
jests and smiles. Now things are very different. You have given Jon a happiness Aegon feels I
have denied him. I prayed to R’hllor to grant us such and truly, the Lord of Light has given
me much to be thankful for. Yet Aegon feels cheated… mother always warned that such
selfishness would sour things for him.”

With Aegon walking about with Nym, Sansa saw all the proof she needed to think him a
profoundly selfish man. Yet she laid the blame for much of their troubles with him on the
selfishness of another.

Daenerys Targaryen, mother of lies.

Sansa did little to hide her disdain for Daenerys Targaryen, which was likely why the woman
had been surprised by her visit back on Dragonstone. Daenerys had been in the midst of
preparing for their travels to the mainland, young Baelyon squirming about on a pile of
gowns atop her bed.

The bright smile the babe gave Sansa had not stopped her from doing what she came to do.

“You are unwelcome on this journey.” Sansa had told Daenerys in a flat yet firm tone. “I care
not whether you go on to Duskendale or await the High King here. I will not have you with
us.”

Those words bid the silver princess to straighten in a defiant manner, her eyes alight with
indignation. There was no mistaking the challenge in her stance when she came within a step
of Sansa.

“I accept your dislike of me, but none save the High King can order me about.”

“Quite right, on Dragonstone my word means little. Not so on the mainland. Rhaegar named
Jon as king of those lands. I am his queen, and this queen denies you stepping foot where Jon
and I will build our home. You tainted my stay on this island, and my husband’s good name. I
will not give you the chance to do so again. Not where I shall raise my children. Jon’s
children.”

“And what of Jon?” Daenerys had asked. “Is this his decree as well or just yours? Or do you
act without his leave?”

“I would spare him that. He has been forced into enough hard decisions of late. Though if
you wish me to seek another on this, perhaps I should go to Aegon and hear his views.”

Daenerys was a beauty, yet much of her features were tainted then by the anger Sansa’s
unspoken threat inspired.
“You would betray us? Out of spite? He would take my son-”

“He could take your son. If I betrayed all I know of what Jon swore to.” Sansa had paused to
look at the babe then, who watched all this with a painful innocence. “That is something I
could not do. I will not betray my husband. Nor your child. I only wished you to know I had
such power and refuse to use it. That I do not want you with us at the Aegonfort. You have
the power to defy me, to seek out Rhaegar or Jon on your behalf. Or you can respect my
wishes. What choice do you make, Daenerys Targaryen?”

She felt a fool at the time. A weak fool. It would have been smarter to simply threaten
Daenerys rather than appeal to her better nature, which was surely suspect. Yet to threaten a
mother in front of her child was beyond Sansa. Betraying Jon was out of the question as well,
though she was sure if Daenerys told him he’d be furious to learn of what she’d done.

That never came to pass though. After a few moments of contemplation Daenerys came to a
decision. With a forlorn expression and a lowered head, she declared her intent to sail on to
Duskendale instead.

“They’ll ask me why.” Daenerys put to her as she lifted Baelyon into her embrace, kissing
her son’s head. “Jon and Rhaegar. I wanted to see the slaves freed so badly, they’ll ask why I
miss their arrival. What am I to say?”

“Some lie.” Sansa had said. “A good one no doubt.”

At time it felt good to unburden her anger towards the woman. Now though, Sansa felt a
pang of guilt to watch Aemon be guided about by Samwell Tarly. The old man enjoyed
Daenerys’s company so.

He’ll see again soon enough, this is not Daenerys’s place.

This is to be my home. Our home.

Tonight would be the first night they treated it as such. Many of their number were to bed
down in the Aegonfort this night. Rhaegar and Lyanna did them a great boon by promising to
do so, since Sansa knew many would speak of the High King and Queen gracing their modest
hall. Space was limited though, so others would ride a few hours and enjoy the comforts of
Castle Rosby.

Something Viserys proved eager to do once a few carriages were unloaded from a cog. The
man set his servants running about and Sansa’s nerves on edge with his mean-spirited
comments.

“I’m the sort of dragon that prefers a bed worthy of my station.” Viserys did not hide his
disdain for the settlement. “I was a fool to let Rhaegar talk me into this. My betrothed
journeys back to Sunspear and I tour some squalid hovels. The Dornish would not disappoint
in such a way. Aegon, come, join me in my carriage, you must tell me of Sunspear again.
Bring your mistress if you must.”
Aegon did not take kindly to that but not for the reasons Sansa would have liked. It became
apparent Aegon was set on departing as well. Something neither she nor Jon had anticipated,
as both expected to host the High King and his heir this night. Rhaegar disappointed by
paying Aegon’s decision little mind. Sansa had learned Rhaegar rarely interfered in such
matters, preferring to let his sons work out their squabbles.

Yet relations between Jon and Aegon were far too poor for Sansa to accept such an approach.
Jon disappointed her too, for he raised no objection to Aegon’s plans, joining Ghost in merely
watching as the carriages were readied.

This cannot stand, not after what happened during the duels.

Barristan said they nearly came to blows there… they must make amends here.

Aegon and Nym were speaking quietly about some matter when her presence interrupted
them.

“Prince Aegon, I am confused.” She looked between the heir and his carriage. “I was told I’d
have the honor of hosting you this night.”

Aegon gave a half-hearted bow. “There appears to be little enough space at your new seat. I
wouldn’t add to your burdens by cramming Rhae and my household within. Conditions
would surely worsen if I stayed.”

At the last part his gaze moved swiftly to where Jon appeared to be deciding whether or not
to assist her in this. While he made up his mind, Sansa set to changing Aegon’s.

“There shall be more than enough room. I promise you will find more enjoyment here than
on the bumpy ride to Rosby. Better company too.”

She was hoping Aegon found Viserys as distasteful as she did, or at least disliked his uncle
more than Jon. Nym smirked some at the suggestion yet Aegon remained unmoved. He
opened his mouth to refuse again but she took hold of his arm to bring his attention to where
the Golden Legion camped.

“How long have you away from the legion? Two months? Three? Let your men toast their
commander this night, then retire to the Aegonfort and better comforts than you enjoyed
during your many campaigns. All under a roof named in your honor.”

“My honor?” Aegon asked, some doubt chipping away at his resolve. “You named that hill
and fort after The Conqueror.”

“Are you not a conqueror as well? Without you, Jon and I would not have a kingdom, nor a
home to call our own, my prince.”

“That’s twice now you’ve called me a prince. I thought your husband had taught you our
ways. My father may have named Jon a king but I’ve yet to be granted any title.”

She knew that all quite well but feigned embarrassment all the same. “Forgive me, I simply
think of you as Jon does. He speaks of you as the next High King of the empire and a prince
of the blood.”

“Does he?” Aegon sounded unconvinced but before she could answer Jon interrupted them.

“Not quite.” Jon spoke in a stern manner as he made to stand amongst them. “Surely you are
all those things, and my brother as well.”

“It is Gendry you love as a brother.” Aegon replied. “He that you honor and respect. Not I.
Do not pretend-”

“I’m not pretending. Aegon, I swear it.” Jon looked up at Aegon’s Hill and a shadow passed
over his face. A darkness he had struggled to escape ever since the battle. “I’ve made
mistakes, and I’d like to mend some of those wrongs. Do us the honor of feasting in our hall.
So we might speak. I could listen. You would be heard.”

In that moment, Sansa wanted to leave Aegon and embrace her husband. To let him know
how noble he was, how he was every bit the king she hoped he could be. Yet she stayed put,
squeezing Aegon’s arm and searching his face for any sign he’d been convinced. If the
brothers could make amends, Jon would not toss and turn so at night anymore. They had
enough foes without fears of Aegon joining their ranks, the Highlands needed the empire and
it would not do to have its heir working against them.

Despite Jon’s words Aegon remained ill at ease, quite unlike Lady Nym. She pulled on her
large dark braid and parted her full lips in a grin before whispering something in Aegon’s ear.
The heir blinked in surprise at whatever she said.

“I think we should stay.” Nym regarded Sansa with an appraising eye. “If there’s a bed for us,
it should be put to use. I’m not quite ready to bid farewell to Sarella, nor miss out on visiting
the spot where Joffrey fell. My father is likely to be quite jealous.”

“There you have it then.” Aegon freed himself from Sansa’s hold, only to pull her hand up to
his lips. “If you would have me, I would gladly accept your welcome… Queen Sansa.”

That Aegon did not acknowledge Jon was a slight he gladly ignored. The two men needed an
opportunity to sort out their grievances before Aegon departed back to the empire. Sansa
considered it a victory to guide Aegon and Nym on to the Aegonfort yet still held grand
hopes for things to come.

It would be a gift from the gods if they left on good terms… or at least less hostile ones.

If mother could see her way to embracing Myrcella in the end, anything’s possible.

There was no delaying Robb’ return to the North any longer. The fighting against the
Greyjoys raged on and Robb wished to deliver Myrcella to Winterfell himself before joining
the fray. There was no talk of war the morning the King and Queen in the North departed
Dragonstone, only heartfelt farewells.

“So now we must attend our kingdoms.” Robb had told Sansa as they hugged, her older
brother kissing her cheeks as she blinked back tears. “No tears, sweet Sansa, you were born
to be a queen. We shall see each other again. Until that day, let the years blow along like a
leaf on the wind.”

Tears would have followed that had they not tensed to see mother approach Myrcella. The
two queens both acted unsure and uncomfortable when mother took Myrcella awkwardly in
her arms. All were stunned to watch the dowager queen kissing and embracing the
gooddaughter she’d barely spoken with this entire trip.

“I trust you will care for my son.” Mother said when she parted from Myrcella. “Him and
Winterfell and all its people. They will depend on you as you may depend on them. The
North can be harsh, so you must become a wolf. For the sake of my grandchild, be strong,
Myrcella Stark. Winter is coming.”

“The Starks endure.” Myrcella answered, hands on her stomach and pride flashing in her
green eyes. “May my reign be half as great as the queen which came before me. May my
children be spared the sin of my… be spared my sins. I hope to do you proud, Catelyn Stark,
Queen in the North.”

Sansa hadn’t minded how hollow her parting words to Myrcella sounded after mother’s. She
would miss Myrcella, the pain of their shared time at Storm’s End had withered away with
each new day they spent together. Robb and Myrcella deserved to be happy and Sansa willed
the winds to carry their ship swiftly on the White Harbor.

Her brother took few ships with him for that journey, nothing compared to the fleet which
escorted the Gardener family on to Oldtown. King Mace had left Dragonstone a happy man.
The threat from the Iron Islands pushed Robb to accept a pact with the Reach king to battle
the reavers together. Much of the northern fleet now travelled on to Oldtown, along with
some of Jon’s finest dromonds, including the Alysanne. The fleets of the Redwynes or the
Gardeners dwarfed their own, yet Rhaegar had surely gifted them a powerful force.

Jon’s concerns over joining any new conflicts were dissuaded by the advantages they reaped
by adding to Oldtown and the Starry Sept’s defense. The High Septon’s gratitude was no
meager thing and she’d rather have Mace thinking of Jon as a potential ally than an upstart
rival. If Jon could forge strong bonds of friendship across the Seven Kingdoms, they might be
able to safeguard the fragile peace the Highlands now enjoyed.

So when evening fell on Blackwater Bay, it was friendship and peace Sansa strived to foster
in the Aegonfort’s timber hall.

She hoped the smell of fresh timber and the newness of the hall made up for its dampness and
less than lavish furnishings. Lyanna helped with that last part when she set Ethan and Tumco
to carrying in a large banner.

“Jon, you have a crown and a kingdom all your own.” Lyanna gathered all attention on her as
men set to hefting the banner up on the wall. “Now it is time to set you apart from all other
kings on both sides of the Narrow Sea.”

With that the banner was unfurled and all beheld one very similar to that of the Targaryen
Empire. The backing was black and a three-headed dragon snarled for all to see. Save that
this dragon was the purest white, like snow itself.

“Marvelous!” Sansa clapped in delight, being sure to grab Aegon’s attention. “Now all will
forever remember the kinship between the two halves of House Targaryen.”

“Well said.” Rhaegar lifted a goblet to toast his wife and banner itself. “To the white dragons
of Westeros!”

“To the red dragons of the empire!” Jon answered, holding his cup out towards Aegon and
Rhaenys. Though he hesitated some, Aegon followed their lead and joined with the rest of
those embracing the goodwill of the moment.

“To King Jon and Queen Sansa.” Aegon nodded their way. “May they look back on this time
with fond memories.”

“May we all!” Mother added which set Rickon to clinking a goblet with hers and drinking
deeply before she could stop him.

Many laughed and more drank which made Sansa sit back and take it all in. As Lyanna
returned to her seat she whispered something to Aemon which set the ancient man to smiling
and nodding. When the High Queen drew near to Rhaegar he took her arm and kissed at his
wife’s hand before looking to his sons with pride. Aegon was actually smiling when he
summoned a serving man to refill Rhaenys’s cup, the princess then sharing a knowing look
with Nym. When Gendry leaned in to fill Arya’s goblet himself she caught him in a kiss,
which left the new lord holding the pitcher half raised between them as he kissed his wife.

Jon was more subtle, his hand sliding up Sansa’s back so his fingers could run through her
hair.

“I wish this could last forever.” She whispered to him and looking to where Rhaegar and
Lyanna shared a drink from the same cup. “When we are that age, I want this. To be happy,
surrounded by family, to see Aemma and Rhaegina grown and with families of their own.”

“A dream we share.” Jon replied, rubbing her back in an absent manner. “Though I want
better for our children. I pray our girls are never as divided as Aegon and I have become.”

“That will mend, you will mend it. After the meal, do as you offered along the river. Speak
with your brother, listen to him. You won our kingdom with more than the sword, through
good deeds and honest words was this conquest made.”

“A half truth at best.” Jon placed a chaste kiss on her lips, the kind which sent a burst of heat
working through her chest. “I would be no king if not for my queen. This kingdom was born
of your wisdom and bravery, Sansa. If there is any peace to be had between Aegon and I this
night, it is thanks to you.”

She was not given the chance to argue against that. Jon kissed her again and it lasted long
enough to draw attention this time. Lyanna laughed loudly and pointed their way.
“To my granddaughters, Aemma and Rhaegina!” Lyanna raised her cup. “Who may gain
some siblings from this night!”

Her cheeks had burned at the laughter which followed but Jon made no move to remove his
hand from her hair. It stayed there as the evening wore on and the good cheer continued. All
ate heartily of fresh fish and capons or drank of the wine won from Princess Margaery in a
wager. Rhaegar congratulated Barristan once again for his victory over the Prince of Flowers
in the duels but her knight acted far too humble.

“Young Loras likely went easy on me due to my age. Time is a far less forgiving adversary.”

“The knight is surely wise.” Aemon weathered face wrinkled in a smile. “For one so young.”

Not long after the old man’s jest, a servant informed Jon that Aegon meant to leave the hall.
The heir intended to take in the night with a walk about the grounds of the Aegonfort.
Though no invitation was actually offered, Jon took Aegon’s meaning and departed to join
him.

Sansa stayed in the hall and worried on what words might pass between the brothers. Not
even Rhaegar playing his harp kept her mind from wandering, until a wanderer stole her
attention altogether.

Aemon had risen from his seat and found his way to her, looking quite weary.

“Your grace, I have a boon to ask. Might I be permitted to visit with your daughters once
more? I know the hour is late so I would do my best not to disturb them.”

Sansa was thankful that Aemon asked, for it gave her a reason to retire from the hall. She
guided Aemon by his arm, careful to mind her steps as they left the hall into the damp night
air. The keep stood near to it and Dark Order men bowed when they passed within its thick,
oak doors.

Their journey up the keep was marked by the creaking of steps and passed with idle chatter.
They talk of the plans Jon and her had for the Aegonfort and the lands around. How Jon
hoped to raise a proper stone castle as soon as possible and would trade his estates in the
empire for the gold needed. He also wanted to build a bridge across the Blackwater Rush, to
control the river and the south side of the shore. Sansa named that a daunting task before
speaking of how she wanted to raise a wonder of a kind she had never seen before.

“A theatre.” She said. “Like those in Volantis and Lys. Jon has told me of them, places of
song and music, where all people can gather to share in things of beauty.”

“As a young man, I spent many a night at the theatre.” Aemon wheezed from the climb. “In
the span of a few hours I could go from laughing to weeping to dreaming of adventure. I have
not heard of theatres or their like in Westeros.”

“Nor have I. It was Margaery and Rhaegar playing together on Dragonstone that made me
think of it. A mix of east and west come together for the joy of us all. That’s why I want a
theatre, to help bring our different peoples together.”
“A lovely idea.” Aemon’s Valyrian came out as smooth as silk. “When it is completed, do
invite me. I enjoy music so.”

She promised to do so as they finally reached the chambers she shared with her family. They
were not large, perhaps about the size of mother’s back in Winterfell. Their grandest feature
was a large window and balcony which faced out over the river and bay. Two nursemaids sat
sewing to the opposite side of the room, where Aemma and Rhaegina slept peacefully in their
cradle. Sansa sent the maids on so Aemon and she could behold the twins alone.

Aemma was pressed close against Rhaegina, their tiny hands touching and chests rising
slightly with each new breath. Jon was intent on having a crown forged for her yet Sansa felt
these two were the finest treasures he could give her.

“They sleep?” Aemon asked in a whisper.

“They do. The sleep of the innocent.”

“How I envy them.”

Aemon did something odd then. He lifted his hand to hover over the resting babes. Then he
set to moving it about in a strange pattern, muttering something in a kind of High Valyrian
she could not follow. There was nothing ominous about his actions, for Aemon’s words were
spoken in a kindly and caring manner.

After a time his mystery chant ended and the old man smiled to grasp the cradle again.

“A blessing from Old Valyria.” He explained. “Long forgotten until I stumbled on some
scrolls during my travels. I wish these young ones long lives and that their dragons soar so
high at to tempt the sun and touch the stars.”

“I’d love to learn it.” She returned her gaze to the girls. “So that I might teach Rhaegina and
Aemma one day. Then they could teach their children. Let the memory of Valyria reach
across the sea and live again, here in a new land.”

A pleased sound escaped from Aemon, who nodded along with her words.

“I shall ask that Tarly fellow to put the rites to parchment for you. Your words of a new land
remind me of a tale I used to tell the children. Jon and Aegon heard it as babes, as did
Rhaegar and his mother, Rhaella. I’d stand over their cradles and whisper the fables of the
Freehold. To keep the memory alive, like you said. Most were about dragons and their riders.
Of how simple shepherds tamed the might of fire made flesh. One story I told more than
most. An ancient one about a forgotten time when our people shared Valyria with an older,
wiser race. Strange creatures that left our lands long before we ascended to greatness. The
tales say the old ones chased the sun itself, following it to where it set in some strange land.
They scorned simple stone or wood, harnessing the light itself to raise a glittering city of
unimaginable magnificence. A place of dreams. One we Valyrians were not fit to share in
though the best of us aspired to reach.”

Sansa was enthralled by this. “What was it called?”

“Aevalon.”

She made Aemon tell her more of the tale. How some believed there to be some truth to it.
That perhaps the mythical city was Asshai, though it lay east rather than west. Others talked
of the mysterious black stone foundation of the Hightower in Oldtown, its origins ancient and
unexplained. Aemon himself preferred to think the story was just what it appeared to be, a
story.

“Something to inspire us to explore. To seek new lands. A better fate. A better us.”

Some time later, after Aemon was led back to his chambers by a steward, the fable kept her
mind alive with interest. When Talia appeared to help her prepare for bed she barely listened
to the lady’s talk of Jeyne and Olyvar disappearing into the moonlit night together.

Talia was gone when Sansa stepped out onto her small balcony to take in the view without.
The wind blew through her unbraided hair, reaching through her thin shift to raise
goosepimples on her skin. The moonlight set the dark waters of the bay to gleaming and she
could hear the sound of waves crashing against the rocks far below. The smell of the sea did
not bother her here, not like it would on a ship, so she grew bold. She leaned against the rail
in hopes of feeling the mist which so often rose from crashing waves. There was no way it
could reach so high yet she closed her eyes and hoped all the same.

Only to be graced with a touch she yearned for even more.

“You’ll catch a chill.” Jon brushed the hair from her neck and placed his cloak around her
shoulders. His fingers lingered on her bare skin and his warm breath against her neck set her
to sighing.

“I thought to be abed before you returned.” She leaned back into Jon’s embrace, turning her
head to seek his face, which was still creased with worry. “How did things go with Aegon?”

“Poorly at first. Then better.” The moon’s brightness turned his grey eyes to silver when they
looked into hers. “We spoke on much and one thing is clear, things cannot be what they were
between us. Not after all that’s happened, not with who Aegon and I have become. I have
gained a crown but lost my brother it seems.”

“Oh Jon…” She stroked his face and beard, for there was a sadness to his words.

“I made my choices, Aegon made his. Tonight though, pledges were made. Aegon swore that
should the Highlands ever be in need, we can count on his aid. I pledged to support Aegon
whenever he should ascend the throne. If Nym births a son, we will accept his legitimacy,
whether Rhaenys does or not.”

That bothered her some, for it made her think of Daenerys and Baelyon. How would she feel
if that woman tried to name her bastard as Jon’s legitimate son? Of course Jon held Rhaegina
to be his heir and still trusted in Sansa to deliver a son, but the worry still nagged at her.

Perhaps in time Daenerys will change her mind again and tell Aegon the truth.
Or it might be Jon who chooses to abandon the ruse…

“Worry not.” Jon spoke as if hearing her thoughts. “We shall soon be free of the empire’s
politics. Or at least be far removed from them. It is the Seven Kingdoms and our place in
them that we will think on from this day forward. Just not this night, for I wish to devote
myself to something far lovelier.”

“Your father’s harp?” She asked, feigning innocence as Jon slowly bid her back into the
chambers. “The arrival of the freedmen?”

“You mock me.” He backed up against the bed and growled when Sansa avoided his attempts
at kissing her, too busy working at the laces of his garments.

“I prepare my husband for bed. Surely he is exhausted and eager to rest.”

When his chest was laid bare and her hands and mouth roamed across it Jon had to choke
back a grunt. Both were mindful of the sleeping twins at the other side of the room. A
reminder of the love Jon and Sansa shared. Of the passion both were now eagerly giving in
to.

When his breeches were unlaced she pushed Jon onto the bed. He refused to lay back and
pulled her down so that she straddled his lap. His strong arms lifted her shift above her head,
his eyes roaming hungrily over Sansa’s bare body. A hand cupped at her breast, kneading it
gently while the other moved onto her shoulder and the scar there. Once Sansa might have
cringed at that. Tried to hide.

Now she had not the time to care. Jon pulled her down so their lips met in a mix of hunger
and longing. He tasted of wine and something unique to her love alone, his beard scratching
against her face in a way that bid her hips to jerk against his cock. Her sex was now pressed
right against that hardness, Sansa gasping at how badly she wanted to feel him within her.

When Jon finally eased onto his back he took hold of her hips, looking up from where his
cock now rubbed against her to meet her gaze. His face was contorted in a pained expression
of lust, she could feel his hips and shoulders tensing.

“Do not make me wait.” His Valyrian came out in a rasp and she bit her lip in anticipation
when she raised her hips. “I went too many years without you, Sansa Stark. I cannot go
another moment.”

He didn’t. She sank down upon him and both fought to keep their gasps as quiet as possible.
They wouldn’t let their lovemaking wake the babes they had made together. Not when they
slept so peacefully, here in the home Jon’s men had raised for them. As Sansa lowered herself
so their chests touched she thought of the castle Jon promised to build.

Their lips were locked together, his hands pulling her hips back and forth when she pictured
the pair of them standing together as a glittering city rose up all around.

Sansa couldn’t imagine how much better things could be through the haze of lust and love
she felt right now. Yet she wanted things to be better. For Jon and her to become even
 happier. To reach new heights together. To create something which would inspire the same
kind of hope in others Jon had done with her.

An Aevalon of their own.

Chapter End Notes

Many people offered suggestions for what to name Jon and Sansa's new capital so I'd
like to thank you all. Several offered variations of Avalon and I really liked it. Most
came on anon but a commenter here named Archangel gets my thanks for that.
 Chapter 9
Chapter Summary

After a long wait, the coming of spring, a return of loved ones, and threats to those held
most dear.

Chapter Notes

Myrcella's chapter is more than six and half years from where we left of. Sansa's is
around seven.

THE HIGHGUARD

The envy of every ruler, the Highguard are as dedicated to their duty as they are deadly
with their blades.

Sworn to protect the High King and the royal family with their lives, the Highguard place
their loyalty to the crown above all other things. They can hold no lands, take no wives, nor
father any children. Their service to the High King can only end with their dying breath.
Most meet that fate by faithfully upholding their vows. Yet if a Highguard fails in his
duties, as a shameful few have, his life becomes forfeit.

The elite order was formed following the founding of the Targaryen Empire. After Aegon
the Conqueror nearly fell to a sorrowful assassin, High Queen Visenya suggested the
founding of the first Highguard. Visenya wanted more than simple bodyguards, she wanted
a brotherhood that displayed the grandness and might of the empire itself. Thus a hundred
warriors from across the known world were drawn together to form the first Highguard.

Any man willing to pledge their life to the High King may aspire to join the guard, whether
he be from the noblest of families or a foreigner from some distant land. To prove himself,
a warrior must battle a Highguard of the king’s choosing. Should his blade prove true and
victory is won, this warrior true earns the honor of donning the white cloak and handing
his life and blade over to the High King.

Some offer their king even more. It is not unheard of for a Highguard to serve upon the
Council of Heralds or to serve as regent. Moredo Rogare was the only Highguard among
Aegon the Third’s many regents, though some feel he misused that influence to wed his
sister Larra to the king’s brother, Viserys.
Few Highguard have played as influential a role in the empire as Ser Arthur Dayne, the
Sword of the Morning. Recruited from the hills of Dorne, Arthur Dayne was rumored to be
the first of the Highguard to turn from the Mad King in favor of Prince Rhaegar. It was
the knight who first warned Rhaegar that Aerys meant to move against him. Ser Arthur
who spirited Princess Elia and her children away from Summerhall to Qohor. The Sword
of the Morning who rallied the Qohorik and Norvosi to march against the Mad King’s
armies along the Rhoyne.

One of the first acts of Rhaegar’s reign as High King was to name Arthur as his Lord-
Commander of the Highguard. He serves in that position to this day, the noblest of
guardians, serving the most worthy of causes.

The protection of his king.

MYRCELLA

Winter had come and gone.

Now spring had arrived at Winterfell and nowhere was that more obvious than in the
godswood. The grey gloom had lifted and everywhere snow was melting from the bare
branches of oaks and elms, to the needle canopies of great sentinel pines.

It was nothing short of a miracle.

I thought it would never end. Almost three years of winter. Long nights of unending snow and
deep, merciless cold.

Old Nan was right. I had to become a Stark to learn what winter truly was.

That was a lesson the little boy holding her hand would never have to learn. Born in the midst
of winter, the cold was the only world her youngest son had ever known. Now the two-year-
old seemed unsure of what to make of things. He pressed close to her leg, gaping at a nearby
pine that was almost entirely free of its snowy cloak.

“Gween.” Her son pointed to the tree, tugging on her hand. “Mama, gween!”

“Yes, it’s very green.” She smiled at the boy, who was so bundled in wools and furs that he
looked twice his size. Little of his sweet features could be seen, save for his eyes.

Green, like my eyes. And yours Tommen.

In truth she thought her son’s eyes were a brighter green, twinkling like polished jade. When
Tom was born, Myrcella had many fine northern names picked out. All of which Robb cast
aside when the boy opened his eyes.

“Cella, look at him.” Robb’s voice had been soft and sad. “I know your mind, love. You gave
me your heart so give our son a name that I know you hold close to it.”
That same heart swelled now to lead little Tom through the godswood \, for she and her
brother had done the same at Storm’s End as children. Tommen always used to hold her hand
as they strolled through the garden, the castle walls echoing with the sounds of waves
breaking against the cliffs.

This godswood rang with different sounds. The patter of melting snow striking the ground.
The crunch of their feet upon fresh sheets of snow. The splashing of water and outbursts of
laughter from two voices, one deeper and robust, the other high-pitched and youthful.

Robb was waist deep in the hot springs, water dripping down his face and thick auburn beard.
His broad chest was steaming in the open air, his thick arms open wide. At the edge of the
pool stood a scrawny boy wearing nothing but linen drawers. The five-year-old shook his
long, golden locks before taking a mighty leap at his father.

Robb caught their boy with ease yet leapt backwards all the same, disappearing beneath the
dark waters of the hot spring with their son. When they came up, both were sputtering and
howling with laughter.

These were the Starks of Winterfell.

“Throw me, father!” Eddard demanded as he swam about. “I’ll do a spin!”

“Just the one?” Robb laughed. “I’ll see my boy doing two! Two or I feed you to Grey Wind!
He looks mighty hungry.”

The aging direwolf looked anything but as he lay against an ironwood, watching the pair with
an exhausted sigh. That is until the wolf’s ears perked up and he looked their way.

“Gwey!” Tom squealed, pulling free from her grasp to toddle at the beast. Grey Wind crossed
the distance between them in a flash, his jaws closing around the nape of Tom’s furs and
lifting the child high. Once such a thing might have terrified Myrcella, now it made her laugh
to see the direwolf carrying Tom about.

“Mother!” Ned waved from the water, beaming with a wide smile. “Watch father throw me
again!”

“Again?” She gave Robb a disapproving look, the king sinking into the water in an attempt to
hide. “I’d rather you get some clothes on before you catch a chill. I thought we agreed? No
swimming until it was warmer.”

“They’re called hot springs, mother.” Ned rolled his Tully blue eyes. “Besides, father says I
have wolf’s blood! Cold doesn’t bother us!”

“He’s fine, love.” Robb popped out of the water enough to argue. “I swam with my father in
colder weather. Younger too. Why, our boy’s half a man already.”

“Don’t say such things.” She chided, sitting herself on a rock near to the springs. “How do
you know I didn’t have other reasons for keeping Ned from swimming? Perhaps I thought to
take a swim myself...”
Her raised eyebrow left no mistake to her meaning. Together, she and Robb had enjoyed
many a swim in these springs. Times of naked frolicking and passion that often left them
clinging to each other as the steam wafted around their bodies. She was sure Tom had been
conceived during one of those swims.

“Then come swim now.” Ned suggested innocently. “We can stay in here for hours-”

“Not a chance.” Robb swam her way. “You’re getting out right now, son. I’ll throw you
another day. There are some tricks your mother needs to show me.”

“Not a chance.”She teased, laughing to jerk her leg away as Robb lunged at her. “There’s no
time for such-”

“There’s always time for that.”

“Hush.” Myrcella blushed, enjoying the hungry look Robb gave her. “I was taking Ned to see
the new litter of puppies that Farlen was talking about when a rider came through the East
Gate. A Dreadfort man. Your brother will be here shortly.”

Ned choked on the water he was spitting up into the air. “Uncle Bran!? He’s here?”

“He shall be, and won’t you make the sight?”

Ned was already climbing out of the spring. “Hurry! We’re going to look bad! Hey!”

As Grey Wind carried Tom around, the wolf dipped his head down enough for Tom to snatch
up Ned’s shirt. Now Robb and Myrcella were treated to the sight of their eldest chasing the
direwolf, with a babe in its jaws, waving a shirt about in glee.

“Gods.” Robb rubbed at his temples. “Let Bran see this. If he knew what ruckus these pups
get up to he might stop complaining so much about the Dreadfort.”

She hoped this was only an idle thought and not a sign of how Bran’s visit would go.

Bran had shown Myrcella much kindness when she came to Winterfell five years ago. If
some strange northern custom confused her, it was Bran who would help with a smile.
They’d shared many a dance together in the Great Hall when Robb could not. When he
departed for the Dreadfort, Myrcella missed Bran as dearly as a true brother.

At first Bran was excited at the prospect of getting a castle of his own and holding it in
service to his brother. Over time though, all things change. The Dreadfort was distant and ill-
omened, and while Myrcella had spent the winter among family, Bran weathered it isolated
and far away from all he knew. The Dreadfort had become a matter of dispute between the
two brothers, leading to a flurry of angry letters flying between their castles.

“How can he be so ungrateful?” Robb had asked after a particularly ugly exchange. “I give
him a castle! Lands! How does Bran repay me? By giving me nothing but grief!”

“This isn’t how you want things to be.” Myrcella had tried to sooth his anger. “Nor Bran, I
imagine. He misses his home. His family. Invite your brother to visit us here. Time away
from the Dreadfort will do him well.”

Though she rarely interfered regarding Robb’s family, he heeded her words. It was awkward
to offer opinions on the other Starks, for she was only one in name.

Who am I to lecture anyone? My eldest brother was a monster.

My youngest brother was murdered by our mother, who many whisper has gone mad.

And my father…

Myrcella pushed away such thoughts as Robb emerged from the hot springs and helped
gather up the boys. There was much to be done, and both of them wanted Bran to feel
welcome back in Winterfell. The castle and its people needed some glad tidings.

The North had spent the winter beset with death. By the time autumn ended, the Greyjoys
still held large swaths of the northern coast. Such was her ignorance of the North, Myrcella
had expected the fighting to end with the cold winds and snows.

“My people will press the attack.” Robb had told her. “Greybeards, second or third sons,
extra mouths that seek not to burden their families. They’ll fight and die like true northmen.”

And so they had. Nearly all of what the ironmen held was retaken, save the lands about Cape
Kraken and the castle of Flint’s Finger. The cost had been dire though.

Galbart Glover fell at Sea Dragon Point and Winterfell lost Ser Rodrik Cassel during the
fighting along the Stoney Shore. Robb called it a mercy that Helman Tallhart had died during
the Westerlands campaigns consider the losses that the ironmen would inflict on his family.
The lord’s brother Leobald was slain in a duel with some Harlaw, and his heir Benfred fell
near the Rills. Then poor Eddara Tallhart, Helman’s daughter and Lady of Torrhen’s Square,
lost her husband Cley to a reaver’s axe.

Cley Cerwyn had been a good friend of Robb’s, and he had vowed vengeance against the
Greyjoys come spring. So while Myrcella welcomed an end to winter, it also caused her great
unease.

Her heart went out to Lady Eddara, for losing Robb was her greatest fear.

I could not bear life without him. Whether to lose him to the Stranger… or by my family’s
deeds… it would be my end.

The only life Myrcella wanted was the one that she and Robb had made here in the North. It
was hard to keep the dark thoughts at bay when she came face to face with reminders of her
past.

Septa Eglantine and Joy Hill awaited them in the Great Keep. Joy wore a blue wool gown
and had her honey-colored hair tied into a braid. The older septa was garbed in white from
head to toe, a disapproving frown upon her face.
“By the Mother, say you are not wet!” Septa Eglantine touched at Ned’s damp blonde curls
while Joy lifted Tom up. “This land is half frozen and so shall you be!”

“You sound like mother.” Ned struggled against the septa’s inspections.

“I tended your royal mother from a small girl to womanhood. It would be a blessing to see
you live to become a man, which won’t happen if you catch a chill.”

“This one is dry.” Joy put in with a smile, patting Tom’s bottom. “In all the right places. I
wager he’ll cause us some trouble when he gets older, won’t you little one?”

Tom giggled and waved about the end of Joy’s braid while Eglantine tried to dry Ned’s head
with one of her skirts. This whole scene was her husband’s doing. It was Robb who had sent
word south seeking companionship for his queen.

The Faith were eager to send Eglantine north, yet Robb’s invitation for her cousin Rosamund
to join them at Winterfell was met with disdain from Casterly Rock. Instead of Rosamund,
King Tywin sent along Joy, the bastard daughter of her Myrcella's uncle Gerion. The insult
was obvious and Joy had arrived with a cloud hanging over her.

Yet Myrcella refused to send the girl away. Joy was a sweet soul and eager to prove herself as
a handmaiden to a queen. Truly, both women made life at Winterfell easier, though some of
Robb’s bannermen still begrudged their presence.

They think any associated with Lannisters cannot be trusted.

Northmen see Tywin as deceitful and corrupt. They call my mother a kinslayer, a woman who
defies the laws of gods and men.

If they only knew…

“We heard Prince Bran is near.” Joy said as she set Tom down once more. “Will her grace be
wanting a different gown for the occasion?”

“No, this will be fine.” She opened her cloak to display her light grey, wool gown,
embroidered with white branches and red leaves along the bodice.

“You have finer gowns.” The septa continued to battle with Ned. “That crimson one sent by
your uncle Tyrion perhaps? After all, this is a Prince of Winterfell, brother to the King of
Winter. Surely some amount of grandeur is in order?”

“The North holds little regard for such things. They see it as frivolity, a sign of southron
decadence.”

Eglantine looked ready to retort when the sound of wood tapping against stone drew their
eyes to the stairs.

“The student has become the teacher.” Maester Luwin leaned upon his cane, grinning
wearily. “Septa, you made Myrcella into a fine southron princess, yet when it comes to
understanding the Stark lands, heed our Queen in the North.”
Joy moved to aid the old man. “I would’ve helped you down the stairs.”

“Nonsense.” Luwin gently waved off her efforts. “I’ve made more journeys on these stairs
than some Starks. Speaking of, I’ve yet to see a Stark child catch a chill after a swim in those
hot springs. The water may have medicinal qualities…”

“There’s a first for everything.” The septa countered. “And I’d rather garb Prince Eddard in
some warm, dry clothes before he becomes a cautionary tale.”

Myrcella nodded at that before looking to Joy. “I’d have you journey to the kitchens. I want a
decent meal waiting for Bran. Northmen do respect good fare.” Luwin coughed awkwardly
then. “Yes, maester, I know the stores are not what they could be. But this is Bran we speak
of and Robb will not want to look miserly. If there’s folly in this, the blame shall fall on my
shoulders.”

“How reckless.” Joy smirked as she tied her cloak. “I’m sure the king would punish you most
severely. He’d likely harangue you so late into the night, you would both arise late the next
morning.”

Myrcella and Luwin gaped at the bawdiness of the comment as Joy took off with a laugh.
Septa Eglantine was not so entertained, her hands cupped about Ned’s ears.

“Such lewdness is what led to that girl being born a Hill.” Eglantine said. “Better to be chaste
and virtuous than have a bastard born on the wrong side of the sheets.”

She knew the septa meant well but those words unsettled her mind.

Nothing felt right again until she found herself in the throne room with her family.

Eglantine had done such swift work with Ned that when the horns sounded above the East
Gate, her eldest boy stood at her feet alongside Tom. Above them Robb sat his throne,
winking down at their sons. A whine from Grey Wind warned of their guests’ arrival a
moment before the hall doors opened and a party of men entered. Hallis Mollen and Harwin
led the way, both having left with Bran to establish his hold over the Dreadfort. As had the
large direwolf walking with them.

Summer was the same as ever, unlike his master, who Myrcella hardly recognized. The three
years had changed the lanky youth she’d known into a man. Though Bran kept his face clean-
shaven, his hair hung long, just lower than his shoulder in length. He had a stocky build now,
and while only ten and nine, Myrcella believed Bran to be taller than Robb. The prince’s garb
set him apart as well, for he wore a fine cloak of sable with what looked to be raven feathers
sewn about the shoulders.

The only thing that hadn’t changed was his smile, still so bright and warm.

“Brother!” Bran called out. “Forgive a moment’s delay! I see a queen that is in desperate
need of a brotherly embrace.”
When Bran came at her with open arms, Myrcella threw propriety aside and accepted his
embrace. The lack of bowing and curtsies likely left Septa Eglantine beside herself yet it was
worth it to feel Bran’s gentle squeeze.

“You’re so close to how I remember.” Bran whispered in her ear. “The heart of Winterfell,
beating as loud as ever. No winter could dampen the good in you.”

“Oh Bran, we’ve missed you dearly. Though I don’t recall you being such a poet.”

“It’s not poetry, only my dreams.” Bran answered as he pulled away. “It is good to be back, I
belong here more than there. Though elsewhere more than here.”

Myrcella was perplexed by that yet Bran’s attention soon turned to the boys. Ned bowed in a
polite manner, which set Bran to laughing and doing the same. When his eyes fell on Tom,
the little boy cowered some behind her skirts.

“Fear me not, little one.” Bran knelt, hand outstretched. “I haven’t had the chance to meet
you yet, but I’m your uncle Bran. If you give me the chance, I’ll help you fly.”

That’s what Bran used to call it when he tossed Ned up into the air, something her son clearly
remembered with joy.

“I want to fly!” Ned jumped up and down in earnest. “Uncle Bran, let me fly again!”

“That will have to wait.”

Robb had descended the throne to open his arms as well. Though Grey Wind and Summer
were playfully nipping at each other, there was no sign of dispute between the Stark brothers
as they held one another.

“Too long, too bloody long.” Robb backed away to pat Bran’s shoulders. “Look at you now.
The Dreadfort has been good to you. I might have to pay you a visit next time.”

Robb’s smile was not returned.

“Take the Dreadfort for all I care.” Bran said in that same cryptic tone. “It was never meant to
be my home.”

She caught the flash of anger across Robb’s face and sought a way to avoid a fight. Thus she
made to take her husband’s arm, smiling warmly.

“Bran had a long ride. We should retire to the Great Hall. The kitchens have prepared a fine
meal. Some food and drink will make this reunion all the better.”

Robb looked unsure for a moment, but when he caught Bran telling Ned the story of when
the direwolves were found, the king guffawed loudly.

“Don’t be filling the boy’s head with lies! I was the one who found the wolves!”

“Oh, you found them.” Bran winked. “But I convinced father to keep them.”
The argument over this delighted Ned and lasted well after all journeyed to the Great Hall.
The fare could hardly be called a feast, yet the wine was good and the elk meat was garnished
nicely with onions and the last of their Dornish peppers. Hallis Mollen raised quite the
clamor to drink alongside Jory and Alyn again. Tom earned a rebuke from Eglantine and a
laugh from Joy when he tossed a bone to Summer, only for Grey Wind to snatch it away in
midair. To the entertainment of the hall, Grey Wind led Summer on a chase between the
trestle tables. Bran was laughing loudly when Robb reached below the table to take hold of
her hand.

“A good start to spring.” He said, kissing her cheek. “Though I’m tempted to forego my
plans for Bran, the way he’s been acting.”

“He’s likely just weary from his travels.” She suggested.

“My arse is sore from the saddle but my hearing’s just fine.” Bran grinned next to them. “My
ears are as sharp’s as a direwolf’s though.”

“And your wit as dry as my wine.” Robb raised an eyebrow as he sipped of his goblet,
causing Bran to chuckle some.

“Fine, I apologize. I shouldn’t have been listening in. Though I was hoping to hear some
gossip. After weeks on horseback, I’m a bit starved for news of our family to the south. How
goes the war with the Reach?”

“Well, as far as the ravens say.” Robb said. “Mace Gardener forgot that Jon's mother is a
Stark. None fight a winter war better than those with the wolfsblood. Last we heard, Lord
Baratheon defeated an army under Mathis Rowan on the Mander. It was about time Gendry
fought with his bannermen rather than against them.”

Myrcella choked back a large gulp of wine then. In the years since Gendry took possession of
Storm’s End, he’d had to put down two rebellions against his rule. Rebellions fought in her
name and those of her sons. She wanted nothing to do with Storm’s End yet once Eddard was
born several Stormlords rose against Jon and Gendry, declaring her son their rightful king.
Robb refused any northern support for such a cause and it was crushed soon after. A second
rebellion that came a few years later ended the same, which Myrcella felt was just,
considering the foul reason it was launched.

“Gendry was right to punish those traitors.” Myrcella said after another sip of wine. “They
tried to take advantage of Sansa and Jon’s suffering. To launch a rebellion while their son sat
at death’s door… it was too cruel.”

“The boy lived.” Robb rubbed her arm thoughtfully. “His parents made him of too hardy
stock to let some fever take him. Oh!” His mood cheered abruptly. “Bran, you would not
have heard! You’re an uncle again!”

“Sansa had the babe?” Bran asked, seemingly unsurprised. “A daughter, was it not?”

Bran had guessed right. While Jon was away at war, Sansa had brought their fourth child into
this world.
“We’ve yet to learn her name.” Myrcella admitted. “Queen Catelyn wrote to Robb that both
mother and babe were well. We had the boys say prayers for both in the sept and to the heart
tree.”

“I think Sansa would prefer ships over prayers.” Bran looked sharply at Robb. “Whatever
victories Jon has won, we should not have let him fight alone. Uncle Benjen had a whole
fleet sitting idle at White Harbor.”

“Those ships are where I need them.” Robb shot back, his mirth gone and replaced with the
lord's face he wore for bannermen. “The Highlands and Dorne fought together against the
Reach. Our kingdom faces its trials alone. Go and seek Lord Cerwyn and ask after his son, or
visit the marker for Ser Rodrik.”

“I could never forget Cley or Rodrik! I wanted to fight with them, but you exiled me to that
godsforsaken castle! What if Princess Margaery had convinced her husband to join the war
against the Highlands? Jaime Lannister is a killer!”

Myrcella flinched to hear the name, as she had when word first came of the marriage between
Princess Margaery and Jaime Lannister. Many of Robb’s bannermen worried that the might
of the Rock and Reach would be brought against them, yet no unified army of the west had
come to bear. The lions had not strayed from Casterly Rock, something Myrcella was
endlessly thankful for.

Sadly, Robb was far from impressed by Bran at the moment.

“Whatever the Lannisters are, I am your king. You will not question me in mine own hall, at
my own table. I did not abandon Jon or Sansa. Had the lions stirred, Edmure was ready to
rally the riverlords to aid the Highlands in the fight. Sending Benjen and the White Harbor
fleet was out of the question. They are needed for our fight against the Iron Islands. The same
goes for you.”

“Me?” Bran repeated and Myrcella sensed the moment was not right for this.

“Surely such can be discussed later.” She waved for more wine. “Bran, what have you heard
of Gendry and Arya’s child? I’m afraid Arya’s letters are far less frequent-”

“No, Cella.” Robb kept his eyes on Bran. “My brother is full of questions, perhaps some of
my answers will finally bring him to heel. Then he might treat me with the respect he once
gave our father when he was king.”

Bran blinked in shock. “I-I’m only trying to warn you! The lions will run through fields of
green-”

“Forget the lions, it’s the krakens who hold Flint’s Finger and still ravage our shores. With
spring upon us, those longships will return. They’ll try and steal away what good men spent
the winter fighting and dying to make ours again. I refuse to let that happen and the
Lannisters will be key to stopping the ironmen.”
Before Bran could question that Robb’s attention turned to where Jory and Alyn were
engaged in an arm wrestling match, an attempt to impress Joy she thought.

“Jory! It’s time to talk of our work at Torrhen’s Square.” Robb folded his fists before him.
“All that Lannister gold we won in the war, it was put to good use, was it not?”

“Yes, my king.” Jory answered with pride. “It was enough to buy wood and labor,
shipmasters and blacksmiths, and keep them working on a fleet all winter long.”

“An eastern fleet.” Robb added for Bran’s benefit. “One the Greyjoys won’t be expecting.
How many ships do we have now, Jory?”

“The last tally Lady Tallhart sent was a large one. A dozen longships and five war galleys at
Torrhen's Square alone. More at Barrowton and Bear Island. Then there's that dromond. The
Winter Warrior is larger than anything in the Manderly fleet. Bigger than Lord Manderly
even.”

Robb laughed. “Be kind, the lord’s girth is matched only by his loyalty. Soon he’ll be
entrusting Benjen with his ships for the long voyage to the Sunset Sea. When the krakens
come again, they’ll find wolves prowling the waters.”

It’s about time my family’s gold be used for some good... that something good can come from
Casterly Rock…

“This is marvelous, Robb.” Bran’s grin had returned, yet he still seemed confused. “But you
said I’d have a part in this. Am I to sail with uncle Benjen? I can send word to the Dreadfort
to rally the men.”

“Yes, but ready them to march to Torrhen’s Square. I mean to add your strength to the
Tallharts, and I’m naming you my new Warden of the Rills and Barrows.”

“That title belongs to House Dustin.” Bran replied and Robb nodded solemnly.

“And Willam Dustin did honor by it, but he’s dead and his only son is still but a boy. You did
well ruling the North while I warred in the south. Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik said you
heeded sage counsel and that you paired good sense with bravery. I will need that in the days
ahead.”

“I’m honored, Robb.” Bran still sounded unsure, and Myrcella noted that his eyes fell. “I
truly am, but this title should go to a lord of the west. Lord Ryswell perhaps.”

“You will be a lord of the west.” Robb slapped Bran’s back. “The Tallharts have suffered
greatly and lack for men while you have plenty. Lady Eddara is now out of mourning and you
are unwed. When I offered you as a husband, she readily agreed.”

“The lady remembers your kindness.” Myrcella added. “She trusts the Starks and has faith
that you’ll help keep her lands and family safe.”

“Find someone else.” Bran’s rejection was so abrupt that Myrcella was unsure she heard it
right. Robb was staring at his brother in bewilderment.
“What did you say?” Robb asked and Bran met his gaze without hesitation.

“I said find someone else. Marry Eddara to someone else. She can have the Dreadfort men if
she needs them. She can have my sword as well. But seek another to marry her.”

“But Bran, she’s a fine woman.” She tried to keep her voice low but others were already
looking their way, drawn by Robb’s darkening expression.

“She surely is.” Bran nodded. “So marry her to a good man. Robb, I held the Dreadfort for
you. Don’t ask me to do this. I told you what I wanted-”

“Ask?” Robb thudded his goblet against the table, his jaw set in fury. “I do not ask. Your king
told you his will, and you argue against it. Again. You talk to me of wants when it is your
duty that should concern you. Sansa and Arya married who they were told to. Rickon will do
the same. They set aside their wants-”

“Unlike you.” Bran shot back, drawing gasps from Eglantine and Luwin. “You didn’t marry
for duty, you married who you wanted. Look how that turned out.”

Myrcella might’ve felt offended yet she heard no slight in Bran’s tone, nor did he look at her
with any malice, yet Robb took it for an insult and rose from the table.

“How dare you?!” Robb bellowed in anger. “Now you insult my wife?”

“I didn’t! That’s not what I meant!”

“Robb, it was nothing.” She tried to ease Robb’s mind and body back into his seat but he
jerked free from her efforts to tower over Bran.

“I gave you a castle!” Robb shouted. “I gave you lands and title. Now I hand you a second
castle and a noble bride, and you reward my kindness by insulting my Queen! If you mean to
act like a petulant child, I will treat you like one. Your evening is at an end, Lord Stark, retire
from my hall. Now.”

Bran was trembling in anger when he rose to stand face to face with Robb. The two brothers,
so alike in both look and anger, stared hard-eyed at each other. In that moment, Myrcella
thought of the direwolves and prayed that these Starks acted more like men than beasts. Her
prayers were answered when Bran blinked.

“As my king commands.” He backed away a step to bow curtly before turning and striding
away from the table and out of the hall. Tom started crying and Ned stared wide-eyed at his
father.

“What did uncle Bran do?” Ned asked but he received no answer, Robb collapsing back into
his chair.

“When did he become so selfish?” Robb asked of no one in particular. “Is the Dreadfort truly
cursed? Did it make Bran like this?”
Myrcella felt the eyes on her and caught the furtive glances sent her way, northmen
whispering amongst themselves. Blaming her for the brothers’ quarrel most likely.

She did not abide it for long. Under the guise of seeing the saddened boys on to bed,
Myrcella excused herself from the hall. Robb did not argue and she left it to Jory and Maester
Luwin to tend to his foul mood. Just as she tasked others to see to the boys.

If I am going to be blamed for the bad blood here, I will do my best to remedy it.

This is my family now, I will not let it be torn apart.

From the guardsmen she learned where Bran had gone, a place Myrcella dreaded to follow,
where the ghosts of Starks long dead still roamed.

Her steps echoed through the passages of the crypts like Sansa’s cries would in the corridors
of Storm’s End. Whenever Joffrey tortured Sansa, Tommen would crawl into Myrcella’s bed
so they could weep together. Mother never offered him such comfort, in the end all she gave
Tommen was death. Something her grandfather Tywin had dealt the Starks when he had King
Eddard murdered.

It was that tomb she found now. Bran stood torch in hand, gazing up at the stone likeness of
his father. If he heard her coming, he gave no sign, nor did she speak, fearful to interrupt the
prince in paying his respects.

“I didn’t mean it.” Bran spoke first, looking over his shoulder to her with glistening eyes.
“Not what Robb thought. He married who he wanted and now he has you as a queen. Who
could ever think that was a bad thing?”

“Many people, Bran. A daughter of Cersei Lannister is not the queen many northerners
envisioned having after the war. Not much has changed in that regard.”

“Not this.” Bran turned to face the status again. “Father will stay this way long after I’m gone
to dust. When I was at the Dreadfort I thought about that. He's the only one that will stay as I
remembered. It’s been seven years since I saw any of the others except for mother.”

“You saw your mother? When?”

Bran exhaled, shaking his head. “I was not supposed to say… she came to visit me at the
Dreadfort near the beginning. It was a short stay and she only came because I begged it of
her.”

That hurt some to hear, for Robb had begged the same of Queen Catelyn for years now. She’d
never come, not even when the boys were born. Robb always put it down to his mother’s
dislike of traveling such great distances.

Don’t fool yourself, it’s not the distance she scorns

She ignored the hurt to deal with the matter at hand. “I’m glad you had some company at the
Dreadfort. Don’t think Robb callous to your unhappiness. That’s why he thought of this
marriage. You could make Torrhen’s Square your seat and raise a family there. Years could
pass between visits to the Dreadfort.”

“I told Robb I’m not meant to have a family.” Bran tensed and made fists at his sides. “Or
even to be a lord. My place is at the Wall.”

“You wish to take the black? But Bran, you’re a prince! You're so young, with so much
promise, why would you throw all of that away for the Wall?”

“I have to.” He spoke with resolve. “When I was at the Dreadfort, I was shown things. I was
told where I belong. How I can be of use. I need to make Robb see.”

“Robb doesn’t need to see, he needs his brother.” Myrcella closed the distance between them
until he met her gaze. “He’s proud Bran, too proud to tell you the burdens that are weighing
on him. Or what’s at stake with this new campaign.”

“Then tell me.” Bran urged and she hesitated to do so. This was a matter for the Starks. To
meddle in Robb’s affairs was something her mother would do. Yet after the scene in the hall
and hearing Bran’s plans, she couldn’t hold back.

“Robb is caught between the north and south. The Northmen feel that they fought too many
wars for the south only to lose their lands to the ironmen in turn. To them, Robb should be
raising an army from the Riverlands to fight along the coasts.”

“That is... not unreasonable…”

“It is to the riverlords.” She noted. “Our meal tonight came from their lands. The northern
lords left their fields untilled to fight in the south, so the Riverlands were taxed in stores to
fill our granaries from theirs. That meant a leaner winter for the riverlords, when some of
them believed they had already suffered enough.”

“Does Robb fear a rebellion?” Bran asked.

“Not just yet, but he’s walking a fine line. He’s leveed men from the south for the fight
against the Greyjoys, but only a small number. They won’t be enough, and he risks losing
face to turn to the Karstarks or the Cerwyns to raise the rest.”

“But not if he turns to me.” Bran ran a hand down his face. “Because I would be married to
Eddara and a warden of those coasts. None would question me pledging all my strength to
this.”

“That’s the faith Robb holds in you.” She looked to the statue of Eddard Stark, and its long,
solemn face. “That’s why he couldn’t send aid to Jon and Sansa, not because he’s indifferent
to their need, but because his duty is to his kingdom. To its people. To us.”

Bran became silent then. She told herself that Robb would’ve shared all this with Bran in
time. Whatever Bran was telling himself, he didn’t share with her. His brow was furrowed,
his shoulders slumped, and in that moment, she saw him as a little boy again.
“My father told me about this.” He finally said. “That I would grow up one day and rule
some holdfast and serve my brother as best I could. After everything I’ve been shown since, I
thought that meant the Wall…” Bran stiffened then, his chin raising in determination.
“Nevermind. If Robb needs me, I’ll be there. As my father wanted. Whatever the future
holds, I’ll act a Stark, here and now.”

The relief that washed over her to hear that was so great that she hugged Bran tight once
more. It only lasted a moment or two, for Myrcella suddenly felt it wrong to do so in front of
King Eddard’s statue. As if it disrespected his memory. Yet when they pulled apart, her
memory gave rise to a curiosity she couldn’t ignore.

“Bran, what did you mean you were told you belonged at the Wall. Who told you?”

The prince eyed her carefully then, becoming far more guarded.

“Forgive me my queen, that’s something I’d keep to myself. We all have our secrets.”

Whatever Bran meant by that, Myrcella’s mind took her far and away from the crypts of
Winterfell. All the way back to Harrenhal, when the peace was made and her mother was
being led out of the castle. It was a memory tinged with anger and shame, as well as a deep
sadness. Father was long dead, her brothers gone too, she and Mother, they were all that was
left of House Durrandon.

An illusion mother destroyed when she grabbed hold of Myrcella, whispering in her ears the
words that terrified her to this day.

“It matters not what name you take, House Lannister is your true family. It is for us that you
will seek vengeance. For your blood is pure. Too pure for that Stark to ever accept. Cast him
down, cast him down when I bid or he’ll learn the name of your father. Your true father.”

Just as mother’s twin had pulled her away then, Bran took her arm to lead Myrcella out of the
crypts.

Taking them away from the father that Robb and Bran still mourned to this day while she
battled against the truth of who her father was.

And the abomination that made her.

SANSA

The sound of hammer strikes and stone cracking was constant. No matter the season, the
workers toiled away, raising a castle here upon Aegon’s Hill and a city in the lands below.

Sansa stood within the fruit of such labors, a towering keep that overlooked much of
Aevalon. Made from a pale red stone quarried for use on the Targaryen castle alone,
Rhaegar’s Holdfast was an impressive fortress in within a fortress. Smaller timber towers and
other structures still dominated the hilltop, which was now ringed by massive red curtain
walls. Through the unfinished roof of the Great Hall laborers were seen rushing to and fro,
the master builder having fallen behind the schedule.

Jon will be impressed by the progress either way, she thought, one morning we’ll wake and
find a completed castle completed awaiting us.

I can be old and grey by then but I’d give anything to wake up next to him tomorrow.

Not since their first meeting at Winterfell had Jon and her been apart for so long. His absence
was a dull pain in her chest, one that deepened to look upon her gown. It was a bright
turquoise with golden vines wending their way along the front and down the arms to her
long, open sleeves. A lovely thing she’d worn for her last dance with Jon before the war.

Before the responsibilities of being king and queen drove husband and wife apart.

“Sansa, it’s your turn.” Sarella’s voice drifted out to from inside Sansa’s royal apartments.
The Dornish woman sat reclining on a couch, eyeing their cyvasse board with interest. “My
spearmen are in play, it is time to say goodbye to your light horse.”

“Is it now?” She asked, turning away from the balcony to return to her seat, reaching out to
pet Lady as she did so. “Sarella, we have played too many games for me to be ignorant of
your love for spearmen. That’s your father’s Dornish influence.”

“Talk, talk, talk. At some point, you must take action.” The dark-skinned woman gestured to
the board. “Sacrifice the cavalry or lose your dragon in two turns. I wager the dragon is more
than safe though, such is your husband’s influence.”

She wasn’t sure if Sarella meant the needling to mock her predictability or prick the part of
her that missed Jon so. That was the danger with playing games with a Sand Snake, they
could bear their fangs during the most innocent of contests. Yet Sansa had lived such a life
that such strikes did little harm. Her skin had turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel, and it
would take more than a snakebite to pierce it now.

With but a moment’s thought, Sansa grasped at a piece and moved it to the hills.

“Your rabble?” Sarella sounded amused. “I hope that’s not meant to draw my attention away
from the conquests that lay before me.”

“Not at all, I mean only to block you.”

Sarella tilted her head then, staring hard at the board. Sansa guessed at the time it would take
Sarella to see what she meant, only for her friend to react far quicker. She was pulling on a
braid of hair when Sarella’s expression became one of shock.

“Take my horse.” Sansa shrugged. “Or my dragon. Though I doubt you will. In three moves,
you are beaten. The rabble blocks your dragon. My heavy cavalry, my elephant, my
trebuchet, it does not matter which, at least one will do for your king by then. My king stays
safe.”
Her last words in High Valyrian caused Sarella to break free from her spell and let out a
laugh. The woman knocked over her king in the same fluid motion she used to hold her cup
out towards Sansa. When clinked their cups together, Sarella demonstrated her own skill in
the Valyrian tongue.

“Daughter of wolves. Queen of dragons. I salute you.”

“Do you?” She drank of her wine. “Then why underestimate me?”

“Oh, I do no such thing.” Sarella bore all her ivory teeth in a wide smile. “I never expect
victory against you, Sansa. In truth, I yearn for defeat. Your mind is sharp yet I’m learning all
your tricks. When we play a game that matters, I will be ready.”

“May that day never come.”

Sansa meant those words and raised her cup again, happy to see a moment’s weakness flash
over Sarella’s face. There was no guile in the woman when they toasted again, a feat
considering her friend’s true role here.

For Sarella was a spy. A simple truth her friend gladly admitted to. Prince Doran wished
knowledge of the Targaryen court at Aevalon and Sarella was his source. A fine arrangement
as far as Sansa was concerned. Sarella took as much as she gave and proved to be the
Targaryen’s best authority on Dorne.

Her wisdom had been of great benefit when the war with the Reach began. The Dornish and
Reach marcher lords had been raiding each other for years beforehand and Jon did his best to
keep the peace. Then the Reach lords burnt down two villages in the Stormlands, accusing
them of sending eastern freedmen to aid in the Dornish raids. Jon could not ignore such
aggression, though had he known she was with child Sansa suspected the banners might not
have been called with such ease.

Against the might of the Reach, the Highlands stood little chance. Jon knew better than to
seek out Viserys for help, and feared Prince Doran too cautious to commit to more than raids.
It was Sarella who told him to send envoys not only to Doran, but to her father and Princess
Arianne as well.

“Show Arianne respect.” Sarella had advised her. “Whatever her husband says of King Jon,
show Arianne that he respects her as the next ruler of Dorne and that the alliance extends
beyond Aegon’s vows. Show her that, then show them your strength.”

Together Jon and her did all Sarella suggested, save that it fell to him alone to flex their
kingdom’s muscle. While Mace Gardener still had ravens flying about declaring commands
and war titles, Jon and the Dark Order rode out and seized Tumbleton. By the time the
Rowans and Tarlys raised armies of their own, the Red Viper had taken the field with his
Dornish spears while Gendry and Royner Darklyn marched on Bitterbridge with an army of
thirty thousand.

The war did rage from there, a year and more now. Winter ended and spring came, she
birthed their new babe while Jon was far away. Yet it all meant victory. A victory declared
only a month or so ago. Her king had ridden as far as Highgarden itself to secure both peace
and more lands for their fledgling kingdom.

The Reach is the heart of chivalry in the Seven Kingdoms and Jon drove a sword right
through it.

He showed the realm our kingdom is here to stay.

A light rapping on her door was followed by the welcome voice of Ser Barristan.

“Your grace, Tyrion Lannister is without. He says he’s expected.”

“That he is, do come in.” She set, petting Lady once more as a dark-cloaked Barristan and the
Lannister dwarf entered. Their former hostage turned guest giving both women a lopsided
grin.

“My, my.” Tyrion tapped at the parchments he carried. “Imagine me being invited into a
queen’s bed chambers. Something to write home to Casterly Rock about.”

“Do so at your own peril.” Sansa looked Barristan’s way as she smoothed her skirts. “Are
those the figures we spoke of?”

“They are.” Tyrion handed the parchments over for her inspection. “I’ll save the suspense, for
congratulations are in order. Aevalon has surpassed both Maidenpool and Duskendale in size.
The spring arrivals from the empire likely did it.”

“Then it is good we have new lands to settle them on.”

Their newly won lands from the Reach were sorely needed. There was more than enough
space within their old boundaries, yet settling the freedmen required a careful touch. Some
lords begrudged taking newcomers onto their lands, the same ones who then decried how
their less discriminating neighbors grew both in vassals and strength. Aevalon certainly could
not hold them all. Jon had been adamant on laying out the city by imperial standards, which
meant ordered streets and baths and a firm stand against unconstrained growth. All efforts
Tyrion had surprisingly been quite helpful with and she now urged him to speak on.

“Well, for those lucky few that get to plant down roots here, the drains and sewers for the
new quarter to the north are ready. Given the space, ten thousand could settle there and not a
drop of shit will go anywhere but where you wish it.”

“What of the aqueducts? The maester was worried that late frost might have damaged some.”

“None that I can see.” Tyrion pointed to a parchment which displayed a map of the city.
“Those aqueducts were built strong and the water flows as it should. I was more worried
about the Blackwater Bridge. I thought for sure the spring deluge would wash the thing
away.”

That would never happen. The stone bridge that spanned the Blackwater was a feat that awed
all who crossed over those swift waters. Wide enough to allow two carts to travel abreast, the
bridge eased travel and gave them command of both riverbanks. Jon had talked of building a
small manse on the southern bank, away from the noise of Aevalon, a place to take the
children for peace and quiet.

She wanted that dearly.

“Cyvasse again?” Tyrion took note of the board, his mismatched eyes flicking across the
pieces. “I see the Highland Queen was victorious.”

Sarella nodded. “Tricky thing, she used her rabble of all things to win the day.”

“Ah yes.” Tyrion noted, touching the piece in question. “You forfeited before taking it?”

“Why prolong the inevitable?” Sansa asked and the Lannister smiled again.

“Many reasons. See, if it was me, I would’ve made you suffer for the win. The rabble there,
your smallfolk, I’d have my cavalry ride them down. Then massacred your dragon. Her grace
might win the war, but she’d dislike the taste of victory.”

Sarella raised an eyebrow at that while Sansa felt a tad queasy. Tyrion had turned a game of
tiny pieces and meaningless moves into something dark. Whatever his wit and intelligence,
Tyrion simply did not conduct himself in a way that endeared the Lannister prince to her. His
frequent enjoyment of whores had led to her banning them from the Red Keep altogether.
She’d not have her children exposed to such, and it thinking on their well-being that
reminded her of the ache in her breasts.

“Thank you for this, Tyrion.” Sansa said as she rose. “And to you for the game, Sarella. It’s
time I attend my children, so if you’d excuse me.”

Neither raised any objection, and soon the pair left, chatting away about cyvasse strategies.
Which left Sansa with her two most loyal protectors, Lady and Barristan.

“They are in the godswood.” Barristan offered his arm, a warm expression on his lined face.
“I do believe that’s where the dowager Queen brought the children for the afternoon. A
minstrel as well.”

“For the twins, no doubt.” Sansa sighed. “My mother spoils them so.”

“Do not hold that against her. A certain knight in your service might be guilty of sneaking the
Dragons Darling lemoncakes from the kitchens now and again.”

Sansa laughed at that, and teased the old knight about it on their journey through the keep in
search of her children. Once outside they passed timber towers and open cuts in the earth
meant for future foundations. The godswood was an open acre of trees and greenery at edge
of the hill overlooking the Blackwater Rush. Elms, alders, cottonwoods, all manner of trees
grew here along with rose and lilac bushes. Sansa’s destination was the heart tree, an
ironwood only twice her height and dear to her heart.

This tree had been a gift from House Forrester. A memorial for Asher, who fell near to this
very spot. There had never been any question which tree would be the center of their
godswood. A tree Sansa’s children now frolicked about. While her mother sat cradling a
precious bundle in her arms, a minstrel wandered about plucking a lively tune for the twins to
dance to. At only seven years, the two girls could not be more different.

Rhaegina, with her dark hair and purple eyes, did her best to lead a little boy about in formal
step. All while Aemma danced more wildly, waving her hands and swishing her skirts as
freely as her auburn hair moved through the air.

Their dancing was interrupted the moment Rhaegina’s four-year-old partner caught sight of
her. Sansa’s only son had smoky blue eyes and hair the color of red-gold. When he stopped
mid-step, a smile teased the corners of his long face.

“Mother!” Aenry broke away from Rhaegina to run her way. “Mother! They scared me!”

“Did they now?” Sansa bent down to scoop the boy into an embrace. “Well there’s nothing to
be scared of now.”

Once it had been Aenry that gave her the worst scare of her life. Worse than the years at
Storm’s End. Or the moments before Aemma gasped her first breath. When Aenry was born
the tiny thing was an answer to her prayers. An heir their bannermen could rally around. Yet
just before his first year, the sickness had come. A fever which took thousands from the city,
and nearly her boy as well.

During that time a rebellion arose in the Stormlands that only added their woes. Jon and her
rarely left Aenry’s bedside and, thankfully, Arya and Gendry had crushed the rebels in their
stead. What complaints came of the Baratheon methods mattered little after to once Aenry’s
fever broke and his survival was assured. Though Sansa worried that sickness had robbed her
babe of some strength, and was forever vigilant for threats to his health.

So feeling Aenry half a tremble as he spoke of the twins’ teasing irked her some.

“They said she’d take me.” Aenry pouted in her arms. “The Mad Queen. She’s going to steal
me from my bed.”

“Cersei Lannister will do no such thing.” Sansa assured him before seeking out her eldest
children, both of whom made to hide behind the ironwood. “Rhaegina! Aemma! What have I
said about scaring your brother?”

“We didn’t scare him!” Rhaegina protested and Aemma nodded vigorously.

“Not really! We told Aenry to stop putting bugs in our hair or the Mad Queen would get
him.”

Rhaegina stuck her chin out. “It’s not our fault he kept doing it! Now she’ll get him for sure!”

“Girls.” Mother chided them in a hushed voice. “Quiet down, you’ll wake your sister.”

“She sleeps still?” Sansa asked and Mother nodded, gesturing to the startled minstrel.

“This little one likes music as much as singing. Don’t be cross at the twins, Aenry is guilty of
the charges laid against him.”
“Then he shall have to be exiled.” She then handed Aenry off to Barristan, who did not fail in
offering the young prince a ride upon his shoulders. “Ser, if you could act an escort.”

“Of course, Prince Aenry will be well guarded.” Barristan smirked before sending a sideways
glance the twins’ way. “I do hope no bandits come upon us.”

Aemma and Rhaegina shared a look of unspoken understanding before grinning. Something
that panicked Aenry.

“Bandits!” He pointed at his sisters. “Ser Barry! Bandits!”

Barristan then bounded away, Aenry bouncing on his shoulders as the girls gave a battle cry
to chase after them. All this uproar roused the babe from her slumber, her wails quite
welcome to Sansa. The ache in her breasts was uncomfortable and after mother ordered the
minstrel away, they readied to feed the girl. While she cradled her bundled child, mother
worked at the laces of Sansa’s gown

“You should use a wet nurse.” Mother noted after Sansa freed her breast to offer the babe a
nipple to suckle on. “That would save you from running yourself ragged.”

“My mother never used one.” She replied as the girl latched on and relief flowed through her.
“And if I should seek a wet nurse, perhaps we need more nursemaids as well. Watching after
four children is no task for a Queen in the North.”

“You’re a cruel child.” Mother kissed her brow as she watched the girl nurse. “Don’t talk of
taking these babes from me. I hope to be near when Jon meets this little dragon for the first
time.”

The thought was as lovely as the babe herself. When she was born, the bells rang the whole
day, tens of thousands sharing in Sansa’s joy. Not yet half a year, her youngest had come
along with the spring itself. Mother claimed that meant good tidings yet Sansa took more
meaning from the child’s features. As the babe nursed, a pair of lilac eyes stared right back at
her. That and the sparse patch of pale blonde hair upon the child’s head left no mystery to her
roots.

The blood of Old Valyria ran strong in her veins. Her name was an honored one among the
Targaryens.

“Vaelena Targaryen.” Sansa repeated once more, stroking her daughter’s head. “You are
named after Valaena, mother of the Conqueror himself. The High King and your grandmother
Lyanna freed a hundred child slaves in your name. Little children who owe their freedom to
you already.”

Vaelena merely blinked to hear so, but one day Sansa would have her understand how
precious a gift freedom was. That future would have to wait for as soon as Vaelena had her
fill, a kingdom had need of its queen.

In Jon’s absence, it was Sansa who heard petitions and attended council meetings. Nowhere
near as powerful as the empire’s Council of Heralds, their council was but a small body of
learned men and influential lords who acted as advisers. Uncle Brynden had jokingly called it
the Small Council and the name stuck.

A body whose numbers had shrunk with the coming of war, for only four men awaited her
and Barristan in the council chambers. The long table usually sat seven but Royner Darklyn
and Garmon Qoherys had joined the march. Of those that remained only Aurane Velaryon
was a lord, one who commanded the royal fleet and was charged with the defense of
Aevalon.

The handsome man stood out like a sore thumb compared to the other three. Varys, bald and
plump, sat plucking at his outrageously bright silks though his ears seemed keen to his
companions’ conversations. The loudest was also the smallest man in the room, a septon of
fifty years or more with a big mouth and thin brown hair. Though Septon Tom, or Tom of the
Seven as he liked to be called, often gave counsel of dubious value, his voice made hymns
come alive. The septon was dwarfed by the fat maester seated to his left, though Sansa liked
to think Samwell Tarly’s size was an accurate measure of his worth to them.

“Your grace.” Sam rose first, petting at his maester’s chain as he bowed. “I pray this day
finds you well.”

“Leave the prayers to me.” Tom of the Seven said while his eyes admired her dress. “The
Seven have truly blessed these lands for a queen as lovely as this to rule over them.”

“A septon with a singer’s charm.” Sansa smiled as Barristan pulled out her chair at the head
of table. “I imagine the septs of Aevalon are filled with pious women.”

Aurane laughed. “Lest they fall too easily to charm. Why our septon here was just telling a
tale of a young lady he once knew-”

“The queen’s time cannot be wasted on tales.” Barristan threw back his Targaryen cloak and
sat. His words quieted Aurane and saved the septon some embarrassment. Their
representative of the Faith had a rather suspect past yet his follies seemed confined to his
youth, for Tom of the Seven had come highly recommended by many lords. And ladies.

“The good ser is correct, of course.” Varys spoke in a soft voice before gesturing to Sam. “I
do believe the number of petitioners today is a rather lengthy list. All having come in hopes
of being seen by our dear queen.”

“Why yes…” Sam sounded confused as he fumbled about his parchments. “I only just had all
the names put together.”

Names Sansa suspected Varys already knew. The eunuch spymaster had been a gift from
Rhaegar during the early years of their reign. Though useful, Sansa did not fully trust Varys.
Not like she did Sam. The Tarly man had grown on Jon and her so they’d been glad to
sponsor his training at the Citadel. Giving Sam the chance to forge his chain had required
little gold and more influence. It had been a difficult thing to get House Hightower to
guarantee Sam’s well-being, for Randyll Tarly had threatened to abduct his son from
Oldtown. Yet the Hightowers kept their word and four years later, with some more dealing
with the Citadel, Maester Samwell returned to the Red Keep to serve House Targaryen.
Something he excelled at. For it was Sam that nurtured Aenry back from death’s door. To
Sansa, he was a hero, even if Sam was unsure of that truth.

“Here it is!” Sam proclaimed, unfolding some parchment before him. “Yes, yes. There’s the
leaders of the Freedmen and Aevalon builders guilds regarding the new northern quarter.
Several lords seeking greater titles after their service in the war. An envoy from Jalabhar
Xho, Prince of the Summer Islands, regarding trade. A Braavosi merchant seeking a charter
to operate in Aevalon…”

“Is that this Baelish character?” Sansa asked, glancing to Barristan. “The one who send lavish
gifts to me and my mother? To my daughters?”

“Petyr Baelish.” Varys answered instead, his cheeks quivering. “And yes, he has been the one
sending gifts. He’s also the visitor Ser Barristan found speaking to the royal princesses
without leave.”

“I thought it an innocent mistake.” Barristan glowered. “The twins were playing their hiding
game on me. By the time I found them they were talking to this stranger. He claimed to have
lost his way in the castle and the girls were all smiles, so I sent him on without rebuke. Now I
suspect that was no accident.”

“A bold act.” She tapped her fingers, thinking of the lemon-scented scarves she’d been gifted
by Petyr Baelish’s lackeys. “Jon has fine relations with the Braavosi, why does this merchant
seek to win me over with bribes? ”

Varys tittered. “Because Baelish is so much more than a merchant. I know him from my time
in the empire. There he was a suspected agent of the Iron Bank, yet more evidence pointed to
him being a spymaster for hire. One with a penchant for running brothels, where my little
birds tell me Baelish peddles less in flesh and more than in stolen whispers and sabotage.”

“Well, there goes the Imp’s secrets.” Aurane noted, earning a laugh from the septon and a
dismissive glance from Varys.

“I’ve been told that before arriving at Duskendale, Baelish’s last stop was Gulltown.”

That caught the attention of all for their relations with King Elbert Arryn were poor at best.
Many ships out of Maidenpool had become victim to pirates of late, actions Varys and
Aurane suspected were committed by privateers out of Gulltown.

Is Petyr Baelish in the employ of those men? Or does he serve a far more important master?

“I should have started with this.” Sam said suddenly, snatching up a tiny letter to pass her
way. “I’m sorry, we got to speaking of petitions but I meant to produce this letter from Darry
first. The raven only arrived last night and Lord Lyman writes of an odd event regarding the
Vale.”

She always looked forward to news from Darry, for it was now the home of Talia, her
beloved friend. Talia’s marriage to Lyman Darry kept her friend close and an important
bannermen tied to the throne. As the Warden of the River Marches, Lyman knew to be wary
once the snows melted and the high road from the Vale opened once more. The letter she now
read spoke of how a Darry patrol of the Trident had rescued a party of men out of the Vale
beset by mountain clansmen.

As she shared the contents with the others Barristan grunted in disbelief.

“I’ve never heard of clansmen so far south of the Mountains of the Moon.”

“They are savage beasts.” Septon Tom said. “In my youth, I knew many a minstrel and lady
lost to the clans while travelling. After what they did to Denys Arryn, they’ve become even
worse.”

The reminder of how the Arryn civil war had come to an end caused Sansa to shudder. It was
a bloody tale of the fall of a powerful man and the slaughter of innocents. The deaths of a
would-be queen and her children. A tale which featured a name mentioned in Lyman’s letter.

“Harrold Hardyng.” Sam continued. “That’s who the Darrys rescued from the clansmen. Ser
Harold Hardyng.”

Varys raised an eyebrow to hear so. “Harry the Heir? Unless my little birds sing the wrong
tune, King Elbert keeps that knight quite close since he lacks any children of his own. Elbert
is already unpopular, I cannot see him risking his heir so callously.”

“He didn’t.” She stared at the grave words scribbled upon the letter. “It appears Harry fled the
Vale. He begs sanctuary here in the Highlands. And an audience with my husband.”

Sam nodded solemnly. “Lord Lyman has not promised either. He awaits the crown’s decision
on the matter.”

“Let him come.” Aurane declared. “Elbert has seized plenty of our ships without being taken
to task. Let’s see how he changes his tune once we hold his heir.”

“A deal?” Barristan rubbed at his chin. “To grant sanctuary and then dangle it about is more
akin to fishmongers than men of honor.” He then jerked about her way. “Or women.”

“We have no proof of Arryn involvement in the piracy.” The maester pulled on his chain and
met Varys’s stare. “Besides our lord admiral’s opinions and the seneshal’s whispers.”

Varys tittered. “Whispers which helped alert Lord Baratheon to the Rowan strategy before the
lord’s victory at the Mander. You questioned my birds then as well.”

“My lords.” Tom of the Seven held up his hands. “Sanctuary is less a tool and more an act of
mercy. The High Septon decries Elbert Arryn’s vile deeds, I imagine he would welcome any
comfort we could offer one afflicted by the Foul Falcon. The Highlands could reap the
reward for such an act.”

“Or the whirlwind.” Barristan added. “Our king is not yet returned from the last war, what we
decide here could set a whole new one in motion.”
“The bold ser is right.” Sansa finally spoke, having listened to all while weighing all her
thoughts and concerns against their words. “We could risk war by granting Harry sanctuary.
That is an outcome I most certainly wish to avoid.” She paused to take a deep breath. “Yet,
this man apparently flees in fear of his life. I can sympathize with that, so I will not turn my
back on Harry Hardyng. Nor will I risk war without good reason.”

“What do we tell Lord Darry then?” Sam asked as all looked to her for an answer.

“We shall tell him to provide his guest safe conduct to Aevalon. Harry shall be granted an
audience, but that is all until we hear sufficient reason to shield him as he wishes.”

The others accepted her will, though she caught the reservation on a few of their faces.
Worries she likely shared, and it was her dearest wish that Jon would arrive long before Harry
Hardyng did. Not that Sansa wanted to leave the decision to her husband, she just wished to
do as they always did.

Sharing the burdens of rule as they shared their bed.

She struggled hard to focus on matters after that, for the council meeting dragged on for
hours. Matters of taxations blending in with conflicts between the freedmen and those born of
Westeros. The septon’s concerns that, despite vows of conversion, many of the newly arrived
clung to their foreign gods. They were just broaching of how to handle Petyr Baelish’s
petition when one of the royal wards broke into the meeting chamber.

“Your grace.” Robin Darklyn wheezed, the skinny young man red in the face and lacking
breath as he came to her. “Forgive… forgive the intrusion… but… but…”

“Out with it.” Barristan commanded, for he had charge of her cousin’s training in the yard.
“You do not barge into the queen’s presence without good-”

“The king!” Robin half-shouted at her. “The Blackfish! That is, uncle Brynden! He just rode
into the castle. The royal army is a day away but the king rode ahead to reach the city
sooner!”

“Jon is here?” She near knocked her cousin over in her haste to rise, then grabbed at her skirts
to keep from throttling him as he choked on an answer.

“He will be. Within the hour. The king returns!”

That was all she needed to hear. The petitions were cancelled for the day. The meeting ended.
The king was home and Sansa rushed to make ready for it.

Fortunately Mother had already heard the news and had servants and maids readying the
children. The twins were so excited they barely settled long enough to get their finest gowns
on and Vaelena cried endlessly at all the activity. The babe’s reaction was far less troubling
than Aenry’s.

“I don’t want to go.” The boy fought against their efforts to dress him, tears welling in his
eyes. “No. No! Don’t make me!”
“Aenry, stop.” Sansa urged. “Your father hasn’t seen you in so long, we cannot make him
wait a moment longer.”

“But I don’t remember him.” Aenry’s pale eyes blinked as tears fell away. “What if he’s
scary? He killed the bad king. What if he thinks I’m a bad prince?”

“Aenry…”

“I don’t mean to be bad, I promise. I won’t pull Rhaegina’s hair or bite Aemma ever again!
I’ll eat my beets. I’ll say my prayers. Tell father I’ll be good. I promise!”

“Hush now.” She wiped at his tears, cursing the war for this. “Son, the very last thing your
father did before he left was to hold you. He told you to be brave. To take care of your sisters
and myself. We’re all quite well so your father will be very proud of you.”

“Do you promise?” Aenry sniffed and she kissed his brow.

“Of course. Ser Barristan will tell him how brave you’ve been and Maester Samwell can
surely speak of how well you listen to your histories.”

“Aegon the First lived on Dragonstone.” The boy said with pride. “That’s where father was
born. That’s very special. Very, very special.”

“As are you, sweetling.”

There was little conflict to deal with after that and soon she delivered Aenry to the courtyard
in a handsome little doublet bearing his father’s white dragon. Rhaegina, who had her arms
wrapped about Lady’s neck, wore a billowing gown of violet while Aemma spun about in
one as blue as her eyes. Tiny Vaelena, who squirmed about in her grandmother’s arms, was
draped in a long white gown. Sansa took this all in with prude before looking to the hundreds
ringing the courtyard.

Lords and smallfolk alike had gathered to welcome their king. Westerosi knights stood side
by side with eastern freedmen who wore short swords tied to their belts. Uncle Brynden
looked a mix of both cultures, the older knight pacing about in his dark eastern armor. He
made Robin and Samwell quite nervous, though others like Barristan and Varys were as calm
as the skies above. Sarella was whispering something to Tyrion when she sent a wink Sansa’s
way.

Then the bells took to ringing, an act Septon Tom took credit for wordlessly as he bowed to
her. Every moment after that was agony. Absolute agony. Few words had passed between Jon
and her during the war. It was not an ideal environment for letters.

What if the fighting darkened the light within him again? Last time I was able to see him
through.

Is the king that returns today the same man I bid farewell to last year?

The sound of hooves clattering up the stone road to the castle set her heart to pounding. It
was little shock when the wolves were the first ones through the gates, Ghost and Shaggydog
both racing to reach the royal family first.

“Ghost!” Rhaegina and Aemma yelled in unison. “Shaggy!”

Sansa groaned loudly when both wolves went straight to the girls, each bowling one other in
a frenzy of laughter and licking. Of course that would be the scene the riders arrived to.

Daegon Blackfyre was the first she recognized, since the Lord of Rosby bore a black dragon
across his battle-scarred shield. Then men of the Dark Order appeared, Black Balaq and Karl
Bowden flanking their Lord-Commander, Thoros of Myr. The red-cloaked warrior did not
hesitate to nod Aemma’s way, for the girl admired him so. Garmon Qoherys and Royner
Darklyn drew little of Sansa’s attention when Rickon appeared among the riders.

Her brother was ten and six now, powerfully built with hair as wild as his wolf. Across
Rickon’s back hung a heavy axe, upon his face several scars he had not had when he
departed. Nor did she remember Rickon having such a fine steed or armor, for the young man
rode forth on a splendid brown destrier worthy of the greatest lord.

She was gaping at that when Samwell gave the signal and the trumpets sounded, causing
Aenry to jump and all to look as their king entered the yard.

His clothes were a becoming mix of white and black, his dark cloak fastened to his shoulders
by silver dragons. The hair and beard Sansa longed to lose herself in were not greatly
changed, perhaps a tad longer than she preferred. Yet it was his eyes she yearned to see. It
was always Jon’s eyes that betrayed his true self.

“Long live King Jon!” Daegon roared with a fist raised high, inspiring Rickon and Barristan
to do the same., them and a hundred others.

“Long live King Jon!”

“Long live King Jon!”

That’s what Jon dismounted to, a chorus of cheers that she yearned would bid him to look her
way. Vaelena was wailing, Aenry clutching at her skirts, the twins begging to run to him.

It was in the midst of that uproar Jon finally turned to her.

And the moment those grey eyes found hers, she knew the truth of things.

Her husband had found his way back to her.

Her Jon still lived.

JON

Their hands fought for a place on the headboard, fumbling to steady themselves as the bed
shook from their lovemaking.
Sansa was bent over, her arms holding onto the frame as Jon pressed his chest against her
back, their sweat-slicked skin touching with each of his thrusts. His free arm swung below,
fondling at her breasts and teasing her nipples. He did all this blindly, for his face was pressed
against Sansa’s shoulder, buried in that glorious tumble of hair. He was embraced by fire and
lost to lust.

His hips slapped against her, his cock driving forward in deep, powerful strokes. Something
about thrusting upward into her sex like this pulled at him in exquisite torture. The familiar
ache was building within him. For the third time this evening. Once more than Sansa and Jon
couldn’t let that stand.

So his hand abandoned her swinging breasts and slid up to her mouth. When he kissed at her
ear and thrust his cock forward, Sansa’s moan let the fingers wander between her lips. She
sucked upon them, first gently like in a kiss, then more powerfully, with the need she put into
loving his cock with her mouth. He bit his own lip, freeing the now wet fingers to send them
down between her legs. The slick fingertips delving through the hair about her sex and
finding the bud he now teased.

Sansa nearly bucked him off when she forced her hips back against his cock. Yet he held on
firm. For a short time longer they both did. Until his wife writhed in release and Jon ended
his own torment, biting Sansa’s shoulder to shoot his seed within her.

Somehow they did not collapse upon each other. Sansa lay flat upon her front while he was
stretched out on his back, staring up at the ceiling in a daze. The world was slowly returning
around him as felt his chest heave and cock soften.

“At rest at last.” Sansa sighed as raised up on her elbows, running a finger down his beard.
“As was I saying before the… interruption, I think it’s time for another trim, husband. I
won’t have my king looking out of sorts.”

“If my queen had her way I’d be sheared daily.” He kissed at her finger when it moved near
his lips. “Meanwhile she simply adores Ghost’s magnificent coat of fur.”

“You are not a beast.” Sansa said before catching herself and letting her gaze roam down his
naked body. “Well, in these chambers you might be, but that’s a side of my husband only I
am allowed to see.”

“Then chain me to the bed.” He grabbed at her arse, earning a mild slap at his hand and a
laugh as Sansa rolled away. When she climbed out of bed he marveled at her body, to his eye
there was little sign his young wife had born four children already. The weeks since his return
had felt like they were newlyweds again, and so when she threw a robe over her naked flesh
he grunted in disappointment.

“Calm yourself, Jon.” She chided, tossing his breeches upon the bed. “We were only meant to
retire for a short while. Tonight’s performance is being put on especially for us, and now we
shall be late. All will be delayed.”

“Let it. I spent the whole day hearing petitions from lords, guild leaders, merchants, all
seeking more. That was enough of a performance for me. Now come back and share the bed
with me, love. We can think of excuses together…”

He patted the bed in hopes Sansa would acquiesce. They could always watch this acting
troupe another day. Aevalon’s theater often put on shows in honor of his family. Partly out of
respect, though mostly due to Sansa being their greatest patron. Jon had supplied the gold for
building the theater but it was Sansa who gave it life. Minstrels, bards, actors, from across the
known world she gathered them, all to share their talents with the city.

Jon didn’t care much for the theater himself, though would not speak to that within his wife’s
hearing. For fear of the disappointment that now crossed her face.

“What excuses are we to tell the children?” Sansa ran hands down the length of her hair.
“You promised the twins they could go.”

“They still can. Your mother would be happy to take them. ”

“It’s their father they want to share this with, that’s why Rhaegina and Aemma invited you.
Aenry has talked of nothing else, he has such a thirst for tales and tonight will be a grand one.
The rise and fall of Garin, the Rhoynish prince. It’s the perfect opportunity to share
something with him… isn’t that what you truly want?”

It was. With those words Sansa laid bare how selfish he was acting.

You didn’t fight to get back here just to listen to petitions. Or lounge about in bed.

I fought to get home to my family. To be with Sansa and the children.

The joy of returning home had been tempered by so much regret. Rhaegina and Aemma were
but little girls when he left and now he swore they had become young ladies. Vaelena was a
beautiful gift yet it shamed him to have missed her birth.

Then there was Aenry. Barely more than a babe before the war, now a young boy who knew
him little. After he’d held the twins tight and met little Vaelena, it was Aenry he made to
embrace, only for the boy to cower behind Sansa’s skirts. That’s when Jon knew, for all the
land he had won from the Reach, he had lost precious time with his son.

His efforts since had born little fruit for Aenry was such a shy boy. While happy enough to
scream and run as he played with Aemma, if Jon interrupted, Aenry would seek the
protection of Rhaegina, eyeing him like he was some stranger.

“I want my son back.” Jon grumbled to Sansa as yanked his pants on. “The little boy I
bounced on my knee. He used to laugh so when I put him on Ghost’s back for rides… he
would call me papa…”

“He will again.” Sansa came up behind and wrapped her arms around him, pressing a cheek
against his bare shoulder. “Aenry loves you still. Just be the man who made a scared princess
feel safe again. Be patient, be kind, be his father.”

“Then I must also hurry.” He said. “New clothes are in order if I’m to attend a play.”
Sansa clapped happily before rushing about to toss more of his clothes at him. Soon, he was
in the corridor with his wife shouting for servants to ready him in haste.

That was one of the few things Jon hadn’t missed about his home during the war. He’d rather
dress himself in a pavilion than have a cluster of minders pawing at him. Truly, he had
enjoyed riding with the Dark Order again, though it was hard to merely relay commands to
Lord-Commander Thoros rather than give them himself.

An annoyance their victories more than compensated for.

The size of the Reach had worked against it in the war. King Mace had sat at Highgarden for
months, waiting to rally an army so massive none could stand against it. An army which
never truly came together, Jon denied Mace that. The Dark Order drew the eastern Reach
lords to battle while the Martells brought the fight to Randyll Tarly in the foothills of the Red
Mountains. By the time Highgarden abandoned their muster, Gendry was crossing the
Mander with tens of thousands of Targaryen bannermen and Jon’s mounted advance had free
reign in the Gardener heartlands.

The campaign was a long and cold one, at times he felt their true enemy was the winter itself.
They lost more men and horse to the elements than to battle. During one blinding snowstorm,
Jon’s army was forced to make camp in a valley to weather it. A valley an enemy army under
the Gardener princes, Garlan and Loras, also sought shelter in. After the weather cleared
some and all was revealed, the battle that followed was chaotic at best. The snow was knee
high and formations confused. Jon and Dark Sister never came close to a foe before the storm
returned and drove the combatants apart again.

The indecisive battle still managed to give rise to one heroic tale. It was in the thick of the
fighting that Rickon of all people crossed blades with Loras Gardener. The Prince of Flowers
was held to be one of the finest swordsmen in the realm, so Rickon holding his own in the
duel was a feat. To this day, the squire boasted loudly of marring Loras’s handsome face with
a cut from his axe.

Few dared to point out Loras had gifted Rickon several himself.

Those scars were plain upon squire’s face when he entered Jon’s chambers. He was dressed
and ready by then, wearing the black doublet with white fringe that Sansa so liked. A
garment that set Rickon to mocking him.

“Oh how the mighty have fallen.” Rickon smirked from the doorway, waving a hand over his
fur cloak and leathers. “This is how I’d dress if I was king, like a warrior.”

“I pity your queen then.” Jon replied. “You’re only granted so much freedom because your
mother and Sansa spoil you rotten.”

“There’s benefits to being the youngest son.” Another voice spoke up from the corridor and
Rickon stepped aside to let the newcomer enter. Their uncle Benjen cuffed the squire’s arm
playfully before bowing Jon’s way. “Forgive the intrusion, Jon, but I’ve been tasked with
ensuring you join us for the performance.”
“Sansa ensnared you too?”

“Gods, no.” Benjen laughed. “The Dragons Darling insisted. I’d rather face a storm on the
high seas than earn the ire of those fierce little princesses.”

Jon was happy to hear his daughters had secured such fine company. Benjen and much of the
Manderly fleet had been at Aevalon for days now, the northern admiral having stopped for
respite during the long journey south. His visit was a pleasant surprise, for Jon had not seen
Benjen since Wylla Manderly’s marriage to Aurane Velaryon. Better still, the lord had
brought his son Wyllard along, and Jon took pride in showing the young Stark about the city.

Yet when he asked whether Wyllard would be joining them, it was Rickon’s turn to laugh.

“Not a chance. I’m sparing my coz from Sansa’s frilly little play. We’re going to take Shaggy
for a night ride across Blackwater Bridge and howl at the moon.”

“Lovely.” Benjen chuckled. “Might as well let the lad enjoy this time on land, he’ll be stuck
at sea for weeks soon enough.”

“Let me sail with you.” Rickon urged, and not for the first time. “There’s no more fighting
here and my axe grows dull. I’d love to battle under the direwolf banner.”

Their uncle shook his head. “No, Rickon. Even if Robb and Catelyn hadn’t forbid me from
taking you, your duties lay here.” Benjen then gestured towards a side table. “Which you
should be seeing to, as squire to a king.”

Though clearly displeased, Rickon did as he was bid. It fell to the young man to collect Jon’s
crown, a thick ring of gold with large cut rubies inset. The thing was heavy and comfortable,
yet Rickon placed it on his head nonetheless. Afterwards they let Rickon wander off, so
Benjen and him could descend the keep alone.

“Sorry if I overreached back there.” His uncle apologized as they walked a torchlit corridor.
“I saw a tad too much of the fool I used to be in Rickon and couldn’t help myself.”

“Neither can Rickon, he needs to a good tongue-lashing now and again. Though I don’t
imagine we’ll have many more chances to do so. Olyvar and Jeyne have kept Harrenhal in
good order but Rickon’s nearly of an age to act its proper lord. Soon he’ll rule and Robb will
gain a good bannerman.”

“Let’s hope you’re right.” Benjen frowned before lowering his voice. “And pray Rickon was
too. There might not being any fighting in your kingdom at moment but this Arryn talk has
me worried, Jon.”

“Don’t let the Vale add to your worries, Benjen, the Greyjoys are the threat before you.
Besides, the bluster from the Eyrie is just that.”

At least I hope so. Elbert Arryn threatened me before and nothing came of it.

May his good sense win out against his pride and vengeful ways.
Somehow Jon had managed to keep his kingdom out of the Arryn civil war despite the many
attempts by Elbert and Denys Arryn to win his support. Promises of gold and land were
common, Denys had gone so far as to pledge his heir’s hand to Aemma at one point. Still, Jon
kept the Highlands out of the fighting, sparing his people from an ugly conflict that ended in
an even uglier fashion.

Late in the last autumn, Elbert managed to seize the Gates of the Moon and lay siege to the
Eyrie, trapping Denys’s wife and children. With winter coming, Denys was unwilling to
allow his family to freeze to death, so he proposed to bend the knee to his rival if terms were
offered. Yet on route to talks on those terms, Denys was slain in an ambush by the mountain
clans, a far too convenient end for some to believe in chance.

Nor could many stomach what happened after the surrender of the Eyrie. As the story went,
Denys’s widow threw herself and her children out the Moon Door rather than accept the
dishonor of defeat. Thus Elbert climbed to his throne over the graves of innocents, a reign
which ushered in a harsh winter for the Vale. Three years of cold and death that Septon Tom
called a punishment for Elbert’s sins.

Claims Jon put little stock in, that was until Harrold Hardyng arrived at court. Though
looking every bit a prince with his handsome features, Harry the Heir came to them as little
more than a beggar.

“I had to flee.” Harry had proclaimed to Sansa and him. “Elbert would have killed me. I spent
the whole winter with that man and he kept talking how much I was like Denys. How Denys
had been his heir too. What happened to Denys after betraying him. I knew.”

Jon was unconvinced. “We know no such thing. It was not King Elbert’s men that Lord Darry
saved you from.”

“But they were!” Harry’s deep blue eyes had gone wide with fright. “The Stone Crows.
They’re the ones he used. The savages he gave Denys over to.”

“That’s outrageous.” Sansa had declared. “You say King Elbert arranged the murder of Denys
Arryn after they agreed to talks? That an Arryn could employ clansmen for such a deed?”

Harry paled with each furtive nod. “He wanted Denys dead. He wanted the crown and no
rival claims. No rivals at all. That’s what those children were to him… rivals.”

There was no doubt which children Harry spoke of yet Jon insisted he do so anyway. That
was how they learned Harry had been among those who first seized the Eyrie. How he saw
what became the queen and her children.

“She begged. The lady, she begged and begged. The little boys were crying. The girl
screaming. Screaming louder than the bloody wind out of the Moon Door. Still Elbert ordered
them to be pushed on. They wanted to be falcons. Let them fly. That’s what he kept saying.
Let them fly… but they didn’t. They just fell. Screaming like the wind.”

It was a tale that haunted Jon’s dreams later that night. In them it was Sansa and the children
being pushed to the edge of same great chasm. His family screaming as the corpses of Meryn
Trant and Ramsay Snow forced them on. Then Joffrey was there with a burning brand
pointed right at Sansa. When Jon awoke in a cold sweat Sansa held him tight, the pair
spending the night comforting each other against those fears.

Jon’s first instinct had been to offer Harry the Heir no sanctuary but that he could find at the
Wall. It fell to Sansa and most of the council to argue against that.

“It is foul for Harry to suffer and Elbert to reign.” Sansa had said. “The crimes he helped
commit should be exposed to the Kingdom of Mountain and Vale.”

“Suspicions abound but this is proof.” Tom of the Seven had added. “The High Septon held
Denys Arryn quite dear and would be most interested in exposing these murders. There are
Vale lords who would see us as true friends for helping do so.”

Sam was the one who erred on caution. “Our king spent years keeping us free of the Vale’s
troubles. Yes, we might gain allies in sheltering Harry, but enemies too. I worry on the
Highlands risking a war on behalf of another realm’s dead.”

On and on it went, until Ser Barristan, who remained silent throughout most of the
discussion, broke through it all.

“Harry was a coward.” Barristan had declared. “He admits that freely, he stood by and did
nothing while innocents suffered. As I once did. Queen Sansa would have been in her rights
to demand my head, yet she gave me the chance to redeem myself. To help right terrible
wrongs. I cannot speak against offering Harry the opportunity to do the same.”

The old knight’s worth to Jon could not be overstated. Thus his argument held much weight.
In the end they decided to guarantee Harry’s protection until they could arrange him a place
at the imperial court. A decision which raised the ire of King Elbert, who sent raven after
raven demanding his heir’s return. Each threatening violent retribution if that did not happen.
So far, those words had been wind.

“Elbert knows better than to test us.” Jon tried to ease Benjen’s mind, as well as his own.
“My fleet is ready and the crossings at the Trident well guarded. I expect all to stand idle
though. The Vale lords need to tend their lands, not wage another war.”

“That would be the life.” Benjen sighed. “I was looking forward to a spring without war.
Wynafryd and I were thinking of another child. Lyarra is growing too damn fast. I’d give
anything to go back to when she was Aenry’s age. It’s a perfect time, when they’re small
enough to hold, old enough to teach.”

That made Jon smile. “The twins used to make me read to them. Sansa says Aenry has a love
for history, maybe Sam can find me a decent book for him.”

“A good idea. Your boy’s got a sharp mind but I wouldn’t try reading anything to him
tomorrow night. He’ll be too worn out. I promised the prince a tour of my ship, earned
myself a handsome little smile from your heir.”
Benjen meant well but Jon felt a pang of jealousy to hear so. Weeks of trying and he could
barely get full sentences out of his boy, let alone a smile. The twins, however, acted the
complete opposite when they ambushed the men at the entrance of Rhaegar’s Holdfast.

“Father! Are you excited?” Rhaegina laughed happily, her dark hair done up in braids like
Sansa. “Everyone says they do real magic in this play!”

“Like Thoros can do.” Aemma smiled, playing with her own braids. “He says he’s not a real
sorcerer but that doesn’t count if you wink every time. Right, father?

Jon bore all this with a bewildered grin, his head swiveling back and forth to give each twin
some attention. They seemed to thrive on that, grabbing at his hands and pulling him on
towards a waiting press. There many from court travelling with them to the theater this night,
all personally invited by Sansa days ago.

Though Tyrion and Sarella had made their excuses, Garmon Qoherys had returned from
Stokeworth, the lord easy to spot with his purple hair and whiskers. While their castles were
close together, Garmon kept his distance from Daegon. While Jon had long ago named the
Blackfyre knight a friend, even granting him lordship over Rosby, Garmon still held the old
grudges. Jon felt more harshly toward Harry, who Sansa had also invited and he insisted
Barristan watch over.

“Aemma likes Ser Harrold.” Rhaegina whispered up to him in Valyrian as her sister let out a
cry out outrage. “She says he’s the handsomest knight ever and wants there to be a ball so
they can dance-”

“Be quiet!” Aemma snapped, her face as red as her hair. “You promised! I never told anyone
that you’re in love with Ser Daegon. He’s already married.”

“Stop that nonsense.” Jon interrupted the bickering, pulling at their hands to grab their
attention. “It matters not, because neither of you are ever marrying. I will never let any man
take you away from me.”

“Father!” The twins’ cried in unison, earning a grin from him.

“Well… maybe one day. But not for a long time yet. Your mother will have to convince me.”

“What am I convincing you of?” Sansa asked when they came upon her speaking with
Catelyn and Royner Darklyn. Lady sat nearby but the direwolf drew less attention than Sansa
who had donned her crown, a thin circlet of bronze and steel, decorated with blue diamonds.

“Is it in regards to the new Reach lands?” Royner tugged at his whiskers, his interest peaked.
“There is no lack of potential lords among my kin at Duskendale. The Darkes, Darkwoods, it
goes on and on.”

“No new lords are being named this night.” He said while kissing Sansa on the cheek. That’s
when he spotted movement behind Lady and saw Aenry standing there, petting the wolf.
“Hello, son. I hear we are to learn of Prince Garin tonight. Have you heard that story?”
Aenry nodded without really looking at him, instead moving to take Catelyn’s hand and stare
at his feet. He had taken wounds in battle that hurt less than being spurned by his own son.
Sansa touched his arm but he pretended nothing was the matter, calling for the carriages to be
made ready. In the meanwhile Royner did succeed in pulling him aside.

“My king, about the Braavosi whoremonger.” The lord spoke in quiet tones. “Trust that if
Lysa had known of what Baelish was, she never would have granted him a charter in my
absence. I’ve made it clear I will be looking closely into rescinding it. A delicate matter you
understand, the merchants of Duskendale feel their position is tenuous already with the rise
of Aevalon.”

“I see, well then I should ease their minds.” He said, deciding this was as good a way as any
to pass the time before the carriage came. “Tell those merchants who fear to flounder at
Duskendale that opportunity awaits them at Tumbleton.”

To end the war, Highgarden had ceded all the lands between the rivers Mander and Blueburn
to the Highlands. While Bitterbridge and the Grassy Vale were valuable castles, it was
Tumbleton that was the true prize. A market town sitting on the Mander and a short journey
from Aevalon, Jon saw great potential for it.

“I will grant any merchants who wish to help Tumbleton grow with trade the rights to do so.
Each one paying a tax on their trade to both the crown and yourself for arranging such.”

“How large a tax?” Royner grinned, for the man was ambitious and protective of the power
House Darklyn wielded in his kingdom. Which Jon could appreciate, for he felt quite the
same for the future of Aevalon and the Highlands themselves.

Before specifics could be discussed the carriages arrived. Jon shared one with his family,
holding Sansa’s hand and staring out the window as the thing rattled its way down the
cobbled road and into the city. Ghost and Lady ran beside it, the two direwolves looking as
magnificent as Aevalon itself. Torches lined the way but it was the moonlight lit up the stone
shops and dwellings they passed. The road they travelled marked the division between the
Andal and Freedmen portions of the settlement. If he strained his ears he could hear the
Common Tongue and dialects of Low Valyrian being spoken in the streets. In the distance he
saw the silhouette of the sept upon Visenya’s Hill and the garrison upon Rhaenys’s.

“It’s so pretty at night.” Rhaegina said from her place beside Benjen, Aemma nodding as she
urged Catelyn to look out as well.

“See grandmother, the Red Keep looks at tall as the sky from here.”

“Indeed, imagine how hard it was for your father to climb that hill in the heat of battle.”

“It was probably scary.” Aenry whispered from his place next to Sansa. “Lots of people
died.”

“Yes they did.” Sansa replied, stroking his head. “Good men and bad. Your father was very
brave in that battle and lucky to survive.”
“It was not luck.” He spoke suddenly, startling Aenry some yet daring to continue. “I would
have died if not for a very brave man. My friend, Asher Forrester, he saved my life and lost
his own to do so.”

“The Asher tree.” His son ventured, finally meeting Jon’s eyes. “I like to play there. It makes
you brave. That’s what grandmother says.”

“I said it inspires courage.” Catelyn corrected and Jon smiled down at Aenry.

“I think you’re both right. When I went to war, I asked you to take care of our home. You
must be a very brave boy to have done so. Asher would be proud, just as I am.”

Aenry offered the smallest of smiles before shaking his head and hiding his face in Sansa’s
side. It was a tiny act yet a start all the same. Something Sansa marked by leaning over to
kiss him longingly. The girls fell into giggles at that and Benjen cursed.

“Gods, Jon. Her mother is in the carriage.”

“The more grandchildren the better.” Catelyn added and Sansa’s gasp of shock broke the kiss
then and there.

Their journey ended not long after. The carriages arriving outside the theater and all spilling
out to take in its grandeur. Though much smaller than the theaters of the empire, Sansa took
pride that no such thing existed elsewhere in the Seven Kingdoms. It was a tall, half-circle
building made of pale stone. The arched windows above were filled with actors and other
performers, all tossing flower petals down upon the royal family. Sansa had to scold the girls
to keep from dancing under the flowery rain, but as Jon brushed petals off his shoulders
another sight worried him more.

Ghost and Lady were acting half wild, the two wolves bearing their teeth up at the windows
and the Targaryen guardsmen blocking the way within.

“What’s gotten into them?” He asked Sansa and she too gaped at the direwolves behavior.

“I’ve no idea. They’re acting worse than Shaggydog. Perhaps it’s all the people. A strange
scent within. These performers come from many lands…”

The other carriages had arrived as well and when Jon saw Barristan exit he waved him over.

“Ser, the direwolves know you and I fear they could harm strangers at the moment. This
place likely has a stable, please lead them there until the performance is at an end.”

“I’d rather keep an eye on Harry.” Barristan cast a glance back at the exile knight. “It keeps
me near to the queen and yourself. I’ve sworn to your safety-”

“It’s others safety we worry on.” Sansa spoke with a disappointed tone, eyeing her growling
wolf. “There’s plenty of guards here this night, yet only one knight bold enough to face the
wrath of direwolves. We thank you for that, ser.”
Barristan appeared putout but did as they asked, borrowing a spear from another man and
causing a slight spectacle by twirling it about to drive the wolves back. That unnerved Jon for
some reason. Or had he felt odd since stepping out of the carriage?

It’s the theater. Mummers making battles into some sort of entertainment.

Last time they spilled red paint upon the stage to make blood.

I want no blood here this night. I’ve seen enough.

The uneasy feeling followed Jon into the theater itself. The flat end of the half-circle
displayed the stage with rows of tiered seating rising up to the heights of the rounded section.
A tall backdrop drew the eye, for it was painted in the likeness of old Chroyane. While
torches and moonlight illuminated the stage, a partial roof coated most of the seating in
darkness.

Unsurprisingly the finest seats was reserved for the royal family, at the very center and only a
handful of rows high, granting them the perfect view and clear hearing. While the other
nobility filed into the rows his family sorted themselves out. The girls sat between Catelyn
and Sansa, Jon by his wife’s side and Benjen to his left. Aenry insisting on sitting in his
uncle’s lap and Jon was happy to allow that, if only to keep the boy so close. One day it
would be him bouncing his knees and rocking Aenry back and forth.

“We have to get you ready.” Benjen spoke with an air of wisdom. “Tomorrow you’ll be on
my ship and the waves, oh my dear prince, the waves! Only a direwolf could survive them. A
dragon!”

“I’m a wolf!” Aenry laughed and kept his seat. “And a dragon! Like father!”

“Stop that.” Sansa snapped at them rather abruptly, and in the faint light he saw her face
creased with worry.

“What is it?” He asked, touching her leg and finding it tense. “They are only enjoying
themselves.”

“It’s not that. At least I don’t think so.” She closed her eyes. “I’m just… something’s not
right. Maybe it’s the wolves. Poor Barristan is going to miss the play.”

“He’ll be okay.” Rhaegina piped up, grinning mischievously. “Ser Grandfather was probably
at this battle.”

“That’s mean!” Aemma poked her. “He’s only maybe two hundred.”

Jon was torn between correcting their courtesies and laughing. Fortunately, the playmaster
took the stage then, in white linens meant to be silks and bronze circles that gave him a
Rhoynish look.

“Be silent, and harken closely!” The man demanded, arching his ear to sky. “For in the wind
you might hear the legacy of the Rhoynar. Of the great Prince Garin of Chroyane. Do you
hear it? You will be blessed if you don’t. For it is a mournful sound. Of tears and fears, of
bitter defeat and darkest curses. Listen close and hear the sorrows of the Rhoyne. Now learn
how they came to be. The tale of a prince who rose too high and fell to the deepest depths…”

Well this will be a cheery tale… I doubt I will be sharing Sansa’s bed tonight.

The children will likely crowd it.

Despite that beginning, the play actually started off quite bright. The actor playing Garin was
an actual Rhoynar and Jon found it fitting that a Dornishwoman played Nymeria. They
bandied about words as minstrels played along with lutes and drums. When Garin won a
great victory over the Valyrians and their dragons at Volon Therys, the drums beat in long
successions, demonstrating the power of the water wizards called upon to crush the
dragonlords.

Rhaegina and Aemma were enraptured, leaning forward and holding each other’s hands
tightly. Aenry stared wide-eyed from Benjen’s lap, leaning back against the Stark’s chest like
he was the most comfortable of cushions. Benjen caught Jon watching and smiled, mouthing
a few simple words.

“You’ll miss this.”

He had not doubt he would, though he was content enough to miss the play to look about.
Something was nagging at the back of his mind. A glance to Harry showed the knight
distracted and bored, unlike Royner and Septon Tom who were as focused on the mummery
as the children were. Garmon and Daegon appeared to be enjoying themselves. Samwell and
Aurane as well. Yet Jon could not stop looking about the audience. Looking for someone.

Barristan. Why hasn’t Barristan returned?

Garin was at the height of his power when a wolf’s howl could be heard over the mummer’s
words. The drawn own sound belonged to Lady, and Sansa jerked some to hear the direwolf
howling in such a way. Usually the wolf was of the best behavior.

“Where is Barristan?” Sansa asked him over the noise of the play, for the Valyrians were
coming upon Garin in terrible vengeance. “He should be here. We need him here.”

“Something’s not right.” He agreed, looking to the children in almost a panic. “I don’t want
to be here. I don’t want them here.”

Aemma shushed them as fire dancers began to spin torches near the stage, the firelight
flashing across the actors at the mummers in dragon masks threw down the Rhoynar in their
path. Only a trio of archers stood their ground. Men who held their bows as true archers
would. Who notched their arrows to aim at the dragons. Arrows as real as the fear pounding
in his mind.

“The children.” He croaked out before grabbing at Sansa and unleashing his terror. “THE
CHILDREN!”

Then the archers were no longer aiming at the dragons. But at the crowd.
A white blur flew across the stage, leaping at the closest bowmen just as all three loosed.

The audience was screaming when Jon threw himself across Sansa and the girls. Aemma and
Rhaegina were half crushed beneath him, both crying out in pain and fear. Sansa was
shrieking and struggling to be free of him.

As he rose up he saw Royner stagger to his feet with an arrow through his throat. Harry fell
forward, a fletching poking out of his shoulder. Ghost was tearing apart a man on stage as
Barristan cut another’s head clean off.

The uproar was such that Sansa screams only became clear when she broke free of him,
lunging to his left.

“Aenry! AENRY!”

His heart was ice when he turned about. His lungs giving voice to an anguished cry. For
Sansa now clutched their boy in her arms. Blood running down his small face. His eyes open
and face expressionless.

Then Aenry blinked. He blinked and Jon’s heart beat again.

Before catching sight of the arrow sticking out of Benjen’s chest.

Those Stark eyes of his wide and unseeing.

 Chapter 10
Chapter Summary

Love, loss, and lies.

The gathering of swords and lifting of veils.

THE FAITH MILITANT RISING

The Faith of the Seven is without peer for influence in Westeros, coming before the
maesters or the Citadel itself. Septons have preached and won converts within every part of
the Seven Kingdoms, even in the hostile North and Iron Islands.

At different times over the centuries, the Faith’s influence has waxed and waned. A
significant period followed Aegon’s Conquest in Essos, a time when the High Septon was
accounted the most powerful ruler in the Seven Kingdoms. Perhaps inspired by the grand
undertaking of the Targaryens, this High Septon began to expand the Faith’s influence in
a way not seen since the coming of the Andals themselves.

He set about a campaign to bolster the role of the Faith and strengthen the Faith Militant
across the realms. Gold was gathered from the Lannisters, wheat from the Reach, whatever
the faithful realms could give was welcomed. Thus the ranks of the Poor Fellows and
Warrior’s Sons swelled, mostly from those displaced by Harren the Black’s cruel rule in the
Riverlands.

It was the Drowned God of the ironmen that the Faith Militant first turned their pious fury
against. To lead the crusade the High Septon chose the aging King of the Stormlands,
Argillac Durrandon. Years of defeat at the hands of Hoares ended with Argillac invading
the Riverlands with the Faith’s backing. A war of the faithful that saw many riverlords rise
in rebellion while most longships were harrying the North. King Harren was eventually
chased by Argillac’s men behind the walls of Harrenhal itself.

With the fighting in the Riverlands raging, the High Septon united King Loren of the Rock
and King Mern IX of the Reach in common cause. A fleet of hundreds of ships sailed to
the Iron Islands, carrying tens of thousands of warriors by some accounts. Men who
brought fire and the faith to the reaver isles. An ugly bloodletting stymied by foul weather
and stubborn resistance by ironmen under Vickon Greyjoy.

A similar struggle awaited the army of the Vale after Queen Sharra Arryn, goaded by her
septons, launched a holy war against the Old Gods of the North. Sadly the path of the
Arryn army took it straight to Moat Cailin. It was there Brandon the Bowman and his
archers slaughtered thousands of Vale men, including three members of House Arryn
itself.

That decade of holy war took a grievous toll. King Mern would be lost with much of the
Gardener fleet during a storm. Harren the Black would starve within Harrenhal, a fitting
end considering how many he worked to death building that monstrosity. To celebrate the
death of his hated foe, Argillac hosted a feast among the siege lines. Late into the revelry,
Harren’s sons and their desperate men charged forth from the gates, catching Argillac’s
men drunk and unawares. Argillac would be slain in the mayhem, earning the fallen king
the title of Argillac the Arrogant.

Remarkably, the High Septon was one of the few rulers who believed his authority actually
bolstered by the wars. To him, the failings of the holy crusades were seen as judgements on
the impious ways of the leading monarchs, many of whom were now dead. Those heirs left
to pick up the pieces were pressured by the High Septon to meet their tithes so that the
ranks of the Faith Militant might continue to grow. There is talk he meant to name a Holy
Emperor of the Seven to unite the faithful kingdoms. Whether the High Septon meant to
take the title himself or name a member of his family has never been settled upon.

What matters is that it never came to pass. A sudden case of the bloody flux led to the death
of the High Septon, a strange ailment to be found in Oldtown at the time. Afterwards, the
Most Devout elected a successor who was far less bold.

Or mad, depending on who is doing the telling.

CATELYN

The pain struck so suddenly that Catelyn clutched at her chest, expecting to pull her hand
away and find blood upon it. Here in the heart of Winterfell, there were no lack of archers or
spearmen who could hurt her so. Yet this was no wound of the flesh, merely one of the heart.
A wound the years away from Winterfell had not been able to heal.

It was Winterfell’s sept that brought on her ache. That tiny place of worship that Ned had
built for just for her.

It’s still here… just like the rest of Winterfell. It’s all still here.

Except for Ned. My poor, sweet Ned.

Her grief was eclipsed by anger when her traveling companion was helped out of his saddle.
Returning to Winterfell in the wake of another Stark’s death was hard enough, but doing so
with Tyrion Lannister felt like spitting on Ned’s memory. Fingers balled into a fist as she
watched the dwarf waddle across the courtyard, his mismatched eyes roaming over the home
that the Lannisters had stolen from her.

“As handsome as I remember.” Tyrion remarked, adjusting the laces of his crimson jerkin. “A
tad too grey, yes, and colder than I usually like, but I stand by what I told Robert all those
years ago. Your castle has its charm.”

“Winterfell is mine no longer.” Catelyn replied, taking note of the group approaching from
the Great Keep. “Save your praise, it is Robb you must win over. Not that a King of Winter
will put much value in a Lannister’s opinion of his home.”

“I would wager that depends.” Tyrion glanced at the welcoming party. “On which Lannister
that opinion comes from.”

As wrong as it felt, she knew Tyrion was right.

Walking towards them, arm-in-arm with Robb, was his golden Queen of the North. Robb led
Myrcella on with steady strides, moving in a way that reminded her so much of Ned. Her son
wore the wools and furs of the North and it was a surprise to see Myrcella doing the same.
The young queen’s gown was a simple wool dyed blue, like the sea at shallow tide, her cloak
soft white fox fur.

The king and queen were forgotten when a prince broke free of the group and hurried
Catelyn’s way. Though Bran was now a man grown, he acted as eager as the precious little
boy he would always be in her mind.

“Mother.” Bran threw aside his dark cloak so they could embrace. He was taller than her now
yet still felt small in her arms. “Mother… I’m so sorry. This isn’t how I wanted to meet
again.”

“Nor I, sweetling.” She whispered back. “I wish it was Benjen here in my place.”

Benjen’s murder had sent shockwaves across entire kingdoms. In one foul night, a beloved
Stark prince was stolen from the North, Lysa lost her husband, and Sansa very nearly her son.
Of all the horrors which followed, seeing little Aenry bloody and quivering in Sansa’s arms
still set Catelyn’s flesh to crawling.

A terrible memory she was spared from after Catelyn spotted two little boys trailing behind
Robb and Myrcella. They shared the same hair as their mother and the younger had
Myrcella’s eyes as well. The elder boy though, he looked back at Catelyn with eyes she knew
well.

He has Robb’s eyes, she thought, a little wolf with his father’s lovely blues.

And the youngest, gods… I see his uncle Brandon in him for sure…

“Welcome home, mother.” Robb said, freeing himself from Myrcella’s grasp and kissing her
hand. “The North welcomes the Queen Mother, but allow me to introduce a grandmother to
her grandchildren.”

“Please do so.” She fought through the grief to smile down at the little boys Robb urged
forward. Without hesitation she bent low, dirtying her skirts in her haste to be closer to
Robb’s sons.
“This is Ned.” Robb ruffled the older boy’s hair before nudging the little one her way. “And
this shy one is Tom. Boys, this is my mother. Your grandmother, Catelyn Stark, Queen in the
North.”

“Dowager queen.” She corrected before nodding Myrcella’s way, only to find the young
woman staring at her feet, acting put out. Such wasn’t the behavior of a proper queen yet
young Ned soon stole her attention by stepping forward and bowing to her.

“Hello, grandmother.” He spoke in a high, sweet voice. “You’re a Tully. Father says I’ve got
fish eyes.”

“Fish eyes?!” Catelyn joined her sons in laughing before cupping young Ned’s cheeks and
pulling him in for a kiss. “Well the trout is certainly House Tully’s sigil, and we most
assuredly have the same blue in our gaze. Like your father.”

“Pretty.” Tom piped up as he reached for her auburn hair. “Very red. Very pretty.”

“Thank you, sweetling.” Her heart felt near to bursting when she enfolded the sweet babe in
her arms.

This was joy she had denied herself for far too long. It shamed Catelyn to think that she had
been there for the births of all her grandchildren, save for these two. Sansa’s babes had come
into the world to find her waiting, Arya’s boy as well, yet events beyond her control had kept
her away from Winterfell. The rebellions and the harsh winter had made travel across the
North a trial, and Sansa had needed help governing her new kingdom while Jon was called
away to battle.

That’s what she told herself at least. It was easier that way. Easier to stay ignorant of the
boys’ sweet faces than face the anguish that awaited her here.

Nearly ten years and my heart aches still. It was Ned who brought me to Winterfell.

It is his ghost that kept me away.

Pain aside, Catelyn would do her duty, which brought her to Winterfell once more. In the
wake of the attack, events were set in motion that could not be stopped. That Harry the Heir
was a target had been damning enough evidence. The discovery of gold coins among the
bowmen’s belongings, marked with the likeness of King Jasper Arryn of the Mountain and
Vale, made the culprit's identity all but certain.

So when the Manderly fleet set sail to return the body of their admiral to White Harbor, they
did so with vengeance in their hearts. Ser Marlon Manderly only delayed their departure out
of respect for her, and for the dire state of Aevalon.

Word of the violence at the theater had spread like wildfire. Rumors spoke of Aenry being
dead, or perhaps Jon instead. Some said the assassins were foreign, while others claimed they
were Westerosi. Depending on the tale and where it was heard, rage flowed through
Aevalon’s divided populace. Catelyn and the others were barely back at the Red Keep before
the riots started. Mobs rose from the western and eastern quarters, all in defense of their king,
all thirsty for blood from the other side. Hundreds died before the Dark Order rode out,
killing any who raised a blade or held a torch, spilling blood to restore order.

Smoke was still rising from parts of Aevalon when the Manderly fleet departed. The madness
she left behind was nothing compared to the destruction they brought to the Three Sisters.
Catelyn and Tyrion had watched from their ship as the isle of Sweetsister was set upon by
thousands of vengeful northmen. The flames from the burning ships, docks, and villages lit
up the night, all put to torch, simply because they owed fealty to Elbert Arryn. Ser Marlon
declared that he was avenging Benjen by putting the Three Sisters to the sword, and Catelyn
had it on good authority that those ravages continued even now.

That’s as far as this can go. At least on the North’s part.

I must spare it from the war to come.

They could not be spared the awkwardness of Tyrion’s presence however. Neither Robb nor
Myrcella seemed inclined to have the Lannister at Winterfell, which surprised Catelyn some.
Tyrion and Myrcella had enjoyed a warm relationship in the past but there were no hints of
that now. Myrcella kept a purposeful distance from her uncle and focused her gaze on the
ground. While Catelyn found Tyrion to be an immensely disagreeable man, what with his
drinking and whore mongering, Myrcella’s reaction towards him was worrying. If not for the
good he offered Robb’s family, she would have never thought to bring Tyrion to Winterfell.

A visit only the children acted pleased about. Tom soon pulled away from her embrace,
pointing at Tyrion with a bright smile.

“Hello!” Tom giggled. “Hello, little man!”

“Tom! Your manners!” Myrcella corrected the boy but Tyrion was having none of it.

“I’ve been called far worse things in my life, dear niece. Not that I don’t wish to be styled in
the proper way. There’s certainly a gift awaiting the young prince who can do so first.”

That caught Ned's attention, who had been gaping at the dwarf in wonder. Now the heir
began bouncing on his heels in excitement.

“A gift? I want a gift!” Ned chattered. “Why, you’re our uncle Tyrion! A prince! Though
mother says you’re the bad kind of smart.”

“I said you’re too clever for your own good.” Myrcella clarified.

“Both are quite fitting.” Tyrion winked at the boys. He then waved forth Podrick Payne, his
sworn shield, who handed over a sack Tyrion began rooting through. “Come young
Starklings, so that I might spoil you as befits your lion heritage.”

The boys went on eagerly while Catelyn caught how Myrcella jerked, as if she meant to
snatch them back. It was a queer reaction to the fine gift that Tyrion bestowed upon Tom. A
pair of clasps, one a snarling lion’s head wrought in gold, the other a silver direwolf doing the
same.
“For when you wear a cloak as heavy as your father’s.” Tyrion patted Tom’s head before
turning to young Ned. When he pulled forth a sheathed dagger Myrcella gasped in such a
way Tyrion held up a hand. “Be at ease! I mean no harm. In truth, I hope this helps keep
Prince Eddard quite safe. Here lad, go and show your parents.”

Ned handled the sheathed blade delicately, staring at the dark and smooth making of its hilt.
Once delivered over to Robb, her son wasted no time in unsheathing it to display a dagger
with a distinctive rippling to the steel. A sight which set Bran to whistling and Robb to raise
an eyebrow at Tyrion.

“Is this-”

“Yes, Valyrian steel.” Tyrion nodded. “The hilt is made of polished dragonbone, a worthy
substance to pair with such a blade. Mind you, it’s nowhere near as mighty as King Robb’s
storied greatsword, Ice. But, since it shall be many years before Prince Eddard wields Ice
himself, it seemed fitting to let him practice with a blade of his own.”

“Uncle, we cannot accept this.” Myrcella shook her head vigorously as Robb sheathed the
dagger once more.

“Myrcella is right.” Robb said. “It is far too grand for a boy of Ned’s age. I cannot imagine
it’s worth.”

“Then it shall keep until he’s older.” Tyrion grinned widely. “Let us not quibble about value
and worth, we are... family, after all.”

This time Catelyn shared in the discomfort that Myrcella so obviously displayed. After that
awkwardness, others came along and more reunions were had. It did her well to see Jory
Cassel and Septon Chayle again, and when Maester Luwin hobbled his way to her side,
Catelyn went so far as to kiss his wrinkled cheek.

“Too much, your grace.” The old maester blushed as they held hands. “Elderly as I am, the
repute of our dowager queen is something I defend as strongly as ever.”

She sighed at that. “After all those childbirths you guided me through, it’s beneath you to be
shamed by a simple peck on the cheek. It’s the least I can do. You did what I couldn’t after
Ned passed. You stayed. You guided Robb as I hoped you would.”

“There was little counsel to give.” Luwin said as they watch Robb and young Ned show off
the dagger to Jory and Alyn. “The North has a king both brave and wise. With a queen
worthy of him and this kingdom. Take that as no slight against you-”

She was not ignorant of Luwin’s esteem for Myrcella. Over the years the maester had sent
letters south praising Myrcella for her courage and intelligence. Catelyn did not doubt those
accounts, for she knew first hand the trials that a southron lady faced here at Winterfell. She
watched as Myrcella directed Vayon Poole and others on how to settle their guests,
commands that none questioned and were followed without a glance to Robb. That took an
authority Catelyn had spent years to gain herself.
It would have been easy to abandon such responsibilities to Robb alone.

She could have allowed the North to break her. Or for the winter chase her back south.

Instead Myrcella became the direwolf I asked her to be.

That was a heartening thought, for once it might have sickened Catelyn to see the likeness of
Cersei Lannister ruling here in Winterfell. Yet Myrcella had all of her mother’s beauty and
none of her nature, that was plain to any who saw how the queen helped little Tom up from a
fall after tripping over his own feet. She soothed his tears with kind words and softer touches.

Is that how Cersei got Tommen to drink the poison? Playing the loving mother all so she
could murder her own child?

She cursed herself for allowing such a terrible thought. Such was beneath her, yet with so
many reminders of the Lannisters about and a pall of death hanging over the castle, it was
hard for her mind not to wander to dark places.

Her unease only grew worse when they journeyed through the corridors and stairwells of the
Great Keep. Their footfalls upon the stone floor rang out as memories rushed towards her.
Ned carrying Robb on his shoulders. His tender words as he helped Sansa search for her doll.
His laughter when Arya and Bran covered themselves in flour to act as ghosts. The pride on
his face to watch Rickon take his first steps.

The feel of his lips. The welcome touch of his rough hands on her skin. His smile. Those grey
eyes. His last words to her.

“I’ll not be gone long… a few moons… then I’ll be home… home with you.”

A lie Ned had told her without knowing it.

The king’s solar had changed little from how she remembered it. A fire burned in the hearth
and Ice hung above the mantle. Newly drawn maps adorned the walls, showing the breadth
Robb’s kingdom. A sharp contrast to how little room the solar offered with so many within.
Bran and Myrcella refused to sit in the three chairs before the lord’s table, allowing Luwin
and their guests to do so instead.

That’s what I am now, a guest at Winterfell.

Robb was their host yet, before he sat behind the table, his hand wandered over a pile of
small parchments.

“We’ve been besieged by dark wings since news came of Benjen.” Robb snatched up one
letter idly. “The Greatjon demands we storm the Bloody Gate and tear the Eyrie down stone
by stone. Lady Dustin seeks assurances that I remain committed to the defence of Barrowton
and the western coasts. Uncle Edmure says the riverlords disavow any march until they have
a harvest or two. Oh, and Elbert Arryn calls us butchers and worse for what’s become of the
Three Sisters. Imagine the gall of that murdering scum-”
“The sisters do burn.” She said, sharing an uncomfortable look with Tyrion. “We saw that for
ourselves. Sweetsister was poorly garrisoned at the time, no match for an assault as fierce as
the Manderlys attack. They were hungry for vengeance Robb... and there was talk of pressing
the fight.”

“More than talk.” Bran began leaning back against the wall, his face somber. “It was a great
victory apparently. Ships have been put to the torch, Sisterton razed, Lord Sunderland killed
along with many of his sons… hundreds more beyond that.”

“Likely thousands, my son.” Catelyn sighed. “Thousands dead, all in Benjen’s name… I
cannot imagine he would have wanted this.”

“Benjen wanted to live.” Robb replied, falling back in his chair in a huff. “He wanted to share
his days with his wife and children. He wanted to help Bran and I throw back the Greyjoys.
All gone to ruin. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” His eyes narrowed on her. “Any could’ve
escorted Benjen’s bones back north and I doubt you seized on this chance to finally return for
a visit. So do what Sansa and Jon bid you, tell me to call my banners and make war against
the Vale alongside their kingdom.”

The rebuke was embarrassing. Neither the maester or Myrcella could look her way, while
Bran glared openly at Robb. She thought for sure Bran might rise to her defense yet she
would not have that. So when Bran opened his mouth to speak she apologized instead.

“I am sorry, Robb. For the distance between us, for my absence all these years, for this
reunion being a sorrowful one. Forgive me all that, and what I must do now. For you are
wrong, your grace.”

“Oh? Jon and Sansa didn’t send you to plead their case for war against the Arryns?”

“They entrusted me to convey their wishes... which are not for war. Instead your sister asks
for peace. The Targaryens ask the North to lay down their arms.”

“You can’t be serious.” Bran jerked away from the wall and came to stand beside Robb.
“Elbert Arryn killed Benjen!”

“In an attempt on Jon’s life. Or Aenry’s. We’re still not certain.” She spoke truthfully, for the
inquisition into the assassination was still ongoing when she departed. “Benjen arrived in
Aevalon as a guest of House Targaryen. He was accorded all the protections owed, and Jon
pledges to seek justice on his behalf.”

“Without the North?” Myrcella piped up, twirling a curl of hair in her hand. “I remember my
lessons of the Vale. The Andals were the last to ever conquer it, and for good reason.”

Luwin nodded in agreement. “Beyond the Mountains of the Moon or upon the sea, the Vale
can be defeated. Brandon the Bowman proved that. But if the Arryns keep their strength
behind the ranges... the North once warred against the Vale for a thousand years without
achieving victory.”
“The Worthless War.” Catelyn said. “Yes, maester, I recall the histories. As do many Vale
lords. This sack of the sisters will be bad enough. If the King in the North declares outright
war, it will only rally our enemies and lose us allies. The High Septon swears by that.”

“The High Septon?” Robb asked, bewilderment wrinkling his and Bran's faces. “What does
the Faith have to do with this?”

“The old hatreds will be stirred again. Elbert already proclaims his kingdom threatened by an
alliance of foreign and northern heathens. He moves quickly to make this conflict less about
his crimes and more about defending the Andal conquest. A holy war of sorts.”

“Nonsense.” Robb scoffed. “I follow the old gods but you also raised me to respect the Faith,
as my wife does for our sons. Half my bloody bannermen worship the Seven!”

“That may not matter.” Maester Luwin tapped on his cane in thought, his face grim as he
took the meaning of this quicker. “Ignorance and fear can be potent weapons in such times.
Reason is a weak shield against them.”

She thought that well said. “Right now the High Septon pledges the might of the Faith
Militant to bring Elbert Arryn low. There are Warrior’s Sons already in the Vale, ready to rise
up to aid the Highlands, Vale lords as well. The Royces of Runestone, the Redforts, the
Knight of Ninestars... lords of repute who would be invaluable in a fight such as this...
families that will not help us if you join the fight. Nor will the Faith.”

“Bronze Yohn Royce is a friend to us.” Bran noted. “He guested here on his way to the Wall.
His house is descended from First Men.”

“And those same ancestors have warred against the North in defense of the Vale. Friend that
he is, Bronze Yohn will not aid any invasion of his homeland that might see a Stark ascend
the Falcon’s throne. Even if he could be won over, others won’t. The High Septon has been
clear on that.”

Robb sat back in his seat then, looking to Bran and Myrcella who were both deep in thought.
Maester Luwin was tugging on his chain some while Tyrion watched all this with a bemused
grin.

“I’ll be honest, I wasn’t prepared for this.” Robb finally spoke, gesturing to the others. “I can
accept Jon and Sansa seeking justice on Benjen’s behalf, I can even keep the armies of the
North at home, but I cannot stop Marlon’s fleet in the Bite. It’s a matter of honor now and I’d
lose face if I tried. Not that I don’t need them elsewhere…”

“It’s the Greyjoys.” Myrcella went to her husband, laying a comforting hand upon Robb’s
shoulder that made Cat feel assured as well. “Longships have been spotted along the Stoney
Shore. Bran’s marriage to Eddara Tallhart was to be soon but we fear war will come sooner.
The Stouts and the Reeds claim hundreds of reavers are arriving at Flint’s Finger under
Theon Greyjoy.”

“So that’s where that cocky shit ended up.” Tyrion finally spoke, eyeing a ruby ring upon his
finger. “My father’s gold bought us word that his uncles are off pillaging the Reach and
sailing up the Mander. Meanwhile King Balon and the Kraken’s Daughter are at Fair Isle,
sitting on poor Lord Farman's island while they prepare to ravage more of the Westerlands.”

Robb gave a mirthless laugh. “Is this another gift, my prince? To hear that we don’t suffer
alone? It’s of little comfort. The Greyjoys can afford to spread themselves out. With the
number of ships they have, the krakens can strike wherever they will and sail away in haste,
leaving our armies with little to do but bury their dead.”

“A situation that my father is hoping to remedy.” Tyrion said. “Highgarden was meant to join
us in a war against the Iron Islands. Sadly, rather than building ships, like our canny King in
the North, the Greenhand spent all winter at war with the Dornish and the dragons. It will be
a wonder if Oldtown can even protect itself, let alone go on the offensive.”

“That’s what they get for fighting our kin.” Bran said as Robb eyed Tyrion with interest.

“What are your southron woes to us, Prince Tyrion? Why are you even here?”

“Why, to see my beautiful niece! To share a barrel of wine with the Young Wolf that tied my
father’s tail in a knot! Also, to propose an alliance between Winterfell and Casterly Rock.”

Maester Luwin’s jaw dropped open in shock while Catelyn was treated to the sight of her
sons looking to each other before bursting into laughter.

“You came a long way to make a jest.” Robb waved at Bran to quiet himself. “Or to speak
madness perhaps. I seek allies I can trust, and there’s little trust to be found in your family.”

“Enough to invite one of us to your bed.”

The laughter died away at that, Robb’s expression darkening and Myrcella paling some.

“My wife is a Durrandon, not a Lannister.”

“She certainly looks the part.” Tyrion shrugged. “Either way, she was a named enemy of the
North until you met her and… forged peace. And from the look of my nephews, it was a
fruitful peace at that!”

No one shared in Tyrion's mirth and his smile quickly faded.

“The North has fought alongside the West against those accursed islands before and we can
do so again. You say you distrust my father and brother? Fine. Neither of them are currently
pillaging your coasts or holding your castles hostage. Think me a snake if you wish. You’ve
fought beside vipers before.”

“That was different.” Robb looked her way. “You knew of this? That he’d propose fighting
with the lions? Alongside the men who murdered our father?”

Tyrion raised a hand. “Hold on, Gregor Clegane was guilty of that-”

“Silence.” Catelyn snapped, gripping at the arms of her chair in anger and shame. “We
condemn the dog as well as his master.” She then looked to her sons, fighting hard against the
disgust building within her throat. “And yes, I knew of this. Just as I learned that you and
Bran readied for war. It was I who bid Tyrion to join me… in the hopes that you would agree
to the Lannister offer.”

“Mother, no.” Bran near whispered. “How could you… what of father…?”

“Your father is dead. My Ned is dead...” Her voice failed for a moment at that. “But our
children live. If I must swallow my hatred in order for you both to be spared his fate, I will do
so. Look at what the Greyjoys already took from Lady Tallhart. The North has lost enough
sons. I would not have your boys lack for a father, Robb. Take your best chance for victory.
Defend your realm. Protect our family.”

Robb stared at her as if she was some stranger. After all these years away, perhaps she was
one now. So Catelyn sought the aid of his queen, for surely Myrcella could help win Robb
over. Yet when she turned to Myrcella she found the golden queen as white as snow, her eyes
wide in alarm.

“Myrcella? Are you alright?” She drew everyone’s attention to the ailing woman, who acted
deaf to her words. “Myrcella? Bran, take hold of her.”

Bran did so in haste, causing Myrcella to blink like she was awoken from some spell. Robb
was on his feet when she finally found her voice.

“My apologies… I…” Myrcella said, her eyes glistening and voice trembling as Robb
steadied her. “All this talk of war… of lost fathers… might I retire?”

Robb excused her without hesitation, yet not before kissing her and forcing Maester Luwin to
accompany his wife and see to her health. It was understandable for the woman to get so
upset, Catelyn surely was, yet something about Myrcella’s reaction surprised her.

If anyone here in Winterfell should support Stark and Lannister coming together in common
cause, it is Myrcella.

Such a victory over the Greyjoys might win her some measure of respect in the North.

As it happened, Myrcella’s spell might have aided the cause. Whatever objections Robb
thought to raise were lost in his worry after his wife. His attention was elsewhere and it was
not long before he called an end to the audience altogether. That Robb did not reject the
notion out of hand was a far better start than Catelyn or Tyrion had expected.

It was a strange thing to keep Robb from fighting alongside allies, only to push him into
waging war with the aid of enemies. After Maester Luwin reported that Myrcella showed no
sign of illness, she tasked him with sending a raven to Aevalon. The White Harbor fleet
remained an issue, so she pressed Jon and Sansa into drawing attention to the Manderly
devotion to their Faith.

Perhaps the High Septon can see his way around their involvement.

After all, he was willing to forgive Rickon’s foolishness at the Bloody Gate…
The actions of her youngest boy were for Jon and Sansa to sort out. It was her eldest sons
who Catelyn focused on for the rest of the evening. She was glad Bran decided to marry and
had given up seeking the Wall, though his words on the matter sounded strained. Robb
thanked her profusely for her offer to tend to the boys so he could seek Myrcella’s bedside.
Thus, while Joy Hill sang Tom to sleep, Catelyn was given the chance to tuck young Ned in
with tales of his namesake.

“I like your stories.” The little prince told her with eyes shut and voice heavy with sleep.
“About grandfather. The way you tell them, I can pretend he’s alive.”

She held back until he was asleep before the tears slipped free. As she sat watching the night
grow darker and young Ned sleeping so peacefully, all Catelyn could think about was how
her husband deserved to be here. To look upon his grandson. To be by her side. For
Winterfell to be theirs still.

It was late when she left her grandson’s chambers, yet it wasn’t in her to seek her own so
soon. They weren't her chambers truly, only a guest room made up for her. Catelyn’s old
chambers were now Myrcella’s and she was not quite ready to face that truth. So she sought
little Tom’s rooms, where Sansa had once slept. It would be nice to watch the babe sleep as
Sansa once had.

Yet it appeared another had the same idea, for as Catelyn rounded the corner she saw
Myrcella exiting the boy’s room. She did not call to her gooddaughter, certain that Myrcella
would come her way to seek Ned’s chambers. Instead the queen continued forward, towards
the stairs descending the Great Keep. Stranger still, Cat took notice of how Myrcella wore a
peasant's cloak rather than royal garment.

Perhaps her own cloak was misplaced. She might seek the sept in these troubled times.

It might lift my spirits to do the same.

Such is what Catelyn told herself as she followed Myrcella. Not that it explained why she
stayed so quiet, or why she made no effort to close the gap between them. Those actions gave
rise to the same foul sort of questions as Myrcella’s movements inspired. For her
gooddaughter was taking care to be silent and held no lantern or candle to guide her way.

When Myrcella left the keep into the night beyond, she did not seek the sept. Instead Catelyn
watched as the woman threw her hood on and moved swiftly towards the broken tower. The
long abandoned watchtower was a ruin, its top third collapsed inward. Thus it was odd to see
a flicker of light from one of its taller windows.

Catelyn let that dim light guide her journey towards the tower. Once within, she could hear
footsteps making their way up the tower’s dusty, cracked stairs. Sounds that she used to cover
her own climb. It was a dangerous thing to do, an ascent cloaked by darkness with her hands
clutching at cobwebs.

You were born a Tully, now act a Stark. Be a direwolf.

As surefooted as Lady. As quiet as Ghost.

A glance out the window showed distant torchlights far below. She was near the tallest
heights that any could reach in the tower. Near enough to take note that Myrcella’s steps had
halted. Voices drifted down to her now. She couldn’t quite make out their words but her heart
pounded to recognize the speakers.

Myrcella and Tyrion, meeting in secret, far from all prying ears. Save her own. Cat climbed
higher until she could hear all she needed.

“I won’t let you.” Myrcella’s pained words echoed. “This is my castle, my life, you can't take
it from me! Whatever treason you plot-”

“There’s no treason.” Tyrion answered. “Not on my part at least. As far as I am concerned,

your grandfather’s offer is genuine. The Lannisport fleet is at the ready if your husband’s are
made the same-”

“Grandfather hates Robb. Mother wants him dead. She wants to ruin everything. She wants
to take my family away from me like she took- like she took Tommen!”

“Cersei murdered Tommen. Killed him with me under the same roof. Do you think that
doesn’t haunt me to this day? I don’t drink myself to sleep for fun, child. I’d never let you or
your sons come to such an end. Neither would Jaime. He told me-”

“Don’t.” Myrcella’s command was as sharp as the stone Catelyn cut her hand on. She bit at
her lip to keep from crying out.

There was treason afoot.

“Don’t speak of that, ever.” Myrcella spat. “It’s disgusting and wrong. You're just like her,
that's what she threatened me with too. Now her crimes will doom my babes as surely as the
poison did for Tommen.”

“Sad to say, it’s not all about you niece. If that tale came out, it would do far worse damage to
our family than Robb Stark or Jon Targaryen ever did. That’s why Cersei has been kept
locked away in the deepest bowels of Casterly Rock all this time. Father will let no one but
silent sisters tend to her. Not even Jaime has seen her…”

“Good. I want to go the rest of my life without seeing her. Any of you. I’m a Durrandon. My
children are Starks, not Lannisters. Never Lannisters. Why uncle... why try and endanger the
boys by casting doubt on their blood?”

“I did what?” Tyrion sounded as genuinely confused as Catelyn felt.

“The gift you gave Tom. The lion clasp! He’s a wolf first, and a stag second. I saw the threat
then and there…”

“Fuck me.” Tyrion gave a biting laugh then. “Sweet niece, it seems you’re the one who is too
clever for her own good. I chose the lion because of all those rebellions being started in the
name of your boy's claim to Storm's End. It was an effort not to anger the dowager-pain-in-
my-arse. No one batted an eye. Our family slaps bloody lions on everything.”
“Your family!” Myrcella snapped. “Not mine. Never mine. I want nothing to do with any of
you. Just leave me be. Robb loves me and I love him. Ned and Tom are the most precious
gifts I have in this world. I would die without them. Uncle, please, please... if you ever loved
me, just leave my family in peace.”

“I am sorry, Myrcella.” Tyrion spoke with a softness she had never heard from him. “I truly
am... but war’s coming whether I wish it or not. The Greyjoys are as great a threat to us as
they are to the Starks. Look at me. Look at me like you used to. Once you trusted me. Trust
that I came here to forge an alliance, not to endanger you.”

There was a pause then. She had climbed so close that Cat could peer around the bend in the
staircase and see the dwarf holding a candle. The lengthy silence made Catelyn fear that
somehow she’d been heard. A scrape of a shoe against the steps, a breath taken too loudly.
Something that had betrayed her as she feared Myrcella might be betraying Robb.

It makes no sense. She fights and fights to keep Robb and the boys safe, yet meets in secret
with a Lannister.

What is she trying to hide?

“I’m not who you think I am.” Myrcella finally said. “Not anymore. The girl who loved you
is gone. She’s a direwolf now, and the Lannisters her enemy.”

“We aren’t.” Tyrion lowered his head. “Cersei may be mad, but Jaime is father’s heir. He is
valued. He is heeded in most things. You imagined my gift was some threat? If I wished to do
so, I would have spoken of who sent me that dagger for your boy. A gift from grandfather to
grandson. Your father wanted to help keep your son safe.”

Robert Durrandon is long dead, Catelyn struggled to understand, and that man cared little
enough for his children in life.

What nonsense have I stumbled upon?

“I told you to never speak of that.” Myrcella’s voice trembled some. “My son will never
name that man anything of the like.”

“Myrcella, named or not, that’s what he is-”

“No, Jaime Lannister can never be that... he can never be my father. ”

SANSA

The white cloaks hung pristine upon the shoulders of the knights. Light cascaded down upon
them from high arched windows, casting a heavenly air about each warrior. More than a
hundred onlookers packed the hall, gazing at the six sworn shields lined up before their king.

The seventh and finest of them strode down their number, his own white-cloak dragging on
the floor behind him. Ser Barristan was the pinnacle of chivalry and devotion that Sansa
wanted these knights to aspire to. Men she needed to put the safety of those nearest and
dearest to her before all other things, including their own lives.

When Barristan ended his inspection, he snapped to attention to face her and Jon. One hand
on the pommel of his sword, the other to his heart, Barristan bowed his head in deference.

“King Jon, Queen Sansa, we are your men. Your sworn shields. On our honor, by our blades,
and with our very lives, we pledge ourselves to the protection of the royal family.”

“Then come forth and be recognized.” Jon beckoned to one of the knights, his voice ringing
in Rhaegar’s iron tones. “Come and let me hear your name and vow.”

The first to come forward was no stranger and the only knight here that could rival Barristan
in repute. He was an ordinary looking man, kneeling at their feet to unsheathe his blade and
offer the hilt to Jon.

“Ser Dontos Hollard.” The knight proclaimed. “I pledge my life and blade to House
Targaryen.”

Jon did not hesitate to take the offered blade before bidding Dontos the Daunting to rise.
Once Royner Darklyn’s sworn shield, he had run afoul of the lord’s widow, her aunt Lysa.
Free of his allegiance to Duskendale, Sansa was more than happy to welcome Dontos to their
service. Sadly, as Jon returned the blade, she saw no sign of his being pleased at all. His
expression was hard and cold, like the gold of his crown.

He never wanted it to come to this, she thought, a time when we wouldn’t feel safe in our own
home.

When we failed to protect our children.

A glance to her left showed them safe and sound for the moment. Thoros stayed close to
Aemma, who rocked Vaelena to keep the babe calm. Rhaegina was holding one of Aenry’s
hands, the other safely in Sam’s grasp. They were all watching as Dontos went to stand
facing the crowd while another knight knelt before Jon.

Ser Richard Horpe was a hard-eyed man with a face marred by battle and pox scars. Though
of little renown, both Barristan and Gendry swore by his skill and loyalty. It also helped that
Ser Richard hailed from the Stormlands. As did Ser Guyard Morrigen, who knelt next. While
not the main reason they named these fine warriors to the guard, Sansa saw the appointments
as a chance to improve the standing of House Targaryen among the Stormlords.

By honoring some of the Stormlands' finest warriors, Jon showed respect and esteem for his
vassals. He did much the same for the riverlords in accepting the vow of Ser Myles Mooton.
A broad-chested man and brother to the Lord of Maidenpool, Myles was known to be as bold
as brass and true as steel.

The next two to come forward were quite different from the rest. Malo Jayn was a former
sergeant in the Dark Order, a veteran of two tours which had left his dusky face scarred and
his demeanor grim. A man of the east like most of their freedmen, Jon had not hesitated to
knight his former sworn brother and welcome him into this new order.

Unlike with Lothor Brune, the sixth knight to kneel at the king’s feet. The middle-aged man
was neither handsome nor ugly. His hair was a mop of nappy grey and his build was stocky
and strong. In the jousts and melees they threw to select these men, Lothor had performed
among the best. It was his lack of friends that hurt his cause. The Brunes of Brownhollow did
not account him as kin of theirs and he had fought in the Vale under Denys Arryn, earning no
glory here in the Highlands.

They might have passed over Lothor... if not for the praise of Daegon Blackfyre, who knew
the knight from his own travels.

“I served with him on the Fingers.” Daegon had claimed. “A miserable campaign against
corsairs that no great lords bothered with. Only us wanderers, men who are little better than
cutthroats. Not Lothor though. Quiet as he is, you’ll find few as loyal or as fierce in a fight.
Trust me, it would be worth it to take a chance on him.”

“My father once asked me to do the same for you.” Jon’s reply came quickly but was
followed by a longer pause where he regarded his vassal. “And I've never regretted heeding
such counsel. It gained me a brave knight and a better friend. The Seven know I need more of
them these days.”

Such was how her husband’s misgivings were eased. In these trying times, Jon depended on
few like he did the Blackfyre lord or Ser Barristan.

Her bold knight was the last to kneel and offer Jon his blade.

“Barristan the Bold.” Jon spoke the name with respect, taking hold of the sword hilt yet
staying the knight from rising. “Ser, in the past I was sure you would join the Highguard. Are
you certain we are the Targaryens you wish to serve?”

“There is no crown I’d serve before yours, my king. Besides that of your queen’s.”

Barristan’s jest earned laughter from the crowd, giggles from the twins, and a small nod of
approval from the king. Jon then looked to her, for he insisted on Sansa playing a part in this.

“Then rise, ser.” She smiled down at her protector. “Rise and forever be known as Ser
Barristan Selmy, the first Lord-Commander of the Kingsguard.”

When Barristan did so he humbly took his sword back from Jon and blushed fiercely to
receive a kiss on his cheek from her.

There was never any doubt Barristan would head their newly made order. Though modeled
after the Highguard, this so-named Kingsguard would harken to the Faith by numbering only
seven cloaks. They would be personally chosen by their king to serve for life, foregoing any
families, lands, or titles to their name. Their only purpose would be to safeguard the royal
family. Sansa’s family.
She had wanted such an order for years but it was the night of the Bloody Mummers that
spurred Jon to take action. There was less blame to lay on Jon’s shoulders than her own. It
was Sansa who had wanted the theater built, she who insisted they attend that night’s
performance, she who ignored all her instincts that something terrible was afoot.

If not for Barristan and the direwolves, things might have been worse.

“The wolves, they would not calm in the stables.” Barristan recounted to the inquisition. “I
feared for what harm they could do if freed from their berth so I kept watch. Then the riders
came, two armed men leading five horses.”

“To aid the assassins’ escape.” Sam had concluded and Barristan agreed.

“I distrusted it all immediately, demanding their names and purpose. Then they drew blades. I
slew one before the wolves broke free. Lady took the other and the Warrior above told me to
follow Ghost. It was the beast that saved Prince Aenry’s life.”

“Or King Jon’s.” Varys had been keen to note. “Whether that arrow missed our king or his
heir remains unknown. A foul thing that even in failure, the assassin claimed a life.”

He claimed nothing. That fiend stole my beloved uncle from us.

And whoever commanded that crime has the blood of hundreds to answer for.

The riots and fires which spread across Aevalon following the attack had brought her to tears.
Watching this place that she and Jon had built together tear itself apart was like watching one
of the children suffer. Murder, rape, theft, there was no crime the rival factions did not inflict
upon the other. Much of it was done in Jon’s name, as ugly a service as the one that Dark
Order performed when it rode through the streets, putting down the mobs with sword and
spear. After days of violence it felt like every part of Aevalon was tainted in blood. Even the
peace that followed.

Jon had begrudged forgiving some of the worst crimes yet, to restore order, issued a blanket
pardon for all. He showed no such restraint for those who took justice into their own hands
after the pardon. Freeborn or Freedman, it made no difference. All acts of vengeance were
answered with the noose.

Jon himself had attended the public executions. He stood with the ten condemned men upon
the scaffolding, facing the gathered thousands in the cobbled square.

“There is no justice in Aevalon save the king’s justice.” Jon had declared. “Anything else is
vengeance and a defiance of my rule. A threat to the peace you all deserve! To keep us from
falling into anarchy once more, these men will be held to account.” He had swallowed deeply
then. “And as I pass the sentence, I shall see it through.”

It was an ugly thing all around, made worse that some of the condemned were known to
them. A Lyseni freerider who had fought beside Jon in the Reach. A Blackwater trader and
one of the first to petition Sansa in the early days of Aevalon's birth. Jon saw them all dead,
though not by his own hand like he’d originally intended. He heeded her on that, for the sight
of their king beheading so many might make him appear a monster.

And Jon was no monster. A truth that bid her to lean up and kiss his cheek once the ceremony
ended.

“What was that for?” He asked, eyeing the many onlookers in a shy manner.

“I need no reason.” She stroked his beard. “Though our Kingsguard will need to know your
orders soon. Ser Barristan still isn’t content with arrangements we’ve made.”

“Nor am I, but that is an argument for later.” Jon raised an eyebrow at something just behind
her. “Unlike the one coming our way right now. Show patience, my love.”

“I am always patient-”

Her lips pursed together in impatience then. Since they were girls, Arya had such an effect on
her. With the hall filled with highborn ladies in fine gowns, the Lady of Storm’s end stood out
like a sore thumb. Arya was a woman grown now yet looked more like a man in her leathers.
While her dark hair hung in one thick handsome braid, it was the thin sword hanging at her
side that caused Sansa to groan.

We gave her a castle. A fine husband. Everything a lady could desire.

And of course my sister wanted more. Why did Gendry have to make that thing for her?

Gendry showed no sign of embarrassment by Arya’s garb. In truth she thought the lord
carried an air of pride to lead his wife to them. Gendry looked like a maiden’s dream with his
tall, muscular bearing and tumbling black hair. His beard was just as dark and far thicker than
Jon’s.

Arya should trim him with that blade of hers.

“Something wrong, Sansa?” Arya smiled innocently before halting in a false shock. “Oh no!
I’m underdressed aren’t I? I forgot my white cloak!”

“It wouldn’t suit you.” Jon said. “You look far better in that black and gold one that Gendry
gave you on your wedding day.”

“A fine cloak.” Gendry sighed in mock lament. “Sometimes I wish she’d give it back… ow!”

It was a spectacle to see a lady wife pinch at her lord husband's cheek. Of course Arya added
to it by placing a hand on Needle’s pommel in idle threat. All that set Sansa to huffing in
disappointment.

“I asked you not to wear that sword.”

“Asked, not commanded.” Arya laughed, angling her hip so Needle stuck out all the more.
“There’s no shame in showing off my husband’s fine work. You called for us to bring our
swords and that’s exactly what we did. Besides, Brienne’s is bigger than mine.”
Arya jerked a thumb back towards the most outrageous sworn shield Sansa had ever seen.
Lady Brienne of Tarth was a towering woman that armored herself like a man. It was widely
known Brienne had bested some of the most formidable rebel knights on Arya’s behalf.
Though Sansa saw little of that side of the warrior woman in how she guided a small boy
across the hall.

Arya’s visits were always exasperating, yet there was no denying that her sister was a
welcome distraction from the problems at hand. Just as the sight of Sansa’s nephew helped
ease her annoyance at his mother. Gendry and Arya’s three year-old boy had joined Sansa’s
children in being regaled by one of Thoros’s fantastical tales. Lyonel was the spitting image
of Gendry with his black hair and blue eyes. Yet when Thoros got to a part that inspired
outrage in his young audience, Sansa saw Arya in how little Lyonel’s face scrunched up in
anger.

“Speaking of swords.” Gendry stole her attention once more. “Two thousand more just
arrived from the Rainwood along with their lords. On fifteen ships sent by the lords Tarth and
Estermont.”

“That brings the war fleet to more than a hundred.” Jon’s demeanor changed to his kingly
persona. “Even more if we count the smaller trade carracks and cogs.”

Arya’s grin was a wolfish one. “More than Elbert can muster, if that pitiful attack on
Maidenpool is any proof.”

A small armada out of Gulltown had attacked Maidenpool shortly after their first
denunciation was sent to the Eyrie. Twenty or so warships that couldn’t overtake the town’s
harbor and only succeeded in burning some trade ships and river galleys. Lord Mooton called
it a dreadful attack yet Jon saw it more as a probing raid.

“How can we be sure?” She worried aloud. “We’ve no word on how big the Gulltown fleet
truly is. If Elbert really did all this, who is to say he has not been readying in secret all this
time?”

“If?” Gendry gave her a look of confusion. “What doubt can there be that the Arryn king
arranged all this? He threatened Jon over Harrold Hardyng's presence here, and then attempts
are immediately made on both of their lives. The assassins had coin from the Vale on them.”

“Many people do.” Sansa wrung her hands at that. “If only we’d taken one alive. Barristan
was going to spare the last archer but Lady tore him asunder. There was little enough left for
Sam to name him a Ghiscari.”

The assassins were a strange sort. The theater master reported all five came from different
lands, each arriving separately in Aevalon. Varys had managed to learn the Myrish killer had
come from Dorne, a lead Sarella herself left to follow up on. Doubt was cast on the
Lannisters of course, yet with Tyrion in their grasp that seemed mad. Especially considering
the campaign King Tywin wanted Robb to take part in. So many of their questions could be
answered if only one of the assassins had been captured.
“Lady defended her pack.” Arya grabbed Sansa’s shoulder and gave her a reassuring squeeze.
“I would’ve done the same. Those five assassins aren’t enough to answer for Benjen. Elbert
needs to be taught the same lesson that Joffrey and Cersei were. The same one that the Trants
and the Toynes learned.”

Sansa felt a mix of revulsion and relief to hear those names again. Houses Trant and Toyne
were the Stormlords who took Aenry’s sickness as an opportunity to rebel. Unfortunately for
them, they drew little support and inspired much outrage. When it came time to put down the
rebels, the Lord and Lady of Storm’s End did so with fury. None were sure who truly ended
the Toyne line as Gendry, Arya, and Nymeria had all killed one of the last three Toynes in the
final battle.

The devotion that Arya showed them then and now made Sansa think of Rickon, far off on
his own reckless quest.

While poor Wyllard had wept over his father’s corpse, Rickon was overtaken by a black rage.
Her youngest brother rushed out of Aevalon with a small party of riders, including Robin
Darklyn, both swearing vengeance for their fallen kin. Despite Olyvar’s attempts to quell
their rage at Harrenhal, the young lords gathered hundreds more men to march on the Vale.

Thankfully Rickon was not so foolish as to attack the Bloody Gate itself. Instead he
convinced Lyman Darry to aid in blockading the High Road into the Vale, cutting off Elbert’s
overland trade. A score of small battles followed, mostly Arryn sorties sent out of the Bloody
Gate. More worrying though were the attacks by mountain clansmen, who Rickon wrote
were a more savage sort. Men now armed with weapons of castle-forged steel.

We’ve no idea what we face in the Vale. There’s so much confusion regarding all of this.

The only thing that is certain is that war is upon us again. A war none of us want.

Despite preferring Arya and Gendry’s company, Jon soon made excuses for them to depart
alone. There was another person they needed to speak to, one who Jon would have none save
Sansa hear from, so shocking were his claims.

Though officially a guest, they had kept the man imprisoned in a tower of the Red Keep for
weeks. Time that they had used trying to learn the truth of Petyr Baelish and what his
presence meant to their kingdom. None save Barristan joined the couple in their journey to
Baelish’s tower cell. While the newly cloaked Kingsguard stood out from the other Targaryen
guardsmen, he seemed in good company when they journeyed within.

It was a troubling sign that their inquiries had drawn such an unexpected visitor to Aevalon.
For keeping Baelish company was none other than Ser Arthur Dayne, Lord-Commander of
the Highguard. A white-cloaked man with pale blonde hair and eyes of such a dark blue that
they seemed purple, the knight made quite the impression. Unlike the short man with the
pointed beard that sat at a small table in the cell.

“King Jon.” Ser Arthur bowed respectfully at their coming. “Queen Sansa. I have done as I
was bid to. He will speak to what you ask.”
“I imagine I should be thankful.” Jon spoke brusquely. “But you've yet to speak on what your
orders actually are, and you claim that this man sits here as an admitted spy sent by own
family. Tell me, ser, are you his partner in this? Has Arthur Dayne fallen to such depths?”

“Jon.” She grabbed at his arm, feeling it tensed. Barristan acted the same while Baelish
grinned at the whole display.

Arthur Dayne stood stoic despite her husband’s outrage. He’d done much the same a week
past when the Highguard warrior arrived in the dead of night. The knight had stowed away
on a Tyroshi trading barge, travelling in secret to confirm what Petyr Baelish had claimed
when he was first dragged here from Duskendale.

The fact that the man was a known spymaster and had recently arrived from the Vale made
Baelish a prime suspect in arranging the assassination. Yet when arrested on charges of being
an Arryn agent, the man had simply laughed and produced a parchment which Jon paled
upon reading.

For it named the holder a servant of the empire and under the protection of House Targaryen.
Arthur had been willing to swear to that if Jon gave him leave to speak with Baelish alone
first. Something that Jon had only agreed to hours before.

“Your grace, I apologize again.” Ser Arthur saluted in the Targaryen fashion. “I can only
speak to what I’ve been permitted by royal command. It is not my choice to shield this man,
yet my duty was made clear.”

“Is your duty finished?” Sansa asked in her softest voice, hoping to ease the tension. When
Ser Arthur nodded she smiled widely. “Then Ser Barristan will see you out.”

“I believe I’m meant to stay-”

“No.” Jon’s face was solemn yet his eyes burned. “My queen told you our will. You are in my
kingdom and I order you out. Push my patience ser, and whatever respect I hold for you will
not keep me from having you dragged from this room.”

The knight regarded Jon carefully then, as if measuring his options. Sansa’s patience was
tried by that, since it was she who had pushed Jon to accommodate Arthur in the first place.
In the end, the Highguard accepted what was to be and was led out by Barristan.

Now alone with them, Baelish began twirling at his pointed beard, looking at her with
calculating grey-green eyes. His confident expression fell away when Jon marched around
the small table towards him.

“Get up.” Jon commanded gruffly and when Baelish did so, he snatched the chair away,
carrying it to their side so she could sit.

“How gallant.” Baelish waved a hand. “I did not expect such from the Kingslayer.”

“You are too bold.” Sansa warned. “I will not have a spy and a flesh peddler speak ill of my
husband.”
“I thought I was meant to speak the truth? My apologies, Queen Sansa.” The short man eyed
her up and down. “I’ll temper my words so as not to offend such a lovely woman.”

“We’d rather the truth.” Jon gripped at her chair. “We’ve waited long enough to hear your
part in the assassinations.”

“I was not sent here to conduct assassinations.” Baelish replied. “My purpose was to set up
my… business ventures. And to soak in the glory of this young kingdom. I was to learn the
relative strength you could summon, the depth of your coffers, the value of your trade-”

“On whose behalf?” Sansa asked, fearful of the answer.

With imperial protection it could be any member of the royal family.

Rhaegar. Viserys. Daenerys.

“Prince Aegon.” Baelish grinned and met her eyes in a way that made her feel uncomfortable.
“The heir to the empire is very interested in the state of your kingdom.”

She tried not to let that shake her, for it spoke to some of their worst fears. In the years since
Aegon’s last visit, Sansa held hope that things would improve between the brothers.
Especially since the birth of Aegon’s son. A true son, not the bastard that Daenerys passed off
as Jon’s whenever it suited her fancy. Unlike her brand, that was a hurt that still ached at
times.

“You are Aegon’s... agent.” Jon spoke evenly. “If that is so, why were you in Gulltown before
Aevalon? What use is the Vale to my brother?”

“The more accurate question would be, what use was I to the Vale? Quite a bit if I do say so
myself. I was in Gulltown negotiating a contract with King Elbert over investigations into the
Faith when Prince Aegon’s men found me. Their offer was far more attractive.”

Sansa was taken aback. “Spying on the Faith is loathsome. Why would Elbert do so?”

“Self preservation.” Baelish laughed before switching to a tone like he was speaking to a
child. “Please, we all know how helpful the High Septon has been to you of late. All of those
reports on Elbert’s strength and the loyalties of his bannermen just suddenly falling into your
lap... did you not find that convenient?” He raised an eyebrow. “The High Septon has been
plotting the downfall of Elbert for years. Before Denys Arryn’s death, his army had free use
of the Faith's wealth across every sept and septry in the Vale. After Elbert’s victory, septons
became spies and the Faith Militant became an army lying in wait. Now they are all at your
disposal.”

However much she distrusted the spymaster, Sansa could not deny the truth in the man’s
words. While Royner had been the one to die from the Bloody Mummers, Tom of the Seven
took to singing a different tune. He that claimed Royner had done much as Jon had, leaping
to protect another from arrows.
“Elbert is a vile man with little faith.” Tom had preached to the masses at the Sept of Baelor.
“Unlike Royner Darklyn! The lord tried to spare me from Elbert’s cowardly acts. It was I
who the Foul Falcon aimed to slay that night, not Lord Darklyn! They wished to murder a
man of the Faith! Blasphemy!”

Sansa hadn’t put much stock in those claims, nor had Jon, or mother. Yet others had, and the
High Septon began offering much and more to aid war in the Vale. A thousand Warrior’s
Sons and Poor Fellows had already arrived at Aevalon, and a thousand more awaited them in
the Vale. More vital, the High Septon was sure he could win over a few Vale lords as well.

As Sansa thought more and more on these revelations, Jon pushed forward.

“Why are you being so open with us? Clearly Aegon didn’t want this being known.”

“My contract has been severed.” The spy replied. “High King Rhaegar has done so on Prince
Aegon’s behalf. I’m to be granted safe passage across the Narrow Sea, in return for speaking
the truth of all of this to you.”

“Aegon truly did this?” Sansa pressed. “He commanded you to spy on us? To try and bribe
your way into meeting me? To approach my daughters?”

“My dear lady, none of that was on Aegon’s behalf.” Baelish leaned forward against the
table, staring deep into her eyes. “I came across your daughters and found them to be
charming little creatures. They will be blessed to have even half the beauty of their
grandmother… and a tenth of their mother’s.” He pulled on his beard. “The only business
involved there was my trying to grow closer to you, as a potential future client.”

“Pardon?”

Baelish bowed in a grandiose manner. “The life of a spymaster is like a leaf on the wind, I go
where the power takes me. I foresaw the Highlands having great use of me. You call me a spy
and a flesh peddler, both of which are true. Both those tasks suit me well, for I am a man who
enjoys working with figures as much as people. I am soon to be a free agent, and let me
assure you both, you do not lack for enemies.”

That was what bid Sansa to stand.

“That is likely true.” She said, smoothing her skirts while doing her best to show more pride
than unease. “Though we would prefer a better quality of friend.”

With that she held out her hand for Jon to take in his. A simple hint that she no longer wished
to be here. There was no need to urge him into leaving, for he was quite done with Baelish as
well it seemed. While they could not harm him, the man was not going anywhere without
their say so. If there were more questions to come, they could be asked later. For now the
couple had enough to chew on.

“Do you believe him?” Sansa asked Jon when they were back in his chambers.
“I believe little about Petyr Baelish.” He answered. “The part about Aegon? Yes. With the
imperial protection and my father bending over backwards to keep this all quiet, it points to
nothing else. I cannot fathom why though. Our kingdom is little compared to the might of the
empire. Is he to spy on Viserys next?”

“Viserys is no true threat.” She walked to his bed and sat down, Jon staring at her in surprise.

“I’m no threat to Aegon. I haven’t been for years... he’s the heir now…”

“And you’re a king, Jon. One whose power grows greater year after year. We worried on this
once, what it would mean when Aegon came to power. It looks like he has acted on a fear
very much like our own.”

That hit Jon hard, no matter how he tried to hide it. He soon joined her on the bed, allowing
Sansa to rest her head against his chest and hold his hand.

“I should have been ready for this.” He said after a time. “For Aegon, for Elbert, for all of it.
If I’d listened to you we would have had a Kingsguard years ago…”

“And they might not have spared us.” She pulled his hand up to kiss it. “Benjen would likely
still be dead. Royner too. We do our best. Sometimes the gods are simply against us.”

“I can accept that for myself.” He kissed her head. “It’s far harder to do with you. And the
children? Sansa… Aenry wakes screaming… he has the same nightmares of dead men that
came to me when I was a man grown…”

“And you’re there for him when he does.”

Jon rarely spent the whole night abed with her. He would make his way to the children’s
corridor, sleeping in a chair to watch over a different one each night. Wary for the cry of any
that needed him. Whatever inhibitions Aenry fostered towards Jon were forgotten when he
awoke from a terror. She had arrived one night to find their son curled up in his father’s arms,
both seeking the peace that the world denied them in the worst ways.

“I wasn’t there when it mattered.” Jon’s voice became hoarse. “When the whoresons
loosed… I tried to save you and the girls. It was instinct. I made no true choice but… I left
Aenry to the fates. Sansa, if it had been our son and not Benjen-”

“It wasn’t.”

“But if it had… I would have been guilty of far worse than those men I executed. I would
have come upon the Vale with ten times the savagery that we saw in those riots. I’m terrified
it will come to that still. If I learn it was Aenry and not me that they aimed at… I’m already
the Kingslayer, I fear to become worse.”

“I have no such fears.” Sansa raised up to lift the crown off her beleaguered king. Then she
leaned in so that her brow touched against his furrowed one, her words becoming whispers.
“Jon, I know you well. I saw how you conducted war. A good man doing his best in evil
times.”
“That’s because I had you with me.” His fingers ran against her cheek. “I became a better
man for you. Yet when I hear my children scream, that sound lodges itself in my heart as
surely as that arrow did for Benjen. It fills me with cold rage… the same I felt when I slew
Joffrey…”

What was she to say to that? If Jon ever came upon men who meant their children harm, she
wanted them to end up like Joffrey. It tore at her soul think so. That a part of her wanted to do
it herself. She heard Aenry’s cries too. Aemma sometimes woke the same way. Rhaegina was
more rare but it happened.

She wanted to show them that they were safe again. To bend the world so that they’d never
fear from it again. To spare Jon from doing so on his own.

Yet it would fall to her to stay behind once more, to stand and watch Jon ride off to war,
watching as Gendry and Arya did the same. Countless others were going with them. Petyr
Baelish was eager to sell his help yet Sansa was kept from offering hers.

She held Jon all the tighter during these thoughts, their caresses giving way to gentle kisses.
Not those that came before passion, merely expressions of their love and need for one
another.

Kisses which ended when Ser Dontos knocked upon the chamber door. The news he carried
was such that both leapt from the bed in a flash, their journey down the keep a blur. Nothing
about what they had just been told made sense.

Arthur Dayne arriving by secret was strange enough, but this?

How could she do this? Why would she come like this?

These were the questions pounding in Sansa’s mind when she and Jon came to the bridge of
Rhaegar’s Holdfast to find their newly arrived guest already crossing.

A regal woman who Sansa had not seen in many a year, flanked by the same two white-
cloaked warriors as always. Ethan Glover remained as severe as ever. Tumco Lho bore a new
scar yet smiled the same smile he always had.

Sansa lost sight of both when the High Queen opened her arms to embrace her tightly

“My lovely daughter.” Lyanna said before reaching out for Jon. “My dear son. You must
show me my grandchildren. It’s not too late? The damnable ship felt so sluggish.”

“Mother… how are you here?” Jon was incredulous. “Why are you here? Ser Arthur was
quite enough. If father means to have you make excuses-”

“I’ll be making no excuses for Rhaegar.” Lyanna spoke bitterly. “Not anymore. I’d request
welcome here in Aevalon though. A long stay amongst your type of dragons is precisely what
I need, for I’ve just left a worse kind altogether.”
 JON

The white dragon rippled and swayed lazily across the black banner, just one of many raised
throughout the camp raised outside of Aevalon. Hundreds of tents holding thousands of men.
A sea of sigils.

The black stag of House Baratheon. The opposing swans of House Swann. The Morrigen
crow, the brass buckles of the Bucklers, the Errol haystack, the Fells with their crescent moon
and spruce trees, even the sleeping lion of House Grandison had roused.

Stormlords all. Some were former rebels, the rest were houses whose contributions to the
winter war Gendry had found lacking. More than five thousand men came from these camps,
which was part of the reason that Jon had chosen to show this part of his army to their new
guests.

Barristan’s white cloak and the Blackfish’s dark one waved in the breeze as they kept watch.
Dontos did the same while Gendry and Aurane discussed matters regarding the fleet.
Nymeria pressed in about Jon and Arya, who he led on his arm while Ghost stayed close to
Sansa. His wife was busy escorting another, though she somehow made it seem like their
guest was leading her.

Bronze Yohn Royce could not contain his smile, which softened the large lord of Runestone's
martial look. Though his hair was grey with eyes to match, Sansa named the lord a warrior
and Jon believed it. Those days were long past for Horton Redfort though, the old man
leaning against the stronger body of his son, Ser Mychel. Both giving Lord Royce jealous
looks from behind his back.

“I feel a younger man.” Yohn declared in a voice as large as his build. “Walking amongst
warriors with a beauty on my arm, why this could be a tourney!”

“Like the ones you told me about at Winterfell.” Sansa patted the lord’s arm with a smile.
“My poor father was quite put out after your visit. I pestered him from morning 'til night for a
tourney in my name. An event to draw the finest of the realm I claimed, so of course Bronze
Yohn would have returned for such.”

“If only that had come to pass, your grace. I’d rather a tourney had brought us together again
over than this talk of war.”

“I prefer talk to war myself.” Sansa looked at Jon then. “As does my king. Yet those were not
words Elbert Arryn loosed at our family. Like Elbert’s reign, the time for talk is at an end.”

Horton coughed loudly at that. “Denys Arryn once said much the same, back when he had
armies of this size and I had four sons to offer him. Those hosts are gone now, and so is my
boy Jon. Why should I risk what sons are left to me for your vengeance?”

“Not vengeance, my lord.” Sansa replied. “Justice. For all of us. Lend your strength to us and
you will gain a king who brings peace to the Vale. One who shall rule justly, and with honor.”
“That’s not King Jon’s reputation in the Vale.” Horton wheezed in return. “Elbert names him
a Kingslayer… a foreign devil… he claims that King Jon abducted his heir and tried to
murder Ser Harrold through catspaws…”

Jon had heard such slander before, Varys having kept them well informed on the Arryn lies
against his name. While he tensed to hear those words from a prospective ally, Arya tightened
her grip on his arm before rising to his defense.

“Well if Elbert Arryn told me the sky was green, I would still have the sense to look for
myself.”

The Redforts were gaping at Arya when Jon spoke. “The lords Royce and Redfort are quite
sensible, my goodsister, else they would not be here. I welcome the chance to show them the
truth of things, and to win the friendship of such noble men.”

“You sound like your father.” Bronze Yohn nodded his way. “Did Rhaegar tell you that in our
youth we crossed blades once at the Eyrie? No shame in being bested by a dragon, that’s
what Jon Arryn told me at the time. ‘Course, the falcon sung a different tune when we sailed
against the Mad King. Glory awaited those who threw back the mad dragon’s fleet at
Dragonstone… gods, what a fight that was.”

“My husband owes his life to that battle.” Sansa said. “It’s fair to say that you’ve already
fought for my Jon once. Jon Arryn led the Vale to victory and glory and, on my honor as a
Stark, I know his namesake can do the same.”

At that the Vale lords grew quiet and thoughtful. As unpopular as King Elbert was, it was
disappointing that only two of his disgruntled vassals answered this invitation. Jon consoled
himself with the knowledge that the Royces and Redforts were two of the most powerful
families in the Vale. Winning them over was key to the strategy he hoped might bring victory.

A conquest of a scale not undertaken in the Vale since the coming of the Andals.

“Pretty words, your grace.” Bronze Yohn finally spoke before gesturing at the nearby
banners. “Denys was good with words, still he never gained the swords he needed to win.
There are others in the Vale who might support you, if not for the fear that your numbers are
tenuous. Can the loyalty of your Stormlords be depended upon? Have they not risen up twice
against you?”

“And fallen hard each time.” Arya broke away from Jon. “My husband and I saw to that.”

Ser Mychel shook his head. “Your bite is a fearsome one, Lady Baratheon, and strong.
Stronger perhaps than the fealty of those who bent the knee to you.”

“My son is right.” Horton added. “We’ve heard that both the Lord and Lady of Storm’s End
mean to march? Such means that a rebellion could rise in your absence, one that pulls you
from the Vale, leaving us at Elbert’s mercy.”

Yohn grunted. “And Elbert Arryn has no mercy. Ser Denys and his family learned that. And
my boy, Robar…”
“My lords, be at ease.” Gendry stepped forward, his words given weight by outmatching
them all in size and strength. “Most of the men that march under my banner are the very ones
you fear to rebel. They seek a chance to reverse their fortunes in the fight ahead, to regain our
king’s favor.”

“You trust that?” Yohn looked between Jon and Gendry. “Words are wind they say.”

“Well the winds blows strong in our lands.” Arya put a hand to Gendry’s shoulder. “The
Stormlords have learned that our promises are always upheld, for better or for worse. That’s
all it took for Gendry to draw these men into mustering. A promise.”

“One sworn by my warhammer.” Gendry flexed his mighty hand in a fist. “Bring your
strength to the king at Aevalon, lest you wish the king bring his strength to you.”

Lord Redfort coughed once more at that yet Jon caught the beginnings of a grin from Bronze
Yohn.

“You are Robert’s son, natural born as you are. I never thought to see his like again.”

“Lord Gendry is Jon’s most trusted commander.” Sansa broke in. “His value to my husband
is great, as have been our rewards for his loyalty. Those who act as our friends never regret
doing so.”

“Even Lord Darklyn?” Horton asked and Sansa touched at her chest in sadness.

“Only the Seven know why Royner was stolen from us, or my uncle Benjen. Their murders
haunt us, my lord. That is why we shall not cease until they are avenged. Some good must
come from their deaths. We owe that to our friends.”

“May the Warrior lend you strength in that.”

The voice belonged to none other than the High Septon himself. The holy man was striding
their way through the tents, with another familiar face beside him. While the High Septon
was garbed in the purest white robes and golden sashes, Ser Theodan Wells wore the rainbow
cloak of the Warrior’s Sons over his leather and mail. The score of Faith Militant flanking
their approach were all under Theodan’s command, yet loyal to none before the High Septon.

They’re supposed to be loyal to the Seven but the High Septon claims to voice their will.

That power makes him a king in his own right. A kingmaker as well.

All bowed before the High Septon, including Jon. When the holy man held out a hand
towards him, Jon kissed his rings with as much humility as he could offer. The Royces and
Redforts were descended from First Men, but they held to the Faith as strongly as any Vale
lord.

“Bless you, King Jon. Bless you on this holy quest.” The High Septon made the sign of the
seven-pointed star upon Jon’s chest before turning to the Vale men. “My good lords, I had not
known you would be among the camps. Ser Theodan was just showing me the holy thousand
he has gathered here to win back the Vale so it might once more be brought under the light of
the Seven.”

Theodan bowed. “Wherever crimes done against the faithful, we will make the guilty atone.
Our brothers in the Vale cry out for rescue from the Faithless Falcon.”

“Rescue?” Horton exclaimed with shock. “I’d not heard the Faith was under assault-”

“Elbert’s crimes are too many to list.” The High Septon waved away Horton’s words before
wandering over to Sansa, who kissed his ring as well. “As our lovely queen can attest to. Will
your children be attending my service this night?”

“They’ve looked forward to nothing else.” Sansa kept her eyes lowered in a practiced
deference. “We’ve readied the new arrivals. Hundreds of freedmen only just arrived and they
all wish to march to battle under the blessing of the Seven, under your blessing.”

“Marvelous.” The man leaned in to kiss Sansa’s cheek, whispering something to her. When
he made to kiss the other, it was Sansa’s lips that moved against his ear.

The High Septon nodded then before turning back to the lords.

“Lord Horton!” The High Septon summoned both Redforts. “Walk with me... walk with me
so that we might speak. Of late, I’ve heard your family is one of the few that the Seven can
truly depend on…”

They made to journey away from the Stormlords then. These men were meant to march under
Gendry and soon they came upon the men who would sail with Jon. After the recent troubles
in Aevalon, it was clear there was rot in the city that needed to be drained away. He’d set
Varys and his little birds to scouring Aevalon for those guilty of rioting and bringing them to
him. If those men could light torches and brandish blades against their neighbors, they could
do the same against his enemies. Though some were impressed into service, Jon was
heartened by how many others volunteered, especially among the newly arrived freedmen.

Of the three thousand drawn from Aevalon and his nearby estates, four hundred had only just
come from empire, men who the High Septon would now bless.

They're a paltry replacement after father robbed me of my greatest asset.

This war was already going to be a trial, now I feel like I go forth without my sword.

His hand went to Dark Sister but there was no need, the men ahead practicing with spears
were no threat to him. A glance to Ghost and Nymeria’s calm demeanors spoke to that as
well. A shout rang out then, sending knights and men-at-arms to ordering the freedmen into
proper ranks. The voice belonged to Daegon, who came his way with a smile.

“A good lot, Jon.” Daegon said when they came together. “Most have seen battle before.
Those that haven’t are damn near fanatical to fight for the white dragon.”

“Then I hope the black dragon trains them well.” Jon watched as Poor Fellows piled some
barrels together for the High Septon to stand on. “This fight will be a hard one, my friend.
Your wife is with child. Do what I couldn’t, stay behind for her sake.”

“I want to be there for Laenora, but I owe you too much. I was born without a home, a pain
my child will never know. You gave me that home, Jon Targaryen, I’ll see you back to
yours.”

Once Jon would not have turned his back on a Blackfyre. Seven years and countless fights
later, there were few he’d have by his side, save Daegon. Thrice Daegon had saved his life
that he knew of and Jon had rewarded House Blackfyre for it. Daegon was named the Lord of
Rosby and Sansa had helped arrange a marriage to one of Aurane’s Velaryon cousins from
the empire. There was something rewarding about giving Daegon a chance for a future here
in the Sunset Kingdoms. After all, Jon himself had been granted the same, something he still
felt unworthy of.

Daegon leaves his wife behind out of duty, meanwhile I thrust my own wife into danger for a
kingdom.

By Vhagar, Sansa, how did I ever let you talk me into this?

The answer came after the High Septon’s blessings finished and Sansa waded out amongst
the freedmen. While already guarded by Barristan and the Blackfish, Bronze Yohn moved
protectively about Sansa as she smiled brightly and spoke kind words to the lowborn
strangers. Lord Royce had not yet declared for them, the freedmen had likely never seen her,
yet all were drawn to Sansa. She knew what to say, how to act... she inspired the best from all
men.

She’d turned such magics against Jon to convince him to let her join the march. An argument
they’d waged from opposite sides of her bed.

“Your place is here!” He had shouted, one the rare times he’d ever done so to her

“Nonsense! I played my part in the war against Joffrey.” She’d ripped back at him. “And
you’ve no quarrel with Arya going off to war.”

“Arya can take of herself! She has proven herself capable! That is, er- I mean-”

“That I am not capable!? Are you saying I’m not the same worth as my sister? That I’ve not
ruled our kingdom for years while you were elsewhere?”

“That’s why I need you here now.” He had gestured about the room then. “To keep all this
place standing while I’m gone. Sansa, who else can do so?”

“There’s more need for me in the Vale for precisely the same reasons. To win this war you’ll
need to use words as much as swords. Elbert names you a vicious war lord? Well, what sort
of fiend brings his wife along with him?”

“A fool!”

“A king!” Sansa had straightened in a pose of regal defiance. “One showing off a new land to
his queen. You trust in Arya’s way with the blade. Well, trust in my way with lords and
ladies. Those Vale houses you can’t win with might, let me try with charm. Or have you lied
to me of my strengths all these years?”

Jon had stood speechless. Furious. Terrified. Confused. All those feelings had rushed through
him while Sansa proved her claims by coming to him and lifting his hand to her lips.

“I’d not suggest this if it wasn’t for Lyanna. With her here, she can help the council rule in
our stead. The children will have their grandmother to watch over them and Aevalon will
have protection from the High Queen. None, not the greenhands nor the lions, would think to
attack if it meant triggering a war with the empire.”

“That hasn’t stopped them before…”

“Jon, the simple truth is that you’re not your mother.” Sansa had kissed his fingers and
looked deeply into his eyes. “Whatever their troubles, the love between Rhaegar and Lyanna
is worthy of song. He waged war against his own father on her behalf. None would dare
challenge such passion.”

It was the passion of her words that showed Jon the horrible truth. Sansa was right. Somehow
she had convinced him into doing the last thing he wanted. If she could do the same to the
Vale lords, their chances at success could only grow.

One of those lords certainly seemed taken with Sansa as she led five freedmen to him and
Daegon. Bronze Yohn was laughing at something she’d said when she turned her bright smile
towards him.

“My love, this is Belasso.” She introduced the eldest of the freedmen, a tanned man with the
tiger stripe tattoo of a Volantene slave and city guard. “And these are his sons.” She switched
to Valyrian to speak of the others. “All four will fight for you, they fight to see our kingdom
flourish.”

“This is the promised land.” Belasso spoke only when Sansa him urged to, in a low dialect
from Volantis. “You are the promised king. If my fifth son was older, he’d fight for King
Jonarys too. He stays with my wife and daughters. He wants to fight though, I swear it.”

“Then I believe it.” Jon answered. “If I hold any promise as king, it is because of subjects
like you.” He was struck with an idea then and took Sansa’s hand. “This fifth son, we should
have the city watch find a place for him as a page. It's good work for a young man.”

Something like pride flashed across Sansa’s face. “See, my lord?” She asked of a bemused
Bronze Yohn. “My husband rewards the loyalty of all his subjects, even the most humble.
Imagine the honor he would do by a storied family who aids us in returning justice to the
Vale.”

“King Jon is good and true.” Daegon said with conviction. “I am a lord, a husband, and soon
to be a father, all thanks to him. I cannot say what his favor will grant you-”

“I’d settle for vengeance.” The lord spoke gruffly. “My son Robar rode with Denys Arryn
when he was ambushed. I always knew it was treachery that claimed my son’s life, Harry’s
tale only confirmed it. Elbert was never going to be my king… I simply couldn’t stomach the
thought of naming any but an Arryn as ruler of the Vale.”

Jon felt his heart drop. Daegon and Sansa’s expressions grew dark as well. They were all
shocked when Yohn stuck a hand out in Jon’s direction.

“I can support a man that Jon Arryn had me fight for already. There’s more of the Vale I
knew in your kingdom than I’ve seen in our own lands for years. Swear to save us from
ourselves and the Royces of Runestones are with you.”

“I swear it, Lord Royce.” He grabbed the man’s powerful hand. “Though I hope to offer the
Vale more than that.”

Sansa touched at Yohn’s arm. “And to bestow great honors upon greater men.”

Those words rung in his ears all the way back to the Red Keep.

He had great plans for Bronze Yohn and his family. Just as he did for the Redforts, who the
High Septon had delivered to him with pledges of support not longer after Bronze Yohn.

Still, that would have to wait, and it was Maester Samwell and Varys he sought out upon their
arrival. As befit their duties, both somehow knew of his coming and met Jon and Sansa as
they journeyed to Rhaegar’s Holdfast.

“You two are to help rule in my absence.” He said as the pair followed in step with him and
Sansa. “The council shall decide on all affairs that I cannot conduct while at war, but it is my
mother who shall hold power.”

“Advise Lyanna as best you can.” Sansa said as they crossed the bridge over the dry moat.
“Share with her all your wisdom, but also put your faith in her at the end. Support her view of
things even if the others on the council disagree.”

“What others?” Sam asked, his chain clanking with each step. “Lord Darklyn is dead, Aurane
sails to war, and Jon has sent Garmon to watch over the Reach lands.”

Sam made a sage point. Though young Lord Meadows of the Grassy Vale and the new Lady
of Bitterbridge had sworn fealty, their true loyalties were a mystery. Thus Jon had lessened
any chance of rebellion by summoning their men to join his army. Weakened and somewhat
vulnerable to raids from the Reach, Garmon was sent to those lands with the strength of
House Qoherys. Which left their council lacking.

“Jon Connington will be here to lend steel to your authority.” Sansa informed the pair. “As
will Ser Barristan, who we have told the same as you.”

“And what of Tom of the Seven?” Varys asked. “He has become quite bold of late. His
standing with the High Septon grows with every decree that favors the Faith.”

“The Faith is our ally in this coming war.” Sansa said to a titter from Varys.
“Yes, how fortunate that we find ourselves at war with the Vale and the Faith already well
prepared for one. A miracle of the Seven it seems.”

“We’ll do our best.” Sam stopped before them, bringing all to a halt. “Though I beg that you
take Barristan the Bold with you. Surely he would be better than Brune or even Mooton.”

“That’s the idea, maester.” Varys said. “Who better than Barristan the Bold to watch over the
royal heirs in our king and queen’s absence?”

Varys was right. Of the four Kingsguard they would leave behind at Aevalon, it was Barristan
they put the most faith in. The ser wasn’t pleased with the arrangements either but Jon trusted
him to do his duty and protect the children, their family.

Within the godswood Jon and Sansa found their children well protected to say the least. Six
white cloaks were present in the grove, an even split of Kingsguard and Highguard. Thoros
was there too, the red priest among the group Jon’s mother had lured to a flower garden. A
court that Aenry presided over from atop the stone wall, a crown of leafy vines on his head,
with the twins and Lyonel gathered below.

“All hail King Aenry.” Mother proclaimed from his side. “King of the godswood, Lord of the
many trees, and Protector of the garden.”

“I’ll be the Lady of the Heart Tree.” Rhaegina spoke haughtily, grinning towards Arthur
Dayne. “And here stands my shield, the Sword of the Morning.”

“Oh! I get Thoros then.” Aemma grabbed at the red priest’s hand. “I’m the Princess of
Fireflies and Thoros is my wizard. ”

Aenry clapped at that. “Make him do magic.”

“Alas, your grace, the time is not right.” Thoros pointed to the sky. “Come nightfall, I will
ask R’hllor to stoke the flames in the fireflies, in honor of my king and lady.”

“Clever.” Lyanna winked at Thoros before looking to Lyonel. “And what title shall you take
my little lord? Would you rather Ethan or Ser Richard as your protector?”

“Neither, thank you.” Lyonel shook his head only to bear his teeth and raise up his fingers
like claws. “I’m a direwolf! A scary direwolf!”

“Mine!” Aenry jumped up on his seat. “Lyonel’s my direwolf! He’ll eat who I tell him to eat!
Like Ghost does for father!”

“I will!” Lyonel cackled as mother tried to hide a laugh behind her hand.

“Ghost is more a noble protector-”

“Yes, you sound silly, Aenry.” Rhaegina rolled her eyes and Aemma quickly did the same.

“Play the game right. Grandmother, he’s to order a ball for us.” Aemma sighed.
“That’s what he promised.” Rhaegina echoed. “So do it Aenry, or I’ll give you such a pinch-”

“Eat Rhaegina!” Aenry lifted a stick to point at his eldest sister. “Go Lyonel! There’s
supper!”

Lyonel gave a howl and lunged at Rhaegina, who cried out in indignation. Mother and
Aemma were laughing when the pair began a chase around Arthur and then the Kingsguard.
Not a crack appeared in the grim face of Richard Horpe as a screaming Rhaegina ducked
behind him. Yet when Lyonel ran between Myles Mooton’s legs, Rhaegina tripped over
Guyard’s foot. Jon sprung forward yet another spared his daughter an ugly fall.

He hadn’t realized the Blackfish was back in the castle, let alone in the godswood.

“This seems familiar.” Brynden said as he steadied Rhaegina on her feet. “I may have saved
your grandmother from a fall or two when she was your age. Cat always was the lively sort.”

“Lucky as well.” Sansa spoke, announcing their presence. “Something my children and I
share in to have an uncle like you, ser.”

Aemma giggled from Thoros’s side. “Not a great great uncle. The greatest uncle.”

“That’s how you should style yourself.” Thoros chuckled at his black garbed comrade.
“Brynden Tully, Knight of the Dark Order, Blackest Fish, Greatest of Uncles.”

“Stick to your red prayers, Thoros. Leave the charm to the ladies.”

“Enjoy this while you can.” Jon said to his former sworn brothers. “Sallador Saan will arrive
any day now to take the Dark Order away. This is an end to an era, my friends.”

“It’s a folly.” Brynden gave an ugly glare toward Arthur then.

“It’s the will of the High King.” Thoros said dejectedly. “Where the empire has need, the
Dark Order goes. As it has always been, we heed House Targaryen.”

The Blackfish scoffed. “There’s some Targaryens in need right here.”

He was right. Jon was left scrambling in his war preparations after word came that the Dark
Order was being recalled to the empire. It was mother who first warned that the High King
would be issuing such a decree, one she opposed vehemently.

“Ser Brynden has the right of things.” Mother spoke fiercely, aiming her words right at
Arthur as she pressed Aenry into joining the other children in their play. “Rhaegar knows full
well that the Dark Order belongs here. He’s let politics blind him to that. Politics and a
conniving wretch, unworthy of being named a prince.”

“Your grace.” Arthur protested. “The estrangement between Rhaegar and yourself aside, it is
not wise to speak in such a way of the High King. Nor his heir.”

“A snake by another name.” Mother snapped in a manner that reminded him of Lady, who
now stood between the twins.
“She’s talking about uncle Aegon.” Rhaegina whispered to Aemma a tad too loudly.

“Girls, this is not for your ears.” Sansa said, waving at the Kingsguard. “You will go with the
sers for a walk. Mind Aenry and Lyonel until we are finished.”

“Can Ser Arthur come and tell us a tale?” Rhaegina asked of her grandmother while Aemma
pleaded with Jon.

“Thoros too!”

“They cannot and no arguing.” Sansa held up a finger when both girls opened their mouths in
indignation. “You were acting as young ladies for High Queen Lyanna, do the same for me.
Go on now.”

The twins did their best not to pout, though their displeasure was plain. As was Sansa’s when
she addressed his mother.

“Lyanna, your heart was in the right place but please do not speak of these things in front of
the girls. They are scared enough with us leaving, they do not need to think badly of the
empire. To them Rhaegar and Aegon are friends and kin.”

“I wished they acted so.” Mother sighed before nodding. “My apologies, Sansa. When I left
Rhaegar I did not mean to abandon my good sense as well.”

“There is nothing barring you from returning to both, Lyanna.” Arthur suggested, only for
mother to reject the notion out of hand.

“Quite impossible.” Mother looked to Jon in sadness. “Rhaegar made that choice for both of
us when he absolved Aegon of his spying and robbed Jon of the Dark Order.”

“The heir erred in employing Petyr Baelish, none deny that.” Arthur said. “But Aegon
believes he acted in the best interest of the empire. Rhaegar knows that burden well.”

It was becoming routine for Arthur to say such things. Of late the Highguard had become an
imperial envoy or sorts in Aevalon.

More like my father’s apologist…

Perhaps that thought was unworthy yet he felt no shame for thinking it. The explanations that
Arthur offered were usually undercut by the High Queen’s own accounts of what transpired
at Volantis. When Aegon realized his agent had been discovered, he’d gone straight to father
to plead his case. With Khal Drogo likely to attack the empire after the harvests came in,
Aegon wished to learn what strength the Highlands could lend if the time came. Of what
strength they no longer needed.

An explanation mother scoffed at, just as she did for Arthur now.

“Nonsense.” Mother said. “Aegon’s been trying to recall the Dark Order for years. He’s just
using the Dothraki as an excuse. Rhaegar knows this, he just couldn’t bring himself to rebuke
his heir. He can’t depend on Aegon’s loyalty like he can Jon’s, so my son suffers for being the
nobler sort.”

“I am far from suffering.” Jon rebuked. “Yes, the Dark Order’s departure was unexpected,
and my father’s decision to stomach Aegon’s... tripe, is unsettling. Yet these setbacks do not
cripple the aims that Sansa and I share.”

Sansa took his arm and lent him support. “This day alone we have won new friends in the
Vale. The first of many we hope.”

“Allies who will be key to the attack that Gendry and Arya lead against Gulltown. They have
ten thousand to do their part and, even without the Dark Order, I can still invade the Vale of
Arryn with no less than twelve thousand men and horse.”

“A fight I wish the entire order was a part of.” Thoros strode forth to throw an arm around the
Blackfish. “At least the High King allowed some to stay behind, men we’ll miss in the days
to come.”

Thoros spoke of the unprecedented action that father allowed the Dark Order to consider.
Thoros had no choice but to lead the order away, yet he need not take all of them. Any man
with less than a year left in his tour could choose to end their service by fighting for Jon.
Thirty or so had chosen to do so, the Blackfish chief among them.

“A few score is not three thousand.” Brynden grumbled as he shrugged off Thoros’s arm.
“Though I swear, the king will have the finest outriders in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“And the best company for his children.” Mother smiled then, looking off in the direction that
the children’s laughter came from. “Aenry cannot get enough tales of you as a boy, Jon.”

“Truly?” He blinked in surprise. The boy welcomed his presence after nightmares yet
remained standoffish with him most often. This coming war meant more time away from his
boy and to hear that Aenry wanted anything to do with him was a gift.

One Arthur seemed ready to spoil when he cleared his throat.

“I am to assume that the High Queen refuses my escort back to the empire?”

“Until my husband sees reason, he shall not see me. Your journey back shall be a lonely one.”

“You are mistaken.” Arthur drew up to his full height, the pommel of Dawn rising up from
above his shoulder and glinting in the sunlight. “The message I received from Rhaegar was
quite clear if you refused to return. I am Lord-Commander of the Highguard, an order which
serves the High King before all others-”

“Ser, don’t.” Ethan broke in, the northern warrior sharing a worried look with Tumco. “Do
not ask this of us.”

“We cannot force her.” Tumco added in his foreign drawl. “It goes against everything I took
the white to do…”
“Nor will I allow it.” Jon said, stepping between Arthur and his mother. He grew up seeing
Arthur Dayne as a hero yet he stared the man down all the same. “Lyanna Stark may be my
father’s queen, but she is my mother before all else. None shall remove her from Aevalon
without her consent.”

“She helped us forge this kingdom, ser.” Sansa made to bar Arthur’s path to mother as well.
“With the trials we now face, we have faith she’ll hold it together. So heed my husband’s
words, my goodmother is not going anywhere.”

“It appears not.” Arthur nodded. “Nor will her Highguard. Or myself. As I said, Rhaegar’s
message was clear. If his queen chose to stay, I am to stay by her side.” The knight’s strange
blue eyes turned to mother. “As a gesture of the unbreakable love he holds for her.”

Jon didn’t quite know what to say to that and Sansa stood silent at this announcement. If the
High Queen’s presence afforded some protection to Aevalon, the Sword of the Morning
could only add to it.

“Follow Rhaegar’s orders if you must.” Mother’s words were as cold as her demeanor, quite
unlike the warmth of her hand as it took hold of his own. “This gesture rings hollow to me. I
hold the truest symbol of the love we shared, the son Rhaegar turned his back on.”

She then turned her back on Arthur, an action Jon felt obligated to repeat. As did Sansa. Soon
all three sought out the beautiful children Sansa and Jon had created together.

Near the heart tree they found that their loves had quieted, all crouched down and gathered
around the tiny form of Vaelena. The babe’s nursemaid had laid her out on a blanket, Lady
curled up around the child protectively. Vaelena ignored the direwolf, her purple eyes locked
on the butterfly hovering just above her face.

All the children acted just as entranced, Aemma used little effort to stay Lyonel’s hand when
he made to grab the butterfly. None of the adults spoke a word. Mother sat down by
Rhaegina, the pair looking quite alike with their dark features. Sansa sidled up behind
Aemma and Lyonel, kissing her nephew’s head.

Which left Jon awkwardly inching closer to Aenry. He didn’t dare touch the boy, fearing to
ruin the moment. The scene before them was the picture of serenity. His mother. His wife.
His children. All basking in the peace which endured for now, a moment which would have
to end soon.

This is what Sansa leaves behind for the sake of our kingdom. These children, I must wage
war for their sake as well.

So none will ever think to strike at them again…

“Father?”

Aenry’s voice bid him to look down and realize he’d rested hands on the boy’s shoulders. Yet
rather than cowering from his touch, Aenry gazed up at Jon with worry.
“You have to be careful.” Aenry whispered, pointing at the butterfly. “It’ll go away if you’re
not careful. We want it to stay here.”

“Yes, son.” He met Sansa’s gaze and found her eyes to be glistening. “We must be very
careful.”

Jon meant that. Less for the butterfly. More for himself and Sansa. He wished he could stay
here, in this moment, the war forgotten.

That’s what Jon wanted. Yet it wasn’t what his children needed.

So, for them, he steeled himself for war.

 Chapter 11
Chapter Summary

The dragons come to the Vale.

A war which bleeds a land and tears a family apart.

The Great Queen Alysanne

Few Targaryen kings can claim to be as beloved by the songs and histories like the High
Queen Alysanne. Sister and wife to Jaehaerys the First, or Jaehaerys the Wise as he
came to be called, Alysanne was held to be the king’s most trusted counselor and right
hand.

Truly many in the empire grew to view her as a figure of equal power to the king and
not without reason. When Jaehaerys was called away from the capital, it was Alysanne
who ruled in Volantis and not the council as was customary. During her reign
Summerhall was pushed to new heights of importance, the queen’s invitation gathering
the most powerful and learned of the known world to liven its halls. Her famed
hospitality was matched by her love of travel, for Alysanne was a dragonrider and, on
the back of Silverwing, she journeyed far and wide.

She would travel much of the empire, from the forests of Qohor to the shores or Tyrosh,
crossing the Narrow Seas to visit the Summer Islands and several of the Seven
Kingdoms, often winning friends and easing tensions with such visits. Alysanne became
the first Targaryen to be welcomed to Braavos as a guest of the Sealord himself. Most
famously, after becoming bored during a visit to Qarth alongside Jaehaerys, Alysane
took wing to the mysterious island of Leng, meeting its Empress and gaining a
bejeweled crown for her youngest daughter, Gael.

Yet as warm and charming as Alysanne could be, she remained a dragon.

While the reign of Jaehaerys was marked as a peaceable one, harsh times did fall upon
the empire. When a Dothraki khalasar ravaged the eastern Rhoyne, the council advised
Jaehaerys to pay a tribute to end the threat quickly. An option Jaehaerys was leaning
towards until Alysanne, hearing of the suffering wrought by the Dothraki, led the king
to mount Vermithor, as she did Silverwing, and together they loosed flame against the
invading horsemen. Hundreds would burn but so did vast swathes of the Dothraki Sea,
which Alysanne set to flame as a warning to other would-be invaders.

Elegant, wise, and above all, strong-willed, Alysanne Targaryen was a queen unlike any
other. In her lifetime she gave her husband thirteen children, to the empire she left a
legacy untouched by the passage of time and equal to the grandeur of her king,

That of the Great Queen Alysanne.

JON

The drizzle weighed down his cloak with its cold, unwelcome dampness. There were no trees
to seek shelter under, the fields and hills around them too rocky for such.

Beneath Jon a whinny of displeasure went up, his horse pawing at the muddy ground. The
beautiful courser was the color of hickory and his prowess in battle had earned him the name
Vhagar. Nearby Jon’s second mount exhaled in annoyance, steam billowing out the nostrils
of the destrier towards the direwolf beside it. So large and powerful was the black beast, it
showed no fear of Ghost at all. To Jon, it was a mount worthy of the name Balerion.

The horses were gifts, given to him by the very person he wished to grab hold of and carry
far from the Vale.

Just to his right Sansa sat shivering atop her horse, a pair of gloved hands clutching at the
hood of a sapphire blue cloak. The rest of their number also faired poorly, with highborn and
lowborn alike cursing the rain and chill in the air. They’d left Aevalon basking in the warmth
of spring, something sorely lacking here in the Vale.

The sun only adds to the list of what’s missing. The Blackfish, Theodan Wells, Harry
Hardyng, half my bloody army lost somewhere in this accursed kingdom.

Lost or dead.

There were plenty of dead in the field ahead, though thankfully few were loyal to him. Like
Jon, most of his army had sat out the battle, watching as the Hunter force was routed. His
heavy horse were putting down the enemy remnants, a paltry number compared to the droves
fleeing in all directions.

“A victory.” Myles Mooton noted, the broad man wringing out his Kingsguard cloak. “Every
man with a horse flees behind their lord. These Hunters didn’t care much to have arrows
flying their way for once.”

“Twas a monstrous amount of arrows, ser.” Sansa said. “A downpour to shame this rain
falling upon our heads. I dare say our archers matched the foe in number.”

The archers had won the day for them, of that he had little doubt. The army barring their way
to Longbow Hall had been well positioned to bleed him in a desperate hour. Thus Jon
chanced to do the same to them.

He lost count of how many volleys of arrows were loosed before the Hunter levees began to
break. Only then had he allowed the heavy horse enter the fray, charging forth to avenge an
earlier attack blamed on the Hunters.
A false belief in his mind.

“This was no justice.” He said. “The Hunters fielded too few here to account for the carnage
wrought against Lord Staunton’s men.”

Mychel Redfort urged his horse onward. “Who else but them? The Hunters switched sides
three times in the war between Denys and Elbert. They’re not only strongest family in these
parts, but deceitful and vile to boot.”

“So vile as to do what we saw at the septries?” Sansa asked, her face twisting in disgust.

He regretted allowing Sansa to leave Lady behind at Aevalon after viewing the butchery at
those two septries, if only so she would be better guarded. They were supposed to find shelter
and supplies at the holy houses yet found only death instead. Both septries had been burned
out, the faithful cut to pieces, men and women alike. Later they discovered a similar fate had
befallen Symon Staunton and the hundreds who followed him.

Storms and rough seas had scattered his great army all across the coasts of the Vale, his men
landing piecemeal and needing to come together again. Lord Staunton was likely seeking him
out when the lord’s sizeable force was set upon. Whoever ambushed Staunton’s men spared
none and left few hints as to the culprits. The men were content to name the Hunters, who
had been harassing their advance for days now. Yet aspects of the killing seemed familiar to
Jon. A sort of violence he had witnessed in far distant battlefields.

His attention was drawn back to war at hand by a trio of riders returning from the battle,
Daegon at their head. When his Blackfyre friend removed his helm, his face was flushed and
eyes wild.

“A thousand apologies, your grace.” Daegon declared, leading Lothor Brune and Justin
Massey in bowing. “We rode right over their rabble but not swift enough to cut off Lord
Hunter’s flight. His best slipping through our grasp. My grasp.”

Justin fidgeted at that. “We took some prisoners of note. A Ser Henrik of-”

“Sworn swords and hedgeknights.” Daegon cut off the knight. “Jon, let us give chase. The
outriders are ready to follow and if we ride hard we can put down the Hunters before they
reach their castle. Lothor, you served with the old lord, speak to it!”

“They’ll head to Longbow Hall alright.” Lothor wiped at his bloody sword. “Not an easy
ride. Plenty of places to lay in wait. Eon likes his traps and snares.”

Myles jerked at his reins. “Better reason for us to act before he can use such trickery-”

“I believe you mistake Lothor’s point, ser.” He looked to the stocky Kingsguard. “If I send
my horse chasing after the Hunters, they could be lost to an ambush.”

That earned a nod from Lothor and Daegon bristled. “Every rider we let get away is another
man we’ll face upon the Hunter battlements. Jon, give me half-”
“I’m already missing half my army, squandering more in a reckless chase is not a gift I’d give
Elbert Arryn.” He turned to the other two knights. “Justin, Lothor, we are advancing on
Longbow Hall and I want you both in the vanguard. Be wary of ambush, for it shall fall on
your heads first.”

Daegon was downtrodden to hear so, for the van had been his command until now. Nor did
his mood improve as more duties were handed out for the march, leaving Daegon alone with
Sansa and himself.

“Jon, I won’t fail again.” Daegon rode beside him to plead his case.

“This was a victory, my friend. Your victory.” He said truthfully and Sansa added a sound of
agreement.

“A fine one, Lord Blackfyre. From what I saw, your leadership delivered a crushing blow
with few of our brave men being lost. A mercy in such times.”

“We suffered losses-”

Jon reached out to comfort Daegon. “Less than we might have. I kept you back to safeguard
the best commander I have left. You bid me to put my faith in Lothor, let him flush out any
threats ahead. Not that Brendel will make it easy for the Hunters to slip the notice of his
outriders.”

Daegon stiffened at those words, a foul feeling stirring in Jon’s stomach.

“Jon, Brendel Byrne fell in the battle.”

Daegon’s words jolted him and Sansa gasped. Brendel Byrne was Dark Order, or at least he
had been. Like the Blackfish, he’d decided to stay at Jon’s side for the rest of his tour. A
rough man, Brendel had stood tall against war elephants and Dothraki screamers. At
Dragonstone he had backed Jon against Aegon, risking the ire of the future High King in
doing so.

Only to die years later in a muddy skirmish?

“It was a good death.” Daegon spoke with admiration. “Brendel got all the way to Lord
Hunter, just as he said he would before the battle. He told me no man of the Dark Order
could let a Blackfyre take such a prize.” He shook his head. “The man hated my guts but I
will swear to all that Brendel would have claimed lord’s head if not for the Hunter guards.
There were just too many. Brendel slew two before he fell to the lord’s blade.”

“He was used to that.” Jon muttered. “Being outnumbered. Fighting against strangers. I
thought perhaps it would be different this time. That my friends had earned better fates…”

“Oh, Jon.” Sansa rode closer, her words soft and touch tender against his cheek. “I’m so
sorry. He was a good man.”

He was a killer, he thought, that’s what the Dark Order needed of us.
Sansa helped make me more and I wanted to do the same for the others.

He commanded that Brendel’s body be seen to, so that it could be carried on with them to
Longbow Hall. Brendel had helped clear the way there and earned the right to reach the castle
walls.

Just as Sansa deserved a proper roof to shelter under tonight, and a hearth to warm herself by.
Though she had not once complained, the trials of this campaign had been worse than he
expected. As it stood, they had endured ten days of marching in foul weather and worse
surroundings. They found entire villages and holdfasts abandoned and fields burned to ash.
All that made his drive for Longbow Hall a necessity, the merciless pace one Sansa both
forgave and insisted upon.

For she knew the stakes if they failed to capture a stronghold so close to the coast.

Gendry and Arya have the harder task but without a foothold in the Vale of Arryn their efforts
will be for naught.

Benjen will go without justice… the dead will have fallen for nothing…

Neither of them were willing to allow that to happen. A dedication their men matched with
vigor.

Lothor’s fears were proven right. Twice along the rocky way to Longbow Hall, ambushes
were attempted. One by archers hidden among a copse of pines, the second by Hunter riders
hiding behind a hill. Both were discovered and the foe had no choice but to flee ahead of
them, straight through the gates of the Hunter castle.

Nestled in the foothills of a great mountain range, Longbow Hall appeared a formidable
holding at first glance. Any conqueror would take pause at the castle’s tall walls, complete
with rounded towers and iron-spiked battlements. Yet it became clear Longbow Hall had
been weakened somewhat. The top of one tower was half caved in, parts of the battlements
were torn away, and the main gatehouse appeared broken from some previous siege. A sight
as welcomed by his war council as the hot, mulled wine Sansa arranged for them within his
tent.

“Forget building a ram.” Myles lifted a steaming goblet. “I could walk up and knock on that
gate and the thing’s likely to give.”

Justin laughed at yet not Daegon, who walked to the tent flap and pulled it aside, displaying
the castle to all.

“We’re low on arrows but we won’t need many to screen an attack straight on.” The
Blackfyre began pointing about at the fortress. “Massey and I could take our men and scale
the walls to the north and south.”

He saw wisdom in that. “It be good to draw some attention from the main gate.”
“Or we could take the whole castle ourselves.” Justin smiled. “Should we fight well, this
place could fall by sundown.”

“Earlier still if we talk instead.” Sansa met the men’s gazes with same stoic grace as the
direwolf beside her. “Good men, your bravery is heartening but perhaps we should consider a
less bloody course?”

“The Hunters have already shed plenty of blood.” Mychel shook his head while Ser Bennard
Brune offered Sansa a pitying look.

“Your grace, these are ugly matters. Not suited for the gentle hearts of women…”

“I am a wolf by birth and made a dragon by marriage, ser. I suspect you would not claim such
noble beasts to be gentle hearted.” Sansa earned a grin from Jon at this, one she found
waiting when she faced him. “Jon, there is a chance here to prove what I told the lords Royce
and Redfort about you. Offer Lord Hunter terms, honorable ones, and take this castle without
spilling a drop of blood.”

“What of the faithful they slaughtered?” Myles asked. “Of Staunton and his lot, butchered to
a man, should such savagery not be answered in kind?”

Others agreed loudly, and a part of Jon wished to join the others yet Sansa’s blue eyes
shamed him from doing so. When she looked at him so, he feared she might see the worst of
him.

“We’ve no proof Lord Hunter is guilty of that barbarity.” Sansa replied. “If innocent, that
would mean another force is at large and nearby. Reason enough to avoid a battle here.” She
paused then to take his hand. “Talk may spare the lives of our brave men. What valiant
swords could earn, powerful words can win as well.”

“Words uttered by your lips perhaps.” He sighed, enfolding Sansa’s hand in his own before
looking at the castle without. “I doubt how much credence Lord Hunter will give terms
offered by the Kingslayer.”

“Jon-”

“Fear not, Sansa.” He released her, putting a hand to Dark Sister before addressing the rest.
“My better half has appealed to my better nature. Send a man to the gates under a banner of
peace. I will speak with the lord.”

The others were surprised by that yet it could not compare to the shock they shared when
Lord Hunter agreed to the parley outside his gates.

Seven men from both sides came together on a patch of even ground beside the burned husk
of a tree. Four protectors and two attendants per leader. Despite Sansa’s insistence, he left
Myles with her, taking Lothor along as his Kingsguard. Justin and Mychel came along as
well while his young squires Raymund Connington and Benfred Rykker acted as attendants.
The seventh of their number earned the wariest glares of all.
Ghost made quite the impression on the Hunter party, which said much since most appeared
able and hard men. All save for their lord, who was an aged man with gouty legs and such a
limp that he appeared half crippled. Eon did not let that stop him from presenting himself as
Jon did, armored in mail and plate with a sword on his hip.

There’s strength left in the old lord. Atop a horse he had enough to kill my friend.

“So this is the white dragon.” The lord wiped at his forehead, damp either from the drizzle or
exertion. “Strange, the Jon Targaryen I met was but a babe. That doesn’t feel so long ago.”

“You were at Dragonstone?” He asked and Eon grinned.

“Jon Arryn summoned the best in the Vale and I answered. Those were good days. Times of
honor, when there were falcons worth fighting for.”

Mychel snorted. “You found Elbert worthy enough to kill for. To burn defenseless septons
and septas-”

“The Faith is not without its might.” Eon snapped back. “They were meddling, disloyal sorts,
that’s the truth. Yet I’d still not slight the Seven above by harming them. I told the Titan’s
Bastard he risked such. My army will defend my lands but they’d not join his pillaging.”

“Titan’s Bastard?” Jon repeated. “You speak of Mero? Leader of the Second Sons?”

Eon nodded. “He’s the one to blame for those crimes, him and his sellswords. Shameful thing
for a king to hire such filth. No clue how Elbert got it in his head to stoop so low.”

That was why the destruction they’d found here in the Vale was so familiar to him. He’d seen
it before, during his father’s last war with the Braavosi. An ugly conflict that saw the Dark
Order and Second Sons clash several times over. The Sons were a brutal outfit, employed by
the empire as often as they fought against it.

This changes things. Mero knows the ways of the Dark Order. He knows me.

“I need this castle, Lord Hunter.” He said, for that had not changed. “Should you surrender it
I promise no harm will befall yourself, your family or your household-”

“Those are terms for peace. I came to speak of combat.” Eon spoke plainly. “House Hunter
proposes single combat between two champions. Should my side lose, the castle shall
surrender and my men will lay down their arms. Promise to spare the castlefolk and should
our champion prevail, my men will not harass your withdrawl. We will let you go in peace.”

“Have you gone mad?” Ser Justin was incredulous. “We can take this castle in a heartbeat!
You must have the Warrior made flesh hidden among your number that you become so bold.”

“It was not so long ago that he could best you easily enough.” Eon removed his glove then,
showing a hand dotted by liver spots, before tossing the thing down between them. “I shall
champion my own house. Meet my terms and my blade will meet any you wish, Kingslayer.”

Jon was less insulted by the slight than curious at why the lord was set on killing himself.
“You’re crippled.” Ser Mychel said, quite taken aback as he stared at the rest of the Hunter
men. “King Jon, I’d act your champion if one of these cowards would step forward. Or will
they let an old man fight their battles?”

“We are loyal!” A bearded on replied, dropping to his knee and grabbing at Eon’s surcoat.
“Please, my lord. I beg you. Let me- let any of us take your place.”

“That’s enough now.” Eon patted his man’s hand and spoke in a manner Jon did not mark as
mad. “It must be me.”

“Why?” He asked and Eon turned around to stare at his castle.

“Look at my home. Look at what it has become. We’ve lost so many the famed hall of my
ancestors sits half empty at the best of times. I lost my eldest son during Elbert’s siege. My
youngest when Denys sacked us for that submission. Elbert has my last son and should he
hear I surrendered this castle without a fight… I do this for the son left to me.”

The rain continued to fall, Jon and Eon staring at one another, not an once of
misunderstanding of what sacrifice the lord intended to make here.

“I’ll do it.” Lothor volunteered, the only one to do so. “It’ll be quick, no need to draw it out.”

“He’s an old man.” Mychel repeated. “There’s no honor in this.”

“There is.” Jon said begrudgingly. “Lord Hunter does his family a great honor. A father
risking everything for his son…”

“He’s the type.” Lothor shook the wet from his nappy grey hair. “Like I said, I can do it
quick.”

His eyes sought out Sansa then. She stood at the edge of their lines, Daegon and Myles at her
side. Shivering in the rain, staring at him with such hope in her eyes. How quickly would her
expression change if Sansa knew the decision before him? Would she feel disgust or horror to
learn that he now weighed who to send to kill an old man?

After a few moments consideration, he decided to chance earning Sansa’s anger as well.

“Lord Eon, your challenge is accepted.” Jon said, undoing his cloak and handing it off to
Raymund. “Since the lord of this castle shall fight on its behalf, the leader of my army shall
champion its cause. Let us duel.”

“Your grace!” Justin protested first but he silenced the knight by handing his crown off to
him. Eon took notice of that and eyed him as if he was mad.

“You’re sure?” The lord inquired.

“I am. You fight for your son’s life, I will fight for the life of the friend you cost me.”

“I did what?”
“Brendel Byrne. You slew him in the battle.”

“Ah, the bold one.” Eon nodded, leaning some on his man so he could pull free his sword.
“He fought like a demon. I wondered if he would be the last life I ever took by my own
blade.” The lord ran a hand down his steel with a faraway look in his eye. “I imagine that’ll
be the case.”

Jon then drew forth Dark Sister, the Valyrian steel gleaming even in this grey gloom. He saw
Eon’s men wince at the sight of the blade, then again when their lord stumbled some to ready
himself. The two groups formed a circle, giving the champions room to battle. Ghost
followed Eon’s limping with a curiosity that clashed with Jon’s shame.

Aemma and Rhaegina could run circles about this man. Aenry too. Without a horse he’s as
defenseless as little Vaelena.

Stop... don’t think on them… or what they’d think of you…

Jon could hear Sansa calling to him but he ignored it. He knew what he had to do.

Just as his body did when Eon lunged forward, slashing at his shoulder. Jon was two steps to
the left before the blow had come halfway, his own sword cutting down to knock Eon’s aside.
The lord gasped in pain, likely because of the strain on his legs when he pivoted to stab at
Jon’s middle. Again he reacted on instinct, letting Dark Sister clash against the other sword,
sliding up it’s length and throwing his shoulder into Eon’s.

The lord nearly tumbled onto the ground and Jon pictured Brendel faltering in the same way.
Yet his friend would never regain his feet like Eon did. Jon struck next, Eon using all his
might to throw off the attack. Then Dark Sister came at the lord again, cleaving free the
vambrance from Eon’s forearm. Eon met the next two slashes but in such a late fashion that
cuts appeared on the lord’s plate. Jon closed the gap between them, until he could feel Eon’s
labored breathing upon his face. The Hunter men were urging on their lord, their voices
heavy with desperation, whereas Jon’s men were silent. They did not cheer for the same
reason Sansa continued to shout. To any it was clear Jon was about to kill an old, ailing man.

There was no glory in that. Though perhaps some surprise in how long it was taking.

Then all were given reason to be shocked. For Jon’s right foot suddenly slipped in the mud,
unsteadying him for a few moments. Time enough for Eon to attack. Only now did Jon’s men
cry out. Not just those nearby but the thousands more watching along with Sansa. All
shouting as Eon’s blade cut right at his head.

A wild slash from Dark Sister was all that saved him, his sword meeting the other blade but
an inch from his face. Eon pressed down with all his might, the edge of the his blade cutting
into Jon’s cheek. He gave voice to the fiery pain the cold steel inflicted on him, throwing off
the attack and falling to a knee as he clutched at his cheek.

When he pulled his hand away, it was slick with blood. Just a taste of what Eon intended for
him, Jon scarcely having risen when the lord came on again.
An attack he deftly dodged, stepping aside and raising Dark Sister once more. Eon met his
first strike, the second drove him back a step, the third tearing the sword out of the old man’s
grasp. Eon was quite unprepared when Jon drove a fist into his face, knocking him back into
the mud. The old man landed in a commotion of clanking armor and gasps of pain.

When Jon came to stand over his foe, he found Eon in a poor way. His legs were trembling
and hand shaking as he desperately reached for his sword.

“Eustace… my sword…” Eon wheezed through a bloody mouth. “Give my son… give him
my sword…”

“Do you accept your fate?” He asked, gripping Dark Sister tightly to think of Brendel.

“Yes… give my sword… to Eustace…”

“You will give it to him yourself.” He lowered his blade, offering a hand down to Eon, a
gesture the lord stared at in confusion.

“I cannot… Elbert will hear-”

“He will hear that we dueled and you lost. But not before you drew the blood of a king. Let
him hear that I imprisoned you for it. So that you might suffer from your grievous wounds.”

“Grievous?” Eon touched at his busted lip and Jon nodded.

“Well we can add a chill to your ailments, you’re likely to catch one if you stay in the mud
much longer.”

Eon remained dumbfounded for a few more moments before he cautiously took the offered
hand and both men managed to lift the lord to his feet.

“I thank you.” Eon rasped, pointing to Jon’s bleeding cheek. “To be so merciful after I tried
to-”

“It’s no mercy.” He inclined his head towards the Hunter men. “I intend to have your people
name me their king. Killing their lord might not be the best way to win them over.” He then
waved a couple of Eon’s men over. “Prepare your lord’s chambers for his coming and have a
maester ready. Mine own healer will tend to him until we arrive in the castle.”

He was true to his word. When it came time to journey through the gates, Jon lent the shaky
lord the use of a horse so they could arrive together, Eon riding Vhagar and Jon atop
Balerion.

It was some time later that his cheek was finally tended to and by that point he’d already
decided the wound pained him less than Sansa’s admonishments. The pair had taken the
chambers of the late Lady Hunter yet his own wife showed little sign of needing rest. Sansa
was far too intent on taking out her anger by seeing to his hurts.

“Rash. Stupid. Reckless.” Sansa punctuated each word with the dab of a cloth against his
newly sewn cheek. “Foolish. Selfish. Stupid.”
“You said that already. How about noble? Ow!”

“Don’t you dare say ow!” Sansa grabbed at his chin, forcing him to meet her fiery gaze. “Yes,
it was noble but look how close you came to actually dying!”

“I meant to fall, Sansa. I was never in any real danger.”

“Did I know that? All I saw was a sword coming at your head and…” She swallowed deeply.
“Well Lord Hunter is lucky I left Lady back with the children. She would have attacked the
lord so that there’d be little enough of him left for you to spare.”

“I didn’t want to spare him.” He dropped his gaze to the hands which had strangled Joffrey.
“Fighting Hunter wasn’t a task I’d leave to the others but there were moments I was tempted
to end him. To cut down an old man.”

She slid her hands into his grasp. “An enemy who killed your friend. A lord who served the
king who killed Benjen and nearly murdered our son. Jon, I think the Maiden herself would
think of violence in those circumstances.” Her lips pressed against his. “And yet you found a
way to act honorably. The Vale lords will hear of this. That there is a king in this realm who
is noble in both blood and deed. This is how we win the Kingdom of the Vale.”

It will take worse to best the Second Sons. The last time I fought them it felt like we set half
the world ablaze.

He was thinking on how to describe those dark days to Sansa when a knock came at their
door. Raymund’s voice followed, sounding both excited and hesitant.

“King Jon? Queen Sansa? I don’t mean to intrude- that is, if you are able to see a visitor-”

“By the seven, lad!” A familiar voice bellowed, the pounding that followed a more powerful
sort. “Are you two decent?”

“Yes!” They shouted together, for Sansa had recognized the voice too.

She was already across the room and at the door when the Blackfish entered, the dark
armored knight quickly enfolding his queen in a warm embrace. The man looked a wreck,
with dark circles under his eyes and all manner of filth on his person.

“Uncle, thank the gods.” Sansa said, pulling away to inspect him.

“Thank my horse, poor thing nearly collapsed at the gate.” Brynden look Jon’s way then, his
eyes narrowing on the cut. “Is that the work of the Second Sons?”

“Eon Hunter’s, actually.” He ignored the knight’s confusion to quell his own. “How did you
know of the Second Sons?”

“I damn near rode over that Brown Ben bastard two days ago! Loosed three arrows at the
slippery bugger. We were trying to track you down and, as quick as his lot turned tail, I wager
he was up to the same. Has Mero shown himself yet?”
“Not to us.” He shook the knight’s hand before sharing the loss of Lord Staunton, which
Brynden reacted to with a curse.

“It is not all bad news.” Sansa said. “We have this castle and the Hunter strength might soon
add to our numbers.”

Brynden smiled. “With more on the way. Andar Royce and Silveraxe Fell have thousands
following about a day after me. We knew that plan was to take Longbow Hall, so we hoped
to find you here or take the castle ourselves. Sorry to have missed the fight.”

“Trust me, you didn’t miss much.” Jon said.

“A lie I shall set straight after you bathe, uncle.” Sansa took Brynden’s arm. “I was about to
write a letter to the children. It will do them well to hear of their greatest uncle-”

“Brynden, wait.” He snatched up his cloak and came their way. “There’s a duty that must be
done. A debt born of brotherhood and respect. One owed to the Dark Order.”

The Blackfish took his meaning well enough. “Who was it?”

“Brendel. We’ve built the pyre in the castle godswood. I know your travels were hard-”

“Easier than Byrne’s.” Brynden freed himself from Sansa to join Jon in the doorway. “He’s
waiting for us to send him on and I’d not disappoint him. That man holds a grudge.”

“And we will meet again.” Jon added.

The pair left Sansa behind then, so they could go and tend to their brother. She didn’t need to
deal with anymore death tonight. Jon prayed this was the last time he had to perform these
rites for a long time to come.

Yet somehow he doubted that.

After all, this war had only just begun.

ARYA

The gulls pulled her gaze upwards to the early morning sky. As the ship beneath her feet rose
and fell with the waves, the group of birds flew serenely through the air. High and away from
her.

Not so far as Storm’s End. Or Lyonel.

The sound of the wind and waves, the smell of the sea, the cries of the gulls, it took Arya
home to Storm’s End. To the countless walks she took with her son upon the curtain walls.
Lyonel would see a ship and she would have to think of a magical land it sailed to. He always
watched after the birds too, full of questions about where they flew.
I want these birds to find you, dear one. See them and think of your father and me.

Let them find you safe and sound, just as I left you.

She stared out across the wreckage-strewn harbor towards Gulltown, gripping Needle as
tightly as she did the rail of the warship. The waters were clogged with ships, some ablaze or
sinking, most pressing in to aid the battle raging beneath the city walls. A fight the Lord’s
Hammer sailed steadily towards.

A war galley of four hundred oars, the Lord’s Hammer was the Baratheon flagship. Her ship.
Gendry didn’t care much for sailing, but Arya wouldn’t let that stop the adventures she
planned for them.

One day this ship will carry us across the seas. To wondrous places, like Braavos or the
Summer Islands.

So far east that Gendry and I can find where the sun rises anew each morning.

Dawn was upon Gulltown, but Arya took no joy in its coming. Sunrise was meant to find
their army already inside the city. Its defenders defeated and gates thrown open, Lord Grafton
surrendered to their might. A victory she and Gendry could celebrate together. One that
would have spared them from a bloodier battle altogether.

Instead the clanging thuds of a ram against a gate and the ring of clashing steel assaulted
Arya’s ears. Dashing her hopes. If not for the light from the burning docks and fiery arrows it
be hard to make out much of the fighting. Archers and artillery sent death flying back and
forth between the two sides. Ladders were thrown off the walls as others were raised up. All
meaning this fight was far from over.

“It’s time.” Arya declared to her fellow onlookers. “Gendry was right, Bronze Yohn and the
others couldn’t break through. He’ll be expecting us to come.”

Ser Andrew Estermont and Brienne wore their somber expressions with none of ease they did
their armor. Her lady friend was somewhat taller than Andrew, yet his face betrayed less
worry, his bushy, brown eyebrows set in a firm line.

“The plan was sound,” Andrew ran a hand down his long beard. “Lord Baratheon came at the
Harbor Gate with terrible strength. The Royces and Redforts should have found the landward
approaches sparsely guarded.”

“They found a fight, that’s for certain.” Brienne pointed to the other side of the city, where
the sunlight illuminated smoke rising in the distance. “That Baelish man, he said there was
talk that Elbert was reinforcing the city in fear of our coming.”

“Well he didn’t do the Arryn fleet any favors.”

Most of the debris floating by belonged to the Vale fleet, smashed to pieces by their attack.
She had been in the thick of that fight, the Lord’s Hammer was among the first to meet the
first line of Gulltown defenses. They had found fewer than twenty enemy galleys defending
the harbor, ships which didn’t hold a candle to imperial dromonds like the Alysanne. During
the battle, Aurane Velaryon had used his mighty warship to clear the way for Gendry’s
assault on the harbor, yet now Jon’s admiral held back. The Alysanne was chief among a line
of warships keeping watch on their rear.

All so Arya could lead another group onto the shore.

“Signal the others,” she said, looking to the men crowding the deck in anticipation. “Tell
them to ready their rowboats and men. We have waited long enough. House Baratheon is
taking this city.”

Andrew left to do as she asked, but not before shooting a curious look Brienne’s way. The
lady nodded at him with an awkwardness Arya expected of Brienne at feasts and balls, any
other time save before a battle.

“My lady… Arya, I know the lord gave you command of the reserve-”

“Gave me? I took it. Only because politics robbed me of the others.” She spoke in a mocking
tone. “We just had to let the Conningtons and Grandisons grab some glory. I told Gendry he
sounds like Sansa when he talks so.”

“Well, perhaps when we join the siege, Andrew and I should go to the front. So that you
might command from the rear.”

“Now you sound like Sansa.” She had expected this to come from the likes of Estermont, but
not Brienne. “My mother too, and you’re neither, Brienne. I’m long passed being a little girl
that needs coddling.”

“I do not think you a-”

“The Stormlords didn’t want us, twice they tried to drive us from Storm’s End. They learned
what Elbert Arryn and these Grafton fools will. Come at my family and you will suffer for it.
You of all people, Brienne, you were right beside me when I cut down Simeon Toyne.”

“That duel was a dance, dangerous and graceful to behold.” Brienne reminisced with a
respectful nod. “But this isn’t about your prowess in battle. Leaders often stay out of the thick
of things. You held back at Storm’s End during the Winter War in the Reach.”

“Only so those that make trouble would be wary of stepping out of line.”

“Truly? I thought perhaps it was for Lyonel. That war was the first since the boy was born
and… none would think badly if you wished to stay to the rear for his sake now.”

“So if I fight I care less for my son?” Her blood was quickening, and not because of the
frantic activity going into readying the boats. “Did you challenge Gendry as well? What
about Ronnet Connington? Half the army out there has sons, are they all poor parents in your
eyes?”

Brienne acted wounded. “Arya, you welcomed me into your home. I could never doubt how
much you love that boy. I speak out of the love I bear for both of you. That and fear. This
fight isn’t like the others. It doesn’t feel right.”

“None of them feel right.” Arya said, pointing back at the city. “Not when it’s like this.
Standing by and listening to people dying. It’ll be different once we’re there.”

When I’m beside Gendry. The big aurochs needs me.

“I’m not sure.” Brienne sighed, her sad eyes locked on Arya’s. “Sparring, fighting, much of it
is instinct. Mine are plaguing me. Screaming for you to stay safe.”

“My armor will help with that.” She patted her friend’s face, drawing as much comfort from
Brienne as she offered in return. “And we’ll see each other through this, just like always.
Gendry and Lyonel would be lost without us.”

Brienne was bested and she knew it. Though her true feelings had been laid bare, the lady
nonetheless insisted on readying Arya for battle. While Brienne could don the same heavy
plate as Gendry and others, Arya opted for less bulky protection. The byrnie was finely made,
a long-sleeved chainmail shirt that fell just around her knees. Though a layer of boiled leather
separated her skin from the mail, she could feel the care that went into it. The steel came
from Qohor, second in quality only to Valyrian steel and smithed by the masterful workings
of her husband.

She hadn’t asked Gendry to make such a thing for her. One day she simply found the mail
waiting in her rooms, a gift made just for her. Needle had come to her in a similar way.

To some, Gendry was a bull, massive and strong. Others saw him as a bastard pretender to a
great legacy. Few could think of him as she did. The awkward sergeant who blushed the first
time she kissed him at Winterfell. On their wedding night she learned that reddening spread
all down his firm body. It was strange to think back on that time, for she hadn’t loved Gendry
then.

Wanted, yes. But not loved. That came later.

After they settled at Storm’s End, where Gendry felt as out of place as she did. He knew what
others thought of him and, though he tried to hide it, he too was unsure that the new Lord of
Storm’s End would amount to anything. So she had helped him. For most of her life Arya’s
mother and Septa Mordane tried to teach her how to act like a princess, yet the lessons never
ended there. She was the daughter of Eddard Stark, King in the North, and remembered much
of what he expected of his lords.

At first, Gendry was embarrassed by her help; but then he found a way to make her role as
Lady of Storm’s End easier. He had been born in these lands, while she was but a stranger.
They would spend hours riding in the countryside, sharing their wisdom with one another
and, often enough, finding a sheltered field to sate their lust amid the flowers and grass.

Over the months, their rutting became more tender, their kisses lingering longer, and their
haste to dress again forgotten as they took to laying in each other’s arms, letting the sun and
breeze caress their bodies where their hands had not settled.
Arya would run her fingers up and down his chest, admiring him much as she did the fine
blades he crafted in their smithy. Gendry must have taken notice of that, for on the morning
marking their first year at Storm’s End, he presented her with Needle.

Not a day had gone by since without Arya holding the blade close.

People told stories of how she’d taken Needle to her birthing bed, a tale where Arya held the
sword in one hand, her newborn son in the other. Sansa acted scandalized to hear such while
Arya laughed. It was only half true, she’d merely gripped Needle to see herself through the
worse of childbirth. When it came time, Lyonel was the only thing in the world she wished to
hold.

That’s what no one understood about Needle. It wasn’t just some weapon. It was the home
she loved. It was Gendry’s touch. Lyonel’s laughter. Her family.

Yes, she’d killed with Needle. Just as Nymeria took lives when forced to. All to protect what
mattered most.

Father would understand, Arya thought, if he had lived to know my family…

He’d know why I fight so hard for them.

She fought hard to keep her balance once the rowboats got underway. The waters of the
harbor were calm, but the sheer number of boats and the wreckage floating about made the
journey a treacherous one. Her balance was good, yet Arya was not fool enough to tempt fate
like Brus Buckler. Brienne tapped her shoulder so that she could witness the knight standing
on the prow of a nearby boat. With his armor gleaming and sword pointed towards land, Ser
Brus looked like how a child might imagine a knight.

That is, until the boat struck a submerged beam with enough force to unsteady Brus. The
knight fell over the side and plunged into the water with a splash. Gallant and strong as he
was it did Brus little good as the weight of his heavy armor dragged him down into the
depths.

As far as Arya could tell that was the only loss they suffered in the landing. The same
couldn’t be said of Gendry’s first wave. Dead clogged the docks and streets leading towards
the city walls. Most flew colors of allies, some were men she knew.

Ser Colen of Greenpools had been the captain of the guards at Storm’s End. Now his face
was a caved in bloody mess, and Arya was forced to name him by the blue jays adorning his
surcoat. Her guardsman Qyle had an arrow through his throat. A spear jutted through
Cutjack’s plump belly. Tarber had died with his bow in hand. There were more but her pace
quickened, the faces of the dead blurring together in her rush to reach the siege lines.

In search of the face Arya loved so.

Men were mustering near to the Harbor Gate, a massive gatehouse flanked by two imposing
towers. The tall walls jutting from its sides in either direction showed a startling amount of
broken ladders and fallen bodies upon their bases. Though archers continued to send arrows
flying back and forth, most of the men were pulling back.

Rallying about the Lord of Storm’s End, who stood amidst a collection of lords and knights,
his bull’s head helm tucked under one arm. Gendry’s armor was scratched, his golden tunic
torn; yet besides the small cut upon his brow, he seemed well. He was so focused on
Gulltown it was the white cloaked knight beside him that noticed Arya first.

“That’s a welcome sight.” Dontos Hollard wiped at his bloody blade, the Kingsguard acting
so bold as to grin her way. “Here come our reinforcements. With a princess at their head.”

“That’s a shewolf to you, Dontos the Dullard.” Arya teased, for the knight enjoyed how she
refused to style him as the Daunting.

“Took you long enough,” Gendry said with a weary smile when they came together. Her hand
found his and those blue eyes took a long hard look into hers before flicking back towards
Andrew and Brienne. “I take it the valiant pair couldn’t sway you into staying out of this
clash?”

“A fool’s errand. Did you put them up to that?”

He kissed her cheek. “I warned them against it. I know my wife, she’s too damn stubborn to
hear reason.” Gendry smiled when she tugged at his beard some. “It’s good you’re here,
Arya. This aurochs needs your help.”

“He has it. That and more.” She kissed him then, taking in the rough scratch of his whiskers
and ignoring the sound of someone clearing their throat.

It turned out to be Ronnet Connington, a husky knight and nephew to the Griffin himself.
Though many considered him a comely man and fierce warrior, Arya didn’t care for him. He
was a man of import though, as were Sebastion Errol and Hugh Grandison, both lords, and
Ser Balon Swann, who was nearly as broad as Gendry and a foe she was wary to ever cross
blades with.

There was a stranger among them, a short man whose face was less familiar than his sigil, the
red castle of the Redforts. He caught her curious gaze and bowed.

“Lady Arya, I am Ser Jasper Redfort. My father bid me to seek out your husband, so that we
might understand his progress-”

“Gendry’s progress?” Arya scoffed at that. “If I remember correctly, you Redforts are
supposed to be inside the city already, opening the gates for us. So do tell me how we have
come to meet outside the walls. I mean, that’s what all this was about.” She waved an arm to
exaggerate the scale of destruction around them. “My husband and his bannerman bled to
hand you an opportunity for glory, not failure.”

“Damn good question,” Lord Grandison stroked at his greybeard while Jasper acted aghast.
“We have not failed! My family and the Royces fight on as we speak, facing defenses far
beyond what we expected. Newly dug ditches, caltrops to cripple our horses and siege
engines, hundreds of bloody crossbowmen whose bolts carve through armor like pudding.”

“Myrish ones.” Gendry frowned to say. “The Graftons have purchased some dead-eye killers.
Jon and I saw Pentos do the same when the Braavosi were at its gates.”

Dontos spit in derision. “Archers are cowards, no matter their tool of choice. To overcome
them a score of swordsmen need only to gain the walls.”

“We have tried, ser. Many have died for the effort.”

“Perhaps it’s best if we settle in for a siege,” Lord Errol offered. “Encircle the city and allow
ourselves to be resupplied by the sea while Gulltown starves. After a month or two, they’ll
submit without a loss to us.”

Arya shook her head at that. “Jon and Sansa don’t want us sitting on our arses. The war
doesn’t end with this city, we’re supposed to take and then join the fight in the Vale of Arryn.
My uncle Benjen never met my son, and for that I’ll be showing Elbert Arryn some of my
needlework. If climbing over these walls is what it takes for that to happen, show me the
nearest ladder.”

Her words earned expressions of arrogance and disbelief from most of the men, the ones who
had yet to see her in battle. Those who had took her declaration with grim acceptance.
Gendry included.

“My wife speaks for both of us,” Gendry spoke in a grave voice. “This city can be ours, just
not in the manner we intended.” He closed his eyes then. “From what Ser Jasper says, I think
most of the crossbowmen are at the northern walls. Few were part of the fighting here.”

“That would make sense,” Jasper agreed, looking to the gatehouse. “Our section is the
weakest part of the city walls, the wars hit hard there. Lord Grafton would want it well
guarded.”

“Meanwhile we face that gatehouse,” Balon Swann spoke for the first time. “The gate itself is
reinforced from within and with those towers raining hell down on any who approach it, we
could send all our strength against it and only gain in corpses.”

Gendry nodded at that and Arya caught wind of what he was thinking.

“Then we go over instead of through.” She said.

“I hope to. We’ve gained the walls right of the gatehouse twice now. We were thrown back
both times but it took the defenders longer to do so in the last attack. I thought so at least…”

“You were a tad distracted.” Dontos laughed, stepping forward and grinning once more at
Arya. “The lord here was busy dueling Marq Grafton. His family may have driven us off yet
Ser Marq came with us, courtesy of your husband tossing him off the battlements.” The grin
died away when Gendry grunted in disapproval. “Yes, well the second counterattack did
come on less harshly than the first. Perhaps they’re ailing?”

“Then let’s send some fresh and eager men against them.” Arya put her hands on her hips and
beamed to draw attention to the reserves still arriving from the boats. “Well, I just so happen
to have brought a couple thousand with me. If one of you fine men could just point the way
to the ladders-”

“I will lead the reserve in this,” Gendry said without looking at her, his arms crossed in
determination. “Dontos will join me and if House Grandison is able, I’d have them launch a
feint against the left side.”

“And where will I be?” Arya closed the distance between them, incensed that Gendry would
think to steal what command had been left to her. She controlled her anger to whisper the
next part. “Gendry, do not think to keep me back. I’ve got as much right-”

“Lady Arya will lead the center.” Gendry looked over her head to speak to the lords and
knights. “Once we’re over the walls, my men and I will do our best to weaken the gatehouse
defenses. Ser Andrew, Ser Ronnet, when the time is right I want you to back my wife’s
assault on the gate.” He finally met her gaze. “She has my trust in this.”

Long gone was the uncertain young man who’d taken the lordship of Storm’s End with great
reluctance. Gendry acted a lord in this and any arguments the others raised were heard, but
quashed under that authority. Yet when Arya and him stood alone, Gendry seemed torn
between his roles as lord and husband.

“Do not fight me on this, Arya. The Seven above know that if I had another I trust half as
much as you, it be them attacking the gate. Not my bloody wife.”

“I’m not bloody yet.” The jest caused Gendry to wince. “Sorry, I meant their blood, not
mine.” She ran her hands through his black curls before cupping his cheeks. “Don’t you try
and shame me with worry. Not when you’re about to climb those walls. That should be me,
I’m the best climber in my family.”

“Liar, that be Bran. When we caught Lyonel climbing the tapestries, that’s who you said he
took after...” Gendry grabbed at her sides, his grip so powerful she felt it through the mail. “I
miss him so. Fuck Elbert Arryn and the Vale. Fuck this war. I want to be a father to my son. I
want to grab you and him and be in our home again.”

“Hush.” She rasped, fighting back tears to pull Gendry’s head down so that their brows
touched. The heat of his skin felt like the welcoming warmth of their hearth and their babe’s
sweet face. “After we get home I swear, no more fighting. For the rest of our lives. Only us
and Lye and peace. We just have to do this. If they could kill Benjen and get so close to
killing Aenry… gods what if it had been Lye?”

“We won’t let that happen… we won’t…”

They held each other for as long as they could. Neither wept, Arya drawing just enough
strength from Gendry to ward off her fear. Then some more to smack his arse when he made
his way to the reserve. His smile helped keep her feet planted as he left her behind.

Brienne was with her as they readied the center for the fight ahead. The lady made far better
company than Ronnet and Lord Errol, who both begrudged following her lead. The feeling
was mutual.

I’d rather be by Gendry’s side, climbing up the walls and keeping his sweet arse safe. Better
than staring at those ugly things these lot call faces.

Her rude thoughts were blown away when the trumpets sounded the attack.

The men gathered about Arya held firm while to either side of them thousands more rushed
onward. Ladders and banners were carried with the tide of men surged on. Arrows flew up
over their heads to strike at the archers shooting from the walls down at the attack. Most of
their own arrows struck the stone battlements and did little harm while many of those sailing
in the other direction cut down men long before they could reach the walls.

She knew it was unlikely Gendry would fall to such. His armor was too strong, the distance
too great. Yet with each passing moment the attack drew nearer, her husband somewhere
within that mass of flesh and steel.

Then the first wave drew close enough for the ladders to start lurching upwards, a half score
of them striking the tops of the walls. More followed as the first of the men began the terrible
climb upward. Now arrows were flying from the walls and the nearest tower. Rocks and
boulders tossed down to crush and maim, oil poured forth upon the heads of climbers. For
every two men who chanced the rungs, one would fall from the ladder shrieking. Those more
heavily armored fared better, arrows scarcely bothering those in steel plate.

That’s how she caught sight of Dontos. The Kingsguard stood out like a sore thumb with his
snowy cloak, yet he was among the first to reach the upper heights of the walls. More than
two score ladders and grabbling hooks had found purchase by then. Soon Dontos was joined
by others, a battle beginning along the tops of the walls themselves. She had no doubt that
soon enough a Baratheon would be a part of the fight, so she made ready for hers.

“Brienne, how do you think the Seven Kingdoms will handle two ladies being the first
through the gates of Gulltown?”

“It would be… interesting,” Brienne turned from the battle to look Ronnet’s way. “Some
would take it better than others.”

“I imagine the Graftons guarding the gates will take it the worst of all.” She scanned her
army, making note of who had what and how much. Then she summoned Ronnet over to
make some instructions clear. “The ram is going first, but we’ll need a strong guard to keep it
safe from sorties. Men with good shields, large ones at that. If the gate gives, columns of
armored and shielded men will follow Brienne and I, that will be the first thrust.”

“I should lead it,” Ronnet said and she scowled.

“Of course you say so at the thrusting part. Too bad. You follow after us with as many men as
you can-”

A commotion arose behind her, far louder than the din of battle itself. Men were shouting and
a surge of activity was breaking out all up and down that part of the army. Gendry’s part.

“Have they seized the wall?” Brienne asked, squinting into the distance but frantic fighting
continued there. The only thing that had changed was the shouting and the feel in the air. For
these were not shouts of battle, but of panic.

Some words finally reached her ears, clear as day.

‘The lord has fallen!’

“What did he say?” She asked to no one, her feet already carrying her in that direction.

‘Lord Baratheon has fallen!’

‘The Bull is dead!’

‘They killed the lord!’

No they didn’t, she silently argued, not my lord at least.

Another lord. Another bull. There has to be another.

The shouts were growing louder with every step, her hurried push to learn the truth was
impeded by men standing in the way. Hundreds meant to be charging forth had stopped
entirely, shuffling about idly. Whispering. Worrying. Pointing at something ahead.

“Get away!” Arya shouted, forcing her way forward. Then another appeared beside her and
men were thrown about with ease.

“Make way there!” Brienne bellowed, the helmed lady battering men left and right so Arya
could get to Gendry. To make sure he was alright.

Then everything around them ground to a halt. Arya froze in place at the sight that awaited
her. For coming her way was Gendry, just not as he should be. His powerful legs were going
to waste in the arms of those who carried him. Ten men were needed to lift the lifeless form
of her husband, his body bloody and unmoving upon their shoulders.

No. It was me. I was meant to go. I was going to be the one…

“A healer!” One of them shouted. “We need a fucking healer!”

“Does he live?!” She nearly screamed, rushing at the procession and forcing them to kneel so
she could seek the truth herself. His helm was lost, his face bearing horrible gashes, his armor
a cracked and caved in mess. Yet when she pressed her face to his, the gods smiled on her.

She felt his breath. He lived.

“He fell, my lady.” A distant voice said. “The lord was nearly at the top when a boulder broke
the ladder and he fell.”

“The men are losing heart, they won’t take to the ladders without him.”

“They think he’s dead.”

“From that height he should be.”

“He’s not dead. He’s not.” Arya stroked his pale, clammy face, willing him to open his eyes.
“Say something, Gendry. Anything. Call me m’lady. Please.”

Gendry said nothing. The most she got from him was another pained rasping breath. Another
sound reached her ears though. One that did not belong. Not when Gendry lay barely clinging
to life.

People were cheering. Atop the walls, the Grafton men were cheering. Ladders were being
thrown back. Men were retreating down them. The scale of the battle along the battlements
was shrinking. Gendry was suffering.

And they were cheering.

Needle was in her grasp in a flash, a grip which tightened with every ounce of strength she
had. Her pounding heart fueling her fury.

“Get him help.” She choked out, rising to full height and bidding Gendry’s minders to do the
same. “The best you can find. He lives. He lives or you’ll answer to me.” Arya pointed
Needle at the walls then. “Just like they will. This attack is not over. We go onward!”

“Arya?” Brienne grabbed at her. “What of the gate? I don’t think-”

“Tell Ronnet to lead it!” Arya then slashed at the men holding Gendry. “I said go! The rest of
you, with me! For Gendry!”

One of her guardsmen Kurz lifted his sword. “For the Bull!”

“To the Wolf!” Another answered as Arya began to rush towards the wall. “Fight for the
Bull! Follow the Wolf!”

She moved as swiftly as a wolf then, like she would in her dreams sometimes. It would be
better if this was a dream. A horrible nightmare she could wake from and find Gendry staring
down at her, Lyonel and Nymeria jumping upon their bed.

Instead she stayed in the nightmare, one where she passed over the bodies of dead men and
urged fleeing ones to change course. Brienne did so more forcefully, knocking down any who
kept running, all while staying right on Arya’s heels.

Arrows whipped over her head or struck the ground at her feet. Some hit those around her,
yet the terrible fury building within Arya kept the rest at bay. Suddenly she was at a ladder, a
path to those who hurt Gendry. Who robbed her of those blue eyes. Then something pressed
at her back, large arms grabbing the rungs above her head.

“Together, Arya.” Brienne echoed through her helm. “If we must, we do it together.”

“We must.”

Thus they began their ascent, Brienne shielding Arya every inch of the climb with her
immense body. Arrows glanced off her armor, rocks sailing so close terror threatened to take
hold of Arya as she held the ladder tightly. She wanted to be holding Lyonel instead. Or for
Gendry to embrace her. Then she was a little girl again, climbing between her parents in
search of protection from a storm.

Yet her father and mother weren’t there when Arya threw herself into the storm atop the
battlements. The stone walkways were slick with the blood of the dead, the battle itself pure
chaos as a man slew one foe only to turn around and find another at his back.

Her first kill was like that. She sent Needle through the back of a Grafton man-at-arms,
driving it so deep blade did not stop till the pommel struck flesh. Arya was pulling it away
when an axeman came at her. Brienne was over the wall by then and cleaved his head half
off. Now both ladies were tainted by the bloodlust.

Arya’s arms were burning from the climb, but her legs did most of the work. Leaping to the
side so she could let a blow pass by and slice at exposed flesh. Spinning her body about so
she found herself at a foe’s back, ensuring he never saw the eyes of the person who slit his
throat. Brienne was beside her, aiding her bloody vengeance, and more joined in. Kurz and
Andrew had made the climb as well, hundreds more after them. Thousands pressing at the
ladders below.

There’s plenty of fight left for them. Come and fight for Gendry. Lend him your strength.

A tower loomed large over the battlements yet few arrows found their way near Arya, for she
was always in the thick of fighting. The archers would not risk striking their own men, a silly
thing considering the deadly tally Arya had raked up. Five were dead by her blade by the
time she found Dontos.

The Kingsguard had lost his cloak and helm but his sword was in fine form as it swung
about, throwing back two enemy knights.

“You’re not the Baratheon I expected!” He shouted when Arya and Brienne took out one of
his foes. “What kind of victory will this be? I can’t share a cask of wine with women!”

“Try drinking it yourself.” She snarled back, slashing at a spear. “About time you earned your
name, Dontos the Daunting.”

“You called me the Daunting!” He laughed despite his exhaustion and injuries. “Maybe the
Seven have blessed this day!”
The new gods have nothing to do with this. It’s the justice of the old gods I’ve brought to
Gulltown.

For what these people did to Gendry… my poor love…

“Mercy!” A young bowman pleaded, dropping his disk after fumbling a stab at her throat.
Most of his friends were fleeing behind him and he tripped in his attempt to follow. “Oh no…
no, please! I never hurt anyone!”

“Liar.”

Gendry was still in her mind when she stabbed down into the boy’s heart, a quick kill that
allowed her to give chase to his comrades. The Grafton defenders had let fear overtake them,
they were streaming towards the tower and the across the bridge leading away from it,
Dontos and a brave few were right on their heels. That path led straight down to the gates,
which could mean victory if they overran them.

Thus Arya was right with them.

“Gendry!” She screamed at an old man who stopped to fight, slicing through his neck without
pause. “Baratheon!”

“Arya!” Brienne shouted but she pressed on.

“To glory!” Dontos roared, leading the charge towards into a group of swordsmen who
looked to block the way across the bridge.

Yet when they neared these defenders suddenly broke, diving into guard posts to either side.
Suddenly the way forward was clear. The bridge open.

“Arya! No! The crossbows!”

Then she saw what Brienne had. At the other end of the bridge stood two lines of men. One
kneeling in front, the other standing behind. All holding crossbows and wearing sashes of
fine Myrish lace.

Gendry, you were right. They’re from Myr.

You’re no aurochs.

“Glory!” Dontos rushed on, sword pointed before him like Brus Buckler’s had been on the
boat.

The first wave of crossbows fired at once, their bolts flying into the charge. Half those around
the Kingsguard went down, like someone cutting a puppet’s strings. Dontos was struck twice,
bolts striking his belly and shoulder. He lurched to the side of the bridge yet did not fall.
More of their men were pushing forward from behind so Dontos once more tried to take the
lead, Arya fighting him for it. Even if she wanted to stop, the others pushed her forward.
Right into the second barrage of the crossbows. This time Dontos fell, the third bolt taking
him right in the chest. It was a painful way to die.

She knew that it was. For that’s where a bolt struck her too. A moment passed before she
realized that’s what the impact was, a bolt punching its ways through her mail. Tearing
through it to stab into her chest.

No… no Gendry made me this… he worked so hard…

Then she was falling. A biting agony coursing through her body before she hit the stone
walkway. She didn’t want to be here. The field with the flowers would be best.

We made love there…

Men rushed by her, boots stamping down around her head. Above her she could see smoke
staining the sky, and seagulls flying overhead.

Lyonel… Oh love, look for the birds…

Then someone was lifting her, like she would lift her little boy. Their arms were powerful,
their eyes the kind of loving blue she yearned for. Yet it was not Gendry who had come for
her.

The pain was taking hold of everything. Everyone was going forward but she was being
carried back. Her body growing weak.

Still she struggled to hold on to Needle.

To hold on to her family.

SANSA

This grave had been dug with care. Most of the holes scattered across the battlefield were
shallow and misshapen, whereas this one delved to a respectful depth. A difficult thing to
manage considering how hard and rocky the ground was.

A labor of love, she lamented, this is what a family does for its own.

They care for one another, even when one is passed caring.

Oh, Arya…

Sansa pushed that thought away, for it was a foul thing to look at a grave and think of her
sister. The body carried on towards the hole was larger than Arya had ever been, a figure
wrapped so completely in a brown cloak that strangers would be denied what Sansa knew.
Within lay the corpse of a young man, though his father cradled him as if he were a babe.
Belasso showed less strain than grief in this, tears streaming down the former slave’s face.
Rivers of anguish which ran over the tiger stripe tattoos the Volantenes had branded him
with.

She felt ashamed to not recount his son’s name. They’d only met the once, when Sansa had
introduced Belasso to Jon and Bronze Yohn before the war had begun. Back when Belasso
had himself and fours sons to pledge to their cause.

A war which had stolen away all but the father. An ugly truth her uncle had only just shared
with her.

“There’s one more.” Brynden said quietly, trying to lead Sansa away from the sight. “A boy
back in Aevalon. Looking after his mother and sisters…”

“No.” She remembered now. “No, I had him made a page in the city watch…” Her heart
ached to watch Belasso lower the body into the grave alone. “He gave all his sons over to
us.”

“A good man.” Her uncle noted sourly, looking back towards the battlefield once more. “At
least he still lives. He’s fortunate in that.”

Sansa doubted Belasso felt fortunate but her uncle was right. This latest battle had been as
quick as it was unexpected, yet still it wrought a terrible cost. Her Kingsguard, Ser Myles
Mooton was slain whilst leading her defense. Another body to add to the untold number of
corpses dotting the rolling hills around her. Men and horses, friend and enemy, all strewn
together.

A vision of Gendry and Arya came to her then, the pair laying among the dead, their bodies
broken and bleeding.

Stop that. They’re not dead. Only hurt, grievously so.

‘At death’s door,’ was what Aurane Velaryon had written of her sister and goodbrother. A
report that followed his proclamation of Gulltown being defeated and how it now flew the
Targaryen banner. His grand tale of victory over the Graftons had meant less than every small
detail Sansa could glean about Arya and Gendry’s well-being.

Or their suffering. Should I be thankful that they still feel pain?

So long as they draw breath I can hope… hope and pray.

Her fingers were burned and ached still from all the candles Sansa had lit in prayer for Arya.
There had been plenty of chances to pray of late. Days past, she had attended a meeting of
sorts at a mountainside enclave of the Faith. There, under the guidance of septons and the
protection of the Warrior’s Sons, Lord Ruthermont and Lady Waynwood joined her in talks
aimed at winning more support for Jon’s campaign in the Vale. Allies her husband
desperately needed, for while Sansa guaranteed rights and titles at the enclave, Jon and their
army continued the terrible struggle elsewhere.
Personally she felt guilty of weakening those efforts, for he had forced Daegon and Brynden
escorting her with no less than two thousand men, including nearly all the Faith Militant. Her
only consolation came after the Ruthermonts and Waynwoods had pledged fealty, for it meant
her escort doubled in men and tripled in heavy horse.

Enough to throw back the enemy force they found athwart their path back to Jon. Only three
days out from the enclave and once more she was immersed in the bloodshed. As Brynden
led her on across the field she took note of the sigils upon the enemy dead. The bronze
spearheads of House Moore and House Melcolm’s rusty anchor. Neither of which carried the
weight of the sigil she found born across a fallen banner. The bright blue falcon of the
Arryns.

“Elbert tried to get the drop on us.” Brynden noted grimly. “I thought for sure he’d need
longer to mend after the carnage at that godsforsaken pumpkin patch. He lost hundreds
there.”

“Men he left to rot.” She said, remember the smell vividly. “So great was his haste to regroup
and rally more strength. He must have come to stop us from doing the same, an ambush
meant to strike while-”

“This was no ambush.” A pained voice bid her to face the coming of Harry Hardyng. The
knight clutched at an injured arm and his comely face bore a bruise or two.

“How can you be certain, ser?”

“Because of who slew Ser Myles.” Harry said before wincing to lift his wounded arm. “The
same knight who did this. Mandon Moore, Elbert’s cold-eyed killer. If Lyn Corbray couldn’t
lead Elbert’s vanguard, that duty always fell to Mandon.”

“Elbert never bestowed that honor on his heir?” Brynden acted cool to the knight’s words. “I
take it he thought you better suited to the murder of women and children.”

“Uncle, enough.” She chided the older knight. “If not for the ser this Mandon Moore might
have struck me down. I owe him my life and I’d think you would be grateful to be spared
more hurt than we already have endure.”

Brynden chewed on that some, his jaw tightening as it had when Sansa first shared word of
Arya with him. Her great uncle had always been an infrequent visitor to septs but of late he’d
knelt beside her in prayer regularly.

“So you say this was Elbert’s van?” Brynden crossed his arms and glared at Harry. “That
would mean his army is not far off and somehow we stumbled into its path.”

“I’m afraid we share the same one.”

Daegon Blackfyre strolled their way at the head of a large party. Surprisingly, the lord
appeared untouched by the fighting for once, yet there was little joy in his expression. Nor in
that of the captured knight being led along by the bearded Ser Theodan Wells of the Warrior’s
Sons.
“Theodan’s men managed to grab us a gift for Lord Hunter.” Daegon continued. “Queen
Sansa, meet the heir to Longbow Hall, Ser Eustace Hunter, formerly in service to King
Elbert.”

Eustace blinked incredulously. “Unless you people get moving, I’m not foreswearing any
vow to my king. He’ll be on us in short order.”

“So the Arryn army is near.” She felt somewhat thankful for that. “That means Jon only faces
the Corbrays and Belmores at Heart’s Home.”

“That’s where Elbert is heading.” Daegon sighed to say so. “Eustace claims Elbert is making
haste to join the fighting there. He leads an army of almost ten thousand-”

“Nearly a thousand horse among them.” Eustace added quickly. “Every knight and able man
we could find. Elbert’s scoured this part of the Vale for every scrap of armor and blade of
grass to strengthen his army. He wants to crush the white dragon and we’re to meet up with
the sellswords on the way-”

“So they are to halt their assaults on the faithful?” Theodan flushed in anger. “The dogs of the
false king have destroyed septries that have stood since the Andals brought the word of
Seven to the Vale. Idols and scrolls blessed by High Septons of old. If Elbert comes this way
we should make him pay for this sacrilege!”

“No.” Daegon and Brynden said together, earning Theodan’s ire.

“Is your faith so weak you fear a battle?”

“I’d say my wits are sharp enough not to risk losing the war.” Brynden shot back before
addressing her. “The odds aren’t in our favor and there’s no decent place to make a stand near
enough. Our best bet is to press on and try and reach the king before Elbert. Then we can
combine our strength and wipe out the Corbrays before Elbert arrives.”

She wrung her hands. “But if there is a chance we can stop Elbert here we should take it. At
least try and weaken him some.”

“My queen, I’m afraid that’s not possible.” Daegon said and she raised an eyebrow.

“Perhaps not here but if we seek a stronger position-”

“That’s not what he means, Sansa.” Brynden stroked at the grey stubble about his chin,
sharing a look with Daegon who ran a hand through his pale blond hair. “There’s a reason the
black dragon and I were sent with you.”

“The king trusted us to do as he commanded.” Daegon shifted awkwardly. “To defy you if
need be.”

“Defy me?”

“We are not to engage in any pitched battles if there could be any risk to you.”
“A wise move, niece. Jon meant-”

“I am your queen, Ser Brynden. Remember that.” Her anger was hard to contain at that
moment. To hear Jon had gone behind her back to usurp what authority she commanded of
their men, it did more than hurt. It offended her. “We cannot allow Elbert to bring such a
force against Jon when he already does battle. There must be a way to ensure my safety as
well as your king’s.”

“There’s not.” Harry uttered, staring at the ground. “Nothing is safe in these wars. Nothing
and no one.” He managed to look her in the eye then. “Queen, woman, it makes no
difference, if Elbert gets a hold of you, he’ll kill you.”

Of course Brynden found his way to agreeing with Harry on this, most of the men forming a
united front against her. With the lot of them likening Sansa to the last queen Elbert had at his
mercy, the one he threw out the Moon Door, her arguments were drowned in short order.

Strangely enough, Sansa doubted Harry had been speaking of the late queen towards the end
of his warning. The heir to the Eyrie had not been the same since seeing what had come of
House Hardyng. What had once been a modest keep with walled courtyards and gardens had
been put to the torch and its people slain, most of whom Harry had called kin. Then at the
enclave Lady Anya had shared more grim tidings with her former ward. The bastard daughter
Harry had at Iron Oaks was lost to fever, and worse had befallen the woman and child he left
at Gulltown. Both having been slain on Elbert’s orders long before Arya’s army arrived.

It bothered Sansa how accustomed she was becoming to the death of women and children.
War was nothing new to her, yet she could never have imagined the horrors that were visited
upon the Vale. Village after village lost to flames, entire towns sacked and razed to the
ground. Though Jon had won thousands of Vale supporters their endless march across the
Vale left a trail of dead behind them. In victory or defeat, the cost was always borne in blood.

Even still the sword accounted for less loss than starvation. Barely the first harvest had come
to the Vale before most was hoarded away in expectation of war. What little was left for the
smallfolk was often stolen or burned, and shamefully this was not a crime done only by
Elbert’s men. Her fleet did its best to bring fresh food and men to the Vale but the mountain
clansmen and Second Sons wreaked havoc upon their supply lines.

A situation made worse by how little came by way of Gulltown, where the Baratheon army
had performed a vengeful sack after the gates fell. From what few confused reports came
from the city, it was clear Gendry’s army lacked in unity and was overburdened with
potential leadership. Several different men vied for control, with the likes of Ronnet
Connington and Lord Estermont squabbling with Bronze Yohn over who should lead the
march east and when.

By the time they set out all that will be left of the Vale is ash and bones.

We call ourselves dragons but Jon and I never meant for such destruction to visit this land.

She sought some absolution for her part in that. Without her leave Brynden and Daegon had
ordered their men to ready to move out, yet another army found them in the meanwhile. A
hungry, desperate horde of smallfolk which had followed them since the enclave, seeking
what scraps could be found in their wake.

Hence their surprise when Sansa herself arrived among their number to share what little
could be spared with the children. She did so under heavy guard, protected by not only her
uncle but the knights Roland and Wallace Waynwood, Gerold Gower, Hubard Rambton and
his three sons, and the suddenly earnest Eustace Hunter.

“A thousand apologies, your grace.” Eustace said as he sternly waved mothers and children
forward to take what morsels she could offer. “After so much time by Elbert’s side, one
becomes wary. Had my father not maimed your husband I’d likely be dead now.”

“Jon suffered but a scratch.” She said, handing a pitiful serving of salt beef and stale bread to
a young mother about Arya’s age with a babe of a couple years. Both were so thin their skulls
poked at their flesh and it was hard not to think of how her little Vaelena fared without her.

“Thank you, m’lady.” The girl stroked at her babe, hiding the food among its bundle. “I’ll
pray for you. You and the dragon king. Where do you go? Me and my mine will follow and
work-”

“Don’t tell her.” Eustace spoke gruffly before shooing the pair away. “Go on now! Be
thankful for what you’ve been given.”

“Your chivalry is as weak as your loyalties, ser.” She snapped at the knight, who appeared
shocked at the slight.

“I-I meant only to protect you. Elbert has made it known far and wide that any who share the
comings and goings of the Targaryens will be rewarded. Truly I’m sparing the beggar too.
Any who fail to declare all they know are given over to the torturers. With all that Mandon
saw here they’ll be wanting to see what this lot knows.”

“He’d torture them to learn of me?” A chill crept over her, for even when she tried to do well
by these people it led to suffering.

“More likely he’ll offer gold and food for any who’ll betray your company.” Eustace pointed
to a nearby warrior of the faith. “Any who bring the scalp of a poor fellow gets bread and
copper coin. A Warrior’s Son will earn a goat and a bag of silver. That’s nothing compared to
those who merely point the way to the betrayer… er- I mean Ser Harrold.”

“That makes sense, Elbert tried to kill Harry in Aevalon.” She shuddered to remember that
night in the theatre. “He went so far as to hire trained assassins to bring his evil to my
kingdom.”

“The king calls that a lie. That he was innocent in what happened at Aevalon.” Eustace
shrugged, waving a few more children onward. “A dishonest claim to be sure, but a
convincing one. Elbert wants Harry brought to him alive, the reward for such is nearly three
times greater than that for Hardyng’s corpse. Actually, both bounties are worth more than the
prices on you and your husband’s head.”
“Truly?”

“He’s obsessed. To Elbert this is all Harry’s fault. He thinks Hardyng and the High Septon
plot together to usurp the Arryn throne, just like Denys tried to.”

Sansa saw no lie in how sincerely Eustace spoke and marveled at how Elbert could be
consumed with such single mindedness in the midst of losing his kingdom. She and Jon were
clearly the greater threats to his reign at this point, Harry merely a pawn in their keeping.

Yet Elbert thinks of him as the most valuable piece… the king in a game of cyvasse.

Her last game of cyvasse against Sarella came back to her. The one where Sarella had
become too focused on her own strategy rather than watching the board. As she continued to
feed the hungry smallfolk Sansa’s mind was filled with thoughts of game pieces and players
in the terrible game of thrones at work here in the Vale. Thoughts which took her to suck dark
places that, when Daegon came to collect them, her mood was no mystery to him.

“Do not fret, Sansa.” Daegon said, coming alongside her and Brynden for their ride to the
front of the column. “Soon enough we shall be back with the king and you can have him lop
our heads off for angering you.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say.” She barely whispered, so caught up in the evil blossoming
within her mind.

“Blackfyres aren’t known for their humor.” Brynden mocked the lord before putting a hand to
his chest. “I’ll admit, it’s tempting to cross blades with the Second Sons again but what I’m
most excited for the chance to learn how Catelyn and her boys are faring in the North. It’s
hard to wrap my head around how little Bran is now a man wedded.”

“Yes… yes, to Eddara Tallhart…” Sansa tried to focus on that bit of good news to try and
save herself. “Mother said the wedding drew the best to Torrhen’s Square… it lured the most
powerful of the North…”

Brynden chuckled. “Couldn’t have beat the audience at yours. I swear every lord in the North
was there. I’ve never seen so many beards, or Jon looking so scared. Wait, that’s not true.
When you birthed the Dragons Darling, the man was right terrified.”

“I can’t blame Jon for that.” Daegon smiled some. “Fatherhood is a foreboding thing. More
than anything I want this war to end so I can get back to Rosby, yet I’m scared at what I’ll
face when I do so.”

“Gods, man. Your wife birthed a daughter, not a demon.”

“How can you be so sure with a name like Daemona?”

That wrenched Sansa from her spell. “Daemona Blackfyre is a lovely name. I’ve no doubt
you’ll take to fatherhood with the same vigor you did to serving us all these years.”

“I hope so.” Daegon bowed her way. “Though I fear my daughter may demand more of me
than my king and queen ever has.”
“Children have a way of doing that.”

Even if Benjen had survived the theater I still would have wanted war for the attempt on
Aenry’s life.

Should we lose here, our enemies may grow bolder still. Do to us what was done to the
Durrandons.

Sansa pulled up on her reins then, bringing her horse to a halt and forcing Brynden and
Daegon to swing about.

“Is there a problem, your grace?” Daegon asked.

“Yes, many. I wish you to call together a war counsel on the Arryn army.”

“Sansa, don’t do this.” Brynden hung his head low. “There’s no fight to be had here. Not if I
have anything to say about it. We’re not going to put you at risk so we best hurry away from
here-”

“It’s not me you put at risk. It’s our chances for winning this war.” She kept her thoughts
focused on that. “Uncle, you talked of outpacing the Arryns as our best hope for victory. How
likely are we to do so if Elbert is as close as you fear?”

“The odds aren’t terrible. We’re a smaller force and can move more swiftly than his. That and
we have a lead on them.”

“Yet not much of one. Should we manage to unite with Jon and find the Corbrays still a
threat, there would be precious little time before we faced both them and the Arryns.”

“Then we should not waste a single moment lingering here.” Daegon pulled at his reins.
“Your grace, I commend your bravery but if we stand against Elbert now we’ll be serving up
this army on a silver platter. Reinforcements you worked so tireless to win.”

“Running is an ugly thing.” Brynden spat to the side. “But it’s the way out of this. We’re
doing all we can with the situation before us.”

“We are not.” Sansa pressed. “There’s a way for us to delay the Arryn march and travel
onward to Jon in the same breath.” She caught her uncle readying to argue. “Without risk to
me… not to me…”

She looked over the hundreds ahead to find the knight she meant to doom. A healer was
tending him, helping care for the wound Harry had taken in her defense. When the knight met
Sansa’s gaze, the doubt threatened to overwhelm her. Until she pictured Jon broken in his
place. Arya and Gendry writhing in pain. Her ears now ringing with the screams of her
children at the theater.

“My queen?” Daegon eyed her curiously. “I don’t quite understand-”

“I intend to lure Elbert away from Heart’s Home. To offer him a prize he wants more than
Jon or I. We shall give Elbert the chance to capture reclaim his heir.”
“Give him what?” Her grizzled uncle blinked in disbelief. “Hardyng? Sansa, you can’t be
serious.”

But she was. Her face set to stone, betraying none of the turmoil within as she explained to
them what Eustace had told her. Of Elbert’s obsession with Harry, of the relentless drive he
showed to revenge himself upon the knight.

“On Elbert’s game board, Harry’s the piece that matters.” Sansa said, finding it easier to
speak in this manner somehow. “So we shall task Harry to break off from our march and we
make sure the smallfolk know it.” She glanced to the desperate lot, her rabble in this game.
“Let Elbert find them full of talk of Harry heading north, towards the mountains. Or back the
way we came. It matters not, what does matter is Elbert halts his advance to follow.”

“To take our bait.” Brynden spoke in a thoughtful manner. “I’m not sure how much that will
help us. Elbert could send merely a token of his men after Harry and still bring most of his
army onward.”

“Then we make Harry the threat Elbert fears him to be. Put Harry at the head of the Warrior’s
Sons and Poor Fellows. The heir Elbert fears leading an army of the faith he despises so. I
believe this king is too consumed by mistrust not to commit himself to chasing down such a
force and bringing an end to them.”

“Slaughtering them, you mean.” Daegon’s expression had darkened so that his eyes could
almost be called black. “They would stand no chance. Not just in numbers but in leadership.
Theodan and his men are fanatics, they put more faith in the gods above than sound tactics.
They’ll stop and make a fight of it long before they have to. And Harry… he’s fought well
but…”

“He cannot be trusted in this.” Brynden reluctantly finished, holding up a hand when Sansa
made to speak. “Do not let his defense of you cloud what Harry truly is. He had the chance to
act a hero once before and let women and children be murdered. I do not see him valiantly
sacrificing his life to help Jon gain his family’s throne. I imagine he’ll betray the faithful the
first chance he gets.”

“You would be right.” Harry’s voice broke in, the knight emerging from behind a wagon, his
bandaged arm clutched against his chest, the other arm and hand resting on his sword. “I
turned my back on honor as easily as I did my children. Who I am… what I’ve done, I am the
kind who would betray strangers to save myself.” His eyes moved to her then. “But I fear my
flaws go deeper. That I’m a vengeful man. For what Elbert did to my family… for the murder
of Saffron and her boy… give me the chance to hurt him. I beg it of you.”

There was an earnestness in Harry’s words she had heard before. When the Hound asked for
the gift of mercy. Robb when he swore before father’s statue and Barristan begging her
forgiveness. Jon’s devotion when he spoke of their children.

That threatened to break her resolve in this. For while Harry spoke of dying for his
vengeance, she knew Elbert wanted the knight alive as part of his revenge. That thought bid
the brand on her back to ache terribly, burning once more.
As cruel as Joffrey was to me, Elbert hates Harry more.

Warn him. Tell him what could await him. Not a glorious death. Suffering and fear.

Yet she held her tongue on that, for Harry stood before her, already a willing piece in her
strategy. The one piece she needed to safeguard her king.

“Defeat likely awaits you, ser.” She found herself able to say that at least. “I cannot see a
chance for escape-”

“I seek none.” Harry became desperate, dropping to a knee before her horse. “At the enclave
I pledged my life to see Elbert brought low and by the Warrior I meant it. I will die to see him
lose what he cares for.”

“Which is precisely why you cannot lead those men.” Daegon declared bitterly. “You’re little
better than Theodan. Your thoughts are for vengeance, not the betterment of the king’s cause.
You thirst for battle but the goal is to delay one, to lead these wolves on a long hunt, fruitless
hunt for a flock of sheep.”

“Then a proper shepherd is needed.” Sansa felt numb, so great was her shock at the evil her
mind could conjure. Yet there it was, clear as day in her mind. The cyvasse board and all its
pieces, including two sitting their horses before her.

A cavalryman and a dragon. Both valuable in their own right. Both dear to her.

“What fools were we.” Brynden laughed suddenly, the sound as inappropriate as it was harsh.
He was still doing so when he looked to Daegon. “The pair of us, raging at Jon for thinking
of sending any other commanders besides us. A waste, we called it. Keep them where they’re
needed. We can handle Sansa all by ourselves… bloody fools.”

“I was thinking the same thing.” Daegon closed his eyes and exhaled loudly, confirming that
he knew what foulness she considered.

“It’ll be me then.” Her great uncle said as if speaking of who would eat the last of the beets.
“Makes sense, I’ve got the most experience. From the Dark Order and before.” He winked at
Sansa. “Plus I’m wily to boot. You tell Cat and those little dragons of yours-”

“No, ser. It shall not be you.” Sansa felt a mix of relief and revulsion to set her gaze on the
dragon before her. “Lord Blackfyre, I task you… I ask you to lead this chase.”

“What?” Brynden snapped in anger and shock. “Seven hells, don’t let your love for me blind
you! I am the best able-”

“Your experience is precisely why I cannot spare you! Somewhere ahead of us the Second
Sons might await. Besides Jon, only you know them so well and I’d not endanger our
progress any further by choosing the wrong man for each duty.”

“Daegon can handle Mero! Send me, Sansa, by the gods the man’s just had a child! You’re
sending him to die.”
She looked deeply into Daegon’s troubled eyes then. “I’m asking him to serve his king. To
act my dragon in this. My lord, I will not command it of you. I pray you would not force me
to.”

“Niece, see reason-”

“Enough, Blackfish. It’s done.” Daegon ran a hand over the black dragon upon his chest.
“For the first time in a hundred years, the Blackfyres have a home. My daughter has a home.
I do not forget who gave us that…” He straightened in his saddle, his face set and firm. “We
Blackfyres are used to being on the run. I’ll give all I can, Queen Sansa.”

So did Arya and Gendry. Ser Myles as well. And poor Belasso.

After all that loss, it was hard to reconcile the dedication her plot earned from those involved.
Ser Theodan and most of his men were content to see themselves as the Andals come again,
believing the holy seven hundred they brought with them would have divine protection in the
days ahead. Harry was deaf to the protests of the Waynwoods, who urged him to abandon the
march entirely. On the other hand Brynden listened quite intently to Daegon before the lord
passed off a letter to the knight.

Words meant for his wife, no doubt. A woman’s whose kiss Daegon likely wished to feel
instead of the one Sansa bestowed upon his cheek before he rode away.

And so Daegon and Harry would depart. A paltry force following behind as they crossed the
path of the begging smallfolk.

The rabble and the dragon, both playing their part. In cyvasse there was no piece to represent
the heir that would tempt Elbert into folly. Nor one for the queen who set all this in motion.

For Sansa was no piece in this. She was a player.

One who desperately wished this game to end.

 Chapter 12
Chapter Summary

The dying days.

The Broken King

Seldom has a king ever tasted a victory so bitter as the one which brought Aegon III to
the throne.

Aegon the Dragonbane, as he would be known, ascended the throne following the Dance
of the Dragons, which saw the deaths of his parents, brothers, and his predecessor,
Aegon II. Though one of the few Targaryens to survive the civil war, some claimed a
part of the king died along with his kin.

The High King inherited an empire bitterly divided, the civil war having left deep scars
across his lands and people both. Volantis had been torn apart by destructive riots. Myr,
Lys and Tyrosh continued to war against one another, long after peace had officially
declared. Norvos had been sacked, the merchant fleet of Pentos lost to sellsails, and the
Forest of Qohor still burned from dragons’ flame. Even the mighty Rhoyne was brought
to its heels, its towns and ports having been ravaged by armies and dragons both.

Though wishing to heal his tortured lands, the burdens of rebuilding the empire
crushed the king. His Council of Heralds filled with schemers and plotters, it took years
for Aegon to wrest full control and by then his rule was scorned by many.

Yet by the end of Aegon’s reign, the empire remained united and peace and prosperity
had returned. Many credit his younger brother Viserys for this feat.

Few today recall the mercy he showed to former enemies or the justice he gave to
corrupt allies. Citizens made slaves during the war were freed. Maesters, learned men
from the Sunset Kingdoms, were summoned and consulted for their wisdom.

Aegon is better remembered for his cold manner, how he scorned joyful occasions and
locked himself away for days at time to brood. More damning to his legacy, the last
dragon would die during his rule.

That Aegon hated the dragons is widely known. Yet most forgot how, in spite of that
hatred, the High King sought the help of mages to restore the very creatures which
killed much of his family.

Truly, Aegon III was a king defined by the war which won him the throne, and the
lasting pain it caused to both him and his realm.
 JON

It was a fine spring day, full of warmth and sunlight, with nary a cloud to be seen. Perfect
weather for farmers to tend fields or for a father to watch his children frolic about a
godswood.

Sadly this war cared little for the wants of smallfolk or parents. Instead this golden day would
be wasted on the wrath of kings.

At last, Elbert Arryn had come at him.

Ahead two armies were clashing along a vast stretch of farmland. Whatever crops these fields
once boasted were trampled beneath the boots and hooves of rival hordes. Wherever the two
sides met, blood flowed, men fell, and banners waved. None more prominent than the blue
falcon banners of the Arryns or Jon’s own white dragon, hundreds of which flew beneath the
bright midmorning sun.

For hundreds already, this morning’s sunrise was their last, he thought, and the bloodletting
has only just started.

Soon the killing would begin in earnest if he had anything to do with it. Jon sat atop Balerion,
dressed in armor as black as the warhorse’s ebony coat. While much of his army was already
in the field, he held back with the rearguard. A mixed force of riders and foot, ready to
pounce should the need arise.

Or an opportunity to present itself.

A glance across the battlefield made him suspect none would come easily. Behind the main
enemy advance stood the Arryn reserve. Hundreds of armored riders, including many he
knew to be Second Sons. At their heart, well protected and wary, armored in shining steel and
wearing a crowned helm was King Elbert Arryn.

Did he sit back and watch the slaughter at Martyrs’ Mill? Or did he pick up a blade to join
the killing?

This time the fight comes to him.

“Our Valemen hold.” Ser Justin Massey declared from his saddle, pointing a lobstered
gauntlet towards their right. “Fine work. After that charge, the right looked ready to break.”

“My brothers are brave and able.” Ser Donnel Waynwood replied, the knight brushing aside
his thick brown hair from his eyes. “They’ve faced their share of heavy cavalry before. We
held then too. Not to say it wouldn’t help to reinforce them some…”

“They must make do for now.” He dashed the knight’s hopes, watching as the right did their
best to throw back the vicious Arryn assault.
Most of his Vale allies could be found in the right, the Waynwoods united with the likes of
the Ruthermonts, Hunters, and more. This was only the second time they had fought under
his banner. Together they had crushed the Corbrays and Belmores at Heart’s Home, capturing
Lord Lyonel Corbray and sacking his castle.

A victory he owed to Sansa and her reinforcements. A deliverance that had doomed others.

When Elbert and his army never arrived at Heart’s Home, it was their first clue that Sansa’s
gamble had worked. In time messengers confirmed that Elbert had indeed interrupted his
march to pursue Harry Hardyng. Fouler tidings came from ravens meant for Lord Corbray,
their dark words attesting to a grand triumph… for Elbert.

Daegon had done as tasked, using Harry and Ser Theodan’s Faith Militant to lead Elbert on a
lengthy chase. One that ended only after the Arryn cavalry trapped the small force along a
riverbank. There were differing accounts of the battle but two things were for certain.

Daegon and Harry had made their stand at a mill, and what followed was a massacre. The
hundreds of Poor Fellows and Warrior’s Sons who fought with the black dragon were
slaughtered to a man. What befell Jon’s friend, none could say. Harry was the only prisoner
Elbert felt the need to boast about in his letters.

Now, weeks after the butchery of Martyrs’ Mill, their armies had finally come together. They
were only a day’s march from the Eyrie, and even from this distance, he could see the peaks
of the Mountains of the Moon. Whether Elbert intended to reach the Eyrie or merely block
Jon from doing so mattered not.

Elbert has given me a chance to end this war, he thought, either by capturing him.

Or killing him.

At that his eyes flicked away from the main battle. Not so far as the hill where Sansa awaited
with the baggage train, but to a deep ravine that ran up the edge of the farmlands. Little could
be seen of what was within, only that it stretched along the right of both armies.

He had done nothing to draw undo attention to it. With his advantage in bowmen, the battle
opened with his archers loosing withering barrages against the Arryns. Eventually Elbert
responded, unleashing his heavy horse against the right, where Jon's Valemen bore the brunt
of the attack. Much of the Arryn foot followed after, until Silveraxe Fell brought the center
into the fray and Ser Bennard Brune led the riders of the left to swing around to outflank
Elbert.

More than an hour of fighting and neither side had made a breakthrough. Ghost, agitated by
the smell of blood, paced before his horsemen, the mounts growing as unsettled as their
riders.

“The Second Sons haven’t moved.” Ser Mychel Redfort worried aloud. “Elbert’s guard is still
too strong. If Ser Bennard thinks to draw them off, he needs to push through.”
“Bennard won’t get around them.” Ser Lothor stated gruffly, the Kingsguard holding his
white helm under his arm. “The Moores and Melcolms have stopped him cold. They’re
bringing pikemen up to hem them in.”

“Perhaps we try the archers again.” Ser Justin suggested, to Ser Donnel’s outrage.

“Open your eyes! The lines are too close now, any arrow we loose could land on the heads of
our men. Or our kin!”

“The king has a strategy and I’m giving him the best counsel to see it through. If some
sacrifices must be made-”

“No more sacrifices.” He said, quieting both men. A wave to the waiting Raymund and
Benfred brought both squires rushing to him, one carrying his helm, the other a spear. A long
ironwood one, of a kind the Dark Order used. Though Dark Sister hung at his belt, the spear
would do him well for what was to come.

“Elbert’s reserve is going to stay put until they have reason to move.” He said, donning the
helm but keeping his visor up. “The men fight bravely but with what strength the foe has
afield, they can do little more. It is our time now.”

“So we’re to charge?” Ser Donnel asked expectantly. “At which point?”

He grabbed the spear from Benfred, using it to point to an area of fighting on the right.
“There. The Arryns had to thin their line to keep Silveraxe and Ser Bennard at bay. Hit them
there and, gods willing, we might have a chance.”

“Your grace, patience is in order.” Ser Justin offered. “Let the battle run its course for awhile
longer. A better opening might reveal itself.”

“Or this one could be lost.” He replied, allowing Raymund to tighten the strap of his shield.
“Waiting costs me men, ser. Time is our enemy as much as Elbert. Every moment that passes
leaves the Blackfish vulnerable to discovery or worse. Prepare the others. Ready yourselves.
We charge.”

Despite his reservations, Ser Justin bent to his will and joined the others to see banners raised
and the rearguard ready to charge forth. The plan was equal parts daring and mad, which
made sense considering whose it was. Long past, Brynden the Bloodraven had used a similar
strategy against Daemon Blackfyre.

Except Bloodraven had the Dark Order to pull it off. Men of discipline, brothers who rode in
the shadows together.

My men are loyal but they cannot compare…

“King Jon, let us ride with you.” Benfred asked in a pleading tone, the youth joined by
Raymund, who gestured to their swords and mail.

“We’re ready. Benfred brought down a foe at Heart’s Home and I drew blood-”
“I remember.” He nodded with respect, while thinking of these two as little more than boys.
“That’s why I entrust you both with protecting the queen. Should we fall, it is you who must
see Queen Sansa to safety. Go to her now.”

Dejected, the squires did as commanded, passing by Lothor as they left.

“It be smart to stay back.” Lothor said, the grim knight keeping a respectful distance, his gaze
moving to Ghost. “Let one of the others lead the charge in. As wary as the beast is acting, I’d
still choose your wolf over Massey to do so.”

“You don’t beg the honor for yourself?”

“My place is beside the king.” Lothor touched at his sword. “Or behind him. Better to watch
your back.”

If that was meant as a jest, Jon didn't care for it. Through tragic twists of fate, Ser Lothor was
the only Kingsguard left to him here in the Vale after losing Ser Myles and Ser Dontos. Even
Daegon, the man who had recommended Lothor, was likely lost. He wished any one of them
by his side rather than the Brune knight.

Still he thanked Lothor for his concern and stood ready to lead the charge himself.

The fighting was reaching a fever pitch when his riders formed up. Ser Lothor and Ser
Donnel to his right, Ser Justin and Ser Mychel to his left. Near enough were Ser Gerald
Gower, Ser Hubard Rambton and his sons, Ser Herbert Bolling, Ser Desmond Keath and
many more. Behind them came ranks of men-at-arms and spearmen.

“Let us end this war!” He shouted, lifting his spear high. “Ride as one! Fight as brothers! We
shall meet on the other side!”

“For King Jon!” Ser Desmond bellowed and Ser Mychel took up a cry of his own.

“The white dragon!”

When hundreds shouted for him, only then did Jon lower his visor, not daring a glimpse
towards Sansa lest he risk losing his nerve…

“Charge!” He cried out.

The trumpets sounded a second later, quick blasts he barely heard over Balerion’s whinny.
The powerful warhorse was already thundering onward, his heavy hooves tearing up the earth
below as Ghost raced silently alongside them.

They travelled right at the weak point of the line, his men already there pulling back to let the
full force of the charge hit the foe straight on. By then a strong cordon had formed up around
him. His knights hit the mass of Lynderly warriors first. The unlucky foes in the front ranks
were either ridden over or cut down.

Suddenly Balerion’s hooves were crushing down on men as well as earth. When he came
upon a pikeman aiming his weapon up at Ser Luthor, his own spear found its mark, the point
skewering the man through his chest.

Ghost took down another in chainmail, Ser Mychel a mounted knight, Ser Luthor more than
he could count.

With his spear, he thrust the point down at any who managed to pass by Ghost or his other
protectors. This was warfare as he’d learned in the order. Lessons which had not spared
Gendry, who now lay at death’s door. The thought of his friend led Jon to slay two more men.

They were pushing forward. Breaking through. His arm ached from the weight of the spear.
Sweat trickled down his face, stinging his eyes. The wails of dying men echoed in his helm.

So focused was he on the fight, he nearly missed the warhorns. A sound familiar to him after
countless skirmishes against the Seconds Sons. Beyond the battle, King Elbert’s reserve had
divided. Hundreds of sellswords and other riders broke away from their king, riding forth to
meet them.

Yes. Send them. Send them all.

“My king! They come!” Ser Justin warned, throwing down his broken lance to pull his
sword.

Not enough, he lamented, for too many still remained behind. They needed to be drawn into
the fight too.

“To me!” Jon shouted to those around him. “Rally to me! We push on! Signal my lords!
Forward! Forward all!”

“To the king!” The rallying cry went up. His knights forcing the splintered foes back, forming
a steel wall that the foot pushed forward to brace with their numbers.

Those who retreated in panic stumbled right into the path of their own reinforcements. The
horde of Second Sons and knights rode right over those poor souls, their lances and spears
raised. Any one of them could be his death. He gave a cry to ward that off, savage and
defiant. His men did the same, their cries becoming a roar which muted the pounding of the
enemy hooves.

Then the charge hit. Nothing could drown out the sounds of crashing steel and screams that
followed. He saw Ser Hubard’s head and helm caved in by a war lance before the avalanche
surged over the front to reach him.

Three riders came on but when Ghost bounded forward, the leader’s horse spooked. The
terrified beast jerked into another mount, one of the men falling while Ghost leapt up at the
other.

The knight who made it through had a white winged chalice on his pink tunic and bore a
lance aimed right at Jon’s chest. Thankfully the attack came at his shield side, which he
raised up in the same movement that he readied his spear.
The enemy lance struck the shield with a glancing blow powerful enough to rattle his bones.
His spear did fouler work. The knight’s gorget was either poorly made or fastened, for Jon’s
attack found its mark, impaling the man so deeply the spear point came out the back of his
neck. There it stayed, for the force of their passing snapped the end of the spear clean off.

He threw the rest away and pulled Dark Sister free, for there was more fight to be had. His
men were battling for their lives. Two sellswords battled Ser Donnel, and Ser Gerald had lost
his horse, now fighting afoot. Ser Mychel was locked in a vicious duel with a knight wielding
a sword clearly made of valyrian steel. As their horses circled, it was also made clear that
they knew one another.

“Stand down, Mychel!” The knight demanded, defending with a shield adorned with ravens
carrying hearts. “You stand no chance against me!”

“Never, Lyn! You taught me too well and I’m a squire no longer!”

Their words were lost as the fray enveloped him completely. Enemy riders surged by, Ghost
and others fighting hard to keep him safe. Some paying for it dearly. He saw Ser Donnel fall,
his helm dented and a halberd buried in his shoulder.

His attacker a towering man with a long, red-gold beard. An old enemy.

“Mero!” Jon shouted to the leader of the Second Sons, who drew forth a falchion and pointed
it his way.

“Dragon’s Runt!” Mero laughed, riding at him. “Finally! I’ve grown tired of the filth you call
warriors! Time for you to face the Titan’s Bastard!”

He rode Balerion ahead to do that very thing. Dark Sister struck first, nearly taking Mero
across the face and wiping the smile from his foul face.

“What’s wrong, Mero?” He demanded. “Too accustomed to killing unarmed peasants?”

Mero’s answer came in a powerful hack which Jon struggled to hold off. Dark Sister was the
better weapon, yet the falchion wielded properly could do terrible damage to his armor. It was
his weak points Mero kept aiming at, trying to cripple him for an easy kill. The bastard went
so far as to aim at Balerion’s head, a blow the horse pulled away from only to bite at Mero
for the effort. He followed that up with a cut of his own, slashing a line across the sellsword’s
chest plate and cutting free a part of his beard. Mero was bellowing in rage when Jon tried to
cleave the man’s head. The blow was met, but so late that Dark Sister opened as ugly cut
upon Mero’s brow.

The blood pouring forth blinded Mero but before he could finish it, Balerion lifted his hind
legs in fury. As Jon struggled to stay in his saddle, he cursed the volatile horse. Until he saw
that Balerion was kicking his hooves at Ser Lyn Corbray, who had ridden upon them
unnoticed.

When Balerion came down, two blades of valyrian steel met.

“So you’re dragon I was meant to kill.” Ser Lyn growled from behind his helm. “Finally!
Lady Forlorn was meant for better than that black pretender.”

The shock of hearing so hit him as fast as Lyn’s next slash, for the knight had all the speed
Mero lacked. Two more strikes came after that, one ringing off his helm.

“Not a chance, boy fucker!” Mero warned, trying to work his horse around to Jon’s back.
“That reward is mine!”

Whatever gold was promised them, Jon made them work for it. He wheeled Balerion about
again and again, the destrier bullying the smaller courser and charger his foes rode. The pace
of the fight was terribly quick, his breath coming out as heavy as Balerion’s. Dark Sister went
back and forth between them, meeting cuts and jabs, knocking away Lyn’s shield, hitting
Mero’s gauntlet and breaking some fingers.

When he caught a low strike from Ser Lyn, Mero took his chance for revenge. Jon barely
ducked in time, the falchion delivering a crushing blow to the side of his helm, sending it
toppling away. His head ached with a painful ringing as more of the battle was laid bare to
him. So when Lyn raised back Lady Forlon for a killing blow, he had the foresight to focus
on Mero instead.

He’d let Ghost handle Corbray.

A moment later, the blood stained direwolf bounded at the group, attacking Ser Lyn’s mount
with a savage bite to it throat. Twisting in the air, and his powerful jaws holding firm, Ghost
brought the horse to the ground screaming, Ser Lyn following after.

“Good!” Mero’s bloodied face twisted in a sneer. “If anyone’s killing a Targaryen, it’ll be me.
Gold be damned. The Titan’s Bastard will make the High King weep in grief!”

“I doubt he’d weep.” He shot back, spinning Dark Sister in the air. “And you’ve caused too
much grief for too long.”

Dark Sister was moving through the air before his words finished. Mero lurched to knock
away the first cut, then the second. The third went to the same side, to his right. But the
fourth was a feint, swinging wide so his backstroke would come at Mero’s left, where his
vision was blurred by blood.

More blood followed. His blade slicing through Mero’s neck like soft cheese. In shock, Mero
tried in vain to close the wound with his hand. His last words coming out as an ugly gurgling.

Followed by a terrible yelp. Ghost had never uttered such a sound before and he jerked about
in fear. The direwolf lay on the ground, a deep cut down his side, his snow-white fur painted
red.

Ser Lyn had lost his helm, but held his bloody sword before him proudly.

“Ghost!” He cried out, kicking at Balerion to charge at the cruel knight.

Too late did he see the pikeman to his left. The weapon stabbed up at him, missing his face
but the curved hook at its end took hold of his shoulder. It wrenched him out of his saddle,
and he hit the ground with his arm outstretched. Despite the clatter of his armor, he still heard
the snapping of bone. Steel could not protect him from the pain that followed. His leg and
ribs screamed as well, but nothing as bad as his arm.

He rolled upon the damp earth in agony, clutching his broken left arm to him and snatching
up Dark Sister with the right.

Through the pain he saw a limping Ser Mychel battling off the pikeman but none others to
aid him save Ser Lothor. At first it was a relief to see the knight striding his way. Then Lothor
tore his Kingsguard cloak away and raised his sword in threat. As worrying as this was, the
Lothor’s eyes made it worse. For within them, Jon found the cold gaze of a killer. A killer
coming right at him with his blade at the ready.

A numbing chill took hold of his heart.

Oh, Sansa. We came so far... our children…

Look at them and think of me… not those harsh words I spoke last…

When Lothor was almost on him, he fought through the pain to lean against his broken arm,
lifting Dark Sister up in a feeble defense. Lothor took hold of his sword with both hands,
readying a blow Jon knew would end him.

Only for the knight to swing over his head, catching Lady Forlorn in mid-air. Ser Lyn stood
above him, frozen in the midst of a killing blow. Corbray tried to overpower Lothor, yet the
Kingsguard held firm before knocking Ser Lyn away with his shoulder.

Then they danced. The two knights trading blows as Jon struggled to his feet. He was making
his way to Ghost when he heard the trumpets blaring.

A shrill rhythm used by the Valemen. A call to defend their king.

He looked to Elbert then and saw the Arryn reserve nearly in a panic. They were moving
swiftly to the right, towards the ravine where two hundred Targaryen spearmen had emerged.

These were Jon’s freedmen and veterans from the east. Men like Belasso, who’d climbed into
the ravine under the cover of night to await the Blackfish’s command to surprise Elbert. To
capture or kill the Falcon King and end the war.

Yet even as the Blackfish’s spear-tipped shieldwall advanced on Elbert, he saw the plan
would fail.

They attacked too soon, he realized, we haven’t lured enough of his guards away…

Elbert’s defenders appeared an even match for the Blackfish, and more were on the way.
Large parts of the Arryn army were rushing to the defense of their king. An opportunity Jon’s
commanders exploited.
Spotting an opening in their lines, Silveraxe Fell drove his men to the right, encircling those
attacking the Waynwoods and Hunters. While this unfolded, Benedar’s riders gave chase to
those seeking to regroup around Elbert. Fresh from slaying Lyn Corbray, Ser Lothor had
snatched up Lady Forlorn and took Jon’s place to lead the rearguard against their confused
foes.

Jon witnessed some of this, the rest he was told, Ser Justin and Ser Mychel having forced him
from the field long before the battle ended. They managed to get him onto Balerion and
Ghost into a cart, Lothor’s discarded cloak pressed against the wolf’s wound.

Slumped over in his saddle, cradling his arm, Jon was forced to watch a large force of enemy
riders abandon the fight. Elbert’s royal standard flying above them.

There he goes… look how the falcon flies…

“Jon!?”

Sansa’s worried voice reached his ears only a few moments before her party reined up before
him. She came at the head of two score men, Raymund and Benfred flanking her to either
side. Filthy as he was, barely able to sit a horse, he felt less a king whereas Sansa looked
every bit a queen. Sitting with perfect posture atop her white palfrey, his wife wore a
handsome gown of green and gold, her auburn hair kept up in a double braid and encircled by
a gleaming crown.

The only thing he disdained in her appearance was the pain and fear etched across her face.

“Jon, you’re hurt!” She came close enough to reach out and cup his cheek. Her hand stroked
him gently before she turned to the rest. “The king needs a healer at once! Help him into this
cart so he can rest.”

“The cart is in use.” He grunted, looking down at the ailing form of Ghost.

Sansa gasped at the sight. “How bad is he?”

“Far worse than me. The healer tends Ghost first, then Ser Mychel.”

“I am fine, you grace.” The knight lied, for all saw how badly the wound to his leg was
bleeding.

“The healers see them first. That’s a command. One I want followed, unlike the ones I gave
the Blackfish. Have him brought to me at once to answer for that.”

“I’m sure uncle Brynden had his reasons.” Sansa spoke softly, eyeing his arm with worry.
“That needs to be set. The king’s health should come first.”

“Enough, Sansa!” He barked yet felt terrible to see Sansa jerk back in hurt. A short time ago
he had been terrified of losing her, only to end up snapping at her now. “Just… please, help
me on to camp. Let me hear what cost us Elbert and then I’ll do as you ask. I promise.”
She stayed silent, yet nodded in agreement. Truly he wanted nothing more for her to tend him
right now, to feel her loving caresses ease away his hurts. Yet so how much had been
sacrificed to give them the opportunity to stop Elbert in this battle, he felt they both deserved
answers.

Not long after, he would have them.

The Blackfish and Ser Lothor found them in his pavilion, where Sansa alone waited with
him, wiping at his face with a clean cloth and cool water. The two knights looked in need of a
wash themselves, both sweat-stained and spattered with gore. When both men knelt before
him, he saw that Ser Lothor carried a sheathed Lady Forlorn in his grasp.

“My king, Elbert’s army is broken.” Ser Brynden said from his knee. “He’s riding hard for
the Gates of the Moon. With fresh horses there’s a chance we can overtake him before-”

“A chance.” He repeated, gritting his teeth against his pain and anger. “There should be no
need for a chase. Elbert should be my prisoner or slain. Not on the run. You knew your
orders, ser. How could you fail me so?”

“Blame this bloody thing.” The Blackfish reached into a satchel and pulled forth a Myrish
eye from their Dark Order days. “I was watching the battle, saw your men faltering. When
you went down… well I made a choice.”

“I did not send you into that ravine to make choices! I trusted you to end the war!”

“Then I accept failure for that. Any who die because of it, that’s on me too. To save the life of
the finest king I’ve ever known, those are burdens I will gladly bear.”

He glared at the Blackfish, torn between feeling disappointed in the old knight and being
touched by his words. Tapping the arm of his chair, he bid both to rise before gesturing to
Sansa.

“My desire to punish you is not as strong as it could be, since I imagine my wife is pleased
by your actions. She puts my well-being above most things.”

Though kindly meant, Sansa flinched at his words.

“I’d not deny being grateful.” She said. “Uncle Brynden did what he thought was best and
you are returned to us. Hurt, but alive.” Sansa looked to Ser Lothor then. “A better fate than
Lyn Corbray would have served him, if not for our lone Kingsguard. I owe you my heartfelt
thanks, ser. Where is your white cloak? You surely earned it today.”

“Forgive me, but I had to cut it off.” Ser Lothor replied. “I couldn’t take the chance of it
getting in the way. I’d seen Corbray fight before, he is a skilled killer.”

“He was.” He corrected, nodding with respect to the knight. “You saved my life, ser. Ask a
boon of me, and it is yours.”

“I did the duty I swore to.” Lothor stepped forward, offering up Lady Forlorn to him. “Here
is the blade the foe raised against my king, it is his to do with as he pleases.”
“No.” He nearly recoiled at the thought of taking the sword, remembering Lyn’s claims about
Daegon. “No… that’s your prize. You may have sworn never to take a wife but feel free to
take Lady Forlorn.” With that, he turned to the Blackfish. “And you. Get your fresh horses,
assemble as many men as you can. I doubt you’ll succeed, but do your best to catch Elbert
before he reaches safety. We will follow as swiftly as we can.”

Sansa must have had the healers waiting without, for the moment the knights departed, he
was swarmed with minders. They splinted his arm, bandaged his aching side, and had him
drink a warm tea mixed with milk of the poppy. None of that eased his mind like hearing how
Ghost faired.

“The royal beast will likely live.” The lead healer seemed put out to having tended Ghost at
all. “We have stopped the bleeding, though we had to put the wolf to sleep to stitch it
properly. It would not stay still otherwise.”

“He has learned bad habits from others.” Sansa suggested and he accepted the charge.

Though he fought her insistence that he sleep, allowing Sansa merely to help him lay his
weary body on the bed for a short while. It felt better than he wished to admit and blamed the
milk of the poppy, which sent a welcoming warmth through him.

“Take heart, Jon.” Sansa sat at the edge of the bed, stroking his hair. “Today was not the
victory we hoped for, but a victory all the same. After this battle, Elbert’s strength is a
shadow of what it was.”

“More than enough if he reaches the Eyrie.” He sighed, staring up at her hair and running his
fingers through it. “I’d feel better if our reinforcements from Gulltown were already here.”

“Well, Lord Fell says we captured several lords and knights of note. Some might be won
over, their strength added to ours.” She paused then, wringing her hands some. “Perhaps
some would know of what prisoners Elbert keeps. Whether he holds Daegon or not-”

“Daegon’s dead.” He said without much grief, the warmth pushed it all away. “Lyn said he
killed him.” When Sansa started, he patted her hand. “It’s not a surprise, not really.
Remember what I told you, there wasn’t much hope with all the others dead. You were right,
Elbert wanted Harry... only Harry.”

Sansa stared at him strangely, her eyes glistening and mouth agape.

“Who I served up on a platter.” She rasped. “Him and the rest. Theodan and Daegon… all
those men. I sent them to die. I did that, and you hate me for it.”

“Nonsense.” He made a soothing sound at the blurry vision of his wife. “You didn’t kill
anyone. Elbert did. And I don’t hate you, Sansa… I love you so much… it just hurt to know
you gave such an order.”

“I did it for you.” She wept. “For us and the children… oh gods, Daegon’s wife and
daughter.”
Whatever pain she felt was beyond him now. His aches were forgotten, the loss of Daegon
mingling in with the mist clouding his mind. He didn’t want to watch Sansa cry, he wanted to
sleep, so he shut his eyes. Yet he could hear her still.

“Don’t cry, Sansa. It was a good plan.” He told her, feeling no fear of being honest anymore.
“I did the same in the Dark Order a few times. Using men as bait… the guilt was always
terrible… but somehow this is worse.”

“Worse? Why? Because of Daegon’s family?”

“No, because I thought you were better than me.”

Her soft weeping stopped then and Jon let the black take hold of him.

And he slept soundly.

LYANNA

She-wolf of Winterfell. Rebellious slave. High Queen of the Targaryen Empire.

Her life had never followed a clear path, the fates obscuring it like winter snows.

Yet Lyanna felt anything but lost now. Her place was here, sitting in her son’s tall, ironwood
throne, holding court in his newly finished throne room. Though the hall was long and
spacious, there was much work to be done still. A roof over their heads was a good start but
they were missing the grandeur befitting a king. She had made arrangements to rectify that
and soon new glass windows from Myr and some Lyseni tapestries would arrive.

And I must send to Qohor for a metalworker, to build Jon a proper throne.

Not gold, it's too gaudy. Something stronger. Perhaps steel… or iron.

At the moment though, she was quite content with this throne. Were it any taller, she would
not be so close to the Dragons Darling, who sat to either side of her upon small seats of their
own. To her, it was important for Aemma and Rhaegina to learn how a kingdom was ruled.
While little Aenry was too young for such lessons, the twins were ready, no matter Lord
Connington and Septon Tom's reservations.

Sansa had certainly taught them well. The twins sat with proper grace, their backs straight
and chins held high. Both wore gowns of azure and cream, nearly identical to her own.
Where they differed was how each princess regarded their visitors. Rhaegina’s purple eyes
flicked about boldly, just as Brandon’s had when he sized up challengers in the yard. Aemma
took everything in more leisurely, with soft eyes of blue, winning smiles from any she gazed
upon.

Their first petitioner among them. Dark of skin and dressed in eastern finery, his silver-white
hair was tied back in braids and his eyes were the color of orchids.
“Presenting Baleron Otherys!” The court steward declared. “Son of Balarr Otherys and
Xatana Qo, Princess of the Summer Isles-”

“Of the Sweet Lotus Vale to be precise.” She interrupted, looking to her granddaughters.
“Not the Red Lotus Vale. I made that mistake once.”

“And my mother never let you forget it.” Baleron replied in High Valyrian. “Father forever
lamented the day his wife corrected the High Queen.”

“I earned that chastisement. Xatana more than made it up to me with those pleasure trips on
her swan ship. I was sorry to hear of her passing, Baleron.”

“We buried her in Selhorys, as she wanted. She loved her homeland, but in death she would
rest where she built life.”

“How lovely.” Aemma spoke up and Rhaegina nodded.

“She sounds like our parents. They travelled from far away lands too.”

“And built our home here.” Aemma finished.

“Your High Valyrian is impeccable, princesses.” Baleron spoke the Common Tongue with
only a sprinkle of accent, giving Lyanna a teasing look. “A difficult language, some have a
harder time learning than others.”

“Well your Common Tongue is well done… my lord?” Rhaegina questioned and Aemma
shared her confusion.

“Or is it your grace? Your mother was a princess.”

“You might name this man cousin.” She said. “For Baleron is descended from the line of a
High King.”

The girls were enraptured to hear that Targaryen blood ran through Baleron’s veins. Unlike
the Blackfyres, Aegon the Unworthy’s bastards by Bellegere Otherys had stayed loyal to the
empire. Their family flourished along the Rhoyne, especially at Selhorys, where Baleron had
served as Keeper of the Harbor and an ally of hers.

Baleron’s arrival was a bright spot in a gloomy time and she would make the best of it.

“Our friend of Otherys has come to serve your father.” She explained to the girls. “When the
king won Tumbleton, he gained a market town on the Mander. A place of great promise.
Should the right people guide its rise, Aevalon would become all the wealthier. Baleron
oversaw the harbors of Selhorys for…was it ten years?”

“Eleven. My daughter had just been born.” He answered. “Selhorys was the only home
Belladona ever knew, and I nearly shared her tears when we sailed away.”

Forced to leave your home, I know the feeling well, she thought.
“How sad.” Aemma said. “We can show her the castle if you would like.”

Rhaegina smiled brightly. “Or take her sailing up the Blackwater! If your daughter cannot
have the Rhoyne, our river might do.”

She and Baleron laughed at that, for nothing here in the Seven Kingdoms could match the
mighty Rhoyne. The Mander would have to do though, now that Aegon had seen Baleron
stripped of his position. The head of House Otherys had received lands to look the other way,
so Baleron and his family had few places to turn.

His poor fortunes working to Jon’s benefit. Beyond Baleron’s expertise with river ports, he
brought a household worthy of a lord, including a hundred veteran warriors and bowmen. In
Selhorys he had married well to Korra of Tyrosh, whose family was as rich in gold as they
were in Valyrian bloodlines.

Which was enough to convince Jon’s council into allowing Baleron the rights to establish a
proper port at Tumbleton. Winning Maester Samwell and Lord Connington over had been the
true test, this petition merely a show for court.

One her granddaughters excelled at, for it was they who bestowed Baleron his license.

“We hope you will prosper in our father’s kingdom.” Rhaegina held out her hand for Baleron
to kiss, Aemma doing the same.

“And wish the blessings of the seven upon you and your family.” Aemma said with a curtsy.
“Please stay as our guest until you are ready to depart.”

Rhaegina smiled. “So we can meet your daughter! Then perhaps we could all help improve
grandmother’s Valyrian.”

“Thank you girls.” She sighed. “Quite charming.”

They could find fine matches back in the empire, she thought, men of power and influence.

Allies we may need... should Aegon ever ascend the throne.

She knew Qohor and Norvos both held Jon to great esteem, as did the magisters of Pentos.
They remembered which dragon fought for them in their hours of need. While Volantis and
the Three Daughters would be for Aegon, the might of the Rhoyne could still be won over.
Some towns along that river would be considered cities here in Westeros. Volon Therys,
Selhorys, Valysar…

And we have potential friends in Valysar, though that can only be brought up at the right
time.

I cannot risk angering Sansa with a mislaid mention of Daenerys or Baelyon.

While the doubt over Baelyon’s parentage lingered in the empire, she had not heard a whisper
of him in Aevalon. If any future alliances were to be made, they had to be broached
delicately. Just as she had to handed their next petitioner.
“Presenting Ser Petyr Baelish! High Steward of Duskendale and envoy of the Merchant’s
League!”

The short man came forward grinning, perhaps even smirking. His smile was clearly false to
her eyes, yet the twins appeared genuinely pleased to see him.

“Ser Baelish, we received your gifts!” Aemma shared a knowing look with Rhaegina.

“They were very handsome. We thank you with all our hearts.” Rhaegina added.

“It was my utmost pleasure.” Baelish swept low into a bow, his eyes never leaving the girls.
“I struggled to find anything worthy of your beauty or majesty.” He rose stroking his pointed
beard. “And speaking of majesties, High Queen Lyanna, I return with news. All you asked of
me has been accomplished. I convinced the Merchants League of Duskendale to accept your
conditions for developing Tumbleton.”

“Marvelous work, ser.” She said with a careful smile. “You have proven yourself useful far
beyond my hopes. It’s little wonder Lady Lysa has come to depend on you so much.”

“A widow in a poor way.” He rose, a hand to his chest. “The suffering of women has always
weighed terribly on my heart. By mending the rift between Duskendale and Aevalon, I hope
to ease the burdens of two noble ladies.”

“You surely have. Just as you saved Princess Arya from treachery, you spared Jon’s kingdom
from terrible unrest in our hour of need.”

A grumble went through the assembled courtiers, some clearly disagreeing with the praise
given to this foreign merchant. Since Jon and Sansa’s departure, Petyr Baelish’s rise had been
spectacular to witness. His charming of Lysa Darklyn led to lucrative positions in
Duskendale, and his ear for gossip did even more. Were it not for Petyr Baelish, Arya might
be lost to them.

Following Gendry’s fall and Arya being struck by a poisoned bolt, it was expected that both
would be returned to Aevalon. Yet only Gendry had arrived. Despite his dire injuries, they
soon learned that Arya was the one truly in danger. After brutally sacking Gulltown, Ser
Ronnet Connington and others thought to exploit the power they held over the city and Arya's
person to strangle new lands and rights from Jon. Unfortunately for the traitors, Ser Andrew
Estermont had taken a bedwarmer beholden to Baelish.

After he uncovered the plot to the court, she dispatched Ser Barristan and a company of loyal
men to Gulltown. The Kingsguard, backed by the fleet and their Vale allies, swiftly took
charge of the army, quietly arresting the traitors and rescuing Arya.

And for his part, Petyr Baelish had earned a knighthood. Though the man made her skin
crawl, it had been a small price to pay for the man who had saved her niece. More
importantly, Baelish was known for taking any venture and making it prosper.

So I must smile. Keep smiling.

To do what I must with this man.

“It is a hard thing for me to admit when I'm wrong.” Her voice rose over the naysayers. “Yet I
was woefully mistaken in doubting you, Petyr Baelish. These last few months, you have
proven yourself a valuable friend and a better ally.”

“Anything to make up for my terrible first impression.” He quipped, earning laughter.

“Well you have impressed.” She waved at a steward, who carried a roll of parchment to
Baelish. “In winning the Merchant League over, the king’s council has decreed that you shall
take charge of the royal enterprise at Tumbleton. With you and Baleron Otherys hard at work,
Tumbleton is sure to thrive.”

“Your grace, I don’t know what to say.” Baelish lied, for all of this had been previously
decided. “I’m humbled to have the king’s trust.”

She let the mummery continue, knowing full well this was just a stepping stone for Baelish
before he made a play for lordship of Tumbleton. Another upward movement to his goal,
whatever that was.

“There’s more.” Lyanna bid yet another man to step forward, this time one of Jon’s
treasurers. “To do all that Jon requires, I present you with a note of credit from my own
wealth. Spend it wisely ser. I am placing great trust in you.”

Baelish was truly surprised then, as were many others. She ignored the gossip that went
through the court, yet not the twins’ attempt to invite Baelish to an upcoming feast.

“I’m afraid Ser Petyr must make haste.” She explained quickly to her granddaughters and
Baelish at once. “When Baleron arrives with his wife and children at Tumbleton, I expect
him to find the town well in hand.”

“That- that he will.” Baelish replied, obviously hungry for the chance to steal any advantage
away from Baleron. “I’ll leave this very night.”

“Good travels, ser.” Lyanna found the grace to hold out her hand for him to kiss.

He found a way to kiss around the large ring Rhaegar had given her, his lips pressing against
her skin. It bothered her more when he did the same to the twins. She nearly lost her
composure to watch how his hand lingered on Aemma’s longer than it should, a finger
caressing the underside of the girl’s palm.

This did not go unnoticed by her guards. Tumco might have torn Baelish away if not for
Ethan, who grabbed at his comrade’s wrist and held him back. More worrying was how Ser
Arthur witnessed all of this. Baelish’s touches, her Highguard’s hesitation, how Lyanna
stomached it all.

He’ll explain it away. Arthur knows I’ve endured worse than unwanted touching.

That I’ve watched worse befall my family.

Years ago, Arthur had been by Rhaegar’s side when their vessel came upon her slave ship.
She remembered standing tall against them, half-starved and with a sword in her hands.
Ready to die rather than submit herself to another lash of a whip.

Or the rape that always followed.

When the slaver captain Davees first forced himself on her, she regretted not dying with
Brandon. Feeling a fool for ever wishing a different fate than Robert Durrandon. That was
what made the slavers tortured so cruel, it caused her to feel guilt for all that befell her.

One night she came close to jumping into the sea to end it all. Until she remembered how
they had done the same to Brandon, throwing him overboard like so much trash.

He was a Stark of Winterfell, she had thought whilst stared into the sea, he was meant to be
buried in the crypts with our forebears.

He was a winter wolf… and so am I.

That was the moment she decided, if any more were to end up dead, it would be those who’d
earned it. Justice she would meet out herself. With false smiles and caresses, the slavers
slowly saw her as a pet rather than a wolf. Soon growing content to keep Ethan and the others
chained while leaving her free. They thought the men were the only threat. Even when
Davees and his surviving crew were at her mercy, bound in the very chains she’d freed the
others from, they still looked to the men in fear. She made sure they learned their mistake
soon after.

Sometimes when Lyanna doubted herself, she remembered their screams. The cries of those
who’d used her, hurt her, stolen from her. A terrible music that touched her in a way that
Rhaegar’s harp never could.

Father held justice to be about honor. He would never accepted my brand of it.

Nor would he accept me, not after what the slavers did…. He always said a tarnished woman
was a blight on a family’s name.

Now all knew Lyanna’s name. Adjusting her crown, she hoped the slavers could see her from
whatever hell they burned in. Her departed parents and brothers too, so that in their rest, they
might understand all she had done. Perhaps even be proud of her.

She certainly took pride in Jon’s daughters. Long after Baelish left, the girls stayed with her
to hold court. They handled themselves well, listening intently to petitions, asking questions
on subjects they could not grasp, looking to her for answers. Rhaegina and Aemma showed
such charm that those who left disappointed were hard pressed to show it.

After the session ended, she sent the girls along to their septa, so only Tumco and Arthur
followed on her errands. She checked on Vaelena, smoothing the babe’s tuft of silver-blonde
hair as she rested. Then they sought Aenry and Lyonel out. The boys were a real worry. With
his parents ailing, Lyonel spent many a night curled up in bed with Nymeria, weeping into
the direwolf’s fur. None of this was lost on Aenry, who constantly fretted after his own
parents. He went so far as to tear a rare book apart when denied word of them.

So it was a welcome sight to finds the boys together, the pair distracted from their woes by
Maester Samwell. Both acted enthralled by the maester’s animated telling of Lann the Clever.

“Wits, young masters.” Samwell tapped his head. “Lann lacked for men and swords, yet his
sharp mind won him the gold of Casterly Rock. Not all great men have been the noblest of
blood or the mightiest of warriors. Remember your wits. Should you ever lack strength, your
wits will carry you through.”

She and her companions did not linger long, though the maester’s words stuck with her as
they walked the corridors.

“Jon was taught much the same.” Lyanna said. “It’s good to see the boys learning more than
swordplay. Don’t you think so Tum? Arthur?”

“In the pits I was taught nothing but killing.” Tum replied. “I always hoped for more.
Everything I’ve learned since, it’s made me a good man, I think.”

“I doubt you were ever anything else.” She smiled while Ser Arthur frowned.

“To be good is a different measure. Greatness demands many qualities of a man. To be strong
and wise, firm yet merciful, ambitious but cautious. Contradictions, more often than not. No
king can be perfect, my queen.”

“Any who expects that is a fool.” Lyanna met the knight’s gaze. “Do I look a fool?”

“I see a High Queen far from her empire. Far from where she belongs.”

She paused at that, wheeling to face the older Highguard, who remained handsome and
powerful despite the passing of time.

“Tum, go ahead to the sick chambers. I will be there shortly.” She commanded. The moment
the younger Highguard turned the corner and was out of sight, she snapped.

“Too bold, ser!” Her words were quiet but quick. “If I did not let the High King tell me my
place, what makes you think I would abide you doing the same?”

“Because I do so not as a husband, but as a friend.” Arthur replied, running a hand through
his long hair. “Rhaegar writes to me as well. Though he might not have said so to you, he
needs us Lyanna. The empire is in peril-”

“So are Jon and his kingdom. A situation Rhaegar helped create and I will help right. Do not
think me cold to his plight. If the High King is in need, I implore you to go to him.”

“Only if you come with me.” Arthur pressed. “Please Lya. With all his burdens, think of how
unfair you’re being. If you would only hear Rhaegar-”
“I have heard him. Years of talk about our destinies being entwined, of grand prophecies and
golden reigns, the song of ice and fire…” She could see him again, the silver prince who had
carried her from slavery to Dragonstone all those years ago. In her darkest hour, he had filled
her with hope. Winning her heart with his words and harp alike.

“The song became a tired one.” She forced the memory away. “Bewitching to a young girl’s
ears, but I’m a woman now and Rhaegar’s charms cannot disguise his faults. Elia warned me
that this would happen.”

Arthur started at that. “High Queen Elia loved Rhaegar! Her loyalty to him was second only
to her children.”

“And what loyalty did he show her? Elia, a woman of grace and compassion if there ever was
one. She told me Rhaegar dreams of a world yet to be, and that she was once a part of that
dream. ‘Rhaegar thinks so much on that world, he forgets those he uses to build it.’” Lyanna
felt the old shame return at her friend’s memory. “I thought her only jealous… gods was I
blind.”

“Rhaegar has not forgotten you.” Arthur urged. “Nor Jon, or any of his family. Think on his
letters and try to say differently.”

The only letter I’ve been thinking on came from Sarella Sand.

Another Dornish lady whose wisdom saves me from folly.

None of this was shared with Arthur, for she had quite enough of his pleading. More
importantly, he could not take part in what she had planned for later. So she left him behind,
reuniting with Tum to visit with Gendry and Arya as she often did.

Not that it could be accounted much of a visit, for neither were in any state to speak. Gendry
lay heavily bandaged and splinted to one side of the room, Arya to the other, her chest bound
and darkened with sweat and foul humors. Her niece remained in a feverish state as she
battled off the poison, a terrible struggle that Maester Samwell did all he could to aid. At least
with Gendry, the milk of the poppy spared him some agony, leaving him in a fitful slumber.

When she kissed his cool and clammy brow, her stomach tightened.

Blood and birth aside, Gendry is a son to me. Look at what they’ve done to him.

Let Jon will avenge him in the Vale… I’ll protect them both from here.

A cold feeling crept into her heart and stayed long after darkness fell and the candles grew
dim. Tum’s eyelids were growing heavy when a servant knocked lightly upon the door,
inquiring if the High Queen still desired quail’s eggs for her morning meal.

That’s the signal. He’s returned.

Her journey went largely unnoticed. After lying to Tum about seeking her bed, she slipped
away from her chambers in a servant’s cloak. With such simple garb and no Highguard
following her about, few paid Lyanna much mind. She went alone down the winding
staircase to the deepest of the castle cellars. These were the damp and dark regions of the Red
Keep that doubled as a secret dungeon, known only to a few. Which was why she had chosen
it for tonight’s foul work.

At the bottom of the stairs she found a corridor with only one flickering torch. Through the
shadows she found her way to a heavy wooden door barred with iron. Three quick raps
against it and a moment later the door was pulled open and she entered.

Inside was a small room of stonewalls and an earthen floor, empty save for two men. The
prisoner was naked and hanging from the ceiling, the chains stretched his arms taut and his
feet dangled above the floor. His body marked by ugly wounds, dripping blood down onto
the filthy rushes below.

Ethan strode about, bare from the waist up, his chest and its thick curls of hair matted with
sweat and blood. He lifted a ladle of water out of a bucket, pouring it over his sweaty face
and demon brand.

“All went well.” Ethan explained as she shut the door. “The ambush and the too. His guards
went into the Blackwater with no faces to speak of. The men Baleron lent us, they’ll stay
quiet. They never even asked the name of our quarry.”

“Who…?” The prisoner became aware of her presence, his voice rattling with his chains.
“You… why are you doing this?”

“Your grace.” She said, removing her cloak and resting it on the floor. “I have earned that
much. Just as you have earned your place here, Petyr Baelish.”

Baelish jerked at his chains. “I have a pardon from the High King himself and Lady
Darklyn’s protection. This is a crime, your grace.”

“That it is, yet here we are.”

Baelish blinked in either confusion or fear, it was hard to tell with his eyes darting about.
Seeking an escape like a trapped rat. He flinched as Ethan drew close, planting a stool in
front of the man. As she sat, her own gaze moved to how the manacles dug into his wrists,
dripping blood down his arms.

“Is this your first time feeling the gentle caress of a chain?” Lyanna asked, smoothing her
skirts. “I have no doubt you’ve placed them on the girls you use to line your pockets.”

“I… no… is that what this is about?” Baelish asked. “My girls are courtesans, well-trained
and better cared for-”

“Some are. Not all. I know much and more about your business dealings than I care to. Varys
was quite eager to share them with me. Do you really keep a standing order at the Lyseni
flesh markets?”

“The spider cannot be trusted!” Baelish shouted before trying to regain his composure. “Yes,
I’ve conducted trade in the empire but his webs extend into darker corners-”
“I despise slavers.” She spoke honestly. “For so many years I had to abide them in Rhaegar’s
court. Attending our balls, sharing our meals, all so they could go home drunk and happy,
free to peddle flesh again come morning.” Her hand gestured to Ethan. “My dear friend
learned torture at slavers’ hands. He did not bend easily to their uses. Neither did I.”

“I am no slaver!” Baelish kicked feebly in the air. “I brought you what you asked of me! I
delivered your merchants and saved Arya Stark! I shared all I knew of Aegon’s movements! I
help your son!”

The man lied well. If she did not know better, the sincerity in his voice might have given her
pause. He would have to be shown the punishment for lying. With a nod, her friend grabbed a
thick leather belt, unrolling it upon the ground to display several tools. Knives of all sizes, a
hammer, a chisel, a pick, and more. Ethan ran his hand down them carefully, eventually
stopping at the hammer with a dark look in his eyes chilling even to her.

“What pain you’ve endured, it is nothing.” Lyanna explained to Baelish. “Ethan was under
orders not to truly begin before my arrival. I wanted you to have your wits when I told you
that I know. I know.”

“Know what?”

“You said Aegon sought you out in Gulltown, that Elbert Arryn had lured you there. Yet that
was not your first time here in the Seven Kingdoms, was it?”

Baelish swallowed. “I’ve worked on both sides of the Narrow Sea for years.”

“For Targaryens?” She pulled a parchment free from her bodice. “This came to me from
Sarella Sand. The lady tracked one of Benjen’s assassins all the way to Dorne... uncovering
some sad truths there.”

Truths that the Martells had kept quiet. Jon’s war with the Reach had begun when some had
claimed that eastern freedmen were raiding Gardener lands. Here at Aevalon such talk was
dismissed while in Dorne none dared speak the truth. For those claims were true. Bands of
eastern warriors had indeed raided into the Reach.

At the behest of Viserys.

Apparently her goodbrother had been chafing under Prince Doran’s thumb for these past
years. Growing jealous of Jon’s power in Westeros and denied men by Princess Arianne,
Viserys went behind his wife’s back to hire warriors from the empire and find conquests for
himself. Prince Doran put a stop to his goodson's actions as soon as he found out, but by then
Jon had already joined them in war. Unwilling to air his family’s unrest to the realms, nor risk
their alliance, Doran kept all of this quiet.

Until Sarella revealed that one of Viserys’s men had been the one to assassinate Benjen.

“Doran’s a cautious man. If Viserys was part of the plot against Jon, he would not risk Dorne
to protect him, marriage aside.” She folded the parchment. “Nor was Viserys willing to be
condemned of a crime he did not commit.”
“Lies.” Baelish had the gall to smile a bit at that. “Even I have heard of how Viserys
threatened King Jon and slandered your noble highness.”

“Viserys is all bluster and snide remarks. Beyond that, he’s an incompetent at best and a fool
at worst. It seems his grand plan for glory was not even his own. Like his men, it was
supplied by another, planted in his ear by a whore. One who vanished along with the
assassin.”

“I am not the only man in the Sunset Kingdoms who procures whores for highborn men!”
Baelish shouted before regaining his composure. “Besides, even if it wasn't Viserys, then the
culprit was clearly the Vale.”

“Yes, Elbert Arryn, the great fiend.” She said with a sigh. “Tell me, what sort of villain pays
assassins to kill his rivals using his own minted gold, then goes on to deny ever doing such?
How much Arryn gold did you hoard during your stay in the Vale? How many wars has Jon
been drawn into since you came across the Narrow Sea? Lord Darklyn's death was fortuitous
for you, coming so soon after he declared his intent to oust you from Duskendale.”

“This is no evidence… no evidence, for I’ve committed no crimes.” Baelish protested.

“Queen Lyanna, please. I’m a victim of foul coincidence.”

“No, it’s you who leave victims in your wake. I tire of your foul plots and false smiles. Jon
and Sansa war against Elbert Arryn, thinking their cause righteous, but it’s all a lie. Cooked
up in a brothel by you.” She leaned close then. “Or was it Aegon?”

Though none of what she said could condemn him outright, Lyanna had been certain of his
guilt since Sarella’s letter. After the Sand Snake drew the first connection, all the pieces
began to fall into place. This man hid the worst of his treachery behind treacheries he was
willing to admit. He admitted to spying for Aegon to throw them off his scent, making sure to
implicate Elbert Arryn instead.

The only thing she was unsure of was where Baelish’s ambition ended, and Aegon’s
complicity began?

“Your grace, these claims are baseless and false. I am not this villain, just a humble servant.
A knight pledged to you… to your family. I saved your niece, did I not?”

“That you did, ser.” Lyanna nodded before giving him a cold stare. “But a good deed does not
wash out the bad. Arya was only in peril because of a war you started. You are a knight now,
but you have always been a fiend, a liar, and a murderer.”

He continued his denials. His pleas and attempts to mislead her continued but soon Lyanna
stopped listening. When she rose and stepped away, Ethan knew what to do, her friend
coming forth to take her place, hammer in hand. With one powerful hand he grabbed hold of
Baelish’s leg, steadying it as he raised the hammer. The first strike produced a sickening
crunch and a loud cry, the knee exploding like a rotted grapefruit. The second drew a wail
from Baelish so terrible it hurt her ears.
He was still cursing and weeping when Ethan backed away, quieting only when Lyanna
slapped him soundly across his damp face.

“Tell me why.” She demanded. “Was this for your own ambition or more?”

“Innocent… please, I’ve done nothing-”

“Ethan, you may begin again. The other knee this time.”

“No! No!” Baelish shook and trembled. “No more! Keep him away!” He eyes were glassy
and wild, yet she caught the defeat which clouded them. “The Highlands… Dorne… they
were growing too powerful. Challenges to the heir’s rise… he wanted them weakened. His
brother most of all…”

“And who ordered the assassination?”

“Who?” The cloud cleared some. “Aegon of course… I was but a pawn. Helpless against his
will, his bloodlust to see Prince Aenry dead. He is jealous that he does not have a son of his
own blood and it curses his heart into dark action.”

“Interesting.” She took hold of his pointed beard, making sure that Baelish met her gaze. “For
you see, I was there when Aegon learned of the murders in the theatre. As was my friend.
Ethan, tell our guest what you witnessed.”

“The heir was shocked to hear of it.” Ethan spoke gruffly, wiping at the hammer with a cloth.
“Genuine to my eye. He looked pale and sickened when he heard that Aenry was the likely
target.”

“That was my estimation as well.” Her lips curled back in a snarl. “So I think you lie to me
still Petyr Baelish. Even now, I think you try and use me. I will never be used again.”

“I’m not! It was Aegon-”

“To a point, perhaps. I can believe that. He is jealous as you say, and petty. But ordering
Aenry’s death? No. For all his faults, Aegon knows the importance of blood. No Petyr
Baelish, I lay that crime at your feet. You had Lord Darklyn targeted to serve your own ends,
so why not my grandson as well?”

Baelish sputtered denials but there was no use. His role in these foul matters was now
confirmed, she expected they would get little more truth out of him. Besides, the details of
the conspiracy meant little, only that Aegon had played a role in unleashing this man upon
them. That Rhaegar had unwittingly aided him.

“High Queen, I can be of use to you.” Baelish argued. “Your enemies, their secrets and
weaknesses, let me flush them out. We can expose Aegon together.”

“I’m afraid that will have to wait.” She said. “To reveal Aegon and your evils now would
undermine the justness of Jon’s cause in the Vale. He would go from being a righteous king
avenging great wrongs, to a tyrant perpetrating them.” She took a cloth from Ethan, wiping
Baelish’s sweat and blood from her hand. “My son is a good man. An honorable man. I want
him and the Seven Kingdoms to believe that. To see that come to pass, I will accept this lie.
Just as the realm will accept your disappearance.”

The court had witnessed Baelish leaving the Red Keep with her coin, yet none would see
Ethan smuggling him back. A key part of avoiding trouble with Rhaegar or Lady Darklyn.

“Most already think you a foul sort.” Lyanna reached down to select a large, cruel knife from
the belt. “A whoremonger running off with the wealth entrusted to him? I half believe it
myself. Here, Ethan.”

He took the knife, sliding a finger down its sharpened edge, drawing some blood.

“A good choice.” He asked, crinkling his face in disgust as Baelish pissed himself. “You’ll
want to go now, Lya. Benjen was my friend too. So I’m going to cut his name into this filth's
chest”

“Don’t taint Benjen’s memory with such barbarity. You will do this for me.” She put a hand
on his shoulder, her grip hard enough to make him frown. “And I want this man torn to
pieces. A death by a thousand cuts. The same fate he intended for my son’s kingdom.”

“Would you prefer I start anywhere in particular?”

Lyanna looked back at Baelish then, naked and mewling. A far cry from the bold man who’d
taken great liberties back in the throne room.

Remembering how his touch lingered on sweet Aemma.

“Why not the little finger?”

SANSA

The Gates of the Moon was a stout castle. Its towers square, the moat deep and walls thick.
Nestled against the base of the Giant’s Lance, the castle guarded the way up to the Eyrie.

Yet no longer.

“The Gates have fallen.” Lady Anya Waynwood declared, from her place beside Sansa. The
pair and their guards stood far behind the siege lines, where they’d witnessed the final assault
against the castle.

“It’s at an end.” Ser Lothor agreed, a hand on Lady Forlorn’s pommel, his thumb caressing its
heart shaped ruby restlessly. The knight had wanted to be a part of this fight, as brutal as it
was.

Fires still burned along the castle’s ramparts, yet none were fighting there anymore. No
longer did men climb ladders raised against the walls, instead they marched by the ram sitting
idle by the gatehouse, moving freely through the broken gates. Leaving behind the dead
scattering the approaches to the castle and clogging the moat.
Jon planned this attack for a month, had twenty times the men, and still we bled dearly for
the effort.

At that moment, a siege tower put to flames early in the battle now collapsed in on itself,
sending sparks and ash into the air. Her eyes followed them, and then higher still up the
mountain, to where the Eyrie’s pale towers awaited.

“This is no end.” She said with a shake of her head. “We’ve taken a castle, not the throne.
That awaits us in the Eyrie, where Elbert sits far from our reach. There he is a symbol to all
his loyalists. Until we have him, the Vale will never truly be ours.”

“That’ll come with time.” The older woman spoke with confidence, patting her arm.
“Patience, my young queen. No army can take the Eyrie, but cut off from bounty of the world
below, the Eyrie becomes a tomb.”

“That could take weeks. Months even.”

“Perhaps years.” Lady Anya mused. “Depending on how well supplied they are.”

The lady’s attempts at comfort were less welcome than the arrival of one of Jon’s squires,
Raymund Connington. The youth leading along her palfrey, Grace.

“Queen Sansa, the castle is ours!” The squire declared with excitement. “A battle of heroes!
Barristan the Bold and Brienne the Beauty scaled the walls and slew more than can be
counted! Your brother was first through the gates! He brought low the king’s champion
himself!”

“Brave deeds to be sure.” She spoke evenly, raising an eyebrow at the youth. “Are such tales
what you were bid to tell me?”

“Oh! I’m sorry, no. I just thought-”

“Out with it boy.” Ser Lothor growled.

“His majesty wishes you to join him in the castle. I’m to take you to him.”

“Now? While the castle’s still burning?” Lady Anya appeared shocked yet she felt nothing of
the sort.

She knew Jon wouldn’t send for her unless it was safe. Truly, he knew her well, for had he
not sent a summons, she would likely have sought him out.

A moment later, she was atop Grace and Raymund had a hold of her reins, leading them on
towards the castle. Ser Lothor and her company of guardsmen marching with them. Normally
Sansa wouldn’t have insisted on them coming, yet she could not be too careful.

Raymund’s own brother, Ronnet, had been one of the Gulltown traitors. Since Ronnet lost his
head, she sought any hint of vengeance lurking within Raymund. So far the squire continued
to pledge his undying loyalty to Jon and appeared quite sincere in his shame over his
brother’s treachery. Becoming the new heir to Griffin’s Roost likely played a part in that.
He was not the only one she was wary of. Among the army Barristan brought from Gulltown
came scores of men who either supported the Gulltown treachery or were kin to those who
had. Or at least there had been. Many of those tinged by betrayal had been the first Jon sent
against the Gates, where they faced relentless flights of arrows, burning oil, and worse.

Deaths Rickon considered too honorable for turncloaks.

After the Bloody Gate fell to an attack to its rear, Rickon arrived with the men he’d led for
nearly six months in blockading the High Road. They were a hardened company, having
Arryn sorties and raids by the mountain clans. An ordeal somehow Robin Darklyn had
survived, her cousin being the one to lead Rickon’s vanguard into the Vale.

Far more shocking was to see mountain clansmen among their number. A scandalous
development Rickon had merely shrugged off.

“Kill a few of their leaders in single combat, and they take a shine to you.”

She saw a few of the savage warriors among the dead they passed when entering the castle.
More of the living variety could be found lingering about the yard, picking over the corpses
of Arryn guardsmen and Second Sons. While many of the Vale men turned up their noses at
the clansmen, she saw them doing much the same.

And Rickon doing worse. With his axe slung across his back, her brother sat on a barrel
drinking with his men, laughing uproariously as Shaggydog gorged on the flesh of a dead
sellsword.

“Battle gives Shaggy a fearsome appetite!” Rickon jested, raising his wine skin. “And me a
terrible thirst!” He was laughing when spotted her. “Be that my sister? Sansa! What are you
doing here? We spilled so much blood, you’ll get your gown in a right state.”

He laughed again but she felt nothing but embarrassment at his crass display, dismounting in
a huff.

“Don’t bother getting up, Rickon. Apparently it is beyond a Prince of Winterfell to help a
lady from her horse.”

“Forgive him, your grace.” Lord Robin bowed. “I think Ser Mandon Moore battered some of
his wits loose during their duel.”

“Well I did worse to him.” Rickon said, reaching behind the barrel to lift a severed head up
by its hair. Ser Mandon was always said to have dead eyes, and it was certainly true now. “He
gave me a fine fight. I’m proud to share a drink with him.” He then poured some wine into
Mandon’s gaping mouth, his men hooting to watch it pour out the bottom of the head. “But
the man can’t hold his drink!”

“Rickon Stark!” She snapped. “Foe or otherwise, that man is a knight of noble birth. Show
him some respect. What would our father say to see you act this way?”
“Better than what he’d say to Robb for joining up with his killers.” He shot back, rising to his
feet.

“Watch how you speak of your king.” She warned him. “And think on this. As foul as the
Lannisters are, they did not disrespect our father’s body. They acted better than you do now.”

Rickon flushed at that and Shaggydog scorned his meal for a moment to growl. She met their
glares, shaming Rickon into handing off Mandon’s head to one of his men, grumbling about
its care before storming away from her.

There was no more time to waste on Rickon’s foolishness. Instead she urged Raymund into
leading her to Jon. Her husband awaited them in the castle hall, among allies and foes alike.

She saw Bronze Yohn Royce standing with his barrel-chested cousin Nestor. Ser Justin
Massey sharing wine with the lords Grandison and Redfort. Then there were the knights
Wallace and Roland Waynwood, her uncle Brynden, Lady Brienne of Tarth, and many more.

Altogether she spotted four royal protectors about Jon, who wore his dark armor despite his
left arm being splinted. New to their sworn guard was Ser Mychel Redfort, who wore his
white cloak with pride, and Ser Balon Swann, whose white armor now bore spots of red. A
shade far darker than Ghost’s eyes, which nearly glowed with intensity as the scarred
direwolf stared at a chained man kneeling before Jon.

Before she could get a glimpse of the prisoner, Ser Barristan announced her.

“King Jon, your queen has arrived.” The older knight smiled warmly, leading the room in
bowing. “These dark halls are in need of your radiance, Queen Sansa.”

“You charm like a younger man.” She returned his smile to which Bronze Yohn chuckled.

“He fights like one too. Put some of these others to shame.” The lord grinned at the
Waynwoods and elbowed Ser Justin. “Not a one of you came close to the Bold’s count.”

“The lady did.” Uncle Brynden put in, causing Lady Brienne to flush.

“The time for honors will come later.” Jon decreed, his eyes only glancing at her before
settling back on his prisoner. “Sansa, meet Brown Ben, Mero’s replacement as leader of the
Second Sons.”

The shackled captive turned her way then. He was an aged man, his brown skin weathered
and his hair and beard gone grey-white. Though his smile seemed pleasant, it did not reach
his dark almond shaped eyes.

“Well met, your majesty.” The sellsword nodded her way. “Since I can’t quite rise now, just
imagine I’m kneeling to your grandeur.”

“Shut it, filth.” Uncle Brynden snapped, hatred burning in his eyes. “You’re lucky to draw
breath at all. If it was I you met on the walls instead of Ser Barristan-”
“Another time, Blackfish.” Brown Ben winked, his gaze following after her as she came to
stand by Jon.

“Good spirits for a man’s whose company is broken.” Jon spoke coldly. “How many Second
Sons are left? Half of those we found within the walls are dead, the rest prisoners like you.”

“Well, have a good hundred or so in the countryside harassing the roads.” Ben smiled again.
“But you knew that. What you want to here is how many of us are up there in the Eyrie. With
the king.”

“There’s no king up that mountain.” Bronze Yohn boomed in his powerful voice. “Only a
tyrant whose days of bringing dishonor on the Vale are at an end. Elbert is king no longer.”

“King longer than you might think.” The sellsword replied. “Elbert has a hundred men in the
Eyrie and food enough to feed twice that number for a year. Help will arrive before that. He’s
placed an order with the Ghiscari for Unsullied and I saw the contracts he offered the
Windblown and Stormcrows myself.” At this his face darkened. “More than gold, he
promises lands and titles. Better payment than Mero won out of him.”

At this, ripples of unease moved through the assembled lords

“Two years?” Lord Grandison said in shock. “We can’t sit here that long, what of our lands?”

Ser Mychel frowned. “If more sellswords arrive, those we’ve already defeated will rise up
again. The Belmores, the Moores…”

“We should attack the Eyrie now, they won’t expect it.” Silveraxe Fell proclaimed.

“Attack?” Ser Justin repeated in horror. “Up that?”

“Suicide at best.” Nestor Royce added. “The ascent is treacherous enough without arrows and
missiles raining on our heads from the waycastles. Take an army up there and you’ll lose.”

“Victory awaits those brave and bold enough to try.”

“Bravery is no true shield.” Lady Brienne shook her head, her eyes distant. “The risk is too
great. And the cost….”

Cost. That word fed into the thoughts churning within her. The others were thinking of battle,
yet she picked through Brown Ben’s words again and again. How sincere he sounded.
Especially his anger at the end.

A sellsword values little more than gold, and Elbert gives him less than others.

A man whose fought his battles for half a year now…

“Do I call you captain?” She asked Brown Ben over the talk in the hall. “Or is commander?

“Captain will do.” He acted surprised, as did the others. “Though my friends call me Ben.”
“Captain, then. Since you’re being so forthcoming I’d ask you how many of your men are at
the Eyrie. Speak honestly, now. I do not beg my husband’s mercy for liars.”

“Then honesty you shall have. I’d say there’s thirty or so of my men up there. Fine warriors,
hungry for the gold Elbert’s promised.”

Her uncle grunted. “Let them try to eat gold when they run out of food.”

“Uncle, please.” She said, staying focused. “Captain, were your men to learn no gold was
coming to them, I imagine they’d grow quite distressed. Could they find their way to seizing
the castle?”

A hushed silence fell over the hall, those within either struggling with her suggestion, or
likely guessing at her dark thinking. Jon certainly had, for he now grasped her hand, bidding
her to look at his thoughtful expression. In it she saw a good man but a tired one, with dark
circles below his eyes.

“My men could do that.” Brown Ben answered, a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“Though you spine a fanciful tale. My men know the gold Elbert promised us is at the Eyrie.”

“Though less than what he offered others.” She put in. “Surely not enough to make
recompense for the losses the Second Sons have offered.”

“I did happen to be in the midst of renegotiating our rate…”

“Why not do so here and now?” Sansa asked, squeezing Jon’s hand and looking deep into his
sad grey eyes. “We can surely match the offer Elbert made to your rival sellswords.”

Chains rattled as the prisoner stroked his beard. “Oh I think breaking our contract is worth
more than that.”

“Like your life?” Brynden snapped. “This man should be begging at your feet, not bartering
for gold!”

“We cannot plot with this scoundrel.” Bronze Yohn added, earning nods of agreement from
others. “Elbert must be brought low by the best of the Vale-”

“Many of whom would likely die for the effort.” Jon cut in, his eyes moving about the room.
“Perhaps even some in this room. Of the army I brought to the Vale, one in three will never
see their homes again. How many more should I doom to the same fate? How much more
suffering can the Vale endure?” His swallowed then, disgust tingeing his face before he
lowered his gaze to Brown Ben. “What’s your price?

A foul smile greeted the question. “For the men who’ll do this? I imagine five times what
Elbert promised will do the trick.” Brown Ben stroked his beard again. “Of course you’ll
need me to go up there and arrange all this. That’ll cost you ten times my captain’s rate, and
some land.”

“After what you’ve done to our people?!” Ser Wallace shouted and the sellsword shrugged.
“Preferably somewhere other than the Vale.”

Despite how unseemly it was to deal with this man, the fact he pushed so hard on his
demands was a good sign. On top of ensuring the rest of the Second Sons would still be paid
what was owed, he demanded safe passage for the company out of the Seven Kingdoms. Jon
could not agree to that, for it would ignore the crimes done to the smallfolk and the Faith
during their campaign.

“Someone must answer for those lives.” Jon said, firm in his resolve.

“Fine then, if it gets the rest paid and home, I’ll turn over some.” Brown Ben folded his
hands in front of him. “But I’ll need you to do the same.”

“What foolishness is this?” Lord Hunter asked incredulously.

“Well, Elbert will know the battle’s well and done here. It’ll arouse suspicion if I show up so
late after all others have fled. I will need a very good reason. Or a very valuable prisoner. One
of this lot should do.”

She blinked in disbelief. “You expect us to hand over one of own to your care? All so you can
deliver them to Elbert?”

“That’s a death sentence.” Jon agreed with her in a solemn manner. “We’ve learned that to
our sorrow.”

The dead of the Martyrs’ Mill came back to haunt her gain. The face of dead men rising up in
her memory. Daegon’s was among the clearest. Then Harry, who they had heard little of and
assumed the worst.

“Elbert will want to kill them.” Brown Ben agreed. “But not right away. If it’s someone
Elbert thinks will have the answer he wants, he’ll question them first. Perhaps throw them in
the sky cells to loosen their tongues.”

Jon became livid “Think of another way-”

“Your grace, I will go.” Barristan stepped forward, hand on his sword. “Let this man arrive at
the Eyrie with the commander of your guard. That should sate Elbert’s doubts.”

“No. Ser, step back.” Sansa urged both with her words and eyes. “We will not send anymore
to Elbert-”

“My queen, I will be of more use up there than I am here. Truly, it offends me to think these
sellswords alone could claim victory in your name. If this man can deliver on what he
promises, I will gladly accept whatever trials await me.”

“No.”

“Sansa.” The chill in Jon’s voice bid her to face him, his lips pursed in distaste before he
spoke to the hall at large. “Ser Barristan speaks bravely. His words as wise and true as the
knight himself. He is my sworn shield, but in this he safeguards the lives of thousands.” He
brought a fist to his heart, a warrior’s salute. “Go forth, ser. Do what I and this army cannot.”

He allowed no room for argument, for which there was much among the lords. Sansa felt
numb when Barristan kissed her hand before departing with an unchained Brown Ben. They
would take ten more captive sellswords with him, to better sell themselves as a defiant
rearguard that barely escaped with their lives.

Long after they departed, in the dark of night, she stood at a tower window, watching their
torches climb high up the goat trail. They became as small as the fireflies the children chased
around the Asher tree. She had a hand to her middle when she heard someone enter the
chamber.

“This wasn’t how I wanted it.” Jon said as he came to join her at the window. “Treachery and
guile, endangering a friend, so much for the king you tried to make of me.”

“You’re still the king who took a scar for the sake of old Eon Hunter. The one who led a
brave charge to end this war once and for all. A better sort than your queen.”

“Sansa-”

“I’m guilty of those charges you lay at your feet. My thoughts are dark, my friendship a
curse. I could have tried harder to change your mind about Barristan. The arguments were
there to speak to. Yet I stayed silent. Sacrificing dear Barristan fit in perfectly with my plan.
Why should the love I bear for Barristan spare him? My friendship didn’t save Daegon.”

“Stop this.” He pulled her about, taking her chin in hand forcing her to meet his eyes. “This is
about what I said after the battle. That was the milk of the poppy talking. You were in an
impossible situation, Sansa-”

“No, Lord Blackfyre was.” She rasped at him. “Just as Ser Barristan is now. I used to think
Joffrey was born a monster but perhaps the crown twisted him into what he became.” Her
hand went to the back of her shoulder, where the stag brand burned again. “What if his brand
planted the seed in me and now it blossoms? How much worse can I become? Look how
callous I’ve become to the lives of friends… I’ve already slain one man I loved…”

“That was a mercy.” Jon kissed her brow, pulling her close. “You saved my life, Sansa. In the
North, and here too I suspect. Mine and thousands more. I hate that you’ve gone to such the
dark places, depths I know all to well, but you went there to do good. Our friends would say
the same.”

“Daegon would ask to see his daughter.” She looked up, tears blurring her eyes. “How can is
it fair that I robbed him of ever knowing his child, but I’ve been blessed with another?”

She’d known for some time now she was with child again but wouldn’t risk being sent away
because of it. Jon took the news as well as he usually did. His jaw dropping and eyes growing
wide. After a few sputtering attempts at words, his mouth found hers and they kissed. His lips
and touch loving, his fingers gentle as they wiped the tears from her cheeks. For she had to
weep at the joy and tragedy of it all.
She would spend the rest of the night in bed with a king too good for her. Thoughts of others
never leaving her mind. The dead of the war. Arya and Gendry’s pain. Ser Barristan’s fate.

Her mind stayed troubled for two long days. A torturous time of waiting which ended with
the coming of a raven from the Eyrie. A letter written by another, yet bearing Barristan’s
mark. Words bidding them to climb.

Despite his fears over her pregnancy, she joined Jon on the ascent to the Eyrie. Two parties
would go, to defend against betrayal during the climb. The first travelled ahead of them, a
party of warriors with uncle Brynden, Rickon, Ser Lothor and Lady Brienne among their
number. Sansa wondered if they trembled like her during the journey.

Not since her time with Joffrey had Sansa felt such terror. The narrow goat trail leading up
fell away into a sheer drop at its sides, the smallest misstep meaning death. The whole way
up, cold wind whipped at them, pushing as if it wanted her to go back. Or to fall.

The waycastles they passed were abandoned or surrendered, and after half a day, she found
herself directly below the Eyrie. The castle itself was a cluster of seven white towers, all
grouped tightly together. Before the terrifying climb, she might have thought it beautiful.
Now it seemed a cold, lonely place.

Yet, after catching a lift into the castle itself, they found a warm greeting awaiting them in the
form of Ser Barristan.

“King Jon, Queen Sansa.” The bruised knight bowed. “The Eyrie is yours.”

“As promised.” Brown Ben put in from a doorway where he and several other armored
sellswords stood, eyed warily by Rickon and Ser Lothor. “So let’s remember, we’re all
friends here.”

“Some truer than others.” Jon said, shaking Barristan’s hand before Sansa went forth to kiss
his cheeks. The knight reddened at the affection and winced to have his bruises touched.

“Are you badly hurt, ser? What did Elbert do to you?”

“They went easy on me. A fist or too for my refusal to talk. Then they locked me up in the
sky cells.” He jerked a hand towards Brown Ben. “Until the Second Sons set me loose. They
needed me for the fight. Taking the castle was a brutal affair, even if much of the garrison
were killed in their beds.”

“You’re welcome.” Brown Ben said with a grin. “Lost near half my men in the effort. I’ll still
be expecting their portions of the payment though-”

“What of Elbert?” Jon asked, hand hovering over Dark Sister.

Barristan nodded. “Our prisoner. The others wanted to lock him in a sky cell, and seven
knows he’s earned it but I could not. Elbert surrendered as a king and I treated him as such.
He awaits in the High Hall of the Arryns. There, Elbert will hand over his crown and realm to
you, Jonarys Targaryen, King of Mountain and Vale.”
A cheer went up among those packed in the small chamber, one Jon halted by raising his
hand.

“It’s not done yet. Take me to Elbert.”

“There’s more.” Barristan looked between them both. “Begging your pardons, but it’s
something you’ll want to see first. Queen Sansa too.”

After charging the knight to risk his life, she was more than willing to do as he asked. Jon,
though clearly impatient, put his trust in Ser Barristan as well. Thus they were soon led
through the corridors of the Eyrie, stepping over pools of blood and worse. They came to a
chamber door just as a maester was stepping out. Ser Barristan introduced him as Colemon,
the Eyrie’s maester and healer.

“Humble greetings to you, your majesties.” The thin, nervous man said. “Ser, I did as ordered
and offered them milk of the poppy. The lord refused but the ser accepted and is already
calming.”

“Then step aside.” Barristan urged, opening the door and beckoning them within. “I didn’t
know what else to do. I was sure they needed to be tended to somehow. You see, I wasn’t the
only prisoner the Second Sons freed…”

His words fell away as she stepped into the chamber. A fine room, which was lavishly
furnished with tapestries, chairs and a large bed. A man lay curled up on the bed, his shaggy
hair and beard making it hard to recognize him as Harry Hardying. She was gaping at him
when Jon grabbed her shoulder, bidding her to look to the corner of the room.

There another man sat in a chair, much of his faced turned away from them. With his silver-
blonde hair and what she could see of his profile, her heart leapt to speak his name.

“Daegon.”

He jumped at the sound of her voice, whipping around to look at her. Yet, to her horror, it
became clear Daegon couldn’t see a thing. His deep blue eyes were lost to a milky white
blindness, the flesh around them scarred by terrible burns.

Somehow, his smile was the same.

“Sansa? Sansa, it’s you.” Daegon rose shakily to his feet, reaching the wrong way in search
of them. “Is Jon here too?”

“I’m here.” Jon crossed the space between them, taking hold of the lord and steadying him.
“You’ve been missed, my friend. Dearly missed.”

“If you’re here, that means it worked. Sansa was right. We beat Elbert. We did it.”

She dared to approach them, taking his other hand. When Daegon’s sightless eyes searched in
vain for her, a knife went through her heart.

“Daegon… from the bottom of my heart, I’m so sorry this happened to you.”
“I did my part.” Daegon said, his voice shaking. “House Blackfyre stands true.”

“None will ever doubt that again.” She kissed his hand, then jumped by a sudden burst of
laughter from Harry.

“No eyes, not so bad.” Harry mumbled, rocking back and forth on the bed. “He didn’t have to
see… see the nothing…”

“Ser?” Jon inquired, bringing Harry’s attention to them, his eyes wide and fearful.

“Dragons.” He closed his eyes tight. “Dragons can fly. Falcons too. But not me. Not me…”

“The sky cells.” Barristan explained. “I spent one day in them, enough to trouble me the rest
of my days. Harry spent weeks there. Anyone would be driven mad by that.”

Happy as she was that both men yet lived, their torture filled her with a dreadful anger. From
how tense he’d become, she suspected a similar fury coursed through Jon. With dark eyes
and hoarse voice, he beckoned Ser Barristan.

“Take us to Elbert Arryn. For what he’s done here. To my son and Benjen and so many
others, his reign is at an end. His time is now.”

They strode to the High Hall, side by side. Behind followed a long line ready to witness
Elbert’s downfall. Brynden and Rickon. Bronze Yohn and the Waynwoods. Their Kingsguard
and Brown Ben. Even Ghost, who led Daegon on in his need to see this through. Their heavy
footfalls beating the ground like an executioner’s drum.

Half of year of vicious warfare. Thousands upon thousands dead. Her children’s innocence
stolen away.

Winning this kingdom it has to be more than a mere conquest.

This is not the time for a Kingslayer… we need to show these lands justice again.

When the doors to the High Hall were thrown open, a long and austere hall awaited them.
Torches and narrow windows dotted walls of blue-veined white marble, all leading to the tall
weirwood throne of the Arryns.

Which stood empty. As were long benches and every seat within. There was not a soul to be
found in the drafty, cold hall. Yet it was noisy all the same, eerie moans and howls echoing
along the walls.

“I don’t understand.” Barristan voiced his confusion. “He was sealed within, the doors under
guard. There’s nowhere he could go.”

“That’s not true.” She said, her eyes having found the source of the howls.

Between two slender pillars was a narrow doorway. Wind whipped through the open
entrance, its weirwood door swinging back and forth idly. Beyond that lay nothing but empty
sky.
“The Moon Door.” Bronze Yohn whispered. “He could not have climbed from it, it be his
death.”

“I think that’s the escape he sought.” She answered. “He’d not give us this triumph…”

“Nor any justice.” Jon said in a defeated way. “This isn’t how it should be.”

They gazed long and hard at each other. Somehow, she knew they weren’t the same people
who’d come to the Vale together. With the wind howling loudly, they walked to the Moon
Door, looking out at the vast abyss of the sky beyond. Then down to the six hundred foot
drop to the stones of the valley below.

Sansa felt like she could see the whole of the Vale. A land of mountains and lush valleys,
blue rivers and snowy peaks. A view both wondrous and terrifying. One they’d paid in blood
to earn. In the suffering of friend and foe alike.

As she looked out over their new kingdom, a tear escaped her eye.

And like Elbert Arryn, it fell into nothingness.

 Chapter 13
Chapter Summary

Tainted justice. A stolen dragon. The queen's lament.

JON

Whether in Aevalon or the Eyrie, petitions were always a trial.

Mercifully, far fewer callers came to seek Jon in the High Hall of the Eyrie than back home in
the Red Keep. Scaling the Giant’s Lance was an impressive feat and those who braved it
earned his full attention. No matter how bothersome the issue or fickle the request, he would
listen until his arse grew sore upon the Arryn throne. At times he put his discomfort down to
the weirwood seat being meant for a falcon, not a dragon.

Nonsense of course, a throne’s a throne. I simply became too used to the saddle.

I've been acting more conqueror than king, putting the burdens of rule on Sansa.

That ended now. Sansa was in dire need of relief, and he could not yet entrust such matters to
the new head of House Arryn. Seated in a smaller chair to Jon’s right, the newly anointed
Harrold Arryn barely mustered any interest at all. Though his shaggy hair and beard had long
since been trimmed, Harry still had that vacant look in his eyes, as if he were still trapped in
the sky cells.

Whether Harry would ever recover from his ordeal, no one was sure. Others in the hall, like
Ser Symond Templeton and Ser Eustace Hunter, eyed their new lord with little regard, yet
Jon was willing to be patient.

No matter how much this petition exhausted him.

“Lord Melcolm, I’ve heard enough.” He said to the older lord and his party. “From you and
your esteemed companions.”

The Lord of Old Anchor had brought a chubby septon, his cousin, and a maester whose arms
were loaded with parchments. Bronze Yohn and his other Vale allies glared at the group
openly yet Jon kept his face even.

“I had my maester go over your declarations.” Jon explained as he gestured to the thin form
of Maester Colemon. “All your blood claims have been found true. With all members of
House Hersy dead, there are grounds for you to make a claim to Newkeep and all its
incumbent lands and incomes.”
“Thank the Crone for blessing his grace with such wisdom.” The chubby septon smiled at
him. “Trust that my kin are eager to prove themselves-”

“I said that Lord Melcolm has a claim.” Jon leaned back in the throne then. “Beyond that, I
must refuse to grant him the Hersy holdings.”

“Why? My father’s mother was of Newkeep.” The lord protested. “By the laws of
inheritance, those lands are mine.”

“Actually they belong to me, by the right of conquest. As such, I have bequeathed Newkeep
to Lord Daegon Blackfyre, a true and loyal knight.”

“That foreign born hedge knight?!”

“Your grace!” The septon appealed. “After all the sacrifices made by the faithful in this war, I
urge you to reconsider. I have the High Septon’s ear. I’m sure his holiness would be greatly
concerned to hear of Andal noblemen having their lands stolen away-”

“I have taken nothing from your lord, though I surely could have. He fought against me, and
when the war was lost he bent the knee to me, I left him be. I even upheld his family’s rights
to Old Anchor, despite the misgivings of more than a few of my lords. Let him seek the High
Septon’s counsel, for I feel certain he will urge Lord Melcolm to thank the Seven for the
lands he has.”

“Them and Jonarys Targaryen.” Bronze Yohn added. “King of the Mountain and Vale.”

There was more to his title but Jon waved it off, instead offering Lord Melcolm chambers for
the night. This also served to remind the lord of the men he must soon deliver to Gulltown, so
they might sail for the Blackwater Rush all the sooner.

While Jon was inclined to fairness, he was also the victor of this war. Which meant Lord
Melcolm, despite his anger, had little recourse than to accept his decision. Should the lord
seek the High Septon, Jon imagined those complaints would be drowned out by the clinking
of coin or the hammering of stonemasons, repairing and rebuilding the holy places of the
Vale. Nearly half of the wealth they had found in the Eyrie’s vaults went to the Faith and
what was owed the Second Sons. Some more gold was given over to his army, mostly those
who had missed out on sacking of Gulltown and other enemy castles.

What was left went towards ending the suffering here in the Vale. Whether to buy food for
the starving or seed for the burnt out fields, the cost was worth it. He wanted these lands to
prosper once more.

War delivered them to me, but if my realm is to thrive, we must have peace.

So the North has to make due without us. As must the empire.

Fighting may have ended in the Vale, yet it raged elsewhere. Ravens and messengers
bombarded the Eyrie with word of troubles to the north and across the Narrow Sea. However
much it rankled Jon, his fragile realm could do little for the Starks, and even less for the High
King and the imperial family.

The choice before Robb was a terrible one, yet it was the letter from Daenerys that haunted
him most.

After everything that’s happened, I can do nothing to help. Not that it matters.

She will never forgive me.

He pushed that aside. It was his new domain that required his attention. The Targaryen hold
on the Vale was tenuous at best. Raising up lords like Bronze Yohn and others to key
positions had helped, but the people needed time to accept Jon as their king. Thus, for the
foreseeable future, he and Sansa would rule their enlarged realm from the Eyrie.

Hopefully my gift to her will arrive soon, to lessen our new burdens and make this strange
place feel like home.

Jon had just agreed to name Nestor Royce castellan of the Gates of the Moon when a
commotion outside the hall grabbed his attention.

Despite the thick stone, he could hear the sounds of hurried footsteps and a child’s wailing
growing louder and louder. Jon was on his feet when a pair of guardsmen swung the doors
open. Suddenly the cold, marble halls of the Eyrie came alive for him for the first time in
moons.

His children had finally arrived.

“There he is!” Aemma was the first through the door, dragging Aenry along with her.
“Father! Father, we’re here!”

“We weren’t announced.” Rhaegina scolded, doing her best to look proper as she and Lady
followed behind.

What a difference a year had made. Each of his children appeared a head taller than he
remembered and more beautiful than ever. His daughters looked less like girls and more like
young women as they came on. Rhaegina wore a gown the color of jade with emeralds about
the neck, and Aemma the opposite. He suspected his mother’s hand in those new gowns, and
in the Aenry’s dark doublet adorned with a white dragon. The boy was gazing in awe at the
hall, yet when he met Jon’s gaze, his son offered a shy smile.

“Hello father. Are you well?” Aenry asked.

“I am my son.” He walked forward to gather Aemma and Aenry into his arms, kissing their
heads and holding them tight. “I have not felt this well in a very long time.”

“Were you ill?” Rhaegina asked, trying to look and sound proper. Yet her act faltered when
he waved her forth to embrace him as well.

“Not ill. I left parts of my heart back in Aevalon, and now it feels whole again.”
“That’s sweet, father.” Rhaegina nuzzled against him before Aemma leaned in to whisper to
her twin.

“I think he stole it from a song.”

His laughter was overshadowed by the loud cries of a babe, for the youngest of his children
had just entered the hall behind a troupe of white cloaks. Ser Barristan and Ghost guided Ser
Guyard Morrigen, Ser Richard Horpe, and Malo Jayn into the hall, each having spent the war
at Aevalon. Behind them came Lord Lyman Darry and his wife, Lady Talia, who had been
one of Sansa’s closest friends. Jon was grateful for how lovingly she carried Vaelena.

He nearly gasped to see how much the babe had grown. Dressed in a tiny gown of cream and
gold, Vaelena now had a head of silver-blonde curls and her voice seemed louder than ever.
When they grew near, he released the other children to hold out hands in expectation.

“Your grace, forgive her.” Talia said as she handed Vaelena to him. “She slept most of the
journey and only just woke-”

“It is I who owes my daughter an apology.” He took the crying girl into his arms and smiled
down at her. “Forgive me if I hold you poorly Vaelena. I am out of practice. I promise to
improve, even if it means I must hold you for hours. Days even.”

The girl quieted some to pull on his beard with sharp, determined tugs.

“She did that to Ghost’s tail.” Aenry noted with a grin. “He didn’t like it either. It’s funny
when she wrecks the girls’ braids, sometimes they cry.”

“Hush now.” Aemma snapped, growing red at how many of the men in the hall chuckled.

“At least we didn’t keep our eyes closed the whole climb up.” Rhaegina added and it was
Aenry who grew red.

“Not the whole way!”

“Do not worry my son. Many a knight and lord have done the same. Perhaps even a king or
two.”

Aenry laughed at that, and Jon knew then that a new day had dawned at the Eyrie.

“Did everyone make the ascent with you?” He asked of Lyman, who shook his head.

“There weren’t enough mules for all of us. Maester Samwell and the rest of the council will
come tomorrow. The High Queen jests that you left her without much company in Aevalon.”

“She will do well with her fine few.” He said, planting a kiss to Vaelena’s cheek. “I trust my
home completely to their care.”

However awkward his parents’ estrangement, he was glad to have his mother in Aevalon.
Few could balance the needs of the freemen and freedmen so well. Yes, she had shown poor
judgement in trusting Petyr Baelish with her wealth, but the thief could not hide forever. Jon
almost pitied Baelish, for the ruling quartet of Aevalon would not most likely show him little
mercy.

“Arya and Gendry were doing well when we left.” Lyman told him. “The lord’s moving
about easier and the lady hasn’t suffered a coughing spell in some time.”

Aemma perked up then. “Grandmother said Lyonel and Nymeria would have dragged them
from their sick beds sooner or later.”

“The boy is as bold as Arya ever was.” Talia agreed. “Though, even she was humbled by the
lands and incomes you awarded House Baratheon. You should know, Gendry spoke of
refusing them.”

“He’s too modest. I almost did worse to those Gulltown traitors. Losing some lands to House
Baratheon is a small price compared to their heads or the Wall. And if not for Gendry and
Arya, the city might not have fallen, so they more than earned an income from the city's port
trade. They’re just lucky I didn’t hand them a castle like I did Daegon. Did he arrive in
Aevalon before you left?”

“Yes, father.” Rhaegina answered. “We were there to greet him with Lady Laenora and little
Daemona. The lady was so very proud that you chose him to help rule Aevalon.” She then
eyed him and Vaelena in a sad way. “He wept to hold Daemona… he said the gods must have
deemed him unworthy of her beauty.”

Aemma sniffed at that. “That can’t be true. Lord Blackfyre did such a brave thing. Him and
Ser Harrold both.”

It was then that his daughter caught sight of Harry, still seated in his chair. The man was
staring at the children and mumbling to himself.

“Ser- I’m sorry, it is lord now.” Aemma smiled at Harry. “We said prayers for you, all of us
did. In thanks for your noble act-”

“No. Not noble.” Harry shook his head, trembling to look towards the Moon Door. “They
should not be here. Not here. It’s not safe for children… they can’t fly… they can’t…”

Harry’s voice faded as he covered his face with trembling hands. The children gaped at the
display, yet thankfully Bronze Yohn had the sense to act.

“It is good to see the Dragons Darling again.” The lord declared in his booming voice before
smiling at Aenry. “My prince, what a strapping young man you’ve become.”

“You’re the bronze lord. I remember you.” Aenry said.

“He’s more than that, son.” Jon gestured to the lord. “Lord Royce shall serve as Lord
Protector of the Vale until Harry is feeling well again. He and Lord Darry are going to join
Maester Samwell and the others on my council.”

“Congratulations, my lord.” Rhaegina said as she and Aemma curtsied to Yohn. “We met
your cousin Nestor at the Gates of the Moon. His daughter arranged a ball for us.”
“It was quite splendid.” Aemma continued. “The Lady Myranda danced with Ser Roland
Waynwood and challenged us to make the Darry boys blush.”

Aenry giggled. “Raymun and Gregory looked as red as apples.”

“Perhaps we don’t tell your mother about that game.” Talia shifted uncomfortably.

“Where is mother?” Aemma asked, searching the faces in the hall.

“I’ll take you to her in just a little while.” Jon said quickly before waving the other lords
forward. “First, I believe Rhaegina spoke of proper introductions.”

Some of the men in the hall had fought against them in the war. Men like Ser Symond and
Ser Marwyn Belmore had heard the worst of him from Elbert. Their knees may have bent,
but he wished to win them over fully. To show these men that he was more than a conqueror
and a Kingslayer. His children were proof of that.

They were the best of him.

The best of us, he thought, nothing makes Sansa happier than our babes.

The children were overjoyed when they finally left the hall in search of Sansa. Talia walked
with the older three, helping them admire the tapestries and carved stone likenesses of Vale
heroes along the way. He and Lyman walked ahead, Vaelena jabbering nonsense up at Jon as
he held her his arms.

“When we arrived at Gulltown there was a ship preparing to raise anchor.” Lyman said softly,
as if he were speaking to Vaelena instead of Jon. “I counted thirty knights and retainers, all
fitted and kitted, ready to answer those raids from the Reach.”

“Eager for the plunder to come from our own raids, more like.” He grumbled. The marcher
lords Rowan and Vyrwel had been striking along their borderlands, and Jon sought former
foes to answer these new threats.

“Yesterday those men were fighting against me, spare sons and hedge knights of Elbert’s
loyalists. Tomorrow they’ll fight in my name, if only to regain some of the pride and wealth
that my victory cost them.”

“If it endears them to us, all the better.” Lyman insisted. “When the Reach men see knights of
the Vale among our war parties, it’s sure to give them pause. The Gardeners simply refuse to
rein their lords in. King Mace talks of peace and trade... but the court at Highgarden is rife
with foul rumors.”

“I’ve heard. I am the Kingslayer twice over now.” He growled, hating the moniker even more
now that he hadn't even met Elbert Arryn before the end.

“That’s not the worst of it.” Lyman looked behind them before continuing. “There’s a vile
tale being spread about Queen Sansa. Some say Elbert Arryn was thrown out of the Moon
Door only after the queen bled him before a weirwood as a blood sacrifice.”
His jaw fell open at that. “It’s not true! Not a word of it! Who says such filth?”

“Genna Lannister and her Osgrey husband. The Peakes and Footlys as well. Varys can speak
to it more than me.”

“How could they stoop so low... the Eyrie doesn't even have a heart tree!”

Had Vaelena not begun fusing, his anger might’ve worsened. As it went, both men quieted so
the child might calm. Jon tried his best to smother his outrage with the loveliness of his little
princess. A memory of Sansa rocking Vaelena to sleep came back to him then, and he
wondered how anyone could think evil of such a loving woman?

He remained unsettled the entire climb up the splendid tower where Sansa kept her chambers.
The doors were sanded weirwood with gold banding, and when they entered they found a
cluster of lavish rooms. Among them was a large bedchamber, a dressing room, and a small
library with a window overlooking the castle garden.

That’s where they found his queen.

Sansa sat next to the window in a simple gown of grey, her hair unbound and resting on her
shoulders. Although a book rested in her lap, Sansa paid it little mind as she stared out the
window in a listless manner. Unbidden, the image of Harry came back to him.

Vaelena was squirming in his arms when Aenry cried out in joy.

“Mother!” The boy called, startling Sansa terribly. Her book fell away as she spun about,
displaying the dark circles beneath her widening eyes.

“Aenry? How-” Sansa asked as she took in the group before her. “Girls… what are you doing
here?”

“We came to see you!” Aenry giggled, running to wrap his arms around Sansa’s middle. “I
missed you, mother. I said my prayers and brushed Lady every day…”

Sansa numbly patted the boy’s shoulders, looking at Aenry and then the twins with a
bewildered expression. Rhaegina and Aemma were frozen in place, the girls sharing a
worried look with one another. Unlike Aenry, the twins were old enough to sense the change
in their mother.

Such was the power of the deep melancholy which had held Sansa in its grasp for weeks now.

Beyond her drab appearance and lack of good cheer, Sansa was often listless by day and
restless at night, barely eating and only when he urged her to. She refused to consider leaving
the Eyrie, not wanting to leave him to face this task alone. Yet in most ways, it was like Sansa
wasn’t here at all. His wife scorned all matters of rule that she once delighted in and what few
she did take up she quickly set aside, claiming that there were others better suited.

He was about to urge the twins on to their mother when Vaelena uttered a gurgling laugh. The
babe reached for her with tiny grasping hands, and Sansa recoiled, her face twisting in fear.
“How could you?” Sansa demanded of him, pulling free of Aenry. “How could you bring
them here?”

“Sansa, they missed you.” He said softly. “If you must stay at the Eyrie, I would have you be
happy. See how much Vaelena has grown? I had forgotten how beautiful she was-”

“That’s not the point.” Sansa put up her hands and turned her face away. “She should be in
Aevalon. All of them should. It’s not time. We’re not ready yet.”

“We are. There’s peace now. The Eyrie is ours. The Gates too. This land, its people... they
belong to us now. To our children. Let them see what our time apart has brought about.”

“I don’t want them to see.” Sansa shook her head, a hand running over her middle. “Do even
know what I... do they know what it took to have this peace?”

“We do.” Rhaegina said then. “Grandmother told us, about Ser Dontos and Ser Myles.”

“The singers are writing songs about them.” Aemma added. “About Ser Daegon and the
Martyr’s Mill as well.”

Sansa looked ready to retch. “Songs? Songs!? They wish to sing about those poor men? All
they endured because…” She swallowed deeply. “No. No Jon. I want them to go home. Send
them home. Far from here. We’re not ready.”

“Mother? What’s wrong?” Aenry asked as Sansa walked away, avoiding Jon’s grasp.

“Sansa…”

“I’m not ready!” Sansa shouted, darting into her dressing room and slamming the door.

Aenry ran after her and started to pull and bang on the door, prompting Vaelena to begin
wailing.

“Mother! Mother! Don’t go! Please! We’ll be good!”

“Perhaps I should take the children to their rooms and get them settled.” Talia suggested
despite the shock upon her face.

“Yes... yes...” Jon nodded numbly while he handed Vaelena over, still rattled by this
unexpected disaster. “Girls, Aenry, go with Lady Talia. She and Ser Mychel will show you to
your new rooms.”

“I want to stay with mother!” Aenry was crying now, beating his fists against the door.
Without being told Aemma went to him, gathering the boy up in her arms and whispering
kindly in his ear.

“She’s tired, Aenry. Let’s let her rest.” Aemma whispered as she led Aenry toward Lady
Talia.
“What did King Elbert do to mother?” Jon heard his son ask. “Why didn’t father protect
her?”

The words hit Jon hard, causing him to place a hand on the wall to steady himself. While
Lyman did his best to look elsewhere, it was Rhaegina that came to him then. His eldest child
grabbed his free hand and pressed it to her cheek.

“It will be alright, father.” She whispered to him. “Mother will be better. She’s a dragon too.
You made her one.”

“Thank you, darling. Go on now. You and Aemma should tend to your little brother and
sister.”

Rhaegina left to do as she was bid, and he went to stand outside Sansa’s door for a few
moments. He steeled himself for yet another argument. To tell Sansa once more that she was
still the pure soul that he had married. That she was not to blame for the suffering Elbert
Arryn had wrought.

Yet he couldn’t. Jon did not have the strength to watch her cry again. To hear her beg for him
to leave her be. So instead he turned and left her chambers, Lyman following after. Evidently
the lord found the awkward silence between them as unbearable as he did.

“I heard how terrible the war was…” Lyman started before thinking better of it. “It’s no
surprise it unnerved the queen. I've seen it happen with seasoned warriors. And with what
happened with her brother on Harlaw, my heart goes out to her.”

“Sansa doesn’t know about Bran.” He said as they reached the stairwell. “You saw how she
is. To burden her any further… it would be cruel.”

Lyman ran a hand down his face at that. “So we’re not to speak of the North?”

“At least not that. Nor of the empire and my family.”

“I wouldn’t dare. All know it’s folly to mention Daenerys Targaryen or that boy in Queen
Sansa’s presence- er, that is, yes your grace.”

“Once she’s feeling better I’ll tell her all this myself.” He said as they descended further
down the tower. “The good and the bad, everything a queen would need know... I'll tell Sansa
when she is better again.”

Jon said it as much for Lyman’s benefit as for his own. It gave him hope to think of Sansa
better again. Her melancholy would pass, just as his grief had all those years ago.

When he had married Sansa.

When things were better.

BRAN
They sailed throughout the night, reaching the isle of Harlaw as the sun rose anew.

Long before any others in the northern armada could spy the large island, Bran had done so
using the eyes of a wolf. Summer was standing with him upon the deck of the King
Eddard when he slipped into the wolf’s skin. Only to see what lay ahead of the war galley
other than dark rolling waters.

Through the wolf’s eyes, the pebbled beaches and rolling hills of the island were so clear to
him. Thus it was strange sensation when Bran returned to his own body and had to strain to
make out Harlow’s dark shape in the distance. A shiver ran through him then, likely because
his leathers and cloak were far less warm than Summer’s fur had felt.

Don’t lie to yourself, he thought, it’s not the damp that makes you shake.

It’s the death that awaits us.

Bran leaned against the bow of the galley, looking back at the Stark armada following behind.
They had all departed Blacktyde together, leaving the enemy isle a smoking waste in their
wake.

Many had died there. Some by Bran’s own hand. He had done the same in the sea battles off
Cape Kraken and the retaking of Flint’s Finger. During the Flint fighting he’d taken an arrow
to his shoulder from the bow of Theon Greyjoy himself. The brisk sea air caused the wound
to ache, yet it was an ugly truth that bothered him more.

Before this war, Bran had never taken a life. Now the count stood at eleven.

A few more lives and I’ll have killed more men than spent nights with my bride.

The wife I was never meant to have.

His marriage to Eddara Tallhart was the work of politics, and the speed of their wedding was
proof of that. No sooner had he arrived at Torrhen’s Square than the pair went before the
weirwood to swear their vows. Beyond her titles Bran knew little of Eddara other than what
his eyes told him. Short of stature, with fair hair and generous curves, there was no question
Eddara was a pretty woman. Especially when her cheeks dimpled with each smile.

More and more, he found himself thinking of those dimples. The ones upon her face, and
elsewhere.

He’d gotten his first glimpse of such during their bedding, when Bran and Eddara both been
stripped down by the guests and thrown into bed together. Laying half-naked in Eddara’s
presence was hard enough, yet to glimpse her bare breasts and the thick, honey colored hair
about her sex filled Bran with nervousness. Being a widower, Eddara was far more
experienced at consummating a marriage than him. In truth he might as well have been a
maiden.

Awkward as that was to admit, he had told new wife much the same.
“I’m a touch surprised,” Eddara had smiled to hear so. “My father marked you a very daring
prince. Anytime we visited Winterfell, I saw a boy climbing the tallest towers and braving
treacherous heights. I only assumed the man he became would not balk to climb into the bed
of a woman or two.”

He remembered flushing in embarrassment. “To climb a tree is not to dishonor it. I didn’t like
how others jested of bedding women… my father never spoke of my mother that way. There
was love and honor between them. I was waiting for that I guess.”

“So was I.” Eddara told him with a sad look. “Until I wed Cley. He was a good man. He was
quite gentle with me when it came to our first night.” She had stroked his face in a way no
woman ever had. “What we will have will be different, but in a good way I hope. With you I
might know love again... and hopefully this night will be worth your wait.”

Eddara was good to her word. She eased his mind with soft kisses and gentle caresses,
guiding his hands and letting him know the body she had pledged to him. When Eddara
climbed upon him, lowering herself upon his manhood, it thrilled Bran in a way he had never
known.

He began to yearn for those moments. The preparations for war kept him busy during the day,
his unleashed lust for Eddara taking up much of their nights. They came to know each other’s
bodies better than their minds. Now and then he caught glimpses of the loneliness that Eddara
kept hidden away, and he hoped she could not sense the turmoil he faced each night. For
while she slept soundly in his arms, he would find no such peace in his dreams.

The three-eyed crow haunted them so. An otherworldly messenger that first came to him
years ago. Telling Bran of things to come, of all he could do... promising to help him fly.

Once the crow came sparingly, now it invaded his dreams every night. Cawing the same
messages again and again.

Wall. Beyond. Singers. Greenseer.

One day I’ll go to the Wall, he told himself, even if it must wait until I’m old and grey.

He had a wife now, and he owed Eddara a good life and children. Father would expect that of
him. The same went for waging war on his brother’s behalf. If not for the injuries Robb took
at Flint’s Finger, it would be him leading this attack. Instead his king had entrusted Bran to
do so, a charge that he could not bring himself to argue against.

By serving his king faithfully, Bran felt closer to his father.

No matter how far he travelled.

Soon rowboats carried him and Summer even farther, bringing them and many others to the
deserted beach. Once ashore, other commanders gathered to him. The lanky warrior woman
Dacey Mormont, Rickard Ryswell with his thick brown beard and stallion’s head upon his
tunic, the quiet but barrel-chested Ronnel Stout, and lastly Ethan Forrester, who ran a hand
through his dark, wavy hair before kneeling on the beach and uttering a prayer to the old
gods.

He heard the names of Ethan’s wife, Beth Cassel, and their two children. It struck Bran then
that in a few years, he too might be so torn between duty and family.

“This is strange.” Dacey said as she eyed the beaches and hills around them. “After Theon
Greyjoy’s escape from the North, I thought for sure his people would have some warning of
our coming.”

“Aye.” Rickard agreed. “We were lucky to take Blacktyde by surprise, but to spy no
longships on the way here? No signal fires?”

“They’re scared.” Ethan declared, hefting up a shield that bore the white ironwood and black
upturned sword of his house. “The squids know we’ve come to do the as we did at Cape
Kraken and Blacktyde. Let them cower in their driftwood keeps and salty hovels.”

Ronnel grunted at that. “The ironmen are no cowards. We’ve not yet faced a true taste of their
might. I wager most of our foes are off fighting worse threats than our meager raid.”

Ethan flushed some at that but Bran thought Ronnel had the right of it. Much of the Greyjoy
strength had been drawn south to Fair Isle, where the bulk of the Lannister and Manderly
fleets were battling to free the island from reaver rule.

Summer whined and drew his attention away from the others. Through their bond, he sensed
his friend’s urgency and saw the wolf staring at something beyond the beach. A sight he
could not make out until he slipped into Summer’s skin.

“There may be trouble ahead.” He warned once free of the wolf’s mind, pointing inland.
“Something’s burning. Perhaps some of those signal fires Rickard expected.”

“I see nothing.” Dacey squinted along with the rest. “Are you sure?”

“The prince has the eyes of a hawk.” Hallis Mollen said, Bran's large captain of the guards
approaching with the rest of Bran’s Dreadfort men. Among them was Steelshanks Walton, a
brusque sergeant who had once served the Roose Bolton. Summer had never smelt any
treachery in Steelshanks, and although Bran didn’t much care for him, he made a fine soldier
and captain of his riders.

“Could be an ambush awaiting inland.” Walton said, gesturing to the horses being led
through the surf. “I can lead some outriders ahead, flush them out.”

“No. A stronger force, with Summer and myself at the head. Just like at the Flint Cliffs.”

“Theon Greyjoy nearly killed you for that recklessness.” Hal pointed out and Bran rubbed at
his shoulder again.

“Springing that trap spared Robb from worse. We’ll clear the way. Dacey and Ronnel will
bring up the rest behind us. Let’s find out where we are and who our first fight shall be
against.”
The others were right of course. Doing as he planned invited great risk. Treachery and a lack
of protection had cost Eddard Stark his life. Yet Bran imagined things would’ve been
different for his father if he had had a direwolf.

Summer led their number, acting as Bran’s eyes and ears as he rode behind with scores of
armored horsemen. They travelled along a well-trodden trail, over barrens of shaggy grass,
passing by rocky hills and crags dotted with deserted mines. Their party kept quiet for most
part, ready to find a fight at any moment.

What they came upon was worse. Through Summer, Bran had smelt the death and smoke
long before Rickard and Ethan gave shouts of alarm at the burnt out hovel.

Though the fire had died out some time ago, smoke still rose off charred logs and corpses.
The only things untouched by the flames were five severed heads impaled on sticks along the
trail. Those of an elderly couple, a man, a woman, and a small boy.

Darker tendrils of smoke rose into the sky ahead, and he feared what might have caused
them.

As they rode, there were more hovels and farms ravaged in the same manner. A small mining
village was burnt to the ground, the dead piled high at its center. A stone holdfast had its
doors broken and the heads of its defenders and smallfolk alike stuck upon spikes. There they
found the first clues to who might be responsible.

The attackers had left their own dead behind. Upon a dead squire, Ethan spotted the sigil of
House Sarsfield while another’s shield bore the hooded man of House Banefort.

“Westermen.” Hal spat. “What are these whoresons doing here?”

“The same as us.” Rickard replied grimly. “Raiding while the reavers are away. The Banefort
isn’t far from Harlaw. It wouldn’t take long for their ships to reach here. King Robb worried
we might meet our allies in this way. That’s why the prince leads us.”

All looked to him and his thoughts went back to what Robb had said to him from his sickbed.

“The bad blood runs deep.” Robb had explained while cradling his battered ribs. “Many of
my lords care more for vengeance than the future of our kingdom. The Lannisters may have
killed father, but he lives on as long as our realm does. He would want us to do what’s best
for the North and its people. However much it hurts, do honor by him Bran. Do what I
cannot.”

Robb’s trust was little comfort at the time, yet Bran had sworn the same oath as the rest of
those around him. He reminded them of that oath now.

“Our blades are for the krakens.” Bran reminded Ethan and Hal. “So we keep our hatred of
the lions sheathed. For now the westermen are our allies.” He looked to Rickard then. “Any
who act otherwise, think on which you’d rather stomach. The Lannisters or exile.”
Three had already made that choice, including Rickard’s younger brother. Roose Ryswell,
along with Gryff Whitehill and Ser Donnel Locke, had publicly denounced Robb and
foreswore the alliance with the Lannisters during a muster in the Rills. When Robb learned of
this, he had had each man banished from the North for at least five years. A warning to other
would be detractors, like Rickard Karstark.

Gods help me if one of these men fall out of line, he worried, Robb punishes oathbreakers just
as father would.

By the blade.

These thoughts troubled him as they pressed on.

It was not along before Summer led them to another attack still underway. They crested a hill
to find a town in the midst of being sacked, hundreds of armed men putting buildings to the
torch and its inhabitants to the sword. Whatever defense these people could offer was
crushed, all the ongoing violence amounting to little more than butchery.

Disgusted, he decided this had to stop. Thus he rode down to seek the commander of this
slaughter.

A horn was blown to signal their coming, and the sight of Bran and the others riding through
the blood-soaked streets caused many of the westermen to stay their hands. He spotted a few
more Banefort men-at-arms watching them pass, as well as several other sigils he didn’t
recognize. Yet one in particular gave him pause.

Three hounds on a yellow field. He saw it upon the bloody tunic of a sandy haired man-at-
arms, who laughed as he ripped a girl from the arms of an old woman.

“You!” He shouted at the man. “Who commands here?”

“The Mountain That Rides.” The man called back with a bold grin. “Ser Gregor Clegane.
Who might you be, northman?”

“Prince Brandon Stark, son of King Eddard!” Ethan bellowed back as Bran gripped his reins
tightly.

“Eddard Stark, ain’t that the king the ser slew…”

Summer’s growl cut him off, for their bond meant the wolf shared in his fury. Bran had
steeled himself to deal with the Lannisters and their lords, but nothing could have prepared
him to face Gregor Clegane. The monster had murdered his father in cold blood, cutting Lord
Eddard down so savagely that only his bones came back home. The father who Bran had
loved was gone forever, leaving nothing for him to hold onto but a cold statue in the
darkness.

No, remember what Robb said. Father lives on. He lives on as long as I honor him.

Remember him… remember your oath.

“Take me to him. Now.” Bran demanded of the man. Ethan and Rickard urged otherwise but
he insisted. The Mountain’s man, Raff as he was named, begrudgingly returned the girl to the
old woman before taking them deeper into the village. All the way to a wide, open square
with a longhall at its end and a pile of dead sitting in the center.

Scores of smallfolk were gathered in the square, guarded by cruel, jeering men. All watching
as a Clegane man-at-arms cut upon a bearded captive they had strapped to a pole. When the
man bellowed in agony, a small boy broke free from a woman’s arms, running towards the
tortured man.

“Leave my father alone!” The boy cried before he was knocked down by a spearman with a
loud crack. The child was kicked several times before a woman leapt atop him, until soon she
was the one being kicked and beaten.

“No!” The captive pleaded. “Please leave my family be… I’ve told you everything…”

“Is there gold in the village?” The torturer demanded, pulling a hook from his belt. “Where
have the Reader’s men fled to?”

When the man claimed ignorance, the hook was pressed against his belly.

“STOP!” Bran shouted, pulling his sword and dismounting from his horse. “Cut that man
again and you will suffer the same!”

“This be a Stark prince.” Raff said as all eyes turned to him and his party. “He’s come
seeking the ser. Best listen to him for now, Tickler. That wolf of his looks like it can do
bloodier work than you.”

“So it does.” The Tickler backed away, he and Raff joining a line of their men that formed up
in opposition to Summer and himself. Rickard and Ethan took a place to his right, Hal and
Steelshanks to his left. They were all glaring at each other when the hall’s doors burst
outward with a crash.

The monster that emerged from the hall caused his breath to catch. Nearly eight feet tall, with
massive shoulders and limbs as thick as tree trunks, the Mountain brought an ominous silence
onto the square. Screaming from elsewhere in the village continued as Ser Gregor walked
forward with a greatsword strapped across his back, his heavy armor clanking with every
step.

Raff and the Tickler stepped aside so the Mountain could come and tower over him, the
man’s severe eyes surveying the northern party before settling on Bran.

“This village is mine.” Gregor’s voice sounded like stone breaking. “We march on Ten
Towers. You northmen can find plunder elsewhere.”

“You cannot dictate terms to a prince of Winterfell.” Rickard said before Bran raised his
hand.
“We are to harry this island, not turn it into a slaughterhouse.” His voice came out, cold as
ice. “King Robb has made me pledge to accept surrenders and show mercy to the smallfolk.
These people mean nothing against our combined strength-”

“They are chattel.” The Mountain glanced to the tortured man lashed to the pole. “Eating
what we could, taking up space that my men need. When lords lose enough of them, their
will breaks all the quicker.”

“That’s not how we wage war.” He said as Summer growled and bared his teeth.

“I care not. Lord Banefort sits at a port to the east. Seek him out if you want to talk. Just
begone from here. This village is mine. Same goes for all in it, wolf prince.”

“I’m ordering you to show them mercy.” He took a step forward, only for Rickard and Hal to
take hold of him.

“The oath, my prince. Remember your oath.” Hal urged and Rickard nodded.

“It’s not right, but these people are our foes. These sick dogs are our allies. Let’s seek Lord
Banefort. You’ll have more luck reasoning with him than this aurochs.”

Every ounce of Bran wanted to kill the Mountain. Not just for the horrors being done here,
but for father. Gregor knew who Bran was. The Mountain knew what he had stolen from him.
He knew! Yet the monster still had the gall to stare him down.

Think of father… remember what Robb said… remember your oath.

“We ride.” He croaked out, turning his back to the Mountain and his men. “As far as it takes
to be free of the stench of these scum.”

His men were obviously relieved by this, yet the captive’s wife and son were not.

“M’lord, please!” The woman called to him, blood running from her nose as she clutched her
son tight. “Mercy! Don’t leave us, I beg of ye! Pray mercy for my husband!”

Summer whined but Bran kept walking... until the Mountain’s grumbling laughter caught up
with him.

“Mercy?” Gregor looked from the suffering pair to the man he had tied to the pole. “Is that
what you want? Stop hiding behind your wench and ask for it yourself.”

“Yes… mercy…” The man nodded weakly, only for his eyes to grow wide in terror when the
Mountain unsheathed his giant greatsword with one hand.

“Mercy it is then.”

“No!” Bran and the wife screamed as one, yet their shouts did nothing. His blade struck the
captive square in the chest, cleaving through him cleanly and burying itself in the wood. The
dead man let loose a choked gurgle of agony, living long enough to watch as the Mountain
laughed at him one last time.
The boy’s wails echoed in his ears. Screaming for his father, just as Rickon had all those
years ago. He saw mother holding Sansa and Arya close as they wept. Robb being presented
with Ice as father’s bones lay close by.

Suddenly it was Eddard Stark’s corpse he saw bound to that pole, butchered at the end of the
Mountain's blade.

My father.

“Murderer!” Bran shouted as he pushed by his men, rushing at the Mountain with his sword
raised. “You bloody monster!”

Gregor was still tearing his sword free from the pole when Bran struck, slashing at the man’s
massive side with all his strength. The crunch of steel against mail was louder than the
annoyed grunt the Mountain uttered at the blow. Gregor barely winced at the strike before
pummeling Bran in the chest with a mailed fist that felt like the blow of a warhammer. He
was driven to his knees, gasping for breath when the Mountain jerked his armored leg
upwards. A quick jerk of his head spared his face being smashed in but the glancing blow
was still enough to batter him near senseless.

He managed to slip into Summer’s skin in time to watch himself fall, noting the bloody gash
across his brow. His true self was down, but within the wolf he pressed his attack. The
Mountain’s Men had rushed to hold back Ethan and others, yet none were swift enough to
stop Summer. The wolf lunged at the Mountain, piling into him with such force that the
behemoth was driven two steps.

Yet Summer’s fangs fell short of his throat, snapping in vain as Gregor’s mighty hands held
the wolf back.

“I’ll have you stuffed.” Gregor snarled, strangling Summer with all his might while the wolf
clawed and bit at him. “You and that pathetic excuse for a boy. I at least broke a sweat killing
the father.”

He couldn’t break free, couldn’t breathe. The Mountain’s hands were crushing Summer’s
throat, the wolf growing weaker with each passing moment. He was forced to look right into
the eyes of the man strangling the life from him. His last sight would be looking into the face
of this monster.

The same as father.

Summer’s eyes started to roll back but Bran forced them to stay locked on Gregor. Staring as
deeply into those cruel, black pits as he could. Then deeper still. Far deeper. Gregor might
have held back Summer’s teeth and claws, yet Bran now tore his way into a place where
Gregor could not protect himself.

Then Bran wasn’t the wolf any longer. He was the Mountain.

“Argh!” Gregor screamed, dropping Summer as he clawed at his head. “Get out! GET
OUT!!!”
His presence was too powerful for Gregor to buck. The rage and pain of his loss fueled
Bran’s attack until he took control of the Mountain, piece by piece. Using Gregor’s arm, he
wrenched the greatsword free from the pole and tossed it to the ground. The Mountain
spasmed violently, wrenching his back before he came crashing down, Bran forcing him to
his knees as he jabbed the man’s thumbs into his own eyes.

He felt none of the pain, having fled back to his own body at the last moment. Then Bran was
climbing to his feet, blood blurring the vision in his one eye while the sounds of battle rang
out all around him.

Yet when he picked up the Mountain’s greatsword nothing else seemed to matter. He dragged
the heavy slab of steel across the ground, passed the wheezing form of Summer to where the
Mountain knelt.

“Get out… get out…” The blind monster rocked back and forth, clueless and helpless to what
lay in store for him.

Bran couldn’t allow that.

“Gregor Clegane.” He grunted as his hands tightened around the greatsword. “In the name of
Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, King in the North, Ruler of the First Men, the Blood of
Winter, I sentence you to die.”

Bran lifted the greatsword up then, hoping that his father was watching him do as he had
been taught. It all felt so foolish now. No oath could make Bran into the man Eddard Stark
was. Honor couldn’t bring his father back. Eddara, with her dimples and her touch, could
never make that stone statue in the crypts warm like Eddard Stark had been.

In one moment Bran would destroy it all, his honor, his marriage, his oath to Robb.

Yet as the sword swung down, he knew he would at least have justice.

DAENERYS

A breeze rustled the curtains, painted gold by the bright sunlight. The room was the largest in
the manse and the huge bed at its center made the frail man within seem as small as a child.

“Egg?” Aemon whispered as he looked about blindly. “Egg? Is that you? Did Aerion scare
you again? Sleep here brother… rest with me…”

“That’s right uncle. You rest.” Dany stroked the ancient dragon’s feverish brow. “Dream of
better days.”

Shameful as it was, she was thankful to this fever for robbing Aemon of his senses.
Otherwise the man would know of the evils gripping the empire, a realm that Aemon had
spent more than a century serving, through golden days and black times.

Has the empire ever faced such a dire hour as this?

Outside, the sounds of trumpets blowing and the dull thud of stamping feet reached her ears.
Valysar had been her sanctuary for years. The large town a peaceful haven where her son
could grow up free of the burdens of court and the divisiveness it engendered.

Yet now she wished more than anything to be at Summerhall. To be as far away from the
Dothraki threat as possible.

Rising to stand near an eastern window, she sought a view of the mighty Rhoyne. Aemon’s
manse sat atop a tall hill, allowing her to see over much of the town and its walls to where the
river flowed constant, so wide that the other side was hidden from sight. Somewhere across
that vastness, the Dothraki watered their horses and sharpened their arakhs. They did all this
with Rhaegar as their prisoner.

A High King captured by a Dothraki khal... such a thing would have never happened in the
days of dragonriders.

Their flames kept the worst at bay.

The moon had only turned once since Rhaegar and Aegon had stopped here on their way to
battle Khal Drogo. Aemon had been feeling better then, happy to host the High King and his
heir beneath his roof. More worry lines than ever had stretched across Rhaegar’s face, and
even with more than sixty thousand imperial troops marching with him, it was plain the High
King was troubled. None spoke her name at the prince’s table, but Dany knew Lyanna’s
absence weighed as heavily on Rhaegar’s mind as the Dothraki invasion.

“Put your mind at ease, father.” Aegon had sipped of his wine. “We will crush Khal Drogo
outside Selhorys and mark every mile of our march back home with a Dothraki head.”

“The commanders of the Third and Fifth legions promised much the same. Now they are
dead, alongside thousands of their men.”

“The Golden Legion is everything they weren’t.” Aegon had said, drawing Aemon into the
discussion.

“The Dothraki are terrible foes. Yet so is the Dark Order.” The wizened prince had declared.
“Under Jonarys, I cannot remember a force growing so fearsome. With the order and Aegon’s
golden might at your disposal, you have the means to intimidate Khal Drogo into accepting a
tribute…”

“A tribute?” Aegon had scoffed. “Uncle, we mean to crush this threat, here and now. It’s high
time we stopped paying these horse riding barbarians, save in blood.”

“Theirs or ours?” Dany remembered staring right at Aegon then, chiding him with her eyes as
she had since they were children. “You’re underestimating them. However skilled you are
Aegon, your pride has always been your weakness. The rise of Khal Drogo, the resurgence of
the Ghiscari, the survival of Jon’s kingdom, you yourself declared all these things unlikely.
Yet here we are.”
“Yes, here we are.” Aegon had glared right back at her. “Yet where is young Baelyon? Hiding
him away still? Have you sent him to... have you sent him across the Narrow Sea? I thought
better of you Daenerys. The boy should have a proper father.”

“He has had one.” Dany had reached out to grasp Aemon’s gnarled hand then, squeezing it in
thanks. “Forgive me Rhaegar, but I’ve never seen anyone act a better father than Aemon. My
son has had a splendid life and the finest education. As we speak, he studies scrolls from the
days of Old Valyria with the scribes of Valysar. If he was not locked away in their vaults, I
would be proud to present him to you High King.”

Aegon had made to say more, yet Rhaegar raised his hand to silence the prince.

“The way you speak of Baelyon, with such pride and hope, I heard the same in Elia when she
spoke of Rhaenys and Aegon. I can still hear Jonarys’s praises being sung by-” Rhaegar had
paused then, gripping his goblet tightly before draining it. “Aemon, you told me once that all
moments are fleeting. Well treasure this time with your boy. We never know when time with
those we love most will be cut short.”

Aemon had raised his goblet at that. “To those we love and have loved.”

Rhaegar did not hesitate to do the same. Aegon met her gaze again and they drank in unison.
For half a moment, Dany saw the man she had once loved more than anything. Years ago at
Summerhall, a healthy dose of wine and some reminiscing of their former love had led to
Baelyon’s conception. Had she not had her moon blood just prior, her feigned confusion
about Jon’s role might have been genuine.

And if not for Rhaenys she might have betrayed the truth from the start. There was no love in
Aegon and Rhaenys’s marriage, yet Dany and her niece remained close all the same. It was
Rhaenys who warned her to deny Aegon her son.

“The moment he heard you with were child, he began making plans.” Rhaenys had told her
back in Summerhall. “If it’s a boy, he’ll take it from you. Aegon will foster it with an ally at
court. Use the child to sway the Council of Heralds into choosing him as heir. Neither you
nor I factored once in his plans.”

“Aegon is not so callous.” She had argued. “We’ve grown close again. Believe me, I’m not
trying to steal your place, but there’s love between us-”

“Less than you think.” Rhaenys went on to tell her all she knew of Aegon’s time in Dorne.
She held nothing back, telling Dany how Aegon had taken her cousin Nym to bed. “Only
after he failed to seduce Arianne and Tyene. And Nym only did so on my behalf…”

This was only the first of many betrayals Aegon dealt her. She soon learned that Rhaenys was
right, that Aegon had made arrangements regarding her child long before he was born. She
felt no guilt then to deny Aegon any right to Baelyon, nor to keep her son hidden away from
him during this visit.

Though it weighed on her greatly how it might have cost Baelyon his last chance to see
Rhaegar.
The battle outside Selhorys had proved to be a disaster. As Thoros told her, the Dothraki
loosed so many arrows at once that they blotted out the sun. Even the Dark Order could not
match the skill of Drogo’s bloodriders. The Lord Commander rested in a room here in
Valysar, filled with shame that half his order had perished that day. As terrible as their losses
were, they were mild compared to those of the Highguard. When Rhaegar’s contingent were
surrounded, his protectors had died to a man to protect the High King.

As far as any could tell, there were only a score or so Highguard left alive from the empire to
the Highlands. Not that they could perform their duties with the High King held prisoner.

We must be glad Aegon fought free. If anyone can rally the empire or negotiate the safe
return of Rhaegar, it’s him.

It has to be.

Across the river, Aegon was meant to be treating with Khal Drogo. All of Valysar was on
edge, the town packed full of survivors from the Slaughter of Selhorys, some of whom Dany
found entertaining her son in the walled courtyard of the manse.

Karl Bowden was displaying his skill with a bow as Grenn tried to show Baelyon how to
twirl his sword hand over hand.

Her son stood in stark contrast to the two black-clad warriors. Far shorter and skinny as a
twig, Baelyon’s flowing silver-blonde hair was as bright as his silks. Still he took to their
martial efforts with enthusiasm.

“So which is better, the sword or the bow?” Baelyon asked in the Common Tongue as Karl
struck another target perfectly.

“Well, dropping a man at a distance keeps you and yours as safe as can be.”

“Which is all fine and good if you can hit the bugger.” Grenn added, holding up his sword.
“When he gets up all good and close though, that’s when every man wishes he was a
swordsman, young dragon.”

“All your friends were warriors.” Baelyon said sadly. “The High King too. That didn’t save
them from the horselords.”

“The king still lives.” Karl replied. “As long as that holds true, the war is not yet lost.”

“Well said.” Dany announced herself to them, descending the steps into the yard and
beckoning Baelyon to her. “Do not be so quick to lose heart, my love. Our dear friends from
the Dark Order have always proven that desperate times can be overcome.”

Grenn nodded. “Our friends fell at Selhorys. Brothers we held dear. They are lost to us but
the Dark Order stands. Their quarrels are now ours to take up.”

“Dark times do not worry us, Baelyon.” Karl put a fist to his chest. “For it was in the
darkness that we found each other. And we will meet again.”
“We will meet again.” Grenn saluted as well, which Baelyon mimicked, standing straight and
doing his best to appear fearsome. He worshipped the Dark Order, as some children often did.

“So you see, there’s nothing to fear.” She lied, patting his cheek. “What worries can we have
with such fierce warriors defending Valysar? Remember, the order has defeated Khal Drogo
before.”

“In the Forest of Qohor!” Baelyon beamed then. “Thoros told me all about it! Jonarys
Targaryen was their commander then.” He gave a quick look to the captains before switching
to Valryian. “Maybe he’ll return to help us! Do you think he might mother? Would he come to
see me?”

His hope was plain. She could abide Aegon’s anger and the spiteful gossip of court, but it
was moments like these that tore at her heart. Her ruse was cruelest on Baelyon, who was still
too young to be trusted with the secret of his sire. This tormented Baelyon at times, for she
knew the boy’s heartfelt desire was for Aegon or Jon to claim him. Her son loved Aemon
deeply, yet what boy wouldn’t dream of having a warrior prince for his father?

Dany sighed as she prepared to stifle another of Baelyon’s dreams.

“Jon will not come. He is warring against the Arryns of the Vale, I told you of this.”

“I know... I just want to meet him. If King Jon came, I know he’d visit me. Prince Aegon
won’t even do that.”

There was anger in Baelyon’s voice at the end. Dany had worked hard to keep Aegon and
their son apart, for his own good, yet she grew worried at the disdain he was starting to show
towards Aegon.

“Aegon’s the heir, and there’s few with as many duties as him. At this very moment he’s trying
to negotiate with the Dothraki for the sake of your royal uncle. Why don’t you act as he does?
Fetch a book to read to Aemon. Your voice comforts him-”

“Thoros!” Baelyon interrupted, running by her to where the wounded leader of the Dark
Order emerged from a side stair. Thoros wore his black mail once more, yet how he managed
to don it with a broken arm was beyond her.

“Young Baelyon, your cheerfulness does me wonders.” Thoros patted the boy’s head before
bowing. “Princess, I believe it’s past time my captains and I return to our men.”

“Nonsense. You shall enjoy our home and bounty as long as need be.”

Thoros eased Baelyon away then to speak to her privately.

“Daenerys, you shall forever be known as a friend of the order, but our presence here does
neither you nor Aemon any good. The heir blames us for the High King’s capture-”

“A claim we both know to be false.” She whispered back. “You lost most of your men trying
to rescue Rhaegar from the Dothraki. Odds that few would have braved.”
“Prince Aegon risks his own life as we speak.” Thoros sighed. “I’ve peered into the flames,
and R’hllor has shown me little good coming from these talks. I saw a horselord carrying
away a dragon. Let us pray I am unworthy of grasping the Lord of Light’s true meaning.”

She prayed for the same. Not just for the sake of Rhaegar, but for Aegon and his children by
Nym. She’d only met young Jaehaerys and Rhaella once or twice but found them to be
delightful. A credit to their character, since both of Baelyon’s half-siblings had been torn
from their mother at a young age and entrusted to the care of Aegon’s courtly allies. Nym
endured the separation with the help of Rhaenys, who had long been a source of solace for
the Dornish lady. Dany was one of the few who knew there was more love than malice
between Aegon’s wife and his consort, for Rhaenys was the dragon Lady Nym truly gave her
heart to. Both women found happiness in each other, and together they wielded considerable
influence over Aegon and empire

Dany however was content with her small corner of the world. A home she was unwilling to
let Thoros leave quite yet.

The Lord Commander was being stubborn, and their arguing over his lodgings went on and
on as Grenn and Karl continued to school Baelyon on the ways of the Dark Order. The
Bowden captain was handing Baelyon his weirwood bow when one of Aemon’s guardsmen
came running into the yard.

“Princess, there’s a party at the front gate.” The spearman said. “Prince Aegon demands
entrance. He comes with his men and Dothraki barbarians!”

The last part came as a shock, yet relief flowed through her all the same.

“This must mean good tidings.” Dany said with hope in her heart. “Have the men form an
honor guard. Don’t let them in yet. Not until we are there to greet them.” She paused then to
urge Baelyon inside. “Go and see to your great-uncle. I won’t have you around the Dothraki
screamers.”

“Mother!”

“Go dearest one. Go now.”

Baelyon cursed and dragged his feet yet obeyed all the same, disappearing into the manse.
Only then did the Dark Order men escort Dany into the main courtyard. Aemon’s household
guard awaited them, a score of spearmen lining the edges of the yard. With a nod of her head,
the gate soon opened and Aegon rode inward.

The silver heir wore golden armor, his face marred by faint bruises earned at Selhorys.
Overall Aegon seemed well, yet her heart fell to see no sign of Rhaegar among the trio of
Dothraki riders. The most fearsome of the copper-skinned riders was the one at their head, a
tall and muscular man with black hair and eyes, a drooping moustache, and a braid so long it
reached his thighs. Tiny bells were interwoven in it, all jingling as Golden Legion warriors
filled the yard with the sounds of their tramping boots.

“Daenerys.” Aegon spoke in strange tone as he dismounted. “Is Aemon still ailing?”
“He rests and is in no state to entertain.” She said, taking note of how many men Aegon had
brought here. “If these Dothraki need convincing to release Rhaegar, I am more than willing
to plead his case.”

“No... no let him be.” Aegon said as he came to her, kissing her hand. “And rest easy, Dany.
I’ve already negotiated terms to secure my father’s release.”

“Glad tidings to be sure.” Thoros said as he eyed the Dothraki with hatred. “Is that not Khal
Drogo in your grasp?”

“It is. He has come to collect ransoms for the High King. A steeper price has never been
asked.”

Aegon acted pained to watch as even more of his men entered, crowding the yard. Among the
Golden Legion men she spotted Ser Jorah Mormont, the swarthy northman leading forth a
lovely white palfrey. As he handed the reins over to Khal Drogo, she recognized it as one of
Aegon’s prize steeds.

“The great Khal Drogo wanted your horse?”

“No, Drogo demanded much more than that. The horse is a gift…” Aegon swallowed then,
his eyes falling to the ground. “It’s just one of many sacrifices I’ve been forced to make.
Gold. Jewels. Horses. Slaves. I offered practically half of the empire’s wealth to the
horselords yet still he demanded more. So much more.”

“Any ransom would be a pittance to have the High King returned to us.” Dany said with
sympathy. “Empty every vault in the empire if that’s what it takes to get Rhaegar back.
Aemon will stand with you.” She touched at his shoulder. “As will I.”

Aegon jerked away from her, surprising Dany with the anger she saw in his face.

“Stand with me? Aemon is bedridden and you… I lost my faith in you long ago, Daenerys.”
Aegon hissed at her, causing a small, forgotten part of her heart to break. “Despite all you’ve
done, all the hurt and betrayal you've served me, I doubt you’ll ever know how much it
pained me to do this. But there was no other way. With father held prisoner, someone had to
act as king. To make the hard choices.”

“What are you saying?” She didn’t like how desperate Aegon sounded. Nor how tense his
men were acting as they stared at her.

“I’m speaking of sacrifice. I’m sorry. Believe that.”

Aegon followed this with a wave of his hand, and the legion men struck like lightning. Half
fell upon her guards, seizing their weapons and driving them to the ground. Others rushed
into the manse or attacked the Dark Order men, who managed to draw their weapons before
they were overwhelmed. Three men wrestled Grenn to the ground while Ser Jorah cracked a
first across Karl’s jaw as he tried to notch his bow.
“Stop this!” Thoros bellowed as his blade was torn away and a dirk pressed to his throat.
“This is a princess of the blood! The council will-”

“Blood is why we are here.” Aegon grumbled. “The council chose me to speak for the empire
in my father’s absence, Thoros. Do not force me to name you and the Dark Order traitors to
the throne. This must be done.”

“Why?” Dany fumed to watch legion men enter the manse. “What possible reason could you
have to invade our home?”

“I need to collect part of father’s ransom. Drogo wants nothing less than a dragon to parade
back to Vaes Dothrak. He’s willing to give us our king if I hand him another prize with king’s
blood.”

“You can’t think to…” Her eyes widened and she looked by Aegon to Drogo, who watched
all this with a look of amusement. Her flesh began to crawl.

“It’s me... I’m to be his prize, aren't I? This is how you revenge yourself upon me?! Damn
you, Aegon! I will not be handed away like a broodmare!!”

“I could never do that to you, Daenerys.” Aegon shook his head. “Whatever your faults, I
loved you once. To imagine a Dothraki barbarian pawing at you… by Balerion, I could barely
stomach the thought of Jon tainting you with his touch. I could never sell you to someone
worse than him.”

“Then why are you doing this? If not me then who…”

Her words fell away, a terrible fear twisting her stomach into knots. Aegon could not meet
her eyes as he spoke to the vile notion.

“Drogo will trade our king for the grandson of a king. A prince’s son. Baelyon. It must be
him.”

“NO!” She screamed at him. “No! I forbid it! You can’t do this!”

“I have to. Drogo’s sworn a blood oath to keep the boy safe and return him come next
spring.”

“He’s not taking my son. Aemon might be sick but do not forget Jon. Are you willing to risk
his wrath as well as mine?”

“You think so highly of him.” Aegon scowled. “Jon may not like the deal, but if it frees our
father he’ll swallow it as I have. This price must be paid. I doubt Jon would be willing to
offer Aenry up in Baelyon’s place. Do you really think he's so noble as to trade a trueborn son
for some questioned bastard?”

She didn’t get a chance to answer. The sounds of boots drew their gaze to an archway where
two legion men emerged with Baelyon in their grasp.
“Mother, what’s happening?” Baelyon blinked at the sight of her surrounded by blades. He
tried to pull away but his captors held firm. “Leave her alone! Prince Aegon! Help her!”

“No one is going to hurt her.” Aegon spoke softly. “We’re here for you, young dragon. Ser
Jorah is going to take you on a grand adventure with Khal Drogo. Soon the whole Targaryen
Empire will speak of you. The boy who saved the High King-”

“He’s yours.” Dany proclaimed, speaking the truth now to save her son. “Aegon, Baelyon is
your son. He’s always been yours. Don’t do this to our child, I beg of you.”

Baelyon paled to hear what he’d waited his whole lifetime to learn. Yet when the boy looked
to Aegon, the prince ignored him. Aegon’s face was made of stone.

“Years ago that would have meant everything to me.” Aegon narrowed his eyes on her.
“When I could have been his father, not some stranger. That’s what he is to me at least.” He
turned his back on them then. “You stole a son away from me Daenerys. Maybe now you will
know my pain. Say your farewells.”

Deaf to her pleas, Aegon ordered his men to let Baelyon go, so the little boy could run to her.
They hugged each other desperately, Baelyon crying and Dany doing everything she could to
hold her tears back. The boy was already trembling, she would not make this worse for him.

“There, there.” Dany lifted his face so she could wipe away his tears. “Don’t cry, dearest one.
You have to be brave for me. Brave like the Young Dragon was.

“The Dothraki killed him…” Baelyon sobbed. “I don’t want to go… I don’t want Aegon to
be my father…”

She kissed his brow. “Our wants can mean nothing to the gods. You mean everything to me,
Baelyon. The khal swears to take care of you, give him no reason to do differently. I will miss
you with all my heart, so come back to me with grand tales to cure my woes. It may take
time, but we will be together again, I swear it. Promise you’ll return to me. Promise me
that...”

“I p-promise.” Baelyon’s chin quivered as he said so. She stroked his face and hair,
whispering everything she could think of to build up his courage. To let her son know how
loved he was. Nothing else mattered but hearing his sweet voice and having him close.

If only for a short while.

Then she heard Khal Drogo bark something in Dothraki and his men laughing. Then Ser
Jorah and Baelyon’s handlers appeared, pulling the boy from her arms. It took everything in
her not to scratch their eyes out, to stand there and watch as Baelyon was dragged on to the
Dothraki. After Ser Jorah helped him upon the white palfrey, Dany had to swallow a scream
when Drogo roughly grabbed at Baelyon’s chin. The khal stared long and hard at the teary-
eyed boy before his almond eyes flicked to her.

A curt nod followed. The only assurance the horselord would give before turning his mount
and forcing Baelyon to do the same.
Before they rode out of the gate, Baelyon turned back to look at her. That was when Thoros
stepped forward, pressing a fist to his heart. Karl and Grenn joined him, saluting her son as
well.

Her fist clenched so tight, her nails cut into the flesh of her palm. She pressed it against her
chest, where the hole that was her heart once was.

When Baelyon did the same, he managed one last smile. Over the sound of the horses’
hooves, his small voice found its way to her ears.

“We will meet again.”

Then he was gone and Dany’s legs gave out. She knelt upon the ground, clutching at her
chest, willing with all her heart for his words to be true.

We will meet again.

CATELYN

The last time she visited Torrhen’s Square, it was to attend the wedding of Bran and Eddara
Tallhart. Catelyn recalled watching her son drape his cloak over the lady’s shoulders as
moment of serene happiness.

A memory sadly out of place here in the Tallhart solar. The mood as solemn as the faces of
the four gathered within. Robb leaned against a heavy pine table, a hand resting upon the ribs
cracked by a mace, Myrcella lingering close by, tugging nervously at a golden curl. As usual,
Catelyn kept a close eye on Robb’s wife, yet her newest gooddaughter quickly stole her
attention away.

Eddara had extended Robb the use of her castle’s upper chamber as both a courtesy, and an
act of submission. Now Catelyn watched as Eddara went even further, the lady dropping to
the floor to kneel at Robb’s feet. She did so wearing her Stark bridal cloak, a clever reminder
for the king that she was both his subject and goodsister.

“Your grace, I beseech you.” Eddara said, bending so low that her long honey-colored braid
touched the ground. “Spare my husband. Forgive Bran his faults. This I ask for Torrhen’s
Square, who have lost too many lo’ these hard years. For House Tallhart, your proud
sentinels of the North evermore.”

“My lady, rise.” Robb beckoned, his brow creasing beneath his iron crown. “Do not prostrate
yourself to me in your own home. The Tallhart legacy is one of faithful service and loyalty.
You do it proud by honoring your vows as a wife. If my brother had half your character,
perhaps he might have upheld his oath to me.”

Eddara looked up but otherwise stayed put. “He acted recklessly. Brashly. Yet there was no
treason in his heart. I may not know Bran as well as you, but I believe that wholly and
completely.”
“The treason was in the act.”

“I pray you to see it as justice instead. By his own hand, Bran slew the man who murdered
thy own father.”

“What of your family?” Robb demanded. “Leobald and Benfred. My friend Cley, your
husband. All slain by the krakens. We were to avenge them and so many others upon the
ironmen. A quest Bran has turned to ruin.”

Robb shot a sharp look her way then. Challenging Catelyn to say differently.

She could not. To peer out the window to the lake beyond was to see ships meant to be at war
floating idly at anchor. The fleet numbered far less than it should. While Bran’s armada was
able to escape Harlaw with relative ease, the Manderlys had suffered dearly. Denied the use
of western ports, the merman fleet was forced to travel north with nary a safe harbor.
Harassed by the krakens and battered by storms, the Manderlys lost more ships and men to
the journey than in the fighting around Fair Isle.

Yet it the losses at Harlaw that Robb wished to speak on.

“If not for Bran, Harlaw would have fallen. Pyke too. He set two armies meant to crush those
islands to fighting one another. That madness gave Theon Greyjoy and Rodrik Harlaw time
to gather their forces. The only reason my brother and the others escaped at all is because the
krakens fell upon the lions first. Lord Quenton Banefort is captured, most of his men slain.”

“Losses to the Lannisters.” Eddara glanced to Myrcella. “Once such tidings were celebrated
here in the North.”

Myrcella lowered her head at that, while Robb’s eyes narrowed upon Eddara.

“Lord Ryswell does not feel like celebrating. His son Rickard must be buried. The Forresters
are praying Ethan will lose no more than his leg. What of the dead left rotting on Harlaw?
The men lost to the seas? Those losses, my dear lady, those are our losses. Deaths I lay at
Bran’s feet.”

“Men who died bravely.” Catelyn spoke in as even a voice as she could manage. “To achieve
what many northmen have long aspired to gain. Justice for Ned.”

Robb shook his head at her. “A cause you asked me to set aside to strike up this alliance in
the first place. Foul as it was, I swallowed my hatred and managed to convince my lords to
do the same. All so my brother, the one I trusted most, could defy me. No. No, mother. Your
hypocrisy cannot be mine. Bran must be punished.”

“You mistake me, Robb. I was merely speaking to how delicately this matter must be
handled. For I agree with you. Whatever justice Bran served to Gregor Clegane, he needs
face yours as well.”

Her words shocked the others but, the Seven help her, they were the truth.
“Bran broke more than an oath to you, he betrayed his king. After the banishments you
handed out, your brother’s defiance cannot go unpunished. Yet the response must be a
tempered one. Too lenient, and it makes you look weak to your lords. Too severe, and they
question your devotion to your father.”

Robb stiffened at that. “I take it you have some suggestions on the matter.”

She did, and they made her feel a poor mother indeed.

“Should Bran denounce himself, and spare you from doing so, you spare his life. Strip him of
the Dreadfort and its lands. Banish him to the God’s Eye, so he might seek penance among
the green men and their weirwood groves. After a time, set him to task on your behalf. An act
of contrition to earn his place in the North once more. So he might return here, to his wife
and her castle, a chastened and loyal subject.”

Eddara blanched at the proposal while Robb put a hand to his chin, stroking his beard in
thought. That he considered it at all was a reason to hope.

“How many years would we be apart?” Eddara asked. “I could not leave Torrhen’s Square,
not with the reaver threat renewed.”

Before Catelyn could answer, she grew troubled by how Myrcella approached Robb. If what
she suspected was true, this would be the time for Myrcella to strike.

“It is a fair measure, Robb.” Myrcella surprised her by saying. “To lose a castle and title, to
be exiled from his wife and kin in shame, none could call that soft-hearted.”

“Tywin Lannister will.” Robb replied. “He threatens war if Bran’s head is not delivered to
him. The Riverlands will bleed again…”

Eddara leapt to her feet but Catelyn was beside the lady in a flash. “A demand the old lion
made to save face with his bannermen. He knew Robb would never accede to it.”

“Nor is Casterly Rock without worries.” Myrcella nodded. “If a two-front war would stretch
the North’s abilities, I doubt the Kingdom of the Rock could do any better. Winning back Fair
Isle will not stop the ironmen from returning, especially with the alliance at an end.”

“They are every bit as vulnerable as we are.” Robb winced to push away from the table,
going to look out the window. “So many ships... less than we need though. The krakens will
come again, like the tide itself. To reap vengeance for what little we accomplished on those
isles. This war, it was about more than winning back our lands. To crush the Greyjoys would
have meant years of peace along these coasts. Time to rebuild and raise better defences. A
foolish hope, a dream of spring.”

He lifted his crown off his head, staring at it as he ran his thumbs over the iron spikes.

“Winter is coming… but the ironmen might have been kept away. If not for Bran.”

“Robb-” She tried to reason with him, but Robb was already barking for Alyn. The
guardsman entered as her son returned the crown to its rightful place upon his head.
“Fetch the prisoner. He will hear his sentence from my lips before it’s announced to the rest
of the realm.”

“What sentence though?” Eddara asked as Alyn departed. “My king, I pray you speak of the
exile the dowager queen proposed.”

“I do not. Such a sentence would work to settle a quarrel between brothers. Not between a
king and a traitor. Our blood earns Bran the only choice I can rightly give him. Lose his head
or take the black.”

Myrcella gasped and Catelyn put a hand to her chest. Less startled by Robb’s decision than
the coldness in his voice.

The North is hard and cold, and has no mercy.

Ned had told her that an eternity ago. A warning to his young southron queen of the realm
she would soon rule. One she held to be true, of the lands and its people. Just never their son.

The prospect of losing another son to the Wall troubled her greatly. For Bran was more than
the gentle soul she’d treasured since he was a darling boy. He was Robb’s heir.

If the truth ever came out about Myrcella’s true parentage, the North would curse her as an
abomination.

Poor little Ned and Tom as well.

That Jaime and Cersei Lannister could act so selfishly, so utterly mad, it infuriated her. She
harbored a dark desire to expose them and reveal the rot of House Lannister to the whole of
Westeros. Yet in punishing their crimes, Catelyn would attaint her grandsons.

Something she could not do. For whatever Myrcella was, those boys had Robb’s blood. Stark
and Tully blood. They were every bit family to Catelyn as her other grandchildren.

A bond which clashed with her duty to Robb. The truth would destroy his standing with the
northern lords, who might well reject his heirs and spell the ruin of Robb’s reign. Unless he
had other viable heirs to raise up.

Rickon, Wyllard, Sansa and Arya’s boys, any of them might do if need be.

Yet none have the standing of Bran in the eyes of North. He would be the lords’ natural
choice.

Surely Myrcella realized the same. A deep suspicion had taken root in Catelyn upon hearing
of Bran and the Mountain. It was possible that Gregor Clegane’s arrival on Harlaw had been
part of a deliberate provocation. One meant to eliminate Bran as a threat to Robb’s Lannister
heirs. Perhaps Myrcella had arranged such to protect her sons, sending word with Tyrion
Lannister back to Casterly Rock.

A muddled conspiracy at best, one even she could not fully accept. With her own ears
Catelyn had heard how Myrcella scorned her Lannister kin. Nor would it make sense for
Myrcella to arrange such an elaborate plot, only to argue for Bran’s sake now.

Mistrusting what Myrcella is only makes it easier to blame her for all this.

Far easier than accepting the faults of mine own sons…

“Bran cannot take the black.” Eddara declared, stepping to Robb in defiance. “I lost one
husband already, you will not take another from me.”

“It cannot be helped.” Robb replied, meeting her gaze. “If the day comes, I will permit you to
remarry-”

“So some new man can act the father to my child?”

Robb gaped at that. He then watched as Eddara’s hands went to her middle while Catelyn
saw her eyes fill with both pride and fear.

“I’ve not told him yet. I was afraid, I mean Cley and I tried for years…” Eddara shook her
head. “My time with Bran was so short I did not expect to quicken so soon. The Old Gods
have surely blessed our family. So I beseech you, King Robb, do not curse us to be apart.”

She went to Eddara, the lady allowing Catelyn to grasp her shoulders. The joy of such news
tempered by the prospect of yet another Stark child losing a father. To look at Robb was to
see him grappling with this too, his stern expression having faltered under Eddara’s withering
gaze.

“My love, a child.” Myrcella whispered, tugging at his arm. “In exile Bran would have the
hope to be act a father one day.”

“Robb, it is enough to take his lands and castles.” She made common cause with Myrcella.
“But not that hope.”

Robb pulled away from Myrcella. “Unlike Bran, I stay true to my word. He has my leave to
become a better man at the Wall. Eddara, you have my sympathy. My pledge of support for
you and your child-”

“You pledged me a husband! That’s what we need!” Eddara snapped as a hard knock came at
the door. Alyn entered soon after, Bran following behind.

Other than some healing cuts and bruises and his plain attire of roughspun wools, Bran’s
ordeals had changed him little. There were no shackles, for Robb had accorded him the
treatment deserving of a Stark prince.

When Bran bowed in deference to his king, that proved too much for his lady wife. After a
final fierce glance to Robb, Eddara turned her back to him and strode towards the door. She
paused only for Bran, laying a hand to his chest so the pair could share a longing look. From
where Catelyn stood, she recognized the regret in Bran’s eyes. That would worsen if Eddara
spoke of her news, though the lady did no such thing.
With no word of farewell, Eddara drew away from Bran and was gone. He stared after her
even as Alyn closed the door.

“She grieves for me...” Bran said simply, his head lowered. “It’s strange… I’d rather she not
care at all. I never meant to hurt her.”

“You betrayed her as much as I.” Robb stared at Bran with a cold intensity to his blue eyes.
“A crime that has touched us all. One you will answer for.”

With an iron firmness, Robb laid out Bran’s charges and the deaths he’d caused. Bran asked
of Ethan, and was bereaved to hear how Beth dared not leave his bedside for fear of his
chances. When Robb nearly revealed Eddara’s pregnancy, a sharp look from Catelyn quieted
the king.

Robb may rule over us all, but it’s not for him to speak to Eddara’s child.

He cannot take that from her as well.

After being told he must take the black, Bran did not so much as blink.

“There, you’re finally getting your wish.” Robb said. “I did everything I could for you, Bran.
The Dreadfort, a fine bride in Eddara, all of it thrown away. Still, you get what you want.”

“I have to go to the Wall… but I never wanted it to happen this way.” Bran looked between
them before closing his eyes. “The two of you were right, father wouldn’t have wanted this.
The Mountain earned that death but my king, my friends, my wife, you all deserved better
from me. I’ll say that to whomever you need, Robb. Accept my failings before the whole of
the North. Don’t let them blame you for this. This was fate, Robb. Ugly as it is, this was
meant to be.”

“Stop with that nonsense.” Robb spoke hoarsely, crossing the space between them and
grabbing hold of Bran’s shirt, bracing him violently. “This was not fate. For our father to
finally be avenged only so I could condemn you… to condemn my brother…”

“I’m sorry, Robb.” Bran met his eyes, and where two men stood she now saw a pair of little
boys again.

“Don’t.” The king rasped, pulling Bran close so they rested their brows against one another.
“By the gods, so many battles… all that blood… and it is you that breaks me.”

The condemned prince grasped the back of Robb’s head, holding them together.

“The Starks endure.”

She let them have this moment. For soon Robb would have to stand before his lords to
condemn Bran openly.

With a kiss to Bran’s cheek, she promised to visit him in his tower cell at a later hour. By
then, Eddara will have likely revealed all that he left behind. She would be there for him then.
For what little time they had left.
Then she was alone with Robb and Myrcella. Her son slumped against the desk, his wife
doing her best to console him with whispered words and soft caresses.

“You need rest, Robb. Your travels, these trials, I can see how your hurts worsen again.”

“Bran’s in for worse than this.” He sighed, rising to his full height. “Though you give sage
counsel, ‘Cella. I should seek a bed, I must be well-rested to forsake my little brother.”

“You can still change your mind.” She said, earning a dismissive grunt.

“I could, but I won’t. Bran has made his peace with it. So must you, mother.” He gestured to
the window then. “Though I doubt you’ll ever forgive me. He was always your favorite.”

“That’s not-”

“No more false words, not between us. Do not feel compelled to stay in the North. You came
to forge an alliance that is as dead as the Mountain. Go back to your life in the south. Revel
in Jon and Sansa’s triumphs. We Kings of Winter offer you naught but grief.”

There was truth to what he said. More than she cared to admit.

A return to the south was not unwelcome to her. The girls would have use of her, especially
after what they’d endured in the Vale. Winterfell still held ghosts for her, and soon the
cheerful memory of Bran’s laughter echoing of its walls would haunt her as well.

Yet when she looked to Myrcella, who once more twirled her hair in nervousness, worse
thoughts troubled her.

Lannister treachery cost me one king… if I should leave it may cost me another.

Whether Myrcella is friend or foe, the truth of her remains a threat.

“I would stay.” She declared, bowing to Robb and Myrcella both. “My son is in need. I will
give the North all I can, despite how cold and hard it has been to me.”

“For we Starks endure.”

SANSA

She pressed her face against the window, the coolness of the glass a welcome sensation.
Water dripped down the other side as rain pattered against it. A ways below was the garden
of the Eyrie, and she watched a pair of serving girls running through it, smiling and laughing
as they sought shelter from the rain.

Despite how warm and dry her chambers were, such joy eluded her. The twins were similarly
subdued, though they offered the odd smile or giggle from where they sat near the hearth.
They clearly took more enjoyment from their needlework than Sansa did. Her needles and
thread sat abandoned upon the side table. Truly she could not recall setting them aside,
though her patience the work was quite at an end.

She was staring at her poor attempt at stitching a winter rose when Aemma hissed something
to Rhaegina. Both girls now eyeing her with worry.

“I am sorry about the rain, my darlings.” She said. “A walk in the garden did sound nice.”

“It’s not your fault, mother.” Aemma said sweetly. “We’ll just have to take our stroll
tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Sansa felt as if that interfered with something she must do, though she could
not think of what. “I think it will be too wet still. Perhaps the day after. We’ll go later, I
promise.”

“It’s always later. Later. Later” Rhaegina punctuated each word by stabbing forcefully into
her work, her purple eyes twinkling in the firelight. “You were supposed to join us in the
garden last week. Before that it was prayers in the sept or helping father welcome
newcomers. We did it all without you-”

“I was ill, sweetling. Then there were things I had to do… I must have told you-”

“You always have an excuse but it’s never the truth. Just be honest and tell us to leave you
alone.”

“Rhae.” Aemma grabbed her twin’s hand, her blues eyes wide and beseeching. “Stop it. You
can’t talk to her like that. We’re supposed to be helping.”

“How? She won’t let us.” Rhaegina crossed her arms and turned away, scorning them stare
into the fire. A whispered plea from Aemma was ignored, leaving the young princess to chew
her lip and look to Sansa as if expecting her to do something.

They all expected things from her. Yet she had naught to give. Nothing good that is.

She wrung her hands nervously. “Rhaegina, Aemma, I enjoy your company very much. If not
for the rain we would be touring the garden. Now when we do go, you can bring your high
harps. Your playing always livened the godswood so.”

Aemma brightened. “Let us go fetch them then. We’ve been practicing a new song to cheer
Lord Harry and you can tell us what you-”

“Not now. Later.” She said before realizing better, Rhaegina’s shoulders tensing to hear the
word. “I’ve yet to see what pretty things you’ve stitched today. Aemma, what that’s you’re
working on.”

Rhaegina muttered something as Aemma shifted uneasily, holding up a cloth showing the
outline of a white castle.

“It’s a gift for Ser Mychel. To welcome him into the Kingsguard.”
“A white fort instead of red.” She spoke sadly, remembering now that Aemma had already
told her this. Both the girls had, yet her mind had been elsewhere. Now, for the life of her, she
could not recall what Rhaegina had said.

Before she could ask, Rhaegina threw her embroidery to the ground. It landed near Sansa’s
feet, and she saw a half-finished white dragon and grey wolf. Both stood upon their hind legs,
their claws entwined, as if dancing. She used to love dancing.

“It’s for you.” Rhaegina spoke bitterly. “To wear during Aenry’s nameday feast.”

“Oh.” A deep unease stirred within her. “Well, it is delightful. So much so that I think you
should wear it instead, sweetling.”

“Because you’re not going, are you?” Rhaegina rose to her feet, glaring in accusation.

“I was planning to…” Her hands tightened around each other. “Yet I fear a feast might be too
much too soon. My head could take to spinning again and- Rhaegina!”

Her cry came too late to stop Rhaegina from storming off. One moment the girl was pushing
at the chamber door, the next she was gone. Leaving Aemma behind, clutching at her own
embroidery so tightly that her knuckles whitened.

“Do not be cross with me. Please, Aemma. If it was a smaller occasion… if I was feeling
better…”

Her excuses bid Aemma to set aside her needlework to stand. Unlike Rhaegina, there was
more sadness in her glistening eyes than anger. A tear ran down the girl’s cheek as she turned
her back to Sansa, following after her twin. When the door shut behind her and Sansa found
herself alone, she bent forward to bite on her knuckle.

Anguished to have disappointed her darling girls so. Ashamed at how relieved she was for
them to be gone.

For Rhaegina had spoken the truth, Sansa dreaded the time they spent together. All she
wanted was to be left alone. If the twins stayed away, she was spared their judgement and
they were free from her frequent distemper.

It was worse with Aenry and Vaelena. Her son always asking for a song or a tale, demanding
to show her some new corner of the Eyrie he had just discovered. Every visit ended the same,
Aenry would grow wroth at her refusals and then weep when she sent him away. Vaelena was
less demanding yet the babe’s simple need to be held and loved felt a crushing weight to bear.
Most times Sansa simply watched her tiny girl crawl about a cradle until she fussed before
letting others tend her.

She loved them all. She truly did. Only any way she thought to show it felt terribly unworthy.
Her children deserved better.

As did Jon. Since taking the Eyrie, they’d made love but a few times. Truly she was hard-
pressed to call it such. The passion was gone, his caresses feeling forced, their kissing hasty
and awkward. No doubt he saw in her body the same ugliness that dwelt within her soul. She
could barely look at her naked self anymore. Her skin was pasty and blemished, and though
her middle swelled slightly from the new babe, the skin about her ribs had drawn tight.

“Some time out this tower would do you wonders.” Jon had told her when she escaped his
grasp to cover herself once more. “A proper meal too. There’s a sunroom in the eastern
tower, let’s go bask in the light and I can feed you some lemon cakes. Like the day you told
me you were carrying Aenry. To see you so happy again…”

He didn’t understand. To think on the life they’d had before filled her with sadness. Sansa
remembered how happy she had been in those golden days. Yet those memories only drove
her further into the shadows. A darkness she’d rather suffer alone in her rooms.

At times these walls felt like a prison but they were also her safe haven against the ugly
world beyond. One that would surely judge her harshly for all she’d done.

Thus she made no effort to chase after her darling girls.

Wherever Rhaegina and Aemma go, they will be better off.

They can care for each other better than I.

The rain continued to fall in the hours that followed. She switched between trying to read and
continuing her needlework. All that came of it was a growing pile of unfinished books and
embroideries. Mostly she just sat idle, pawing at her middle and watching the rainfall.

So when the knock came at her door, she felt it an unbearable interruption.

“I’ve no hunger.” She called, hoping that whichever servant carried her meal would not
inform Jon of this. He had a disagreeable tendency of visiting to shame her into eating.

“I’m glad for I’ve no food to offer.” A familiar voice answered, and soon after the white
robed form of Septon Tom entered her chamber. She was on her feet, smoothing her skirts,
feeling quite unprepared to be scrutinized by the Faith, when the septon bowed to her.

“Your grace.” Tom of the Seven smiled widely. “It has been too long since you reminded me
of the beauty the Seven can bless we mortals with. I congratulate you on the news of your
upcoming child.”

“I thank you.” She replied. “Septon, I am a tad unprepared for this. I had not heard you were
at the Eyrie, but if you’d like to arrange an audience later…”

“Actually I only just arrived.” The man gestured to his thin brown hair, which was quite
damp. “Do you mind if I take a seat by the hearth? Some rest and warmth would be a
kindness.”

She wanted him to seek comfort elsewhere, yet Tom did not wait for permission, collapsing
into the chair. He let out a sigh of relief to hold his hands to the fire and smiled at her. The
way his eyes darted between her and her chair bid Sansa to sit once more. Her back and
shoulders tensing at the unwanted intrusion.
“I apologize for my delayed arrival.” Tom plucked at the golden rope binding his robes.
“Maester Sam and the others were right to hurry here, but I had to seek the truth of the dire
reports we’d heard. To see with my own eyes the terrible damage the war wrought against the
holy places of the Vale.”

Images of burnt of septries and bloody septons and septas came rushing to her mind. The
smell of smoke and death so powerful in her mind she could even taste it.

“Yes, there were many crimes done in the war. Towards the faithful… and others.”

“Yes, yes. I think none so vile as the Martyr’s Mill.” Tom’s big mouth tightened into a firm
line. “A few Poor Fellows have turned the mill into a monastery of sorts. They were the first
to return, seeking to bury the dead in the proper way. The sheer number of graves is startling.
One after the other, long unending lines that cover a whole field. When I beheld them for the
first time, I took to singing the hymn of the fallen right then and there. Have you had a
chance to visit yet?”

“No.” She tried to hide her horror at the idea. “Though I’m sure the work there is surely
worthy of all your praise.”

“The martyrs will have better still. I have it on good authority the High Septon himself shall
visit the mill. His holiness cannot make the journey to Andalos again with all the troubles in
the... well, to visit the resting place of so many holy warriors makes for a fine pilgrimage.
Perhaps her grace could join him in doing so.”

A powerful urge to retch took hold of her. The idea of strolling along the graves at Martyr’s
Mill offended Sansa to her core. Others might have done the killing and dug the graves, but it
she who had delivered those poor men to their ends.

I knew what terrible fate I sent them to. There is no penance to be found there. No forgiveness

Daegon and Harry can feign such, but the dead tell no lies.

“I cannot go.” She swallowed deeply. “Truly, my presence would mean little compared to a
pilgrimage by the High Septon himself.”

Tom regarded her strangely. “My queen, you should reconsider. Your presence would mean
very much indeed. His Holiness could spread the word far and wide of your devotion to the
seven-”

“To challenge the whispers of me making blood sacrifices?”

This shocked the septon into silence, and she turned to the window once more. Outside the
sky was dark but the lights from other parts of the castle could be seen through the dark rivers
of rainwater running down the glass.

“I know what they are saying about me at Highgarden and Oldtown. Did Jon tell you not to
speak of it?”

“The king asked me to be mindful of the delicate condition you were in.”
“He’s said the same to everyone I think. Maester Samwell, Talia, perhaps my darling girls as
well. They are all so careful not to speak of Bran. Of Rhaegar and the empire. Once Jon
would have known better than to try and hide things from me.”

Back when he thought better of me. Before I had fallen to such depths as these.

“Do not think it a betrayal to talk with me about foul tidings.” She continued to watch the
rain patter against the glass. “The whole of Westeros has likely heard of how my brothers
have turned on each other. I must confess, picturing Bran in the blacks of the Night’s Watch
is easier than accepting that it was Robb who condemned him to such. Tell me, have the
Lannisters made war against my family once more?”

“I have heard talk of a raid or two into the Riverlands. They are only so well known because
of how fiercely Prince Rickon threw back the incursions.”

“He must be careful. Princes are no safer in this world than kings. The High King himself can
tell him so. Is it true Rhaegar has returned to Summerhall?”

“It is. King Jon says his father rallies new armies there. The empire is still ravaged by bands
of Dothraki not party to the prince’s peace with Khal Drogo. I’m told that beast left the
empire with a caravan of spoils that stretched for miles. Gold, silver, jewels-”

“And one boy.” She rubbed at her middle. “I love Daenerys not, but to have her son dragged
away by barbarians… I would have understood if Jon had tried to help her…”

“King Jon showed wisdom in not being drawn into that ugliness.” Tom paused for a moment
of consideration. “What could be done? The High King himself approved of the Prince
Aegon’s bargain with the Dothraki and your kingdom is in no state to press the matter.
Truthfully, when the king offered Daenerys safehaven in Aevalon, I spoke against it out of
propriety.”

She sighed. “Daenerys and propriety have never gone together. Still, she did not deserve this.
Nor does her son.”

“An opinion the princess shares. She rejected the king’s offer, pledging to win back her son
whether he helps her or not.”

“Then I wish her luck.” Sansa said, praying Aegon and Daenerys kept their troubles to the
other side of the Narrow Sea.

“My queen, something confuses me.” Tom pulled her attention back to him, finding the
septon tapping his fingers upon his knees. “If you knew of all this, then why not tell your
royal husband? He values your counsel above all others, including those of us on his
council.”

“Not any longer.” She replied, looking to the floor. “My faults were laid bare to him, that’s
why he keeps such matters from me.”
“Forgive me for saying so, but that’s untrue. As I understand it, he’s merely tried to spare you
added hardships. He openly laments your absence from matters of court. This king does
languish without his queen.”

“He is better off. The children too. All I do is disappoint them…. hurt them. If I stay away,
from my family, from all of this, I can do no more harm.”

“What harm? Those with sense know the tales spread about you are false.”

“Not all!” She shouted. “Daegon will tell you! Harry too if he can muster his wits! Ser
Theodan cannot. Nor his men. You saw their graves, you saw what I sent them to. I didn’t
want them to die but that didn’t stop me. Gods help me, that’s how badly I wanted this
kingdom. A poisoned prize… it taints me, it taints this child. I wish it to be born tomorrow if
only to be free of me.”

By the end, she was gripping the arms of her chair so tightly her nails had dug into the wood.
Elsewhere in the castle, a long, loud howl reached through the window. In this Lady gave
voice to her sorrow but her friend could not heal it. There was no cure for this.

Septon Tom said nothing at first. She saw none of the recrimination she expected in his eyes,
yet the worry lines that creased his face seemed to deepen. A flaw in his mask of calm, and
she suspected a carefully worded rebuke at any moment.

Yet it never came. When Tom finally did open his mouth to speak, it was to whisper a prayer
to the seven. Once finished, he folded his hands across his lap and nodded her way.

“I wish to tell you how I found my way to the Faith.” Tom told her. “Few know this tale. In
many ways, my path to salvation shames me more than the sinful life I led before it.”

“Please, septon. I am in no mood…” She quieted when Tom raised a hand to silence her.

“The man I was, he was called Tom of Sevensteams. Though he preferred to be known as
Tom of Sevenstrings. He was a singer, a minstrel, but a scoundrel first and foremost. His
home was the open road, his stage any inn or castle hall that would pay coin for his songs.
There were few sins he did not revel in. Nary a bed he would scorn. From the Dornish
Marches to the Trident, highborn or low, many a maiden fell to his charms.”

A small smile pulled at Tom’s face and there was a faraway look in his eyes.

“He was a tad older than you when his travels took him back to a village in the Riverlands he
knew well. There he found a drover’s daughter who’d offered him a place to sleep and her
virtue a year before. She met him with a bright smile and a son she named as his. He had
fathered other bastards and it shamed him little to promise this girl all she wanted to hear. For
a warm meal and another night in her bed, he swore she would be his wife and to take them
away to a better life. His lies as sweet as the song he sang for her.”

He leaned back in his chair, his face turning to the hearth. The fire dancing across his face.
“After a few days he slipped away while she slept. He knew there were better things ahead
for him. There was war in the lands and with it came armies and lords who paid to have
songs sung of their glorious feats. He came upon such a lord on the road, whose men might
have killed him if not for his voice. Instead he joined their march. Straight back to the
maiden’s village.”

His voice grew hoarse at this part.

“There was nothing he could have done. Armed with nothing but a lute and his voice, he was
no match for men with blades and mail. That’s what he told himself when he watched the
village burn. Then when he found drover’s daughter and her boy after. Burying them would
have been the decent thing. Yet when the lord demanded another song, he abandoned them
again. A better man would have refused, but he sang for the butcher. Sang the very song he’d
won the maiden over with.”

“No more.” She said, having endured enough heartbreak of her own, yet Tom would not be
silenced.

“Time wore on, he travelled far, yet the dead followed him wherever he went. Only drink
held them at bay. Soon there was little else he cared for but that escape. His throat dried to
worthlessness, he pawned his lute for coin, and suddenly he was but another beggar on the
roadside. At his worst, a travelling septon found him. A good and simple man, one who saw
some use in a broken man. For food and drink, he joined this shepherd on his travels, singing
hymns to the septon’s flocks. Weeks, months, I cannot say how many passed before the
hymns came to mean more to the wretch. Their holy words spoke to what he needed. The
drink mattered less, the pain diminished with every hymn, and slowly, he built himself anew.
The pit he wallowed in was deep, the climb hard, but he found his way out. I found my way
out.”

At this Tom slumped back in chair, his voice now hoarse. The rain continued to fall but she
was not tempted to seek the window again. Tom had her attention now, and though his tale
was one of heartfelt honesty, she found its message somewhat shallow.

“So I am to sing hymns and pray? This is how I find salvation? I feel for your trials, but this
is advice any number of septons would give.”

“Fuck prayer.” Tom snapped, pointing a finger at his chest. “That was not what helped me. It
was the singing. Finding some joy in life again. Some work for my idle hands. It might not
sound like much, but inch by inch, those efforts pulled me free.”

This sounded like nonsense. She had tried to keep herself busy. Books, needlework, meeting
with the children, none of it helped. The septon simply did not understand, and when she told
him so, he nodded.

“Then help me understand.”

“I’m too tired to talk… later maybe.”

“Don’t talk then.” He gestured to her table where some blank parchments and a quill sat.
“You say the king and others are not telling me the truth. That the rumors thriving at
Highgarden are false. So put it to parchment. Tell me the story that no one else is sharing. Let
everyone know the war as you knew it, help us to understand.”

At that, the older man rose wearily to come and kneel at her feet. He kissed at her hand
before guiding her in a whispered prayer. After this, the septon made to retire, without
bothering to beg her leave. Unlike the twins, Sansa did challenge him before he could slip
away.

“Did Jon send you here? To say these things?”

Tom smiled. “My dear lady, whether he did or he didn’t, it matters not. The seven brought me
here this night, for it was they who guide us all. Good night to you.”

Then he was gone. Leaving Sansa alone save for the child growing within her. The familiar
relief flooded through her at this, yet she did not seek the window again. Nor her books or
needlework or even the comforts of her bed.

Long after he’d departed, the septon’s challenge lingered in her mind.

For her to tell the tale of the war that no one else wanted to hear. A story of blood-soaked
brutality and merciless cruelties with a few rare moments of chivalry in between. Much of
which Sansa had seen with her own eyes, some she’d set in motion herself.

A glance to her feet showed Rhaegina’s embroidery still lying on the ground. She picked it
up and laid it upon her table. The work was well done and she wished the girl had finished it.

Closing her eyes, Sansa steeled herself against the doubts which clouded her mind. Then she
snatched up the quill and smoothed down a piece of parchment beside the Rhaegina’s half-
finished needlework.

Daegon, Harry, all the others, I can tell their tale at least.

I owe them that.

That first piece of parchment was soon turned to ruin. Then a second. And a third. Only then
did she realize, it made no sense to start the tale midway through.

Her loved ones, her victims, even her enemies, they deserved to have their story told in full.
So, with a hand to her future child, and another on her quill, Sansa struggled to act a scribe.

The War for the Vale

This war began as another ended. The renewal of spring brought with it the return of a
king and a short-lived peace. Until that time, the Vale and Highlands had no quarrel
between them. That was until an ill-fated night at the theatre of Aevalon.
And once more, the death of a direwolf began a bloody war. One that gave rise to heroes
and villains both, and made victims of them all...
 Chapter 14
Chapter Summary

Spring returns to the Six Kingdoms. With it comes invitations, opportunities, and the
worst sorts of betrayals.

Chapter Notes

Almost ten years have passed since we last saw this world.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The Six Kingdoms

The conquest of the Vale by Jonarys Targaryen ushered in a period unseen since the last
King of the Trident. A change to the number of realms within the Sunset Kingdoms,
from seven to six.

The Kingdom of the North and Trident, the Kingdom of the Rock, the Kingdom of the
Reach, the Kingdoms of the Highlands, and Dorne.

With nearly half the south ruled by the Targaryens of the white dragon, another
terrible war seemed on the horizon. Either to be waged by King Jonarys, who had a
violent repute quite unearned by deed or manner, or by the remaining rulers of the
south in defense of their realms. Perhaps even their lives.

Indeed, two long-ruling kings would not survive this period. Mace Gardener, King of
the Reach, and Doran Martell, Prince of Dorne. Neither of whom were slain by the
white dragon, but were lost to natural causes. King Mace passing away in his bed,
surrounded by his children and grandchildren. Prince Doran would succumb to his
long-suffering ailments, at the Water Gardens he so loved. Both dying before the end of
yet another conflict between their realms.

The rest endured. For, rather than war, years of peace would be ushered in between the
Targaryens and their neighbors.

Robb Stark, King in the North, with great hardship did deny the Iron Islanders any
new footholds in his realm. That the riverlands remained under Stark rule is credited to
the leadership of the king’s youngest brother, Prince Rickon. Styled the Black Wolf, he
rallied the riverlords and launched a raid or two into the west, becoming a bane to the
lions of Casterly Rock.

Despite these setbacks, King Tywin Lannister became a beacon of hope to his subjects.
Though his lands had not expanded beyond their traditional holdings, the Lannisters
had retaken all that was once lost to them. Beyond the years of prosperity, many held
up Tywin’s greatest feat during this time as winning his son, Tyrion, in the form of a
cousin, Cerenna Lannister.

For the betterment of the other realms, the Iron Islands endured a steep decline in
power and reach. King Balon Greyjoy wasted much of his resources on ill-fated
campaigns and battling rebellions by his own son, Theon. Denied any significant
holdings in the mainland, the Greyjoys subsisted on small-scale reaving. Sadly, as the
ironmen are fond of saying, they have a way of rising up harder and stronger.

While the Reach and Dorne would go to war, and the Black Wolf and golden lions did
battle, peace reigned in the lands of the white dragon. King Jonarys would rule from the
Eyrie for a small part of this period. In place of Sansa Stark, the dragon’s queen, who
suffered from a mysterious illness in the Vale, the Dragons Darling were rumored to act
the true ladies of the Eyrie. That was until the Targaryens left things to Harrold Arryn
and his wife, Eleanor Mooton.

For the Kingdoms of the Highlands, the ensuing years were a time of peace and plenty.
More Targaryens would be born and newly landed houses, like Blackfyre and Otherys,
did thrive.

Yet the calm of the Six Kingdoms was merely the eye of the storm. What did follow was
the destruction of entire realms, the rise and fall of kings, and the worst sort of
bloodletting.

That of brother against brother.

JON

The years melted away in moments like these.

Riding freely in the company of good men, it was easy to think himself the youthful leader of
the Dark Order again. The warmth of the sun upon his skin, the way the breeze ran ghostly
fingers through his hair, all of it felt much as it had when he was a brash man of twenty.

Not a weathered king inching towards forty, he mused, however I feel for the moment nothing
is as it was.

His companions were proof of how much things had changed. Among those riding out of the
Kingswood were the knights Raymund Connington and Benfred Rykker, once his squires and
now men grown. His new squires, the fair-haired Ashor Darry and dark-skinned Valarr
Otherys, had been little more than babes when the Vale was won. In those days Ser Mychel
Redfort was a freshly made Kingsguard, now he lorded over Ser Quinn Mallery, the newest
addition to the white cloaks.

Only Gendry had been with him from the beginning, the powerfully built lord riding by Jon’s
side even now. Gendry’s thick black hair and beard showed the odd grey hair, yet beneath the
lines creasing his face, Jon still saw the brother he chose.

Especially when Gendry frowned to catch him staring.

“I’m not going to race you.” Gendry shook his head. “It’s poor form to show up a king.”

“Excuses.” He replied over the sound of the hooves. “Arya may have a fine eye for
horseflesh, but that mount is wasted on an aurochs like you.”

Gendry snorted and Jon began stroking Vhagar’s hickory mane, preparing the courser for
what was to come.

“What is it about spring that makes you Starks so restless? Lyonel and Arya began to torment
me the moment the Citadel’s raven arrived. I’ll not race you, Jon. You hear me?”

His reply was a challenging bellow and the snap of his reins, which set Vhagar into a gallop.
The others gave surprised shouts, yet a glance behind showed Gendry already in pursuit.

The pair rode hard towards the Blackwater Rush. To the other side of the river, the Red Keep
jutted up from the heights of Aegon’s Hill, looming large over the city below. The walls of
Aevalon stood tall, and to reach its gates from the south they would need to cross the length
of the Blackwater Bridge. Doing so meant passing through the fortified town that had sprung
up to the bridge’s southern end, where the roads to Storm’s End and Tumbleton met.

Farside-of-the-River. Farside to most in Aevalon, though Jon had heard the city’s small
offshoot called something far less pleasant.

Ourside. Gods damn the fool who thought of that.

Unlike Aevalon, only a few thousand dwelt in the town and nearly all were freemen born of
Westeros. When Jon and Gendry passed through Farside’s gates, nary a freedman was seen
among the simple folk within. Most were woodworkers, haywards, and the like. People who
bowed as Vhagar ambled up the cobblestone road. They passed by a garrison hall flying his
white dragon emblem, then a stable and a pair of traveler’s inns, followed by the modest
homes of the townsfolk.

Removed from the bustle of Aevalon, the folk of Farside enjoyed a quiet, peaceful existence.
A lifestyle Jon very much liked his family to share in from time to time.

Hence how Farside was chosen as the perfect place for the royal retreat.

The estate was impossible to miss. A massive portion of land enclosed by pale walls and a
gatehouse topped with golden merlons. He waved at the spearmen patrolling above and two
iron-banded doors swung inward, allowing his party to enter the sanctuary.
Within the walls lay a large estate of lush green fields and orchards. Groves of fruit trees
lined the lengthy path onwards to a small hill where three white villas appeared to glow in the
midday sun.

This was his home away from home. The palace of Targarra.

Only people who have never seen Summerhall could call it a palace.

In the empire, Targarra would be just another noble estate. Though a handsome one at that.

“I still say you need a keep.” Gendry said as the horses moved leisurely over the tree-lined
path. “The plans called for one and it would make Targarra easier to defend.”

“No, brother. The walls and guards are enough. The town has a strong garrison, its walls and
battletowers built well. Have some faith in Farside to do as you intended.”

“Faith.” Gendry repeated. “I’d rather trust in steel and stone. If it were up to me, this would
be a castle. One with a nice, deep moat.”

It was Gendry who first commission work to begin on the town. The war in the Vale inflicted
upon Gendry more than a limp and crooked left arm, it had hardened the lord’s heart against
his bannermen. After the treachery at Gulltown, his friend believed Aevalon needed a
bulwark against any threats from the Stormlands.

Yet while this martial town was born of Gendry’s wariness, Targarra came about as an act of
kindness by a pair of she-wolves.

“Arya and my mother had the right of it. We didn’t need another castle.” He gestured to the
birds singing in the branches of an apple tree. “Do not look at Targarra through a warrior’s
eyes. See this haven for what it is. A place to lay down our burdens.”

“Or to be spied upon.” Gendry whispered back, flicking his eyes to the opposite side of the
path.

Continuing to face ahead, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye within the shade
of the grove. That of a large, dark shape stalking their advance. He spotted another soon after,
then two more to the other side. None of this worried him, for he had little doubt what these
shadows were.

Ser Mychel had taken notice too, smirking along with Gendry while Ser Raymund and Ser
Benfred did their best to hide their amusement. Yet when a twig snapped from the direction
of the smallest shadow, Ser Quinn ruined the game.

“Who goes there?” The fiery-haired knight pulled his sword to point at the trees.

“Easy now.” Gendry said as Ser Mychel smacked at Ser Quinn’s blade.

“Sheath your steel, man. That be a dragon you’re threatening.”

“One playing at being a wolf.” Jon sighed, crossing his arms. “Come out, son.”
While the larger shadows stayed put, a dark-haired youth emerged from the trees. He wore
tanned leathers and had a bow and quiver slung over his back and a knife strapped to his belt.
Tall and strapping, the lad was often confused for being older than his eight years. Yet when
Jon looked into the deep grey eyes of his second son, they were filled with boyish innocence.

“Hello, Graeme. How long were you with us?”

“Since just inside the gate.” Graeme said, fidgeting with his bow. “We were sneaking up on
the guards again. Me and Shadow were so close to Wide Wat I could smell him. That’s when
Silver heard you coming.” He kicked at the ground. “She was the one that broke the stick.
That’s what gave us away, wasn’t it?”

“It was.” He lied, for the boy was proud of his skills. “Now about this stalking the
guardsmen, I thought your grandmother had a talk with you about that.”

Graeme scratched his head. “She said if I can catch the men unawares they deserve to be
startled.”

“That sounds about right.” Gendry chuckled as Jon cursed his mother’s sense of discipline.

Graeme lived with Lyanna here at Targarra, acting as the High Queen’s cupbearer. Thus the
boy had ample time to roam the grounds with Lady’s newest litter. The three young
direwolves had slipped away during Graeme’s explanation, though in truth they were all half-
breeds. Both Lady and Nymeria had mated with common wolves, producing several litters
that now prowled the Kingswood in packs. The youngest three stuck close to home though,
guarding Targarra and bonding with Graeme more than most.

How deep does that bond go? Does my son dream as his parents do?

By day he acts half a wolf, by night he might well become one.

He lifted the boy up so they could share his saddle. Years ago, when Graeme was but a
bundled babe, Jon had carried him down from the heights of the Eyrie for the journey back to
Aevalon. It was easy to think of him as the best thing to come out of their time in the Vale.

A dark period in his life. One where the vows he swore in Winterfell were sorely tested. His
marriage was its worst then, and the love between Sansa and himself very nearly became
another victim of the war.

“You just missed mother.” Graeme said as they drew near to the palace. “They stopped here
on the way back from their ride. Mother, Aunt Arya, ladies Sarella and Talia, then Rhaegina
and Aemma and, truly father, there were so many I bet they scared off every deer in the
forest.”

“Well none of us were hunting today, it was just a pleasure ride.”

“How come Aenry’s not with you? Did he irk you or is his nose buried in a new book?”

“Do not mock your brother his pursuits.” He said despite being annoyed Aenry had not come
along. “Spring’s only just arrived, there’s plenty of time for him to go riding. We shall all go
together.”

He said this as much for Graeme’s benefit as his own. There was nothing wrong with a
bookish prince, his uncle Aemon proved that. Yet Aenry acted far more aloof than he found
appropriate for an heir. Sansa called it a folly of boyhood and urged him to be patient. It was
hard though, since Rhaegina and Aemma took such interest in their kingdom and its rule.

Despite his misgivings, Jon did heed Sansa’s counsel. Just as he had heeded Tom of the
Seven when he advised the same regarding Sansa during her dark time.

He had never regretted doing so. Even now he remembered Sansa’s smile to behold Targarra
for the first time.

The three multi-leveled villas were built in the imperial style, with tall limestone pillars,
marble tiles, and ornate archways. Dominating their lower levels were spacious banquet halls
and galleries filled with sculptures and mosaics. All opened up into a courtyard, truly a large
flower garden, with a circular fountain-fed pool at its heart.

There was no need for Graeme to lead them any longer, not when they could follow the
sounds of childish glee and splashing water.

“The king!” A shout went up as they rounded a rose bush, finding his mother holding court
near the pool’s edge. Though her few companions quickly jerked about to face him, the High
Queen did so at a leisurely pace.

In old age Lyanna Stark remained a handsome woman. Her silver streaked hair moved freely
in the breeze and her smile was bright and warm.

“First Sansa and the girls, now you? What a welcome surprise. Oh and I see you apprehended
my wayward cupbearer.”

“He was off running with the wolves again. Not exactly the princely duties we expected you
to set him to.”

“Oh, I think such adventures have their uses.” Mother said with a wink to Graeme.

She ignored Jon’s exasperation to plant a kiss on his cheek. As she went to do the same to
Gendry, he took note of those the High Queen kept near. Baleron Otherys was no surprise, the
Lord of Tumbleton being a dear friend to his mother. The same went for his wife, Korra of
Tyrosh, who dyed her silver-blonde hair a garish blue. The black pointed beard of Ser
Symond Templeton seemed somewhat unremarkable in comparison. The Knight of Ninestars
had been at court for two years now, having left the Vale in grief at his wife’s passing. In an
act of kindness, Mother kept him a frequent guest at Targarra.

Yet none were so constant as Lyanna’s grim shadow. Jon spotted Ethan at the edge of the
pool, the brutish Highguard leaning upon his poleaxe as he watched the trio of children
frolicking within.
“Did you enjoy the Kingswood, your grace?” Ser Symond asked awkwardly. “That is, your
ride through it?”

“It was fine. Next time I’ll insist you join us, ser. You too, Baleron.”

“I prefer the deck of a galley to the saddle.” Baleron jested. “I’m looking forward to the day
when a journey from Aevalon to Tumbleton need not require a horse at all.”

“That canal again.” Korra spoke High Valyrian with a Tyroshi accent. “It’s all he ever
speaks about. In the empire I could envision such an enterprise, but in these lands it is surely
a dream.”

“So was Aevalon once.” He replied. “Your family has worked wonders with Tumbleton, it
can be the same with the Mander. If the lords speaks with as much conviction to the Gardener
king as he does to me, I feel content to dream.”

After the Vale, renewed war with the Reach was his nightmare. The defeat of Elbert Arryn
left the remaining kings of the south fearful of him, including his allies in Dorne. All might
have made common against the Highlands had such a notion not died in its infancy.

A rebellion in Dornish Marches led to yet another conflict between the Reach and Dorne. The
passing of King Mace in his sleep led to his heir Willas ascending the throne at Highgarden,
who was far cooler to the calls for war. The new king took notice of how preoccupied the
Lannisters were with the Iron Islands and the North, and the costly raids against the
Highlands’ borders by his own bannermen.

Willas saw what he did, that another war between their kingdoms would pose heavy burdens
upon both sides. So they did something daring. They talked.

Not in person, but through intermediaries of the Faith and emissaries like Baleron and Prince
Garlan. Jon swore upon the Seven Pointed Star that the Gardeners were the anointed Kings of
the Reach, pledging generous trade opportunities at Tumbleton and five years of peace with
his neighbors. Most importantly, he kept his bannermen back from the fighting in the Dornish
Marches. In return, Willas reined in his lords and allowed Tumbleton to thrive.

The Martells were not pleased with the accord, nor the Lannisters, yet the objections of their
fickle allies did not dissuade either king. A good thing, since the five years of peace came and
went and still the borderlands were quiet.

Which led to grander notions still.

“A canal between the Blackwater and the Mander.” Ser Symond spoke with disbelief. “Such
a thing has never been done in the Seven Kingdoms.”

The High Queen smiled. “Someone likely said that when Brandon the Builder started the
Wall. Such thoughts are prudent, yet they can also hinder greatness. Boldness and
determination build wonders. Like Storm’s End standing defiant upon Shipbreaker Bay or the
Eyrie being raised upon those great heights.”
“What about Harrenhal?” Graeme asked with little cheer. “I’ve heard it called a wonder.
Maester Sam says thousands died to build it. Would building a canal mean the same?”

“Let’s hope not.” Baleron grew somber. “Some would die in the effort, yet their children and
children’s children forever more will benefit from the prosperity it brings. I’ve said much the
same to King Willas. That traveling from the Reach to the Narrow Sea need not mean a
lengthy journey around Dorne. A canal would lead the Mander to flourish with trade.
Highgarden, Aevalon and Tumbleton, all would thrive. The possibilities are endless.”

“A second Rhoyne.” Mother quipped. “But here in the Seven Kingdoms. Built by your
father.”

“Not without the Reach.” He said before urging Graeme on towards the pool. “Go on, make
sure your younger kin don’t drown each other.”

The boy dragged his feet at first, though soon quickened his pace to seek Ethan’s side. He
waited to speak again until he was content Graeme could no longer hear them over the
laughter and splashing in the pool.

“It’s been months now, and still no reply to our proposal. On the canal or other matters.”

“King Willas did say both would require deep consideration.” Baleron reminded him.
“Though he was clearly pleased by the idea of betrothal between your two houses. I spoke of
Prince Graeme’s many handsome qualities, of how the king’s niece would find no nobler a
prince to name husband.”

Matching Graeme to Prince Garlan’s daughter Alera was Sansa’s idea. It was meant to seal a
grand partnership on the canal to the Mander.

“Unless Willas agrees to match our contribution, the canal cannot happen. The treasury does
not have the gold for it and I’ll not press my vassals further. This realm is already hard
enough to govern without lords rebelling over taxes. Before a canal my kingdom needs
proper roads and a standing force able to march along them at a moment’s notice.”

He was speaking of the ascaera. A small force of only a few hundred, but sworn to him
alone. Modeled after the Dark Order and other imperial legions, the aescara lived to march
and fight at his command. A mix of riders and pikemen, they were constantly drilled by
seasoned warriors like Belasso and Grenn, who’d finished his time in the order and sought
better opportunities with Jon.

At the moment they were somewhere up the Blackwater Rush, having left Aevalon as soon as
the snows started melting to patrol the upriver settlements of the freedmen of Dracaria,
Queenston, and Freehold.

A march cut short by his recent commands. It was likely Grenn and Belasso were already
leading the men back even if few in Aevalon knew so.

His mother apparently being one of them.

“Why have you recalled the ascaera?” She asked, taking his arm and leading them on a walk
to around the wide pool.

“Who says that I have?”

“Not Sansa, I can assure you. She refused to speak to it. There’s a lot of Ned’s stubbornness
in her.”

“I see it as loyalty.”

“Well, you always see the best of her. Not that I can blame you. Whenever I look upon my
grandchildren, I curse the fool I was to ever speak against you marrying her.”

They both turned to look within the pool where three children played. The oldest was a
raven-haired girl of seven, Gendry and Arya’s daughter, Argella. The other two were dearer
to him.

“They begged Sansa and Arya to stay.” Mother said. “This pool might not be the hot springs
of Winterfell but with the warm weather upon us, it makes them happy.”

I am glad of it then, for they bring me joy.

He watched with mirth as his two youngest children splashed each other. Daeved was a
charming boy of six, with Tully eyes and Targaryen hair. Maery was a dark-haired treasure
with snow-white skin on the cusp of her fifth year. Both had been summer babes, Daeved
born during its hot, sultry peak, Maery at its close.

That summer was one of peace and bounty, it was also saw his winter queen returned to him.
Sansa’s recovery from her melancholy had been a lengthy road, and not without its setbacks.
Well after he thought her free of it, Sansa was forced to correct him.

“The darkness hasn’t left my mind, I doubt it ever will.” She had told him one night as they
lay together, stroking the scar on her shoulder. “I’ve just had to accept it. Like Joffrey’s
brand, it’s an ugliness that shall always be with me.”

“Nothing about you is ugly. Body and soul, I see nothing but beauty. I swear it, my love.”

“But it’s how I feel, Jon. How I’ve suffered, what I’ve done to others, I had to accept all of it
as a part of me. Talking helps though. The darkness makes it feel right to hide, to push you
away. I’d not give it that satisfaction again… I don’t want to give it one moment more…”

He understood that feeling well. After witnessing the courage Sansa showed in battling her
demons, Jon’s esteem for his wife only grew. In truth, he came out of the dark time loving
Sansa more than ever. The fear of losing her surely played a role, yet it was how Sansa found
ways to surprise him that made his heart beat harder.

Her writing most of all.

“Just to warn you, Sansa and I had words.” The High Queen said. “Have you read her treatise
on the Clash of Stags?”
“Yes, it’s quite well done.” He replied. “It must have something to do with the flow of the
tongues but the tale of Renly and Stannis comes across a deeper tragedy in High Valyrian. I
imagine it’ll be well received at Volantis.”

“For all the wrong reasons. The imperial court does not to hear how the Durrandon brothers
nearly doomed their kingdom with their strife.”

“That’s the truth as far as I know.”

“A harsh truth at an inopportune time.” Mother stopped him with a hand to her chest.
“Brother against brother breeding folly. That’s the message I took from Sansa’s work. Others
will see it too, Jon. You could be a rallying point of opposition to Aegon but tales like this do
us no favors. Good men might endure Aegon’s misrule if they fear the Targaryen Empire
could fall to ruin otherwise.”

“It very well could. That is why I leave the empire to my brother.” He gestured to the palace
around him. “I have a realm of my own. May Aegon be as pleased with the empire as I am
with my kingdoms.”

“He’ll never be content. Not as long you both wear crowns. You cannot ignore the threat he
poses. The slavers falling upon ships of freedmen travelling here, all to sell them back into
slavery. Whose purse do you imagine their silver lines? What about the harassment of the
Dark Order? How many of your former comrades have sought refuge here? Even if you
ignore all this, we both know Aegon has meddled in your affairs before. When he ascends as
High King things will worsen. The empire will either turn its back to the Highlands, or turn
against it. Look at what’s befallen Daenerys ”

“She went too far and do not pretend otherwise.”

It pained Jon to say so. He had failed to aid Dany and her son in their hour of need, yet that
could not excuse her actions since. After the passing of Aemon, Daenerys had used much of
the wealth and influence their uncle left to her to frustrate Aegon at court. She sought any
avenue to hinder his rise, including several petitions bidding the Council of Heralds to revisit
his position as heir.

Their unwillingness to do so led Daenerys to terrible folly. In secret, she had attempted to
offer her hand in marriage to Khal Drogo without the High King’s blessing. Once this plot
was revealed, his father’s response was swift. Three years now Dany had been confined to
Summerhall as a guest to the High King. A prisoner in all but name.

“What Dany did was tantamount to treason.” He said, eyeing his mother closely. “An act you
were fortunate not to be tainted with. All the backing you gave Dany in her quarrels against
Aegon… I should have put a stop to it before.”

“I no longer share Rhaegar’s bed but I am still High Queen. Yes, Daenerys had my help and
favor. As do others in the empire. Friends you will thank me for one day.”

“Friends are welcome but if my parents did reconcile, it be a wonder.” His voice softened
some. “Mother, each time you journey back to the empire, I wish you’d stay there. Do not
doubt my love for you, just remember that my father is even more devoted. That you visit
Norvos and Selhorys yet scorn Summerhall fills his letters to me with anguish.”

She bristled. “That his feelings are hurt does not redeem Rhaegar to me. I will not speak of
this again-”

“How can you claim yourself queen while ignoring your duty to the king?” His anger got the
better of him. “Why urge Ser Arthur and Tumco to do theirs? They went back to rebuild the
Highguard after its devastation, yet you’ll not bother to mend a frayed marriage.”

“Not frayed. Broken.” His mother spoke each word in a cold, deliberate manner. “The cracks
were there from the beginning, they only worsened with time. I say the same of your father’s
reign. I see much of its great promise proven false. Except for you. I’m not alone in thinking
so.”

“Here and now, you are.” He made to turn away when she grabbed hold of his arm.

“Heed me. Our friends in the empire tell me that in places both high and low, the white
dragon is held above others. Rhaegar and Aegon are known for their defeats, you for your
conquests. That Jonarys is Daeron the First come again, the Young Dragon reborn.”

“Not so young anymore.” He pointed out. “Nor much of a warrior. I laid down Dark Sister to
wield the ruling scepter. I make trade pacts now, not war. That repute you speak of, it means
little, not when peace is all Daeved and Maery have ever known.”

He bid his mother to look upon the children again. Argella was doing her best to drag
Graeme into the pool, only succeeding when Gendry gave him a nudge. Below the dragon
shaped fountain, Daeved and Maery were turns leaping through the water pouring out of the
beast’s mouth.

“Another five years of this. Ten. The rest of my life. Theirs too, I pray.”

“Jon, I want the same.” Mother sighed. “Else I would not speak to all this. The next High
King cannot be trusted to feel as we do.”

“I know. By Vhagar, I know it.” His hands clenched into fists. “Yet I will not stand in
opposition to Aegon. Not while there’s still a chance for us. For our families and our realms. I
believe as my father does, that our destinies lie together. We only need make the effort.”

Lyanna eyed him in a curious manner and he hesitated speaking further, for Sansa had urged
caution in broaching this matter with his mother. The time seemed right and he despised
keeping secrets from those he trusted.

“A message came with the latest group of freedmen.” Jon said. “My father has declared thirty
days of feasting and frolicking throughout the Targaryen Empire. To celebrate the coming of
spring and the return of Baelyon Targaryen.”

“Quite the gesture. After all this time with the Dothraki, I hope the festivities are lively ones
for the sake of that young man.”
“You can judge for yourself if you wish. Father has extended an invitation for you to attend.”

“Jon, did I not make myself clear? I have no desire to return to Rhaegar.”

“I heard you. Though I thought you could find your way to helping guide your grandchildren
through the halls of the imperial court.” He watched her eyes widen. “The High King bids
House Targaryen of Aevalon to tour the empire as honored guests. So my family can join in
the celebrations as Aegon and I can forge a new understanding between us. Apparently father
is doing the same as you, he already prepares for a time after his passing.”

He wants his children to be secure, he thought, the same urge drives me or else I’d not
consider such a journey.

The empire held little appeal to him after spending almost half his life now in the Seven
Kingdoms. There were things to be done here. Overseeing the first harvests of spring,
completing the road to the Vale, fostering actual friendship with the Reach while reassuring
the Dornish, expanding his fledgling cohort of standing warriors. All things Jon felt key to
keeping his mighty realm together.

He feared the disarray plaguing the North and Dorne.

Perhaps the Kingdom of the Rock as well if what Queen Catelyn wrote of is true...

“Out with it, Jon.” Mother pushed into his thoughts, her tone somewhat excited. “Are you
truly going back to the empire?”

Before he could answer, Daeved and Maery swam up near to where they stood. The boy and
girl scrambling to be the first out of the water so they could stand before him in their dripping
small clothes.

“Father!” Daeved exclaimed breathlessly. “Did you see Graeme fall in?”

“Uncle Gendry pushed him.” Maery whispered as if this was some scandalous secret. “I’m
glad. The others wouldn’t put more than a toe in the water.”

“Rhaegina and Aemma looked like this. ” Daeved held his chin high in a haughty manner.
“Oh and Vee called us childish.”

“We are children.” Maery tugged on a lock of dark hair and stared up at him. “Father, will
you come swimming with us?”

“Not today, love.”

“Because you only swim at night?”

He blinked in confusion at the odd question and Daeved shrugged.

“When mother wouldn’t swim Aunt Arya said you two only go in the pool together. After
dark.”
Vhagar help me.

“Your aunt is jesting.” He said as mother stifled a laugh. “You two go have fun while you
can. Soon it’ll be time to dry and dress so I can deliver you back to their mother looking like
a proper prince and princess.”

Daeved laughed. “I want to go back to the Red Keep like this!” He shook his damp pale hair.
“Hello all! I’m the Lord of the Fishes!”

“No! Prince Soggybottoms!” Maery giggled as she threw arms up high and posed. “And I’m
the Merling Queen!”

“Then we must get you to the sea.” He declared, gathering the two wet children into his arms.
They squealed and squirmed as he carried them on to toss both his babes into the water.

The pair came up laughing and splashing one another. When Argella and Graeme swam over
to join in the youthful glee, he was once more struck by a wave of nostalgia.

Once another four children had frolicked so in the reflecting pools of Summerhall. He saw
Rhaenys and himself in how Argella and Graeme kept towards the edges, watching the louder
two with amusement. Aegon and Daenerys had always laughed the loudest and smiled the
brightest, just as Daeved and Maery did now.

Back then we all saw each other as family. There was friendship and love between us then.

Look how far we’ve come…

“Jonarys.” Lyanna grabbed his chin and forced him to look upon her. His mother’s gaze filled
with a familiar mix of worry and hope, like the day he and Gendry had left for the Dark
Order.

“Speak to it, son. Are you returning to the empire?”

“I am. We all are.” He said, watching the children at play. “To fix what is broken. To try and
go back to how things were.”

For the sakes of those who follow in our footsteps.

ROBB

The Greatjon knew how to throw a celebration.

He was leaving the feast far later than intended; the sounds of merriment following him as he
climbed the rough stone stairs of Last Hearth. Scores of voices echoed up from the hall,
coming together in a bellowed rendition of Wolf in the Night. More songs would follow, in
between the boastful retellings of the battle or the odd wrestling match; all fueled by an
endless flow of ale and wine.
They are welcome to it, Robb thought, I partook in more than my fair share.

He had passed the likes of Morgan Liddle and his man Quent retching just outside the hall.
Strict restraint on his part avoided such displays. While he never scorned lifting a goblet with
one of his lords, the rest of the time he only drank when his bronze crown slid far enough to
require adjustment.

This practice had served him well over the years. Whether he played a host or honored guest,
he acted a king regardless.

The crown rested easier now. A welcome warmth flowing through his body, his thoughts
somewhat clouded. As if the mists which rose off the hot springs in winter had worked their
way into his mind. Hiding away his worries. Making him remember a time when Myrcella
had emerged from the water, a golden beauty naked and waiting for him to join her for a
soak.

A soak and more.

His pace quickened, the stairs unable to tire him as he sought out Myrcella here in the Keep
of Giants. Her invitation bid him on, and he wagered she’d forgive him ailing a touch from
drink.

After all, he had returned to her in far worse conditions before.

Only yesterday Myrcella had beheld his return to Last Hearth in blood-soaked triumph. The
wildlings were growing bold. They had gone from raiders to invaders in a matter of years.
More were scaling the Wall or braving the Bay of Ice or the Gorge than ever before. First in
the hundreds. Then in the thousands. More than his northernmost bannermen and the Night’s
Watch could handle.

To bolster both, he moved his court to Last Hearth, bringing as much heavy horse as he could
rally. The timeliness of their coming could not be gainsaid, with spring came a surge of
attacks. Not just through the Gorge or in the Gift.

Seemingly out of thin air, a massive wildling host was discovered south of the Wall and
moving on Last Hearth. An army led by a wildling named Styr of Thenn who outnumbered
them by thousands.

The Karstarks had promised men, but he could not wait.

“I will not be the first Stark king to suffer a siege by wildlings.” He had declared to his war
counsel. “Numbers alone do not a victory make. That’s the only advantage the wildlings
have. They are ignorant to how I make war, and I will treat them to a bloody lesson on the
subject.”

“Aye, the more the merrier for the slaughter.” The Greatjon had boomed, the old and grey
lord beaming at the prospect. “These bastards are in our lands. Trapped between us and the
Wall. We’ll crush them like Umbers have done since the Builder’s days!”
He put the Greatjon’s confidence to use. A day’s ride north of Last Hearth, the lord met the
wildlings with only the Umber strength at his back. Arrayed against the northmen were
thousands savage in manner and appearance. Defying their vast numbers, the Greatjon’s
taunted his foes by pissing on the field between them. What little discipline the wildlings
maintained broke at that. They rushed forth as a mob, spreading themselves out across the
wide field in a chaotic charge.

Only then did Robb’s horse appear on a hill to the east and more under Kyle Condon to the
rear. The wildings were caught unawares, Grey Wind and his outriders having slain every
enemy scout they came across.

Disorganized and attacked from three sides, the wildling host was torn to shreds. He and Ice
had reaped a terrible toll, its dark and smoky steel slick with blood by the close of the killing.

Others boasted grimmer tallies, seasoned warriors like Smalljon Umber or Garen Tuttle of the
Night’s Watch. Yet neither could boast of slaying the wildling leader, the fearsome Magnar of
Thenn.

That honor fell to his firstborn son.

The very same lad he now discovered in an alcove, half-hidden by the shadows as he and
some girl kissed with youthful passion.

“Are you two lost? I doubt you’ll not find the hall that way.”

His query startled the pair who pulled apart with haste. Ned had spent the last three years at
Last Hearth as the Greatjon’s ward and was much changed from the boy he had been at
Winterfell. At nearly ten and five, Ned was already of a height with him and hailed as a
natural swordsman.

Other changes gave Robb pause though. Upon arriving at Last Hearth, he was taken aback by
how much Ned resembled Jaime Lannister. To look upon his son’s golden curls and
handsome features was to travel back to Whispering Wood, where the Lannister prince had
slain Robb’s friends before his eyes.

Yet when he looked into Ned’s eyes, there was no sign of Jaime Lannister in their bright
blues. In them he saw the first babe Myrcella gifted him. The boy who pestered him endlessly
for tales of his namesake.

A prince whose face now burned to be caught in such a compromising position.

“Father! This isn’t how it looks.” Ned struggled as his companion curtsied, her head bent
low.

“I know you. Might your name be Mora?” He asked, recognizing the girl as the youngest of
the Greatjon’s natural born daughters. She was older than Ned by a couple years, which he
noted with amusement.

“Yes, your grace.” Mora Snow kept her eyes on the ground, her tone full of deference.
A spirited girl, the Greatjon called her so after she slapped that Lake man for unwelcome
advances.

Clearly he lacked Ned’s charms…

The lad did the gallant thing then, stepping between them to shield the young woman.

“We left the feast for good cause.” Ned continued. “Mora was going to tend the Lady Thea
and with so many drunkards about, escorting her seemed the honorable course-”

“I fear one lusty scoundrel broke though your cordon.” He smiled before addressing Mora.
“Do rise. If you expect reproach, it shall not come from me. Though if my son has acted
untoward in any way, do not hesitate to say so. Your family has my respect and you my
protection.”

“Protection?” Her eyes grew wide. “Ned didn’t- that is Prince Eddard did me no harm. It’s
like he said, we were walking to my goodsister’s room and… the climb was quite tiring.”

“No doubt that’s why you both look so flush.” He could not help that one, yet forced himself
to stop tormenting the pair. “Mora, if can do without your escort the rest of the way, I’d like
have a talk with my son.”

The young woman jumped at the chance to flee and he took note of the hurried looks of
longing between the youths.

“Nothing can come of that.” He said evenly, a hand on Ned’s shoulder. “You’re the heir to
Winterfell, the next King in the North. All she has is her name. Snow.”

“She’s a daughter to one of our most loyal lords.” Ned argued.

Robb nodded. “Aye, and she seems lovely. Mora will make a fine wife one day, but she will
not be yours. Dispel any illusions otherwise. I say this not to be cruel, but to spare you hurt.
So that you might spare Mora the same. Don’t take advantage, Ned. Treat her with honor.”

“I wasn’t going to bed her.” He reddened in either anger or embarrassment. “It was only a
kiss. One to thank me for walking her about and defending her home. I’d be a rude sort of
prince to turn away a thankful maid. ”

“I see she kissed away your modesty.” Robb guided his golden heir down the corridor,
passing by the torches and rusted bronze swords adorning the walls. “This is what I hoped to
speak of. In the hall I praised your defeat of Styr, now I’ll take the chance to call you a
bloody fool.”

“Father?”

“Trust that your mother has choicer words for you.” He tightened his grip on Ned,
remembering the terror he felt to hear his boy was battling the Magnar. “You could’ve been
killed. Carry my standard. Hang back. Stay safe. That’s what I bid of you. What were you
thinking?”
“I was thinking of grandfather.” Ned looked at him with soft eyes. “You wish you’d been
there. At the ambush that killed him. I heard it in your voice every time you spoke of it. How
badly you wanted to save him. When I watched you ride into the fray, that’s all I could think
of. The Thenns were pushing closer and there were so many… Styr was calling for you… he
fought so hard…”

He felt a slight tremble work through his son. Some relished their first kill. The Greatjon and
others saw it as a stepping-stone to manhood. Neither of these things applied to Robb and his
boy.

“I’d do it again.” Ned said with clenched fists. “Earn your ire. Mother’s too. I’d kill the
Magnar a hundred times over. Just like he’d do with you or mother or my sister. He tried his
best with me. He fought so hard-”

He stopped Ned by grabbing his shoulders and forcing the prince to face him.

“The wildling earned his end. That you stand here and he rots below is a gift from the old
gods and the new. I want you to think long and hard before you disobey me again, but have
no regrets on the blood you shed. We are Starks, lords, Northmen, killing is a part of who we
are. Yet it’s not all we are.”

Although Ned nodded at his words, it was plain how much effort he was putting into hiding
the troubles within. In this, Robb saw so much of his father.

We named him well, father. If you must choose between us, put your faith in him.

He had only just let go of Ned when the youth’s brow furrowed and he looked about with
curiosity.

“My king, unless I’m mistaken, your rooms were in the eastern wing. This is where mother
sleeps.”

“Is it really? I must have got turned around. The Greatjon did insist on that third tankard of
ale. Don’t worry yourself on it. Go back to the feast. I’ll sort myself out.”

“I’m sure you will.” Ned’s smile cut like a knife. “Tell mother I wish her a good night and as
restful a sleep as she can manage.”

Somehow he had gone from lecturing his son to being mocked by him. This caused Robb to
chuckle as the prince sought the stairs to return to celebrations. One day Ned would inherit
his crown, he might as well start by taking his place at the feast. With the king and queen
gone, it would be good to have at least one Stark there

He had looked forward to being with Myrcella since they’d parted earlier. During the feast
she had been the picture of grace, paying every compliment to the Umbers. That she had
retired early from the feast was for the benefit of the newest member of House Umber. Sick
of being a widower, the Smalljon had taken a new wife in Thea Wull, a maiden less than half
his age and now full with child.
“See how she fidgets? The poor thing is exhausted.” Myrcella had told him in the hall. “In
her state she should be abed, resting. Not trying to impress the rest of us. The next Lady of
Last Hearth is unwilling to shame her husband and kin by retiring before a Queen in the
North.”

“You gather all this from some squirming?”

“No. From experience, my love.” Myrcella then squeezed his hand. “The North is a hard
place. It demands much of its men and more from its women. Whatever hardships lay ahead
for Lady Umber, I’ll gift her some comfort tonight. I shall take my leave.”

His offer to join her was rebuffed with a kiss and a whispered reminder that a victorious king
should share joy with the men he shed blood with.

“My bed is not going anywhere. Whatever the hour, there you’ll find me waiting. Ready for
our own celebrations.”

The mere hint of such intimate revelry made the feast seem a dull affair after she departed.
His lust was not so distracting for him to miss how Lady Umber left not long after.

Myrcella knows my people. Our people now, for she made them her own.

And cares for them as a queen should.

There were those in the North who thought the worse of Myrcella. He had heard the talk. The
endless array of insults against his love. Southron flower. A golden trinket. Kin to killers.
More lion than stag.

I could stand to see the lioness in her tonight, he thought as he pushed open the thick cedar
door to Myrcella’s chambers.

The rooms were a modest size with pelts of snow bears and shadowcats hanging on the walls
and an ancient looking giant’s skull resting on the mantle above the hearth. Grey Wind lay at
the foot of the large bed, but what truly drew the eye was the queen within it. The sight of
Myrcella in her nightgown with her hair undone stirred something wild within him.

Until something else stirred upon the bed. A tiny red-haired girl rising up from beside her
mother.

“Papa!” Cathlyn called, the four-year-old leaping up to reach at him. “I had a bad dream!”

“How could that be?” He strode forth to lift his only daughter up. She felt as light as a feather
and smelt of berries and herbs. “Wife, did I not banish all bad dreams from troubling our
princess?”

“I do somewhat recall.” Myrcella yawned.

“That was home. At Winterfell.” Cathlyn said with certainty. “I don’t like it in my room. It’s
scary. Can I stay with you?”
“Not tonight.” Myrcella spoke before he could. “Septa Eglantine is bringing a cup of warm
milk to settle your mind. You’ll share a bed with her.”

“There, with Eglantine near no foul dreams will trouble you now.”

Cathlyn’s lip stuck out in a pout. “I want Grey Wind too.”

“Then you shall have him.” He nuzzled the girl’s cheek. “Keep this a secret, but I’m more
scared of the septa.”

“Stop, papa!” Cathlyn giggled as she pushed away. “Your breath smells funny and your hairs
scratch!”

“Sorry, sweetling. I’d keep it off but I’ve found it’s grown on me.”

“By the gods, Robb.” Myrcella groaned at his jest, and he had an urge to inspire her to a
different sort of groan altogether.

Thus he welcomed the sound of knocking a short time later. Septa Eglantine made swift work
of getting the princess in hand, carrying her off with Grey Wind in tow. The door was barely
shut when he started tugging off his clothes.

“What was that about your breath?” Myrcella inquired, toying with the laces of her
nightgown.

“Scented with the finest wines and ales House Umber can boast.” He tossed away his
undershirt and began work on his pants.

“I tasted those vintages with mine own lips, what if I have no desire to do so again on
yours?”

“Then I’d scour the castle to sup of mint and honey.” He stepped out of his underclothes, his
hard cock throbbing as he put hands to his hips. “Considering my attire, the Umbers will
likely begrudge me that quest.”

A grin pulled at Myrcella’s lips, which she’d wet while her eyes roamed over his nakedness.

“We best not trouble our hosts.” She undid the laces about her chest, half exposing her
breasts and waving him on. “I hope they still sing in the hall, I’ve no intention of being quiet
after that long wait.”

He could not have been quiet if he wanted to. Once Myrcella was free of her shift, their
bodies pressed as tightly together as their lips. She was beneath him, one hand clasping his as
he fondled her breast, fingers teasing her nipple to hardness. He kissed at her neck, his face
buried in her golden mane, then his mouth drifted to suckle at a breast. His hand went lower
still, fingers working through the down of her mound, finding her sex hot and damp.

The whole time Myrcella kissed and bit at him, her free hand taking hold of his cock and
tugging it with long, firm strokes. When her soft as silk lips glided over his, he yearned to
feel them sucking on his cock again. The thought was fresh in his mind when he made to
slide down her body, his mouth ready to taste her.

“No, I want you.” Myrcella rasped, pulling him overtop of her, legs pressing against his hips.
“Let your poor jaw rest. I’ll wear you out in a finer way.”

“There is no better way.” He joined Myrcella in groaning as his cock began to sink within
her.

Three children, nearly two decades of faith and love between them, and still he struggled to
understand how anything could feel so utterly perfect. Thrusting inside her, feeling
Myrcella’s nails rake his back and hearing her moans, all of it filled him so deep a sense of
belonging.

Winterfell was a castle, she was home.

When their lovemaking peaked, both shuddering as his seed pumped within, it was not the
unfamiliar bed he sank back into, but his wife’s embrace.

“Forget time, it’s you that makes me feel old.” He wheezed, breathing deeply and finding the
air thick with the smell of their sweat and love. “Gods, ‘Cella. I ached less from battle than I
do now.”

“How sad that only one deed is worthy of song.” Myrcella stroked his chest and sighed.
“Your daughter said a prayer tonight. For the wildlings to go away so all of us could go
home. She misses Tommen and Joy’s girls. Was I wrong to say we’d be back soon?”

“Children have a poor grasp of time. Soon little Cat will make friends here and then weep to
leave them behind for Winterfell. I’ll ask Ned to pay her some attention before we ride out
again.”

“Did you get a moment with him at the feast? He cannot act so reckless again-”

“Yes, yes, after I stumbled upon his foray into the realm of feminine delights.” He shrugged
at the confused look she gave him. “I caught your son and Mora Snow pawing at one another.
Truly I felt poor to berate him twice, but the girl has it hard enough being a bastard, she need
not have her heart broken for it.”

Myrcella reacted strangely to that, tugging at a blonde curl in a hint of nervousness.

“Worry not about Ned. This march is but a hunt to mop up what’s left of the wildlings. They
think to scurry back down those tunnels the prisoners told us about. Once we meet up with
the Karstark strength and Castle Black’s rangers, we’ll make short work of them.”

“Then home.” Myrcella cuddled up close, resting her head upon his chest. “You and I. Ned
and Cathlyn. Tom waiting for us. Think of it, Robb. All our children together under one roof
again.”

“Worth fighting for.” He kissed her brow and drew some furs up over their bodies.
Soon they fell into silence, content to slowly drift off to sleep together after a long, weary
day. With Myrcella so close, his thoughts kept drifting back to his family. He felt such pride
in Tom, who had stayed behind to act the Stark of Winterfell under the watchful tutelage of
the sers Alyn and Olyvar Frey.

Olyvar and Jeyne Poole had come north him after Rickon dismissed the loyal Frey knight
from his service at Harrenhal. Rickon troubled him deeply, his brother forever demanding
more aid from the North while railing against any notion of the riverlords sending their
strength here. The prince had not forgiven his banishment of Bran to the Wall. Truly, neither
had he.

Not that Bran acted bereaved. There was no malice in the letters Bran sent from the Wall.
They were cordial things, regarding the state of the Wall or wildling raids, appropriate
correspondence to pass between a king and the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. That
Bran had risen high in his new life was of little comfort to him. Nor was the possibility that
they might reunite in the coming days.

He’ll not embrace me… not the brother who denied him ever holding his own son.

When sleep came, his dreams were filled with memories. Holding his children as babes.
Myrcella smiling and happy. Suddenly it was Bran he held instead. Then Rickon after him.
The image of Myrcella replaced by his father. Yet there was no joy in him. Only a wary
expression of defeat as men in crimson and gold laid hands upon him. Dragging his father
away.

Father… no… father…

“Father.”

Robb jerked awake, finding the chamber barely lit and the fuzzy image of Ned standing
above him.

“Gods, what hour is it?” He rasped, sitting up while taking care that the furs covering
Myrcella’s naked form did not fall away as she slumbered.

For his part, Ned kept his eyes averted. “Father, you must come. There were riders in the
night. They command none be woken save you-”

“Commands?” His ears became keen to the sound of wind and rain against the window. “It
storms. To travel in this and give orders in the Greatjon’s castle, they must be bold. Or mad.”

“They be the Widows of Winter.” Ned whispered back and captured Robb’s attention fully.

He dressed with as little noise as he could so as not to wake his queen. Myrcella stirred some
but did not wake, his parting glimpse showing a peaceful expression upon her face.

There was no such contentment to be found in the small gallery Ned led him to. Nestled away
in the corner of the keep, the room contained a hearth and little more. He spotted three
women gathered about the fire, all clad in wet cloaks and holding out their hands to warm
them against the flames.

The shutting of the door bid them to turn, and he found himself face to face with three of the
most powerful women in the North.

Most distinguished was the Lady Barbrey Dustin, her grey hair tied in a widow’s knot and
back unbent by age. Softer in demeanor was Wynafryd Manderly, his aunt and a princess by
marriage and the Lady of White Harbor. The third was a princess in the same right, yet
Eddara Tallhart was no true widow. Her fair hair was tied in braids as tight as the line her lips
formed upon seeing him.

“Hail to thee, King Robb.” Wynafryd spoke first, bending to do him homage. “Forgive us this
surprise-”

“Our king is not a forgiving sort.” Eddara added to which Barbrey tutted.

“That would be the chill talking. A poor way to start things but I assure his grace, we are as
wet and weary as we appear. Trust that we’d rather be where you were, abed and warm.”

“Then why was I roused? By what right do you barge into this castle and command me
about?”

“They did as I asked.” Another voice spoke up, his mother emerging from a dark corner with
a folded cloak in her hands. Though still a regal-looking woman, the dowager queen bore
dark circles of exhaustion beneath her eyes. He also thought there to be more worry lines
upon her brow than he recalled.

“Mother. What in the frozen hells is happening here? You’re meant to be at Winterfell with
Tom.”

“Is my brother well?” Ned asked and Catelyn gave him a small smile.

“He’s fine. I left him as healthy and hale as you appear to me, Eddard. In truth it was
Tommen who sent us.”

“He sent a great deal more than that.” Lady Dustin added. “Behind us come three thousand
men. They can’t be more than two days south and it’s likely they’re all drowning in this
sleet.”

“Another army?” His confusion deepened. “You could not have had word of the wildling
attack so soon.”

Mother nodded. “We only just heard of it. No, these men were mustered swiftly. Lady
Barbrey and Eddara brought all they dared and Tom sent every sword and spear he could.
Speed and secrecy were needed to answer this threat.”

“But we beat the wildlings.” Ned put in. “I slew the Magnar of Thenn myself-”
“We did not come because of the savages.” Eddara flicked back her hood, eyes ablaze.
“There is treason at work in the North. It marches towards this castle. Perhaps it is already
here.”

“The Umbers are no traitors!” Ned shouted to the disdain of the ladies.

“It be a shock to learn otherwise.” His mother spoke firmly. “Yet I’ve no such faith in House
Karstark. Lord Rickard means to betray you, Robb. To depose you through villainy and
murder.”

His first instinct was to shout down the accusation but a tide of distrust washed over him.
Some of his bannermen caused him headaches, yet the Lord of Karhold was in a class all his
own.

“These are grievous charges, mother. As we speak Lord Karstark marches to lend his strength
to me.”

“Against you, your grace.” Wynafryd held up her wet garments. “Karstark uses his pledges as
a cloak to cover his ill intent. I pray you’ll see through it once our evidence is weighed.”

“The scales are against Karstark.’ Eddara said, regarding him coolly. “Were there any doubt
to his treachery I would not be here. The fiend has already struck against my son and I.”

He tensed to hear so. Whatever Eddara’s feelings towards him, her son Rodrik was kin and
dear to his heart. The bright-eyed boy was his mother’s heir and held all the promise Bran
once had.

“My cousin Brandon has forever chafed at my rule of Torrhen’s Square. His heart hardened
against me when I spurned him to remarry another. If not for the love I bore my late uncle
Leobald, I’d have sent him away long ago. A folly that allowed a viper a nest in my home.”

Eddara reached into her cloak then, pulling forth a letter to place in his grasp.

“There, read how my cousin was enticed to move against me. That he should seize the castle,
lock me in a tower, take my heir as hostage and name himself master of Torrhen’s Square.
Read it, and then take note of the author’s seal.”

His eyes flicked immediately to the end, and there saw a wax seal he knew well. The
sunburst of House Karstark.

“There’s no benefit to Karstark in this.” He said with disbelief. “Torrhen’s Square has naught
to do with Karhold. Surely even Rickard knows its lady cannot be named among my friends.”

“You robbed me of a husband and my son of a father. I have no reason to love you, Robb
Stark. Yet I am no traitor.”

“That’s why she needed to be overcome.” Lady Barbrey said. “And why I came to be wooed
by Karstark. If I was to marry the lord and convince my son to ally with him, he promises the
title of Warden of the Rills and Barrows be returned to us. My son’s first act in that duty
would be to aid Brandon Tallhart in his efforts. Seizing Winterfell was the next step.”
“Fortunately, the lady stayed true.” The dowager queen spoke with a sharp edge to her words.
“How long she wrestled with that choice, I cannot say.”

“I expect more gratitude from my king than his mother displays.” Lady Barbrey turned up her
nose. “Had I not forewarned Eddara, the ships and men of House Tallhart would now serve
her false cousin. Winterfell taken by surprise.”

“And its prince slain.” Mother added grimly. “It’s in the letter, Robb. Eddara and Rodrik were
to be prisoners. Tommen was to be executed.”

They were right. The plot was laid bare as he poured over the words, two of which set him to
seeing red. For when Karstark referred to Tom’s murder, he did not use his son’s name.

“Lannister filth.” He growled to repeat Rickard’s insult, struggling not to tear the parchment
to pieces. “I will take his head myself. I swear it. To think a lord could sink so low as to the
murder of innocent children… Gods, I thought the years eased Rickard’s vengeful bloodlust.”

“This goes beyond revenge.” Mother looked between the two men. “Lord Karstark seeks the
end of your line, Robb. The attack on Winterfell was to be the finishing stroke. You and Ned
were to die at the hands of the Karstarks themselves. Ambushed in the field, betrayed in
battle, we cannot be sure how they planned it but your deaths were the goal. Myrcella and
Cathlyn’s too.”

“Father, this must have blood.” Ned spoke hotly, his face red with rage. “Let us wake the
Greatjon and make ready to avenge ourselves upon these honorless bastards!”

“In time. I want our garrison readied and your mother and sister put under guard. Just in case
any among the Umbers prove to be party to this plot. I take it that’s why we received no
ravens to alert us to this threat?”

Mother nodded. “We were unsure of who could be trusted outside ourselves.”

“The only ravens sent were to Karhold.” Lady Barbrey added. “All full of falsehoods. How I
accepted the lord’s proposal and Brandon now rules Torrhen’s Square. We delayed them for a
time but for all Karstark knows, the march on Winterfell has begun.”

“Instead their army took ship with us.” Wynfryd said. “First down the White Knife, then to
the Dreadfort. Wyllard and more men remain there, awaiting word of where to march.”

“To Karhold.” He declared. “Let my coz bring fire and the sword to the castle. When I meet
Lord Karstark in the field, I will tell him how the fate he wished for Winterfell has been
visited upon his home. Rickard can die knowing the ruin he has wrought upon his house.”

“He must truly be mad.” Ned said as he made to rouse their guard. “Had he succeeded in
killing us, then what? The North would not look to a vile traitor as a king. Loyal families
would answer blood with blood.”

Eddara sighed. “A rabid beast knows no reason. It does violence because it must.”

Enraged as he was, that did not ring quite true.

The Karstark plot is mad but its lord is surely not.

Rickard has sat on his rage for years, why act on it now?

He was pondering this as the dowager queen asked Ned to lead Eddara and Barbrey to
chambers. Wynafryd stayed put, sharing a look with his mother look filled with unspoken
understanding. Their expressions grew even more solemn once they were left alone with him,
the dowager queen acting as if she was pained by something.

“Robb, there is more we must speak on.” She said, closing the gap between them, her voice
as motherly as ever. “About the reason for this revolt.”

“Beyond vengeance and naked ambition?”

“Sadly, yes. For I fear Lord Rickard means to champion a cause many in the North may find
just.”

“Just? My death and the murder of my wife and children? Even those with little love of me
like Barbrey and Eddara cannot stomach such.”

“Others might. Should Karstark share with them all he’s learned. I’m sorry, Robb. I worked
so hard to make sure no whisper of this would ever come to be uttered… For you and the
children. Her as well.”

Her?

“My king…” Wynafryd began before seeking assurance from mother. “I was a party to this
Karstark ordeal before Queen Catelyn had need of my ships. Some moons ago, Harrion
Karstark asked that one my septons travel from White Harbor to Karhold for his Bracken
wife. I thought nothing of it at the time… until word came that Eramus had died of a fever.”

“A fit and able man.” Mother interjected. “Whose body the Karstarks refused to return for a
sept burial.”

“You believe they killed him?” He asked and Wynafryd nodded.

“I know they did. Before his end, Septon Eramus smuggled a message out of Karhold. He
wasn’t summoned to pray with any lady. They needed his skill with a document penned by an
order of the faith that had come into their possession. To speak to its seals and the
authenticity of the… declaration.”

“Lord Rickard has never had any use for the faith. What’s so special about this parchment?”

Wynafryd hesitated, swallowing deeply as a bead of sweat running down her brow.

“It is a sworn statement, come from the Kingdom of the Rock. One that attaints your children
as the products of incest… as abominations…”

“The bastards.” He exclaimed, his temper stoked once more.

That the Lannisters were involved played but a small part. Yes, the Karstarks had their
reasons for hating him, some he could very well understand. Yet his children were innocents.
Unworthy of being slandered with such outlandish lies.

“They have truly become desperate. Incest? Between me, a proud son of Stark, and a
Durrandon princess, the last of her line? If I was not so deep in fury’s fiery pit, I’d be
laughing.”

“Robb, the accusation has little to do with you.” Mother eased Wynafryd back to stand before
him, her gaze full of sadness. “It regards Myrcella. You name her a Durrandon but that is not
her true name. She might well be a Storm. Perhaps a Hill. Either way, she is bastard born-”

“Be silent.” He rasped, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’ve never approved of Myrcella.
After all her efforts, every kindness shown, the three beautiful grandchildren she’s gifted you,
and still you hate her enough to embrace Karstark’s pack of lies.”

“I have known this to be true for years now. Just as Myrcella has. Ask her, Robb. The
children are being condemned for being the fruit of woman who was herself born of incest.
Think of your Ned. He is named after your father yet has the look of hers.”

Ned looks nothing like Robert. Our boy resembles her uncle-

“No.” He argued, refusing to believe it. “You’re saying my wife… that Cersei and Jaime…”

“They did.” Mother could not hide her disgust. “In defiance of the laws of gods and men,
they begat three bastards. Joffrey, Tommen… and Myrcella.”

Flashes of the Whispering Wood came back again.

Of a golden prince slaying the Karstark brothers. Suddenly Ned’s killing of Styr seemed an
echo of how Daryn Hornwood came to die.

At the hands of Jaime Lannister. Cersei had been dragged away by those hands back at
Harrenhal. After she had whispered something to Myrcella that troubled her for days… she
said it was nothing and he believed her.

Which only served to make the realization hit him harder, like a blade through his heart.

She knew then… Fods, it’s been there all this time…

More lion than stag… No stag at all…

And she knew.

SANSA

She stroked the top of Lady’s head, relishing the softness of the old wolf’s fur.
Maester Sam was left to fiddle with his chain as they awaited Jon’s reaction. The solar was
quiet as her husband sat at a desk, reading over the parchment set before him. It delighted her
to watch Jon do so.

He read slowly, though not because of any lack of understanding. Jon simply valued patience,
careful to wring every last bit of meaning from the words. The way his wintery gaze moved
over the writing, how he stroked his beard in silent reflection, it marked her king a thoughtful
man.

“Quite the list.” Jon said, laying a finger against his brow. “There are more names than I
expected. A few unexpected ones among them.”

She smiled. The list named all those the queen and maester thought should accompany the
royal family to the empire. It was expected Jon would need convincing.

“Yes, we exceeded the limits some.” Sam folded his hands. “Still, the queen and I believe this
an entourage befitting a ruler of such a large realm.”

“Yet not so numerous as to become a faceless mob.” She added. “Each and every name is on
there for a reason. Among them friends, men who could be better friends, or those we cannot
afford to become enemies.”

“With these invitations his grace bestows great prestige upon his bannermen. Winning some
added favor among some houses is worth the extra ship or two needed-”

“More like ten.” Jon grumbled and Lady moved from her side to his. He started petting the
wolf as he peered at the parchment.

“Lyman and Talia. Lord Beric and Bronze Yohn. All welcome. More than the Estermonts, or
the lords Grafton and Caswell. It is no secret they love me not.”

“So we shall change that.” She smiled again. “My husband has a talent for charming over
those wary of him.”

“Some were worth the effort.” He grinned at her. “Though your point is taken, wife. Perhaps
these men will prove the same. I hope Robin Darklyn will. You don’t think it’s too early for
him to return to our company after the… unpleasantness?”

A very good question. His heart was broken after all.

Her cousin Robin had been a feature at Aevalon nearly as long as there had been a court here.
Never the ablest of warriors, nor the healthiest of men, the Lord of Duskendale nonetheless
proved himself a loyal vassal and a worthy successor to his murdered father. A feat
considering the constant meddling and overbearing nature of Robin’s mother, her aunt Lysa.

Now she worried Lysa’s constant maligning of her family might ring true to Robin. For when
the lord asked for Aemma’s hand in marriage, he was rebuffed not once, but twice. First, and
most gently, by Jon himself, who explained they had other plans for Aemma. The second
rejection came from Aemma herself, when Robin dropped to a knee before the Asher tree and
proclaimed his love for her.

Aenry and Rhaegina argued over who was the first to laugh, yet agreed on everything else.

“He nearly knelt on Aemma’s foot!” Rhaegina had told them. “Then he mumbled through
some poetry before shouting about making her the happiest woman in the world. Aemma
jumped so high she nearly tripped.”

“After that, it got bad.” Aenry had added. “Everyone was dead quiet except for Ghost lifting
his leg to take the loudest piss right beside us. Septon Tom should have been there. Before
our eyes, the Seven themselves came together to shit on Robin Darklyn.”

Aemma refused to speak of it, embarrassed for Robin and herself. The poor thing did her best
to let Robin down courteously but the snickers of her siblings and others belied such efforts.
Robin had left the Red Keep at once and hadn’t step foot out of Duskendale in two moon
turns.

“The time away will have helped.” She offered. “He’ll have learned by now that we spared
him great embarrassment by keeping the incident quiet. It’s not like Robin was the first to be
turned away regarding the twins…”

Sam nodded in a sage manner. “I’m thankful for Prince Rickon’s visit to Duskendale. Some
time with the queen’s brother should lift the lord’s spirits.”

Rickon’s erratic behavior bothered her so, yet his surprise visit from Harrenhal to Duskendale
did seem fortuitous. The two cousins were close friends, and if Rickon was there then the
rumors he was raising swords in the riverlands were likely false. It would be a blessing if
Rickon could ease tensions for once, rather than inflaming them.

In case of trouble, there were some names kept off to list she trusted to deal with it.

“Gendry will thank you.” Jon mused. “His first trip to the empire was in chains, he’d not
speak to it, but a return there unnerves him. I’ve no wish to burden him, but what if others see
this a slight against Gendry?”

“We shall name Gendry as Lord Protector of Aevalon in your absence, a great honor indeed.
With him commanding the strength of the Highlands and Arya at Storm’s End, things will be
well in hand.”

“Yes they would be…” Jon trailed off, tapping a finger at one spot of the parchment and
shooting Sam a curious look. “Yet I think the realm will be better served if Daegon stays
behind as well. He knows our minds on most matters, so let him act a guiding hand to Gendry
and the council.”

“A fair point.” Sam answered. “Lord Blackfyre’s presence in the empire will rob this realm of
a fair and measured administrator.”
The maester avoided her eyes, for they had already argued at length on this matter and she
had overruled him.

“Daegon deserves this, Jon.” She kept her tone even. “A newly made lord who has served us
so faithfully, it speaks to your largesse that he rises so high. After the years Daegon spent
here, by our side, laboring to make this kingdom great, how would it look to leave him
behind? What will people think?”

They’ll see that I’ve abandoned him again. A good man and a friend, left behind when he
should come with…

A sharp pain gave her pause, for she’d been wringing her hands so desperately a nail had cut
her palm. A small cut but a symptom of a greater hurt. The darkness often threatened her
most in moments like these. All her efforts in the Vale, fighting to accept her faults could
suddenly teeter at the brink on ruination all over again.

Think on the story, she thought, think on what all the pain and death has won.

All the good done since… My atonement…

“What does Daegon think?” Jon asked gently, rising from the desk and rolling the parchment
in his hand. “He’d not refuse our invitation publicly but Daegon’s not of the east, Sansa. For
much of his life and that of his ancestors, the black dragon and the red did slaughter upon one
another. A Blackfyre will find many an enemy in the Targaryen Empire.”

“He has friends in us.” She said, only for Jon to raise his eyebrow. “Very well. We shall ask
in private, after the evening meal perhaps. Daegon and Laenora are to dine with us tonight in
my ballroom. Arya and Gendry as well.”

“Is that all?” His question had a mocking edge to it.

“Well, Ser Barristan and Lady Sarella will be there. And our good maester, of course. Prepare
yourself, Sam, Sarella quite disagrees with your suggested revisions for the Clash of Stags.”

Sam smiled, patting his large stomach. “A good meal and a lively scholarly debate, I look
forward to it.”

“A good thing you didn’t invite my mother then.” Jon grumbled before suddenly livening up.
“Oh, the talk of Daegon distracted me. About the invitations, why isn’t Ser Symond on the
list? A former enemy turned friend and already at court. He seems a natural fit.”

Sam stiffened but she maintained her composure.

“We considered the ser at length. He just seemed better suited to joining our delegation to
Highgarden. A well-respected Vale knight among them displays the unity of our realm.”

“Did mother suggest him?” Jon inquired idly yet did not wait for an answer as he handed the
list to Sam. “Not that it changes things. The list is long enough as it is. Ser Symond can have
my leave to travel to Highgarden. ”
She shared a quick moment’s relief with Sam. Jon was troubled enough by the acrimony in
his family, the truth behind Symond’s exclusion would only make things worse.

Lyanna may have taken a lover, but we’ll not bring him with us to Rhaegar’s empire.

The High Queen’s dalliance would bring the High King’s wrath done upon the Knight of
Ninestars.

Other knights waited for them outside the solar. The humorless and dangerous pairing of Ser
Richard Horpe and Ser Lothor Brune kept watch in their white cloaks. The Kingsguard could
escort them, but it was for Jon to take her in hand.

Once her arm entwined with Jon’s, he held her with strength and tenderness. A touch that felt
as natural to her as the need to breathe. The same went for waking up beside him, and making
love in the small hours of the night or by the light of a new day. She would not trade their
love for anything.

So how could the famous romance of Rhaegar and Lyanna fall to such a state?

After the losing the Hound, Sansa had found true love again in Jon, but Sandor had been
years dead and buried by then. That Lyanna could so with Symond while Rhaegar lived and
openly longed for her, it led Sansa to suspect her aunt had fallen into a darkness of her own.

Yet Lyanna had never seemed happier. She kept Tagarra lively and full of laughter. No ball at
the Red Keep was complete without her dancing, and her presence was expected on most
hunts or rides. Lyanna stayed so involved at court and with the children, it sometimes felt
bothersome.

All things my melancholy kept me from. Parts of my life I had to fight to take joy in again.

Among the upper rooms of Rhaegar’s Holdfast, they passed her study. Close to the library
and her chambers, it was there she wrote many a tale and history. Writing served an urge to
tell the stories others failed to, or to better understand the history that led to their branch of
House Targaryen.

More than anything, writing made her happy. In the Vale, it became a stepping stone in her
climb from the darkness. A way for her to feel happiness without crippling shame.

Other pleasures returned with time. Needlework and music. Conversation and good company.
Sharing Jon’s bed and ruling by his side. Trying to bring the dream of Aevalon to life.

Her children. Forever her children.

My melancholy cost me precious time with them, and my shame at that feel only entices its
return.

A vicious cycle Sansa had accepted easier than she forgave my own sins. True forgiveness
was divine and sometimes she allowed herself the hope that the Seven had forgiven her. Why
else would they hand her so many blessings?
They found her eldest blessings in one of the training yards.

She held Jon and their knights back in an archway, not wanting to interrupt the children as
they amused themselves with the martial display unfolding in the yard. Three young men
were sparring with shields and blunted blades for the entertainment of a small audience
shading under a wide awning. The Kingsguard knights Ser Richard Horpe and Balon Swann
flanked the small group of young royals and their companions.

Most laid upon cushions save the Dragons Darling, who sat in chairs. Sansa’s daughters may
have inherited her womanly figure, but beyond that the twins were as different as night and
day.

Rhaegina sat with impeccable posture, her calm expression like that of carved stone as eyes
of indigo darted about, following every thrust and parry. A small raise of an eyebrow, a finger
tapping against her cheekbone, Rhaegina eyed the combatants like Jon would new recruits to
the castle guard.

Unlike Jon, who encouraged his men in a stern fashion, Aemma did so in a lady’s way. Her
auburn locks bounced about her bodice as Aemma clapped and cheered the fighters on. Each
combatant earned kindly smiles and melodious praise from the princess, who inspired others
in similar gestures. Most taking their cue from Aemma herself.

Young ladies like Belladona Otherys, with her dark skin and white-blond hair, the lithe Attia
Dondarrion, or the plump yet fair Ysolde Royce. Daemona Blackfyre was nearly of an age
with her little Vaelena and the two could have passed for sisters themselves. Both had slight
forms and the classic features of Old Valyria, though Daemona’s eyes were bluer, and
Vaelena kept her pale hair braided in the northern style Sansa had worn as a girl.

While she took pride in their girls, she felt Jon tense to catch sight of Aenry.

The long-limbed heir stretched out over several pillows, his head of red-gold curls resting
against Ghost, who had lay down to watch the bout. Unlike the old direwolf or the assembled
ladies, Aenry showed little interest in the duel. He shot only cursory glances to the fight as he
nibbled on a pomegranate. Whenever he deigned to speak, it inspired laughter among from
the girls.

He has charm, she thought, our son is clever and gifted with words.

Not all princes are born to be warriors...

Jon claimed to accept that, yet she noted how quickly his disappointment faded away when
his attention moved from Aenry to those dueling.

It was two against one, with their beloved nephew Lyonel battling against the older Darry
brothers. Raymus and Gregory, both strong and able, were struggling to overcome their foe.
Well-muscled and broad-shouldered, Lyonel had the look of his father but in battle he was as
defiant as his mother.

The onlookers cheered as he dodged an attack from Raymus and knocked Gregory back.
“Fine form, cousin!” Aemma called, clapping lightly. “Press on Raymus! Gregory! You’re
doing splendidly!”

“Be careful, Ly!” Vaelena urged. “They’re oh so good! Yield if you must!”

Aenry gave a laugh at that. She doubted many noticed, for Lyonel had launched himself at
Gregory, his blunted blade battering squire’s arm and shoulder before the Darry boy
submitted. No sooner was that foe vanquished than the older Raymus fell upon Lyonel,
jabbing at him from a safe distance.

After several more jabs, Lyonel aimed a powerful swing at Raymus’s shield, which was
swiftly pulled away. In the same motion, Raymus brought his sword down, a sharp clang
ringing out as he struck Lyonel’s blade from his hand.

Which left Lyonel with only a shield as Raymus came on, beaming in triumph.

Instead of retreating, her nephew attacked, throwing his weight behind the shield and running
right into the startled Raymus. His arm was caught mid-swing as the two shields connected
with a heavy thud, sending each lad to the ground. Raymus was clearly winded from the
impact, so he could do little when Lyonel moved to pin him to the ground, shield raised about
him in threat.

“Yield, ploughman.” Lyonel grinned. “I promise you safe passage to the Wall and to comfort
your betrothed.”

“You are such an ass.” Raymus grumbled. “Fine, I yield. Just get off me. Go sit on Gregory
instead.”

“Come off it, Ray! I wouldn’t have fallen for that move.” The younger Darry said as he and
Lyonel helped Raymus to his feet. Talia’s sons might have fallen into bickering if Rhaegina
and Aemma had not risen to praise the young men.

“Well done, all of you.” Aemma said bidding the three to bow. “Raymus Darry, you are hardy
indeed to rise so quickly after a charge like that. What an unexpected turn, quite the bold
move, coz.”

“A risky one at that.” Rhaegina circled Lyonel, eyeing his dirty face and scrapes. “Were this a
real battle and Gregory still able, you would have pinned one brother only to be skewered by
another.”

“I’d not stab a man in the back.” Gregory protested and Rhaegina scoffed.

“I surely would. If it meant my brother’s life.”

“Now which brother is that?” Aenry chuckled, tossing away the fruit and standing. “The
other day you threatened to end me with that steel sliver you call a blade.” He nodded
towards the Darrys. “Good effort, friends. Ly, next time do keep your elbow up.”

“You weren’t even watching!” Vaelena pointed out, to which Aenry shrugged.
“Thank you, Vee. Thanks for proving my cousin needs neither my advice or attention to
win.” Aenry patted the larger Lyonel on the shoulder. “Not your most impressive match
though. I counted far less gasps and sighs from the ladies during. Perhaps it was the smell, we
were down wind of you this time…”

“It’s a healthy musk.”

Lyonel and Aenry shared a laugh as Rhaegina rolled her eyes. Aemma took no notice, for she
was waving a figure watching from the far end of the yard.

“My lady! What did you think of the match?”

“A hard won victory.” The Lady of Tarth replied as she stepped away from the wall and into
her vision. Brienne wore heavy armor and a serious expression, one that quieted the youths
and caused Lyonel to fidget some. Her children often acted the same when under Sam’s
scrutiny, for Lyonel was Brienne’s student and the teacher did not appear impressed.

“Yet a defeat as well, for Lyonel failed to do as he was taught. Princess Rhaegina speaks the
truth, such a performance might serve in the practice yard or a melee, but in the thick of
battle, you’d be dead. Tell me why.”

“I lost my sword.” Lyonel lowered his eyes. “I let him bait me… But after I did as you said. I
used whatever I had left to get the upper hand. ”

“What if it had been me you faced? Or Ser Balon?” Brienne asked. “We are both larger than
Raymus and that charge would not have fazed us.”

“So Lyonel must keep growing.” Aenry jested. “Then none can threaten him and the lady will
be in good company.”

This earned laughter from the Darrys and others. Not the twins or Lyonel though, and Jon
least of all.

“He should hold his glib tongue.” Jon said under his breath. “Lessons like these could save
Lyonel’s life one day.”

“Aenry means no harm. He was only trying to ease his friend’s embarrassment. There was no
disrespect to Brienne in his-”

“AENRY TARGARYEN!” A familiar bellow echoed through the yard, pulling all eyes
towards the old knight storming onward.

Brynden Tully might not move as swiftly as he once did but their master-at-arms still boasted
a demeanor as tough as tempered steel. His leathers were black as night, his hair and beard
streaked grey and white, which served to make his Tully blue eyes burn all the brighter as
they narrowed on Aenry.

“Oh, hello uncle Brynden.” Aenry shrunk back towards the twins.
“Don’t uncle me.” Brynden growled, the younger men parting to let him pass. “Nephew,
prince, it matters not, I’m ser to all those I train. Or those I was supposed to be training since
daybreak. I was at the yard. As were Graeme, Valarr, Ashor, yet no sign of you. So tell me,
did you miss the burning ball above our heads or did you get lost in your own castle?”

Jon took a step forward to hear so, yet she doubted it was to defend Aenry against the
Blackfish’s admonishments. More likely he meant to add to them.

“Jon, don’t make this worse.” She grabbed hold of him. “It could be a simple mistake.”

“Yet again?” He snapped yet paused long enough to catch Aenry’s excuse.

“A matter came up…” Their son proclaimed. “I’m only here because I thought it too late to
seek you. That perhaps I could train with Lady Brienne and Lyonel instead. You see, I was
helping Maester Samwell with some rare books-”

“Were you now?” Jon bellowed, striding forth into the yard.

All snapped into bowing or curtsying, except for their children. Vaelena rushed to Rhaegina’s
side while Aemma touched at Aenry’s shoulder, bracing the terrified prince.

“Father…”

“Maester Sam was with your mother and I for most of the morning.” Jon said brusquely,
nodding to Brynden as he bore down on Aenry. “Shall I summon him to say so?”

She arrived in Jon’s wake, watching as Aenry reddened in shame before all in the yard.
Despite her urge to put herself between them, she squashed it down to try and silently calm
Jon.

A queen should not rebuke her king, but nor should a king berate his heir so publicly.

“I lied.” Aenry admitted, his voice but a whisper. “Not about wanting to train with Ly… just
the rest.”

Jon shook his head. “Telling jests and weaving tales is the work of fools, not a crown prince.
You must start acting the part.”

“My love, Aenry knows that.” She said as Lady nudged at Jon. “He’ll go with Brynden now.
Let him train under the midday heat as atonement for this boyish folly.”

“I’ll go with him.” Lyonel offered, with a nod to Brienne. “If you’d permit, my lady?”

“There’s no need.” Uncle Brynden said. “He can spar with Graeme. I left him still at work
with the archery butts. The lad’s does well with bow and blade.”

“Likely because he practices.” Jon’s words caused Aenry to flinch, and she caught her
husband do the same in sudden remorse. There was love between the father and son, it was
only buried beneath layers of frustration and misunderstanding.
She was about to ease Aenry away when a cry rang out behind them.

“Your grace!” A small boy shouted, rushing out of the archway to seek out his namesake.
Jonarys Blackfyre was only just older than Daeved and the spitting image of his father. Save
that his eyes were still bright and able.

“King Jon! Queen Sansa!” Jonarys wheezed. “The princess… Arya… and my father… they
sent me… the Black Wolf… Prince Rickon is here… council chambers…”

“Uncle Rickon!” Rhaegina and Aemma exclaimed together, their smiles wide.

She did not share their daughters’ enthusiasm. Rickon’s visits were rare, and it was even rarer
for trouble not to follow them. That he had come unannounced did not bode well.

“Let them know we are coming.” Jon said to the boy before waving at the twins. “Rhaegina,
Aemma, you can join us.”

“I should come too.” Aenry spoke tentatively. “If something’s wrong-”

“I’d have you be prepared.” Jon replied curtly, gesturing to Brynden. “So follow through on
your duty. Go and practice so you might be ready for tomorrow.”

They left Aenry clenching his fists, jerking away from Lyonel and Vaelena when they tried to
comfort him. The whole situation was odd. Usually it was Jon lamenting Aenry’s lack of
interest in important matters. Now the father had spurned the son.

She resolved to seek Aenry out later and set things right. For the time being, she would go
with Jon and the twins, straight on the council chambers with Ghost and Lady at their heels.

More direwolves were waiting where their advisors usually gathered to help govern the
realm. Nymeria and Shaggydog were prowling around the edges of the council table, the
black direwolf sniffing at the only man seated there.

Daegon was not discomforted by the inspection, stretching out a hand to aid the wolf. He
smirked when Shaggy took to licking him, the whole while his sightless eyes stared
unblinking as Arya paced nearby.

The Vale had changed her too. Beneath her sister’s riding leathers lay a scar where the
poisoned bolt had pierced her chest. The poison had drained much of Arya’s color, leaving
her with a pale pallor and dark bags under her eyes.

Despite this, Sansa still held the Lady of Storm’s End to be a rugged beauty. One few dared
to cross if they had any sense.

Sadly, judging from the frown on Arya’s face, it appeared their youngest brother was once
again pushing his luck.

“You’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Rickon.” Arya chided the brawny prince gulping
down wine by the hearth. Rickon had his back to them, yet she recognized his wolf fur cloak
and long auburn ringlets easily enough.
“There, a touch of fury.” Rickon chuckled. “If you and Gendry are going to use the
Durrandon words, live up to them. It’s been too long since either of you took the field.”

“Peace is not something to lament.” She said and a grin pulled at the side of Rickon’s mouth.

“Ah, the sweet sound of our sister’s corrections. How I’ve missed them. Hello Sansa, Jon.”

As Rickon turned to bow with uncharacteristic deference, it struck her how handsomely he
was dressed. Beneath his fur cloak he wore a hazel and moss colored doublet with gold
buttons and high black boots polished to a shine. The badge upon his chest drew her eye.
There she saw a quartered crest displaying the Tully trout on blue and red, the blue towers of
the Freys, and the Stark direwolf twice over to the upper left and lower right, save that one
was black instead of grey.

“You’ve taken a new sigil?” She said when Rickon came to kiss her hand.

“Our parents’ union and my own.” He grinned, tapping at the badge. “House Stark of
Harrenhal may be a young house, but our roots are deep in the riverlands. That they are as a
part of me as the North. I want none to forget that.”

“Dear prince, how could they?” Rhaegina asked, stepping forward with Aemma.

“All in the riverlands know the Black Wolf of Harrenhal.” Aemma added.

“Hello, girls.” Rickon moved swiftly to the pair. “Don't worry, I’ll not try and lift you for a
spin. Might I have a pair of kisses in reward?”

“I’ll do so gladly.” Rhaegina kissed his cheek once and then again. “One for my uncle, and
another for his manners.”

Aemma did the same to the other side. “A visit to Aevalon and showing such restraint?
You’re full of surprises, nuncle.”

“Fatherhood must agree with me. You can speak to that, can’t you Jon?”

“I can, and let me say in person what I did with our ravens.” Jon held out his hand.
“Congratulations on your son, Rickon.”

After the two men shook over Rickon’s newborn son, Sansa kissed him as the girls had. As
part of the deal she had helped strike at the Twins during the war against Joffrey and the
Lannisters, Rickon had wed Walda Frey, great granddaughter to Lord Stevron. While the
happiness of their four-year union was the subject of much debate, recently it had proved
fruitful. The birth of Benedict Stark meant Rickon now had an heir to pass Harrenhal to.

Perhaps even more should the inheritance of the Twins come into play…

“Ask him why he’s not with that wolf pup.” Arya said, filling a goblet of wine for herself and
Daegon. “You’ll be wanting to use your freshly kissed hand to smack him with.”
“The spring weather put me in a mood to visit a good friend.” Rickon sighed to look at
Aemma. “Poor Robin desperately needed a companion after the heartbreak this darling
dragon dealt him. Laughter can pierce the heart as surely as steel.”

“I never laughed.” Aemma blanched. “I swear, I’d never. Everything happened so quickly…
it went so badly that I couldn’t-”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for.” Rhaegina soothed her sister in High Valyrian. “Our uncle
speaks of blades, well it’s not your fault that Robin tripped and fell on his.”

“He was trying to act a knight from a song. You should not have laughed. He is a lord, a
friend, our own kin. We of royal blood must respect such ties. Our courtesies.”

“Are they talking about me?” Rickon asked and Daegon coughed.

“Somewhat.” Daegon tapped his fingers together. “Since you were speaking of Lord Darklyn,
please elaborate on why so many of his fighting men rode in with your party.”

“Nothing gets by you, Lord Blackfyre. Fine. I’m not trying to hide anything. Robin and I
fought together for our realms before, I thought he’d welcome the chance for another noble
quest. To safeguard the riverlands and the Highlands against our foes.”

“He means to take up the sword again.” Arya muttered. “A new campaign against the Reach.
That’s why he sent Olyvar away. The ser tried to argue sense into him.”

“Stop exaggerating. Olyvar had a problem remembering which Stark rules Harrenhal so I
sent him on to Robb. He’ll be happier at Winterfell. Jeyne too.”

“What of this campaign?” Jon asked and Rickon grinned.

“Arya used that grand word, not I. It’s merely a few quick raids to set the Reach houses off
balance, so I might one day push them out of the riverlands completely.”

“Out of the question.” She declared, wheeling on her brother. “There are years of peace
between us and the Reach lords. We speak with the Gardeners on an immense undertaking,
Rickon. King Willas is open to a lasting-”

“He’s a cripple. A weakling.” Rickon waved off her words to seek Jon. “When we fought all
the way to Highgarden, he hid behind the walls like his fat coward of a father. King Mace is
dead, and his heir is even more feeble. They lost too many fighting the Dornish, the reavers
will soon raid up the Mander, and the Florents and Beesburys war against one another. Now’s
the time to strike.”

“No, Rickon.” Jon regarded his former squire with disappointment. “This is the perfect time
to prove myself a peer to the other rulers of the Seven Kingdoms. I am seen as a foreign
invader, a threat to the remaining realms. I’ll not act the part. Nor should you dismiss King
Willas so easily. He’s proven himself a man of good faith. One with an open mind and
interest in a brighter future.”

“For the Reach! Not us!” Rickon protested, causing Daegon to shake his head.
“Raids are uncertain things. Blind as I am, even I see that attacking the Reach will cost
House Targaryen what it already earns through goodwill and trade.”

“There’s better things than wealth. Glory. Victory. Our names ringing out.” Rickon’s tone had
a tinge of desperation to it. “Jon, hear me. Are we coin counters or warriors?”

“He is a king. Not a rampaging warlord.” She answered and Arya slapped her hand down on
the table.

“And who are you to propose any of this, Rickon? Does Robb know what you plan? It’s his
lands you’re endangering after all.”

Shaggydog growled suddenly and Rickon’s face clouded over.

“I’m the only reason the river lords are free of westermen and reavers.” He snarled, lifting up
his sleeve to display a scar there. “I took this crossing blades with Addam Marbrand. More
on my shoulder from throwing back the longship landings at Seagard. Where was Robb?
Quarreling with his bannermen and bending over backwards for that Lannister he stuck a
crown on.”

“Queen Myrcella is a Durrandon.” Aemma corrected and Rickon scoffed.

“And for that reason Arya and Gendry keep having to put down rebellions in their own lands.
Forgive that if you must, but don’t forget she was sister to the man who tortured your mother
and left that mark on her.”

“Rickon!” She was aghast that he’d speak so. “Girls, leave us. There are words I cannot say
in your presence.”

“I speak the truth and you’d offer me a tongue lashing.” His face wrinkled in disgust. “I
should count my blessings. Better that than what Robb did to Bran for avenging father. Don’t
look at me like that! How many times have I bled for you, Sansa? For all of you? I’ve earned
your trust! Have can you keep faith with our foes and scorn me?”

“This is not about you!” She was nearly shaking with anger by this point. “We will not
plunge realms into war simply to sate your boredom.”

Jon took her hand then, easing her into relaxing the fist she’d made to entwine their fingers.
A simple reminder that he was still there. This was how they calmed one another.

Arya did her part with Rickon, who had narrowed his furious gaze on Sansa. He looked ready
to speak again when Arya stepped to him, pressing a hand to his chest in a firm but forceful
manner.

“Get a hold of your temper.” Arya said as Nymeria and Lady boxed in a growling
Shaggydog. “Brother, the people who love you most are in this room. Think on that. Then on
how you rage at us for nothing more than a raid.”

“It is more-”
 “Why not come with us to the empire instead?” Rhaegina asked as the twins defiantly held
their ground.

“Oh yes. You could bring your babe too.” Aemma added. “We do so wish to meet little
Benedict.”

“Does he take after you or his mother?”

The girls’ interruption distracted Rickon, who broke his glare to regard them softly.

“Me, mostly.” Rickon admitted. “Tiny as he is, I can’t see taking Ben all the way to the
empire. Nor myself. Thank you but there’s too much I must attend to in the riverlands.
Especially if I’m standing on my own.”

“Rickon…”

“Don’t trouble yourself, Sansa. Having Robb as a king has made me used to it.”

She was at wit’s end, so with a simple nod to Jon, he went to his former squire. Jon guided
Rickon to the far end of the room, listening to her brother’s complaints and quietly reiterating
all she’d said. Though in a softer manner.

Letting Rickon frustrate her was a mistake, yet seeing Jon act so patient with him gave her
hope.

If Aegon is anything like I remember, this is fine practice for what awaits us in the empire.

And should Jon falter as I have, then I will be there to help him with his kin.

A sudden knock came at the door, a muffled voice calling her name.

What now?

She opened the door herself, shocked to find her uncle Brynden standing without. Somehow,
the scowl on the old knight’s face had only deepened since the yard.

“Ser? Aren’t you training Aenry and Graeme?”

“I was.” He replied in a wary voice. “Sansa, you should come. Your sons came to blows. One
moment all’s well, the next it’s bruised knuckles and bloody noses. I can’t make sense of it.”

Beyond her disappointment, a dread feeling took hold of her heart.

What sense can there be in such a fight? What peace can last in a world where brother battles
against brother.

Blood against blood.

Chapter End Notes

Alice of Alonso beta'd this chapter and she is a lovely lady indeed.
End Notes

I love constructive criticism so send it my way, with a bloody trebuchet. I usually post
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