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Chapter Text

The smell of ash was near, the fires burning into the sky from across the forest. I must reach the river, he thought. The trees were dark and burning, the wind was harsh against his skin as the embers were quick to follow his steps.

Their voices carried through the air like newly forged blades. “Find him!” They cried. “We shall have his hide!” They bellowed. Screams of murder. Commands of death. That is what they sought. But the man they searched was far gone, deep down into the Mother Rhoyne, and their chains would never find him again.

He stumbled, his bare feet cutting against the harsh rock. He could not help his groan and painful cry. That is a rib, broken. Though, he was no stranger of being broken. The scars were truth enough to that. But I am whole again.

They will find me now. They would. His breath was all but gone. And the fires only burned brighter as more and more of the forest burned. The others were gone. But to safety. Yes, safety. May the gods be kind, he could only hope. And may they be merciful as well.

“There you are, you foul little beast.” The soldier called. He could not see the soldier, but he felt his sly grin upon his face. Their faces are always cruel. But he would bear it once more. He must. “Rather fitting I find you on your hands and knees, jaos.” Jaos, he thought. A dog. A beast. A thousand words and insults for one, but none crueler than the first. Slave. He only laughed. He was a slave no longer. I am your jaos no longer.

“Take him.” The soldier said to the others. “The General must claim his prize.” And they drag him, his knees scraped against the hard rock and the burnt ash and debris of the fires, now slowly waning.

They threw him down upon the General’s feet. A sharp kick slammed his face into the dirt, his saliva mixed with his blood and teeth on the burnt ground. He chuckled quietly. You cannot break me, he wished to scream. I will never beg.

They tied him to an ash ridden tree, white against the copper of his scarred skin. “Are you the Breaker of Chains? The soldier asked. He said nothing, and so falls the whip. It seared into his back like the scorching of the forest. But the pain meant little.

It came down again, harder this time. And again they ask him, “Are you the Breaker of Chains?” But he heard them not. He thought of his wife. His lover. His goddess. Of her eyes, like molten gold. Of her lips, soft upon his own. Of her skin, warm against his touch.

His skin screamed as it came down again, but he did not. He would not given them that. His dignity was his own. “Are you the Breaker of Chains?” They ask again. He heard them less so. He thought of his sons. Of Marselen, of Mossador, of Moloro. Be strong, my sons, he wished to cry. The Breaker will find you, as is promised.

The whip came down once more. But his mind was strong, left only on her smile. Of her golden eyes, so much like her mothers. I would have crossed the seas, for you, my Missandei. “Are you the Breaker of Chains?” They asked again, roaring with frustration.

Now, he only laughed. And it is loud. And it echoes. It was carried by the wind and sung by the stars above. It only irks them more. The whip comes down again, and again, and again. With each strike, his laughter only grows louder.

“The man’s lost his wits.” He turned to face them, the soldiers masked, the General’s violet eyes glimmering under the moonlight, evil lurking beneath them.

The General waved his hand dismissively. “Its wits are with it.” He kicked at his face again, his jaw likely broken now. And again, the whip came down. The General revelled in each strike, salivating in the spraying of blood across the dirt, the armoured man’s face carved with glee as he whimpered, coughing up blood, but never saying a word.

The General grunted now with each strike, and the pain is unbearable, even the soldiers must look away. But he said nothing. “Call for your god, let him come. None shall save you from justice.” The General said mockingly.

“Justice.” He echoed. His laugh was bitter, and biting. “Worry not, esteemed master. You will meet Him soon enough.” He had served, and he would die. As will you.

“So it speaks?” And he struck again, and again, and again. And a dozen times more, until there is nought but hanging flesh and bloodied bone left of his back. He screams were silent as the touching embrace of Death crept its way around his sagging body.

The General held the whip tenderly, caressing it like a child, smearing the blood onto a dirty rag, careful to never let it touch his skin. “I will ask you once more, slave. Are you the Breaker of Chains?” You will not find him. On his knees, he saw his burned wrists, free of the shackles. He is all around us. He could feel the warm blood trickling across his back and onto the ground. He is in every drop of blood you spill.

The freed man looked up at the General, his smile bloody and wide, his eyes full of an amusement none of them would ever understand. “I am.” He laughed. Even when the whip cracks again a hundred times more. Even as they dragged him through the dirt by his hands, and promised him a painful death.

Freedom. He has tasted it, they know this. And now they cannot steal it from him, nor beat it from him. But they kept him alive. They tended to him. With the finest medicine and herbs, with the darkest magics, with their red robes ablaze. He paid them no mind. His chains were gone.

“I am.” He whispered to himself, alone in the cage they have built for him. “I am.”

Chapter Text

Summer skies encircled a green sunlit meadow. At the centre, weathered wooden stands were erected with rows of seating. Tents were sprawled across the grass behind the stands, filled with young squires rushing across the yards with swords and armour in their arms. Noble knights brandished shining armoured plates of steel, shirts of chainmail and padded shoulders of boiled leather. Westerlands knights sported crimson, yellow and gold banners across their breastplates, whilst Baratheon banners hung off the backs of glistening silver knights, the stag muddied by dirt and blood. Each were pitted against one another for the favour of the young Prince Joffrey.

Another shallow favour. Another tourney. It numbered three in six moons. Lannisport had been an exquisite affair, he had heard. Lord Tywin had spared no expense, revelling in the near utter ruin of the Greyjoy rule. Once more they celebrated the victory at Pyke in King’s Landing. A largely unnecessary affair, one he had advised against to no end. He rubbed his temples, feeling a familiar ache creep at the back the skull. And now, another tourney for the nameday of the Crown Prince. An overtly indulgent event, one far too indulgent for a boy of five namedays. 

A young herald adorned in red, yellow and black banners made his way to the bottom of the stands. “The first of the final tilt, Sandor of House Clegane and Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard!” He screamed in a high-pitched voice. The crowd clapped excitedly. The young Prince looked intensely bored, despite the Queen’s insistence. Her dark red gowns did little to hide her growing belly, but she remained as regal as ever. Robert had made it clear it was a far from loving marriage. But the fruits born of their union were enough. Three children, and if the gods are good, the third a son, then the realm would remain secure. 

The two knights rode at each other fiercely, shattering each lance with every pass. Ser Jaime was a known and beloved contender. His armour glistened as he shed his white cloaks for Lannister gold. His opponent was new to King’s Landing. A giant of a man, larger than even the King, he wore scratched black armour and a carefully welded greathelm of a snarling hound. Jon had been hesitant upon hearing his anointment as Joffrey’s shield. He had no doubt the man’s performance during Pyke and Lannisport was extraordinary. Yet, the stench of his name was strong, and so came the stories. Of a burned child and a brother’s rage. Horrors to join the whispers of the late Princess and her children. 

His back ached and his bosom grew sore. As Jon searched for the King to relieve himself of the tourney, he found no one. Had he grown so unobservant? To not hear Robert during a tourney was a difficult task. To not notice his absence and lose him? Jon cursed himself silently for his ineptitude. He made his way through the stands, excusing himself as onlookers remained intent on the joust, making his way quickly to the King’s tent. 

“Ser Barristan,” The knight greeted him with a smile, yet wearing his white cloak, “You were quick to change your attire. Have you withdrawn?” Jon rarely did engage in betting. On the odd occasion, Ser Barristan was a quick choice. Though he himself did not have the martial prowess of a younger man, Ser Barristan had remained as dangerous as Jon remembered, cutting through men like butter during the War of Ninepenny Kings, slaying Maelys himself. The reign of Aerys was soiled by much, but certainly not Ser Barristan. 

The man seemed held back, giving him an awkward and tight-lipped smile. “His Grace has asked that I stand guard. He has decided to ride in my place.” 

Jon sighed. “Has he now? Well, he will have a hard time of it, following after you.” He shook his head lightly, walking into the tent. It smelled strongly of wine and sweat. Empty cups of drink were littered across haphazardly placed tables and chairs. Random pieces of armour and chainmail were on the floor, along with tourney blades and a pair of striped black and yellow lances. A young squire stood nervously next to the King, holding a greave in his hand. 

“Get out, damn you, now!” Robert bellowed. The boy squeaked, dropping the greave before rushing away, tripping at the sight of Jon, quickly regaining his footing before bolting through the tent. The King had his leg lifted on a chair, struggling to fasten the greave against his calf. Robert’s breastplate was made of carefully carved steel, picturing a crowned stag in the centre. It was tight against his skin, his bulk spewing over near his pits and belly. Jon had ordered that smithed for Robert’s nameday only a year past. 

“Your Grace,” Jon said politely. 

Robert rolled his eyes. “Nearly ten years Jon and still I must hear ‘Your Grace‘ from you. What does the Hand require of his King?” 

Jon huffed, his lips pursed. “A keen ear for wise counsel. I have told you once before, Robert, there is no place for the King in the tilts. Any drunkard with bad luck could knock you dead off your horse.” 

Robert raised his glass smugly, pouring the wine down his throat quickly. “I’ll be sure to even the odds then.” 

Jon shook his head, sat down beside Robert, his hands in his lap. “You have always been a sporting man, Robert. What fairness is there for a man who must ride against his King?” 

Robert scowled, pouring himself another glass. “You think those shits would fall off their horses for their King? I didn’t come here to throw tourneys for cravens!” 

Jon watched him drown the cup, moving to pour another. “Robert, be reasonable—“ 

“Reasonable? Reasonable? What other reason must I need, Jon? I am King! As if that is not reason enough!” He yelled, his eyes putrid with rage, a scowl carved onto his red, bulging face. “Be reasonable. I’ve heard your counsel and I’ll hear it no longer. If I wish to joust, I will joust. You hear me?” He pointed a finger accusingly at Jon, finally fastening the remainder of his armour and taking another drink before storming out of the tent. 

“Aye, Your Grace. Good luck, then.” Jon added quietly. He recalled Robert’s youth. The boy who would be King. Though none would know it then. A boy who cared more for the yard and the brothel than a crown and a throne.  But never a foolish boy. Never an ungrateful one. One who understood a guiding hand. Jon sighed, calling Ser Barristan into the tent. 

“My Lord Hand.” Barristan stood awkwardly, holding Robert’s discarded cup. 

“Ser Barristan. Who shall the King face?” Jon asked. He takes what remains of Robert’s wine jar, smelling it, before pouring himself a cup. 

“Ser Jaime, my lord.” 

Jon took a sip, finding strong Arbor gold. “Ah. Do remind him of who he is charged to protect, will you?” 

“Of course.” Ser Barristan bowed, leaving immediately to find the knight. Jon rubbed his forehead, suddenly finding the wine unbearably strong in smell. He swirled it in his cup, before slowly pouring onto the ground. He stood alone in the tent for a moment, before hearing the familiar horns of the herald and the clattering of hooves and armoured knights. 

He heard the cheers cry out across the field as Ser Jaime of the Kingsguard was called upon. When he returned, the Lannister knight riding up and down the stands, his glittering rode smile shining beneath the summer sun. His helmet was of a roaring lion coated in shades of gold, his breastplate the same with blotches of crimson and white. From his vambraces to his greaves, to his shield to his lance, each piece enamoured in sparking jewellery and decadent plates of gold. Unscathed, without a scratch nor speck of dirt, despite the man defeating half a dozen opponents. 

“Riding in the place of Ser Barristan Selmy, is His esteemed Grace, King Robert of the House Baratheon!” The herald cried, a chorus of loud claps following after. Robert approached atop a large stallion, his helmet haphazardly worn, with rusted antlers and small dents. He made no attempt to please the crowd nor take favour, looking increasingly agitated as Jaime approached the stand, asking charmingly for the Queen’s favour, who answered with a wide smile. 

The joust began, but Jon saw little of it, his thoughts again drifting away to pits of doubt and regret. Was he the fool? For believing the security of the realm was possible without the dragons? For believing Robert was the man to pave such a future? It was not the first time Jon had wished the throne required more than blood. It was not the first time Jon had wondered if Eddard was the one that should have been crowned when the dust settled upon the Trident. 

Robert’s roar returned Jon to the joust. He frowned. The crown was held together by a King who cared more for wine, swords and teats than a throne. With only a child and a little girl for a future. Robert cried as he rode against Ser Jaime. They passed once, and then twice, and then thrice, each time their lances crashing off one another with enough force to fell half a dozen men. Better Ser Jaime lose now. Let this spectacle end.

And Jon’s wish came true, as the Kingslayer was thrown off his horse into the dirt, his golden armour suddenly muddied, his hair tangled. Still, the man smiled, bowing to the crowds and caring for his horse, seemingly indifferent to his defeat.

“I can still knock you on your arse, Kingslayer. Remember that the next time you wear that satisfied grin outside my door.” Robert said with venom, the crowd silent as Robert’s words carry to every corner of the field. 

“As you say, Your Grace.” Ser Jaime bowed his head, quickly leaving the field, his knuckles clenched. 

The herald approached the King hesitantly, handing him a flowered crown of yellow roses and marigold. Robert held it in his hands roughly, crushing some beneath his dirt-ridden hands. The crowd watched as he stared at it, as if looking for something else, before tossing it towards the Queen without a second glance, walking away without a care for the victory, gold, nor his own stead. The Queen smiled mutely, placing the crushed crown upon Princess Myrcella’s head, who clapped her hands in joy. 

Jon rose quickly, clapping loudly and calling the tourney to an end, welcoming all the nobles to join the Royal family for the evening feast. As the crowds slowly dispersed, the knights slowly taking their winnings and their losses and their young squires, Jon sat silently in the stands, a single lone Kingsguard and a mountain of worry his only companions. 

Soon enough, he returned to the King’s tent, dismissing his guard and giving a silent smile to Ser Barristan as he entered, finding Robert seated across the tent. 

“Robert.” Jon asked, his eyes quickly scanning the room. Robert’s armour had been crushed, half stuck in the ground, some thrown around the room. Jon reached to pull a the rusted antler of his stag helmet from the ground, brushing it between his fingers as he looked at Robert. His back was turned to Jon, intently looking at nothing. 

“Gods, what is it, Jon? Something else you’ve come to chastise me for?” 

“If you cared to listen, Robert, you would hear it far less.” Jon said it without any edge to his voice, his tone resigned. 

Robert only laughed. “Aye, mayhaps. What is it this time then?” 

“We shall enjoy the festivities tonight, Robert. But on the morrow, the wheel must keep turning. The people have not seen hold court since before Pyke. It is not a good statement to be making, especially now.” Robert kept his back to him still. “The duties of the throne cannot fall upon mine own, Robert. It is not I, who wears the crown. The court must see their King, as King.” 

Robert remained silent. Jon’s frown only deepened. The King said nothing, did nothing. He did not even move, so Jon continued, “And today, Robert. You are quick to silence my pleas. If you wish to indulge, to exercise your rights as King, then do so. But must I teach you control once more? Such indulgence borders recklessness.” 

Jon came around to meet Robert now, his voice softer. “I cannot command your council, nor can I counsel, without knowing the plights of my King. You have teetered through the Red Keep since your return. What ails you?” 

Robert looked up at him for a moment, his eyes puffy and red, his face bloated. “Ser Barristan!” He called, turning to the flaps of the tent. 

The old knight came at once, glancing at Jon for a moment. “Your Grace?” 

“Fetch me my damned squire. I’ve run out of wine.” Robert said, looking back at the ground. 

“At once, sire,” Barristan nodded, a light breeze following in his absence. 

“Robert—“ Jon said disapprovingly. 

Robert stood tall, waving Jon off. “I will sit upon the damned throne, Jon. Aye, you have the right of it. The King, must be.. kingly.” And he chuckled, but it is hollow, and lined with sorrow, like a watered-down rage. It only chilled Jon’s skin and deepened his wrinkles. 

“Of course. I shall see you at the feast, then.” Robert said nothing, leaving without a glance backward. The squire returned soon after, meek and lost with an absent King. Jon pat the boy on the back, taking the wine for himself and deciding a nap was in good order. 

It was short lived, for the feast soon arrived. The gardens of were transformed quickly, outfitted with each luxury possible to entertain the lords and court of the realm. 

Jon peered over the garden terrace that overlooked the godswood. Across the castle walls he could see the dazzling still waters of Blackwater Bay, and the faint light of distant ships. Its cool breeze was a refreshing smell, a well-earned respite from the stink of the streets that permeated each wall. Above him, the Red Keep glimmered in the glow of the fading sun, turned a golden red by the shimmering summer light. A cloudless sky painted the feast in beautiful colours of yellow and orange, and slowly, the moonlight crept behind the shadow of the castle, stars revealing themselves one by one.  

His walk through the gardens was met with many smiles and warm welcomes, careful to note each and every man that attended. Invitations for Prince Joffrey’s nameday were sent far and wide. A much-needed celebration in the wake of another victory for Robert’s reign. Tyrell roses and maidens were tied close together with covered smiles and ambitious eyes. Lannister cloaks were thrown over long tables, worn well by guards and royalty alike. Baratheon stags were emblazoned in long banners and ornate sculptures and carved even into the soft leatherwork of wooden chairs. 

Beside the high table, the small council members sat mutely, many of them men older than even Jon, aside from Varys, who are an even and seemingly amused expression. Lord Stannis was absent from the table, though Jon could see him by the edges of the terrace, his daughter standing upright and square behind him. Even the young Lord Renly attended, trailing behind a young boy with a mop of curled brown hair and a fitted velvet cloak. 

Servants lit large braziers, jesters roamed around each corner with jugglers and singers not far behind, and lords and ladies approached the high table, giving their many thanks to the Queen, wishing well on the young Prince. Though, the King was still absent, Jon thought grimly. The festivities continued all the same, begun no doubt by the Queen and her impatience. A well-earned one, as of late. 

Soon enough, the herald announced Robert as he walked through the garden, arriving to the high table with spilled wine soiling his Baratheon cloak, his breeches slightly undone. Jon could smell the sex and wine from afar and was quick to stand as soon as Robert arrived. 

“Let us celebrate. A toast to the young Prince Joffrey. May his youth be long and prosperous.” He called across the terrace. 

“To Prince Joffrey.” They remarked, quick to return to the festivities. Jon gave a kind welcome to Robert, who returned it carelessly, shouting for a servant immediately. 

The Queen took off with the Prince and her daughter, trailing to the garden where Ser Jaime and her dwarf brother laughed loudly. Jon frowned. Robert paid little mind to it, ordering the servant to bring food and wine. 

His lady wife joined him soon after. Quiet and reserved, her lips tight. The plumpness of her recent pregnancy had melted away, leaving her far frailer and gaunt. Lysa’s face was rosy, concealed with perfumed powders, though it did little to hide her swollen, puffy eyes. She gave him a strained look as she sat beside him.

“My lady.” He smiled affectionately with teeth. 

“My lord husband.” She glanced at him warily but returned the smile. The festivities grew around him, though Lysa made no attempt to join in, choosing to rather watch the Queen feed the princess. 

“Have you spoken with Grand Maester—“ Jon asked.

“The maester has prescribed nought but rest, my lord.” She said quickly, avoiding his eyes. 

An empty silence sat between them for some time. Lysa played with her food, though never taking more than one or two bites. Jon cleared his throat, “I wonder, my lady, if you have heard from your friend, Petyr. From the Fingers?” 

Lysa looked at him with a sudden eagerness. “Petyr? Baelish? Not for some time my lord. Why? Is he ill?” 

“On the contrary, Lord Grafton tells me the man has taken exceedingly well to Gulltown. The town has raised more coin through its port than ever,” Jon says. It was true. He had been astonished at the reports. Mayhaps one day he would look upon the capital’s own with such surprise. 

She nodded smiling. “Oh yes, Petyr was always superb at his numbers. And not without his kindness, either. He would always stop to help Cat and I as children. I am glad you took my advice, my lord.”  

“Yes, as a I. Perhaps then, I shall bring him to court. Have him serve under Lord Estermont. He rose to the challenge of Gulltown, I am certain he can rise to the capital.” The vacant look in her eyes faded. Perhaps it would good then. Lysa is without many friends. 

“Oh, Petyr would love that. It would be good to see him again after much time.” She bit her lips, looking around to the feast and back to Jon. “May I have your leave, my lord? My moonblood has made the festivities.. disagreeable.” 

“Of course, my lady. Naturally. May I assist you..?” 

“You are gracious, my lord husband. It is well, my uncle is here, and I have yet to reunite with him. 

“Ah, well. Please do give my regards. Perhaps I shall see him later.” Lysa nodded mutely, turning to leave. Jon called for her quickly, “If I may, Lysa, I wish to visit your chambers tonight.” 

She stopped for a moment, before turning back with a smile. “As you wish, my lord.” The thought of an heirless Vale always roamed in the back of his mind. He could only hope this next attempt would prove fruitful, and Lysa prove as strong as her father promised. His eyes lingered to a watchful eye that lingered on him, no doubt hearing much of their conversation. His lined face showed only amusement, but his deep black eyed were shrewd and sharp, watching him like a viper in long grass. 

Jon grimaced. Of the one man he had hoped would not attend the festivities, it was Oberyn Martell. The Viper’s fury was well known, perhaps even more than the King’s. Jon had extended an invitation to Doran, though, he knew that the man would not attend. But Oberyn.. the shadow of Elia loomed greatly, and it was Oberyn who had taken to Jon’s words of reconciliation as veiled threats after the Sack, no doubt leading to his prompt but short exile across the sea. Jon’s lips thinned, looking to avoid the viper’s tongue. 

And the gods were grateful, for a hulking warrior of man was quick to overtake Jon’s view. The knight was covered in weathered bronze armour, inscribed with old runes and odd colours. His bushy eyebrows were risen in amusement, his grey eyes and wide smile an all too familiar sight. 

“By the Seven, Lord Yohn Royce!” Jon exclaimed. He rose to greet the old knight. 

“My Lord Hand.” The man bowed solemnly. 

Jon waved him off. “Ah! Enough with the formalities, old friend. Please, sit, sit.” 

Yohn plopped beside him, resting his hands on his stomach and breathing deeply. 

“It has been too long, Yohn. I’ve not seen your face in the city for years. What adventures have you find yourself on now?” Jon asked. 

Yohn laughed. “Adventures? You’ve got me mixed up with some lad from the Age of Heroes, Jon. My adventures are but the same. What is there to tell?” 

Jon snorted. “Yes, a tourney’s life for you. I swear it, you listened to far too many stories of Ser Duncan as a young man.” 

Yohn gave another hearty laugh. “And perhaps you listened to them far too little.” Yohn pats Jon on his back, “Gods forbid you work yourself to death.” 

“Aye, gods forbid.” He poured Yohn a cup of Arbor Gold, enjoying a small one of his own. 

“Tell me, how fare Lysa? I had wished to see her.” Yohn asked. 

Jon sat back in his chair with a light frown. “Ah, she is well. Yohn. Though, more quiet, and untrusting, as of late. Our daughter.. Lysa did not take it well. News of her sister’s healthy children these past years have done little to ease her fears.” Nor mine own, though he said this only to his mind. 

“She is young and beautiful. I wish many a fortune upon you both.” 

“Many thanks, my friend, truly. I am glad for a night such as this one. The respite is welcome. The maesters tell me the summer shall be long, thankfully. Perhaps we shall see many more of them.” 

“Long hours, I take it.” Yohn said amusedly, bringing the wine to his lips with a smile. 

“Ha! If I were a younger man..” Jon japed. He called for a servant who refills their cups, before he scampered away to the cook’s centre. 

“You have never been without work, Jon. I would expect no less.” Yohn commented.

“Well, yes, I suppose It is unfortunate that I do not share your penchant for eternal youth and strength, Yohn.” Jon said with a stifled snicker. 

Yohn looked to Jon pointedly. “I’ve a grey hair to share, don’t fret. You are strong yet. And I’d watch your words, Jon. The Gods may favour you yet, and then, I imagine the King have you wear that pin for many a decade too long.” 

“Are the lines upon my face not deep enough?” They shared a quick laugh. “Your sons, they are well?” 

Yohn nodded, a proud sparkle in his eye. “They remain strong, aye. The Gods are good. Andar remains in the Eyrie, no doubt enamoured by a woman he wishes to keep from his Father. Robar and Waymar joined the tilts.” 

“Ah, admittedly I saw little of the tilts.” Jon replied. 

“With a view such as yours from the stands? Mind elsewhere?” Yohn’s curious gaze was knowing. 

“Not on the field, that much is clear.” He chuckled. 

“Ha! I am glad to see the capital has not turned you sour. It would do you well to return to the Vale, however. A moons turn, at least. Time away from the city’s stench can cure almost any ailment.” 

Jon hummed in agreement. “Believe me, long has it burdened my thoughts. I long for the smell of sweet air in the mountains and the chill of the wind upon the Eyrie’s walls. Alas, such is the price of duty, Yohn. Responsibilities are more often painful sacrifices. One I am willing to make with each waking day.” 

Yohn raised his cup, his chin set. “You honour them, always. A toast then, for Lord Jon Arryn, the finest Hand this side of the Narrow Sea.” 

Jon returned the toast, smiling as he sips the wine. “You will curse me with such praise, Yohn.” The servant arrived soon after, two large plates in each hand. “Come, the day has been far too long. Let us eat.” 

And so they did. Jon’s stomach grumbled quietly, ready for what would be his first meal. He was never a man of excess. His roasted venison was seasoned and cooked perfectly, served with baked carrots and radish. 

“Thank you, lad.” Yohn said to the servant. He quickly cuts into his capon, stuffed with the breadcrumbs and dried pear and fig. The cooks were worked hard it seems, for each of their plates was accompanied by almond-studded rice from Yi-Ti, and perfectly sautéed greens. 

Yohn chuckled as he ate. “A fine feast.”

“Yes. The King has certainly spared no expense for Prince Joffrey.” Jon frowned lightly; grateful to the Gods for their blessings this evening, but yet still concerned on indulgence. 

Yohn shook his head amusedly. “Ha! Robert was never fond of dull affairs. Every hunt or battle was one for the history books, in his eye. I tell you, Lannisport was no different. And the Lannisters certainly did not exercise restraint. I had never seen more men piss drunk on victory since the Rebellion! It seems an Ironborn defeat is a better drink than Arbor gold.”

“Or any gold dragon, if Lannisport is to be believed.” Jon added. 

Yohn only laughed, slapping his thigh, “Aye, certainly.” He was quick to finish his food, leaning back as he drank. “Though, Robert seemed out of his wits. Morbid, even. I would have thought the King to be preening from our victory at Pyke. He did not join the tilts, nor even watch! Though, I am glad for it.” Yohn was a loyal man, but he enjoyed his sports. 

“I am sure your sons were rather jealous of your own little victory.” 

He gave a short but deep belly laugh. “Oh, like you would not believe, Jon. Though, they were happier to see the Kingslayer’s golden ass hit the ground than my bag of gold dragons. Ha!” 

Jon fell into a quiet thought. “I hear Eddard did not attend.” 

Yohn waved his hand dismissively. “Ah, Ned. The man never cared for jousting, nor tourneys. Keen eye for it, too. Could always spot a winner, but never gambled. Much to Robert’s chagrin, I remember. Shame, really. But aye, not a single northerner attended. Likely following their lord’s belief.” 

Jon sighed, placing his cutlery haphazardly on his half-eaten plate. “I have heard otherwise, Yohn. That it was an absence made of spite, not principle.” 

Yohn frowned, his wrinkled face suddenly grim. “You should not give credence to such tales, Jon. Aye, Ned was absent. It hardly makes him a dissenter.” 

“And yet all I have heard is of Eddard’s rage, and his ire for our King. I was there, Yohn, the day of the Sack, in the throne room. The words shared between them, the damage, it was nigh irreparable. If it were not for the Lady Lyanna’s passing.. I fear what would have happened to the realm. The rumours speak of the same fracture, bleeding once again.” 

Yohn scoffed, washing his hands clean of rumour. “Robert underestimates Ned, Jon. Always has. You remember him as a boy? You’d think him almost timid. I would think it a most masterful deception, if I did not know the man himself. His temper is hidden well, and is fearsome to face. Robert is no stranger to it. I believe if the King and Ned shared words, no matter how heated, it was for a good and just purpose.” As was always the case with Eddard. The Targaryen children.. it was an unfortunate situation. A despicable one, for the brutality of such an act. One Eddard could not overlook, even for the safety of the Crown. 

“The Quiet Wolf indeed. I take it you spoke with him?” Jon asked, rubbing his chin. 

“Of course! I fought beside him. Saw him wield that Valyrian greatsword with the strength of ten men. He is as dutiful as ever. You would be proud, Jon. But I cannot deny the man’s fury. I would call him the Warrior reborn, if it were not an insult to his own faith. You could taste the rage flowing from his person. I have never seen a man so engrossed within it. Any man should count himself lucky they were not the Ironborn on the day Ned Stark came upon them.”

Jon nodded with a sigh. “Anger was an expected ally. Balon’s folly invoked old feuds most viciously, the Northerners most particularly.” Yohn agreed. “Though, I hear talk of his direwolf was most salacious.” He added. 

“Aye. There is little I am afraid to face. But that beast? It was never far from Ned, always lurking. They call it Ned Stark’s shadow, I hear. I was near envious that mine own banners do not sport such a creature. Perhaps the Gods would bless me with a shadow, also.”

“I’ve a falcon of mine own. It is much work. More keen to sleep than battle.” They fell into a sullen silence, Jon quickly losing his appetite, his eyes glancing worriedly over the festivities. 

He could feel Yohn’s eyes pierce the side of his skull. The bearded man placed his cup down gently. “I can see my words have concerned you. Speak freely, old friend.” 

Jon sighed, rubbing his forehead before leaning back into his chair. “Robert has always been quick to anger. It is such recklessness that inspired our armies during the Rebellion. It is what has crushed even the talk of resistance since his ascension. But the leader of a rebellion, is not the leader of seven kingdoms. Strength in a King, yes, but never recklessness. Never shortsightedness.” He pulled at the stubbles of hair on his chin absentmindedly, “Eddard has long been a foil to Robert’s rage. I groomed such a skill from an early age. To hone ones anger may take a lifetime of dedication. But to guide another’s? It takes a lifetime more of patience. I am old, Yohn. I cannot afford another lifetime of patience.” 

He sat up now, shaking his head with his lips pursed and his face grim. “And Eddard? The man is no fool. I have little idea of the words shared between them, only that they have rattled Robert deeply. More-so than any accusation of cruelty. His absence at Lannisport? His silence for Joffrey’s nameday? These are not the actions of a forgetful man, nor a foolish one.” 

Yohn seemed befuddled, his brows furrowed deep in contemplation. “Never, never in my life would I think to accuse Lord Stark of treachery. Less so against Robert!” 

“Neither would I, nor do I intend to imply such. The question is not of his loyalty, but his friendship. Friendship can mean a far deal more than any oath.” Jon smiled sadly. “It is .. it is sad, Yohn, to see old bonds broken. It was not so long ago that Baratheon and Targaryen were staunch allies. We have seen how brittle words can be, how easily foiled our trust can be,” he stares distantly at the growing crowd in the centre of the terrace, Robert dancing poorly with a serving girl, “I worry less for the realm, and more for the boys that I raised. They are men, now. And I haven’t it in me to look back and discover where the time truely went.” 

Yohn Royce seemed thoughtful, looking at Robert. “You are kind-hearted, Jon. I am glad to be reminded of it after much time.”

“It is the Hand’s duty to worry for the King.” He murmured.

“For their realm and their court, aye. But of their hearts? That is a father’s duty.“ Yohn crooned.

A small voice quickly interrupts, soft hands grabbing at Yohn’s thick arms. Yohn’s face turns red, and Jon smiles as the little black-haired girl pulls at her father’s arm with all the strength a girl of nine can summon. Her grey eyes were determined, and her face bore a cheeky half smile. 

“Father! Can we dance!” She asked pleadingly, pouting her lips. 

“You would ask your old man for a dance?” Yohn jested.

“Yes! Dance!” She grinned. 

“Where is your brother?” He asked. She shrugged casually, still pulling on her father’s arm. He looked to Jon, begging his pardon with an awkward smile. 

“You too, have a father’s duty, Yohn.” He said with a grin. Yohn only shook his head amusedly. 

“Aye, aye, silly girl. But I won’t hear you complain when I step on your feet.” Ysilla giggled, reaching for her father’s large hands. Yohn threw her into the air as she laughed, before taking her hand in his and bowing stiffly. “My Lord Hand.” Jon chuckled and nods, watching them walk close to the bards in the terrace. 

As he watched them, Jon’s thoughts quickly fell to the young Mya Stone. Of her coal black hair and blue eyes. What an odd thing to think of. He had nearly forgotten of the girl. Robert cared not for what the court would say, even as Jon chastised him. He loved that little girl. It was a happier time, he supposed. One long behind them. 

Chapter Text

Ned sat upon a large weirwood root, the bloodied leaves of the Heart Tree lightly bristling above him. A weathered old book rested upon his lap ajar, freshly written ink slowly drying. And though the summer light of high noon was strangled by the thick canopy of the godswood, pillared streams littered the waving grass, and glittered the once-black waters of the pool. He stared at the rippling waters, catching his reflection change with every glimpse.

The air was warm, by northern standards. As he glanced to every tree line, he could see every shade of green and oak possible, the only outlier the pale white of the Heart Tree. He could feel its weeping eyes watch him. But he paid it no mind, studying each root that dug into the ground like bones in flesh. The largest were sturdy and wide enough to sit upon, and for many a moment, he wondered how many a Stark came to ponder upon this very spot. For ten-thousand years, these woods had remained untouched. How much of history did he gaze upon? Perhaps the first drawings of the Wall, by the mighty Builder? The sorrow of the Burner? The solitude of the Kneeler?

He placed the feather quill that danced between his fingers beneath the pages of his most recent entry. He bound the book tightly, wrapping it in a soft, faded cloth, before adding another layer of small steel chains that fastened around an old lock from the drawers of his father’s solar. As he traced the spine of the book, he could feel a familiar twitch in his neck. His muddied paws hurried through the dirt, his dark fur clashing against the summer winds.

Ned heard it slowly trek from behind the Heart Tree. Its walk was uncaring, carefree, and he found it irked him greatly. “Must you trespass my peace?” He said as it veered into view beside the pool, making no effort to remove the venom from his voice. It said nothing, licking its paws and rubbing them against the top of its ears. He glared at the direwolf, whose fur seemed as black as the now still waters. “Do I not suffer enough of your presence?” His voice was but a whisper as he quickly left for the safety of the castle. But the beast followed him until the kennels, a harsh glare finally forcing it away. Lord Eddard’s shadow, the people called it. Lord Eddard’s curse, he would say.

The clashing of sticks flew through the wind as he passed the East Gate, followed soon by childish laughter and triumph. It felt familiar. He almost expected  to find Brandon boasting, steel in hand. And for a moment, the slightest second, he wished for Lyanna to ride past him, Benjen chasing her reigns, giggling with glee, in a happiness that pained Ned’s heart to recall. His Father  would stand atop the balconies, his mother strong beside him, smiling. And Ned would be there too, and they were each of them alive, free from the horror that had torn them apart.

But it was a figment. A cruel joke of a nameless god he had spurned. For such a sight existed only in his dreams. The reality he faced stung, for the day would soon come, where he would have mourned his family longer than he had ever known them. Soon their faces would fade from his memory. Would he remember them only in his tears?

But the yard was not empty. A new voice boasted, sword in hand. Another voice cheered, hugging his brother. “My sons.” His joys. His fires against the raging blizzard. Where would I be, without you? He knelt down, placing his hands on each of their shoulders. To which corners of the world shall I travel, to protect you? “Father,” they said, like boys playing at soldiers. But they are boys, his boys. And no matter how tall they may grow, and no matter how broad their shoulders, or thick their beards, they will remain his boys, tussling in the yard, free of the world’s burden, and their father’s curse.

“Are you leaving today, Father?” Robb asked. He says it as if it no big thing, and yet Ned knows he wished to come.

He nodded. “Aye, on the morrow.”

“Let us come with you, Father. We won’t disappoint you, I swear it,” said Jon, Robb following with his protest.

He chuckled. “I believe you, I do. But you are boys of nine, not men grown,” May you stay children for many an age, “When you are ready, you will join me. I swear this.” And they nodded, though he knows they wish to argue; the sight makes him smile widely.

“Do not look so glum, I shan’t leave you alone with girls and babes. The lords of the North would be glad to foster their sons with wolves as fierce as you.”

“Truly?” Robb asked, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

He ruffled his hair. “Aye. Would you like that?”

“Yes!” He said, looking to Jon who soon agreed. But the boy is hesitant, apprehension muddled behind his dark eyes.

“We will make you proud, Father.” Jon said. He held his face in a poor imitation of a soldier. It was almost amusing, if it did not crush his heart. Jon, my son, he wished to yell. Stay within these walls, within my sight. I will protect you, I must protect you, he wished to cry out. His mind drifted to the Lannister cloak, draped in red. A clever trick, to hide the blood. And he remembered the girl, barefoot, still wearing her nightdress. And the boy.. he remembered the boy.

“Aye, together.” Robb grabs his brother’s shoulder and held his wooden sword tightly. Robb, Robb, my boy, he wished to scream. Be brave where I cannot. Be strong where I am weak, he wishes to say.

“Not a day passes where I am not proud of you, my sons.” He said, his voice low like a whisper. From his back, he unsheathed Ice. It was nigh as tall as him, with deep ripples that swirled upon a smoky black blade as wide as his hand.

“Ice.” The boys said in unison, awed. He placed the hilt of Robb, whose hands could not wrap around it, the blade resting flat upon Jon’s. Even then, they struggled with the weight of the great-sword.

“The blade of House Stark, forged in Valyria. One of generations, named for the blade of the first Kings of Winter.” He brushed his hand carefully against the blade. “Soon enough, my bones will grow weak, and my muscles frail, and my mind old, I will bear the weight of Ice no longer. A duty given only to the Lord of Winterfell.”

“When I depart, you shall be Lord of Winterfell, Robb. Aye, your mother and the maester and the men may guide you, teach you. And you would do well to listen, for wisdom is a virtue one is never born into. And it comes not with age.” He placed his hand upon Robb’s shoulders, gripping hard and bringing his stare level with his son.

Jon looked away, as if burned by the blade’s reflection. “And though you may not have my name, Jon, you have my blood. Ours is the blood of Kings. Aye, you will not inherit this castle, nor its titles. But you have its heart, just as you have mine.” He held his sons’ shoulder tightly. “If Robb is your lord, then you are his blade. There is not a place in the world that is befitting for either of you alone.”

He looked to them both now, steadfast, standing. “Remember your name, Stark, and the storm that it bring. And with the storm, comes snow.”

“Winter is coming,” Robb whispered, nodding slowly.

“For us all.” He saw Jon contemplate his words silently, glancing between Ned and Robb, before nodding also.

“Get on, now.” They returned to their sparring, though quieter, and far heavier than the morn. And perhaps it was too much for boys of nine. But at eight, Ned had been sent away to the Vale. So perhaps not.

He returned Ice to the armoury, sheathed by a set of worn plates and chainmail. Muddied and stained by blood. From the Trident, from Pyke. He traced his hands across the breastplate, feeling the chill of its iron across his palm. He should have burned it. Melted it down for scrap. But he didn’t, for he knew the day would soon arrive where he would wear it once more. Ned sighed, closing his eyes and wallowing in the stillness of the room, before leaving without a glance back.

As he left for his solar, he felt small hands tug at his tunic. Hands that were pale and soft, and followed by a toothy smile and flowing auburn hair. “Father!” Sansa cried, clearly eager. She wore a woollen blue surcoat lined with white and grey, the Stark wolf stitched into the centre. He picked her up and sat her upon his shoulder, nuzzling his head against her own. Even at seven, she looked much like her mother. Her soft skin and long, waved hair that smelt so similar to Cat.

“Have you been naughty, sweet one?” He asked cheekily. Sansa feigned offence, blushing and giggling with her father.

“Never!” She squealed as he threw her into the air and caught her.

He traced the outlined of the wolf, smiling. “Did you stitch this yourself, dear?”

Somehow, her smile turned wider at the recognition, “Yes, Father! Septa Mordane has been teaching me! Mother says I will sewing my own dresses before long.”

“Is that so?” He perked an eyebrow. His little girl blushed, and he wondered if there any worthy enough to see her smile.

“She is far better than I at that age. A prodigy, Ned, I swear to you.” He heard his wife slowly walk towards them, joy in her tone. Little Arya trotted along, a frown on her face and her hands stuck in the tight grip of her mother. She wore a dark dress with furs too large for her small frame.

“Nigh ten years, and I can sneak up on you, husband.” They shared a quick smile.

“As quiet as a feather in snow,” he tittered. Ned gestured to Arya, who sprung into his arms and climbed his chest like a squirrel. Her smile was missing a few teeth, but so wide her eyes squinted so far she could hardly see. He brushed her dark, messy hair away from her forehead and pressed his nose against hers.

“The Seven be praised, Bran is abed. Quiet, at last.” She sighed leaning against him. Bran had cried rivers through the night, and would seldom be apart from his mother. “This one,” she squeezed Arya’s cheek, “has found herself in mountains of trouble. Your daughter is a picky child.”

He laughed as he puts her down. “My daughter? Must you give your mother such grief, Arya?” She smiled mischievously, sticking her tongue at him and pulling at her dress. “Itchy!” She cried.

“That was very unladylike, young lady.” Catelyn chastised, without a single ounce of seriousness, amusement lined in her voice.

“Perhaps you ought to sow your own dress one day, little wolf. Lest Sansa be our only seamstress beyond help.” Sansa blushed, holding Arya’s hand and leading her to a gap in the railing. He pressed his forehead against his wife’s own, and laid a kiss upon her lips. But a sudden coldness passed through him, and his eyes turned grim.

Her lips pressed thinly at the sight. “You needn’t go, Ned.”

He rubbed the bag of ashes that hang from his waist absentmindedly, sighing. “If only, Cat. This is a duty I cannot ignore.”

“When will you return, Father?” Sansa turned to asks, Arya still focused on the fight in the yard. Her voice was quiet, and filled with sadness.

He walked to her, kneeling down before his daughters. “As soon as the gods will, my dear, for I would never wish to see my daughters grow without me.” Ned kissed her forehead, holding her close. Never would I wish to see you leave my arms. They sat in silence for a time, enjoying the warmth of each others skin, watching the spar of brothers below.

“Jon! Jon! Look, Father!” cried Arya, grinning and pointing at her brother in the yard. His sons wrestled, covered in mud, and Arya laughed gleefully. Even Sansa smiled.

“Shall you take the boy with you?” Catelyn asked. He looked to her, but her gaze refuses Ned. He bit his cheeks, frustrated at the shift in topic.

“He is nine.” He said plainly.

Still, she did not meet his eyes, playing with Sansa’s hair. “I do not mean for him to take the vows. Only to.. see what prospects may exist for him.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Do not pretend to care for the boy’s prospects, my lady. Feigning so is unbecoming of you.”

She dod not respond to him. “Sansa, dear. I hear Jeyne has found a batch of lemons in the kitchens.”

His daughter perked at the suggestion. “Will Gage cook for us?”

“If you ask nicely, perhaps. Run along, dear. And take your sister with you.” Sansa kissed his cheek once more, before holding her surcoat by its reigns and running towards the kitchens, Arya in hand, who protested loudly at being ripped away from her view.

They watched them leave together, before locking eyes, standing still for some time. “Ned—“

“I will not speak of it, Cat. He will stay. That is final.”

And yet, still she persisted. Catelyn pulled back, turning away to watch the yard. “Why, Ned? Why? You know that I do not agree. Do you mean to insult me so, husband? To have me raise another woman’s child?”

He held her arm softly. “It is not meant as a slight against you, Cat. You need not mother him. You need not even speak to him. But Jon must learn, and to do so he must feel that his place is here, by Robb’s side, and not a moment elsewhere.”

She pulled back again. “You would teach him as you do, Robb?” Her words were in disbelief, and disgust, and beneath, the faintest hint of a lady’s disguised rage.

“Aye, I would teach him, I would train him. They are brothers. And though he will never rule this castle, nor wear its name, he must know its halls, and its hearth. I would teach him to remember his blood. Stark, or Snow, he is a wolf. There is no place for him but here. Not across any sea, or beyond any wall nor watch.” He pauses, and she says nothing “There is no other place for him.” He whispered. And he remembered Benjen, and his rage within the crypt. He saw Jon in the yard, and knew he would rather die than see a black cloak around his son’s shoulders.

And she must have heard Benjen’s name also, for she too fell quiet, and raged no more.

“So be it, Ned. The beast, however—“

“He shall stay by my side. I shall not leave him to.. linger.” Aye. He would never leave it with his children, lest it curse them also.

She sighed a breathe of relief. “Good, good.” They said nothing, and allowed the wind to softly brush against their cheeks.

“Cat—“ He reached for her.

She brushes him off. “I must see to Bran.”

He retreated. “I shall come, then.”

“Do not trouble yourself, husband. I have cared for babes without you, I am capable of doing so again. I shall see you at supper.” And the veil of a lady’s duty returned. It was biting, and Ned felt his heart clench.

“Of course, my lady.” He stood there dumbly, watching her fade into the distant hallways of the Great Keep, before leaving for his solar.

As he reached it, he stopped before the sturdy ironwood door, listening to the clacking of wood and the sound of groans and laughter. He listened, wishing to join them. But a Lord’s duty never ends. His servitude to his words, more so. He had known winter before. It had stayed within since his birth, when the snows threatened to bury Winterfell whole. He had felt the cold before. In his brother’s icy hands. “I saw them,” Benjen had cried, his stone stare lifeless. And now it coursed through his veins like an old curse, like an old joke, one beyond his comprehension.

When he entered, he found the solar dark, and colder than it should be. He lit a fire quickly, watching as the blaze illuminated the room and flickered against its walls. He sighed, rubbing his forehead roughly. Letters were strewn across the table, half unfinished in his own hand, filled with dawdles and scribbles his Father would scold him for.

The rest are written in the finest ink, and the finest parchment, stamped with a crowned stag. Written and read, perhaps a thousand times over. Most in the hand of Jon Arryn, clean and neat, but more intricate in words than he would expected from his foster father. Honeyed words were expected with such a position. Others were messier, unkempt and in the hand of a man who seldom enjoyed his letters. Invitations for tourneys, for weddings and feasts, words not meant to be written by a King. He sees the latest, an invitation for a celebration. A royal nameday.

“We must send a gift,” his wife would say, “for the blessing of Prince Tommen.” But none would be sent. And as he eyed Robert’s letters haphazardly thrown against the desk, Ned became entrapped with a great guilt for the man he once saw as brother. In the waters of the godswood, he saw the stag, old and fat and drunk, consumed by maggots. And he remembers his rage towards his King, his treasons and his trespasses, and wished that it were different. But he could hear the clashing of steel, and the smell of spilling blood, and he felt the executioner’s blade against his neck, knowing that there can be no more love between the once-were-brothers, no matter the cost to his heart.

And so, even when the maester entered his solar, and studied him with confusion, he burned those letters, to ease his guilty conscience. What was another sacrifice? He had given so many. It remained a familiar feeling, one he knew would come again.

Ned looked up at Luwin now, who had watched the display silently. “I take it, you have had time, to mull over the words I shared?” Ned staresd back at the fire for a moment, watching the parchment blacken and burn into ashes, before meeting the maester’s distressed gaze.

He had caught the man off guard the night before, that much was clear. It was unlike Luwin, to be so befuddled. And it would be amusing, Ned found, if his words did not darken his mood so. “I have, my lord. I have. It is… what you claim, it is—“

“Difficult. Aye, I understand. I have spent many an hour battling the idea myself. Whether it befit reason, it must be dealt with. Wilding, or not,” and he dared not utter their name, as to do would be to invoke their existence, “It must dealt with.” He sat down now, tapping his fingers against the desk.

The maester sat across from him, visibly tired from Ned’s revelation. “I imagine war will be nigh impossible to avoid.” The old man’s eyes were weathered, and puffy, dark circles clear even in the dim light. “I see sense in your words. It is simply… the possibility of…”

It is the fear Ned understood. He had heard it before, in Lord Commander Mormont’s drunken tale, in Maester’s Aemon silent reflections. In his own mangled dreams. Of them, treading lightly upon the white snow. “The thought brings me no comfort. And there is a strange guilt in admitting a savage neighbour is a more befitting, more welcoming threat than… an ancient one.” He rubbed his head, swallowing the growing headache he had ignored. “I have brought you into my trust, Maester, because I believe you are deserving of such. If you wish to broach this… subject further, write to Maester Aemon at Castle Black. He will share with you our suspicions, with greater tact and craft than any words I can surmise.”

“Of course. I am grateful for your faith, Lord Stark, even if such trust is accompanied by darker things.”

“Loyalty is scarcely rewarded with luxury, I have found.” And his gaze darkened, and he can see Luwin shift in his seat. “But make no mistake, there are few of your enclave of which I can say the same. You cannot write of any discovery, nor suspicion, to the Citadel. My confidence remains a closed circle. If I find you have breached this, I will have you banished from the North.”

The man paused, sending a few short glances towards Ned as he played with the heavy chain links hanging from his neck. As if measuring their worth. “I cannot say it is a condition I take on easily. But it is one I understand, and shall abide by.”

“Good, good.” Ned nodded absentmindedly, and together they sit in silence.

Maester Luwin revealed a scroll from his sleeve, opening it beside a lit candle. “On the matter of fosterage you requested, my lord. I have consulted the records. Lord Karstark’s youngest sons, Eddard and Torrhen, are of similar age with Robb. Lord Umber’s second son, Cregan, also. Lord Reed’s son, Jojen, is of age with Sansa. Lord Jorah is without issue. His recent marriage to the Lady Jonelle Cerwyn shall hopefully be fruitful. Lord Bolton’s son, Domeric, is of age, and the sole heir to the Dreadfort. A good choice, though, the boy currently pages for the Lady Dustin.” He shot Ned a raised eyebrow. Ned frowned. He did not wish to entrench upon Lady Dustin further. The woman’s disdain for him was clear. A widows’ grief, he had once hoped. Domeric Bolton was a good choice. Relations with the Boltons were contentious, and regardless of any oath, Ned knew Roose was a cunning man, and clever.

“I take it none of the children will foster elsewhere?” Ned felt regret at his own fostering, but never enough to soil his memories. The Vale had taught him much. And yet the sting of separation from his siblings hurt, festering only after their death.

“No. No, none. They will stay with me.” He says, quietly. “What of daughters?”

Luwin nodded, tracing his fingers down the scroll. “Lady Maege has given birthed her fifth daughter. The oldest two of which I believe you have met, my lord.”

“Aye, Dacey and Alysane. Fierce ones. Perhaps too fierce for Sansa.”

The maester gave a small chuckle. “A likely case for their sisters. Lord Manderly has two daughters, the youngest with age with Sansa. Lord Karstark’s daughter, Alys, also. I believe Lord Reed’s daughter is of age with Robb. Lord Umber’s daughter is of age with Arya.” Maester Luwin frowned for a moment, reading the names again. “Forgive any offence, my lord, but is it wise? Inviting the daughters of the North will naturally incline.. or imply, betrothals. Robb is perhaps the most eligible in the realm, besides of course, the Crown Prince. For the lords, ambitions often cloud sense.”

“Believe me, maester, I understand. My father was an ambitious man, who too toyed with marriage.” Love cannot change a man’s nature, Lyanna whispered in his ear. He could feel her standing beside him, wrought with fury, for her brother who said nothing. Ned sat down with a great sigh, melting into the hard wood. “When the time comes, the matter of the wildling problem will not be favourable. I see no amicable solution between the lords without grumbling, perhaps even revolt.” He remembered his dreams, and the flayed man; a skinned wolf adorned his neck. “Let them think of betrothals. It may even do Robb some good, to marry for love, and not circumstance.”

“Of course.” Maester Luwin’s eyes were shrewd, but understanding. “Yet, some will see it as hostage, not an offering.”

He grimaced. “I would rather refrain from calling it such.”

“I am unsure if it is the word, you find fault with, or the act, my lord.”

Ned released a bitter snort. “Both, perhaps.” He strokes his hair. “Regardless, it would do well for the boys to have peers beyond Winterfell. The same for the girls.” All three, he mused. The third was lonely, the fault his own.

“Brandon and Arya are but babes. It would do well to alleviate some burden from the Lady Catelyn.” Maester Luwin added.

“Aye.” He hums in agreement. “Write to lords’ Karstark, Mormont and Manderly. I shall inform Lord Umber myself within the fortnight. Extend the offer to Lord Bolton, regardless. If we must wait for the girls to grow a few years longer, we will.”

“What of Lord Reed?”

He huffed. “Lord Howland’s moving castle. Letters are of no use. A messenger, then. Though, I have doubts as to whether he shall receive it. I have heard little word from Howland these past years.” Howland was a man of vision. His silence perturbed Ned more than he cared to admit. Ned looked to the window, searching for the sounds of the courtyard, but heard only the breeze. “Tell me of the girl,” he asked, his back turned to the maester.

Luwin’s voice is strained. “There is.. little progress. The most basic gesture of kindness is seen as an affront. Given her age, and the.. nature of the event that led her here, it is expected.” Ned grumbled in agreement, a great pool of regret dwelling in his stomach. Balon Greyjoy, a fool, a traitor, but a man nonetheless, and undeserving of the fate he received. He remembered the Greyjoy boys’ horror, and the girl’s rage, and the taste of blood upon his tongue; rotten, and black.

And what was left was shame, and a putrid regret. He rubbed his temples hard. Ned did not want the girl to grow resentful, and yet, he cannot help his sympathy. What would he have done, if he were to live under the hand of Aerys, under the fingers of his father’s murderer?  Murder, that is the only word to call it. There was no justice in Balon’s death. His skull beneath the direwolf’s smiling jaw. No honour. And yet the realm praised him for it. Like Theon Stark, come again.

“Though, Asha often lingers in the stables. She wishes to ride, it seems, but lacks the ability, nor the courage to learn.”

“Or to ask.” He had taken her home, her father, her family. What else would he take? He honoured his King’s command, even if it pained him to look the girl in the eye.

“More likely she fears reproach, or punishment. After her last attempt…” And the maester said no more, his expression muted. But Ned can see the disappointment, and the fear. It remained in the hearts of all who heard of Pyke. Asha Greyjoy’s last escape had been cruel, another foolish mistake Ned laid at his feet. The wolf had hunted her as she ran, and when the men had finally found her, the girl had nearly bit her tongue off and scratched her skin to the bone in fear.

“Speak to Hullen. He will train her, it she wishes to learn. But not alone. Supervised, and only with the boys.” Aye, he would allow her this. Ser Rodrick and Jory could manage a girl of five-and-ten.

“Of course, my lord. Would that be all?” 

“Aye. You have my thanks, maester.” The man bowed humbly before leaving, throwing only the a slightest glance back towards Ned, whose fingers danced with the desk and the letters strewn across them.

Soon enough, the flames of the fireplace trickled to ash, and the candlelights withered with the breeze. Ned sat in darkness, with only a silent prayer, and a ringing bell toll beyond any horizon he knew. And in his prayers, owed only to the Heart Tree that rejected him so, his desires were simple. A long sleep, restful and dreamless.

Chapter Text

“How much longer must we suffer this river?” whined Viserys, leaning over against the cabin door, his face a tinge too pale, strands of silver-blonde hair draped across his sweat slick forehead. He wore a faded, ragged cloak, much like her own, that smelled stale and moist. Viserys had always hated sailing. His disdained expressions were difficult to avoid when a sailor was nearby, and she could see him shudder at the faintest sight of a storm across the raging waters. And though the Rhoyne was no vast ocean, he would seldom leave the safety of their small cabin and poorly stitched beds.

Daenerys was fond of the river, however. Even though it matted her hair and ruined her clothes. The breeze of the rushing waters felt fresh, and the rippling of the new moon across the waves was entrancing. She liked to watch the riggers climb upon the masts and the deckhands wash the deck. All the captains she had ever met wore a gleeful smile and a hearty tale. And at nightfall, songs would be shared and drinks would be drunk. Though she could never join in, she always loved to listen, keeping her ear upon the door whenever Viserys had drifted asleep.

Two sharp knocks came upon the door to their cabin, startling Viserys for a moment before he quickly flung the door open. A young woman greeted them silently. She wore a dark coloured tunic and dark leather shoes, adorning a purple shawl around her head that veiled all but her dark, muddy eyes. On her tanned face, you could briefly catch the black tattoo of a snarling tiger, much of which had been slowly burned away. Oftentimes the woman would find her staring, and Daenerys could only look away with an ashamed blush.

“Come. We are docking. The captain will see us off. But keep your wits about you.”

“Are we found?” Viserys asked hastily and quietly, trying hard to keep the fear from his voice. Daenerys shifted in her spot uneasily. Her brother had always feared recognition. Around each corner, within each home and past every street were the Usurper’s blades, he could claim. Lurking in the shadows, away from Daenerys’ sight. They ran from Braavos to Tyrosh, Tyrosh to Myr, her arm trapped in her brother’s own, frantic and desperate to escape a shadowy pursuit.

And Daenerys had learned to fear it too. But it came to her in a strange way. Away from the streets and temples, and in her dreams, and in her nightmares. In the horrid, dripping fangs of a beast, in the cawing of a faraway bird, in the frothing mouth of a drunken, armoured king.

The woman grabs her arm gently, ushering them both off the ship. “We are not. But that is no cause for recklessness. Volon Therys is guarded fiercely. There is no fault in caution.” But Viserys remained anxious, keeping his gaze upon the rustling tree line in the distance, his hand tight against a large satchel. The woman locked eyes with Daenerys. She smiled meekly, but the woman only stared before turning her head to the road. She had never told them her name, despite Viserys’ protests. None of them had. Stranger after stranger, each tattooed with strange markings. Friend, each of them claimed. Safety, each of them promised.

And Daenerys thought of Ser Willem. Of his soft, leathery hands and his great big smile. And she held back her tears, for she knew what Viserys will say. You are a dragon, he would spit. Dragons do not cry. So she bit her cheeks instead, hard, little droplets of blood staining the ends of her mouth. 

“Why have we stopped? I can see no city.” seethed Viserys through gritted teeth, his hands pinched into the forearm of the woman. She snatched her arm away, narrowing her eyes at him.

“You would do well to learn of the city which you claim safety. The riverfront is harsh, and there are no berths from the south. We must walk. But worry not,” and the words are snarky, and Daenerys could feel Viserys bite his tongue, “it is a short one. We shall reach my mistresses’ home before nightfall.” He only bristled at the comment, walking ahead despite his unfamiliarity.

“Is your mistress kind?” Daenerys asked, quietly, and with an instant swelling of regret.

“Kinder than some. Do not fret.” But it does little to ease her feelings. There had rarely been much kindness, Daenerys had found, as she and her brother trekked from city to city. Viserys had cried that it was not fair, but Daenerys only thought it was sad. A cruel heart must be painful to have, she thought, staring at the fading sun that painted the gently rippling Rhoyne gold.

And the woman did not lie, for before long sun-tipped hills were replaced with spiralling marble towers that soared into the sky. Beneath their shadow stood a wide white wall, pristine and glittering. Faint lights appeared atop each tower, sporting small black dots that looked like men the closer they approached. Across the river, there was the faintest hint of ruins, a shroud lingering above them with rotted smiles. It brought a twisted feeling in her stomach as she chose to look away.

In the distance, Daenerys could see a large gated archway, sculpted with the finest white stone. Detailed statues depicting a roaring tiger stood strong on each side of the gate, the bases etched with intricate carvings of dragons. The tigers were a deep black, their eyes and stripes a crimson red with a brazier of fire smoking in their snarling mouths. It looked terrifying, to an onlooker. But Daenerys felt enamoured. She had heard little of Volon Therys. The few books Ser Willem held spoke of it as a minor town of Volantis. But she saw otherwise. Grandchild of Valyria. And Viserys seemed the same, for he said not a word, and only watched in carnal fascination.

The woman began to speak in a hushed tone. “The city is the gatekeeper to Volantis from the north. If the general deems you unfit, you cannot trade in the city of Old Blood.” She pulled a few loose coins from beneath her cloak, counting them quietly, before looking back to the approaching city gates. “There are few elephants here. The tiger’s paws cut deep. Cover yourself, and swallow your pride.”

As they approached the gate, rows of black-armoured guards stood aligned, the spears pointed towards the sky. One party by one, the crew are examined by the guards. Some are given passage. Others are less lucky, and Daenerys found the roughness of the guards unnecessary, but held her tongue. She held her cloak tightly, keeping her head down.

A large guard beckoned them forward. His armour was tight, and Daenerys could see his fat bulging from his armpits and sides. “Business,” said the guard in Valyrian, his accent thick and almost unintelligible to Daenerys.

The woman does not hesitate, speaking in a rehearsed voice, full of honey and sweetness. “We are servants of Madam Lyria. We return to Volon Therys at the order of our mistress.” She said, bowing before handing him an inked letter, stamped with a bleeding star turned red. The guard reads it for a moment too long for Daenerys’ liking, before grunting rudely and beckoning them forward through the rising gate. Viserys seemed irked at the label, but said nothing.

As they moved through the city in strange routes, Daenerys became distracted by the surrounding sights, neglecting to hear the many questions of Viserys to the woman.

The streets were worn smooth from centuries of footsteps, almost shining under the warm hue of dusk, save a wide unblemished White Road that run through each tier of the city. Narrow cobblestone pathways were strewn in every direction, illuminated by the occasional oil lamps. Each building was carved with detailed mosaics, the faded depicting the ancient histories of Valyria, the newer on the rule of Volantis. Stone columns supported overhanging balconies and running aqueducts, and behind small archways, Daenerys saw gardens and overgrown plants. The tallest towers within the city were sturdy and armed with flamed archers and guards who drank and sang in the barracks below. In the distance at the far side of the walled city, clouds of smoke rose from a giant brazier of fire, the temple beneath it stark against the white city with its burned black stone.

As they approached the centre of a merchant’s district, the streets grew busier as inns and pleasure houses drew the nightly crowds. The market stalls were closed, but the faint smell of spices, herbs and meat still permeated the air. Across from the market, a wide street adorned with tall dry trees led straight to a gated grand palace walled upon above the city. Even in the dark, Daenerys was astounded. The palace built atop a hill, overlooking the cityscape. Large statues of dragons and tigers and elephants decorated its grounds, and the arched doorway as tall as any watchtower, a dim light creeping from beneath its stone doors. Viserys claimed the Red Keep was larger, and built by the Conqueror, but the woman was quick to remind him that Volon Therys was a vassal to Valyria, the palace once built by an ancient dragonlord.

They stop in front a large manse. It was unassuming, and simple compared to the surrounding city, made of large stone blocks and an arched wooden door. The woman knocked the door handle against it twice, and thrice more after a short pause.

Soon enough, a large, muscular man swung the door open. The woman rolled her eyes. His skin was ebony, almost as dark as a new moon, and perfectly clear without blemish, scar or wrinkle, with large golden hoops in his ears, and not a stubble of hair upon his head. In his was is a large oil lamp that flickered through the dark entryway, the only light beside the bright moonlight streaming through the courtyard behind him.

“Are you trying to frighten us?” The woman huffed and slapped the man against his thick, muscular arm, walking past him to a bench on the far-side of the courtyard. He smirked, before turning to Viserys and her.

He smiled at them widely, and Daenerys could see the gold in at least four of his teeth. “Daughter. Son. Blessed be thy,” he said, his voice low and commanding even in quiet tones, accent strange and thick. But his eyes were calm, and Daenerys relaxed her muscles. She turned to see Viserys clutching his satchel tightly and eyeing him intently as he walked past the large man slowly into the courtyard.

Daenerys could only offer a small smile. A sudden tiredness permeated through her, and she realised how sore her feet were.

“The Madam?” The woman asked, returning now with her own lamp.

He shook his head. “Home is unused for many days. Mistress return on the morrow.” She saw Viserys jump at the news, standing back in the courtyard, grasping at nothing behind him.

“Not here?” He was frightened, Daenerys realises. It was the same voice he could never hide after Braavos. But she could feel his anger overcome his fear as he pointed an accusing finger at the woman. “You swore that—“

“And I have kept my word, to the best of my knowledge. Besides, it is of little difference.” She walked to a large room beyond the courtyard, raising a small torch to light the lamps within the hallway. Viserys did not move, and Daenerys followed his example.

When she returned to them, she seemed frustrated, and tired, rubbing her face and sighing. The large man chuckled in amusement, before leaving the manse and closing the heavy wooden doors behind him. “If I were to kill, rob, or hurt you, I would have done so long ago. Your rooms are prepared, and I shall draw a bath for each of you.” Still, her brother remained guarded.

The woman scoffed, gently grabbing Daenerys’ arm and leading her down the hallway. Viserys followed tentatively, questioning the woman about the large man and the Madam’s apparent absence, to which she did not respond. He peered his head into every open room and around every corner, before the woman brought them to his own. He entered slowly, lighting the oil lamps himself and inspecting every crevice.

“Satisfied?” She asked smugly. He only grimaced, and mumbled a quiet thank you before she left, Daenerys’ hands in tow. At the end of the hallway, the woman unlocked an ironwood door, revealing a cosy room. Daenerys entered with trepidation, coming to a sturdy wooden bed sat against a windowed wall, draped in purple fabrics, the curtains the same purple, lined with white and gold trimmings. The feathered mattress was soft, lighter than any Daenerys had ever felt, and she desperately felt the urge to sink into it.

As the woman lit more oil lamps and a small fireplace, she could see more and more of the furnishings. The room felt intimate. Tapestries depicting fields and castles adorned the walls. Behind them, the walls were littered with small drawings, the mosaic floors carved with crude hearts and initials. A desk was decorated with wooden animals, from tigers to elephants to dragons. In the corner, there was a small box on a bookshelf that held carefully painted grey wolves, still covered in a layer of dust. The books were unopened, and a few lay on the wooden table beside her bed. On the ceiling was a frescoed mural, slightly cracked and faded, illustrating a simple clothed man with silver-white hair and violet eyes, his fingers grasping towards the snout of a crimson scaled dragon.

It felt different from the single home she had shared with Viserys her whole life. She could not smell the faint air of the lemon tree outside her window, nor feel the streams of sunlight pour through. She could not hear Ser Willem’s voice, or Viserys’ midnight turning of pages. Her fingers drifted across the bookshelf, and she swallowed a growing lump in her throat.

“Here,” called the woman from another chamber, adjoined on the far side. When she entered, the immediate smell of fresh roses and lilies flushed her cheeks. They were woven through holed panels that surrounded a large stone bath. In the corner, a large circle circular basin spouted flowing water that boiled beneath a small fire. Daenerys watched awkwardly as she poured the scalding water into the bath. The woman’s face was uncovered now, and she could more clearly see burns that marked one half of her face. They were faded, and mildly resembled a tattoo. Viserys had told her such markings belonged to slaves, much to her horror. She felt the urge to ask in morbid curiosity, but held her tongue in shame.

The entire bedchamber was a luxury she had never been truly afforded. It felt a dream, like the old life in the Seven Kingdoms Viserys had always spoke of. She had thanked the woman awkwardly what felt like a thousand times, unsure of what debt she suddenly now owed. When she left, she undressed and quickly dipped into the steaming hot waters, immediately groaning as her muscles ached. It was fierce against her skin, filling the room with a simmering steam that moistened the stone floors. It soothed her calloused, bruised feet, and she sent silent gratitude to any of the gods for safety from the long, arduous roads.

Tears brimmed at her eyes. Roads wrought with sorrow and pain. Each step, each blistering stone pulled her further from old white walls and the smell of lemons in the morning air. From the smile of an old protector, and the careful carvings of a red door. Home. It pierced her deeply as she tucked her knees to her chin, tasting the salt from her tears upon her lips. She remembered Ser Willem’s limp arms, dangling from the side of his bed. His face was grey and his lips pale, his eyes devoid of the once gentle brown. And she remembered the servants, eyes brimming with malice and cruelty, who stared at her like hungry animals, uncaring of what they stole, of what they ripped from her very hands.

She had never once cried, nor complained of the betrayal, despite her desire to sob into every sleep. Dragons do not cry, Viserys has said, as he dug his claws into her arm and hurried through empty street. But Viserys was not here, and in the silence of the steaming room, she sobbed into her knees. And when the crying stopped, after countless hours, she half-remembered soft hands dress her pruned skin in a nightdress, and lay her in bed while humming a lullaby. It sounded kind, like a dream.

When she woke, she could feel the sunlight creep through an ajar window above her featherbed, warming her skin. The furred blankets coiled around her legs as she stretched and then curled even further beneath them. It was the calmest sleep she could remember. It was difficult to forget it was real. As she peered around the room, she felt shocked at how alive it felt in the daylight. The tapestries of fields seem to shine, the white walls glistening, the crimson dragon far fiercer.

Eventually, she dragged herself to the looking mirror, only to find her hair a tangled, frizzy mess, with not a servant near to help her. Much to her surprise, she found herself without any clothes, besides the nightdress that clung to her skin. Her old, mangy robes had been taken. The garderobe and closets were empty, and the drawers held only old pieces of parchment and ink. When she stuck her head through her open door, she could see nothing but an empty hallway, but could vaguely hear loud voices.

Daenerys felt awkward. She did not want to seem ungrateful. Though her wants were little, Ser Willem had been quick to bark his orders. She awkwardly hurried through the hallways, holding her arm in her hand, peeking her head in open rooms to see if were anything to change into.

When she could find nothing, she relented, following the now angry voices to a small kitchen. More mosaic walls adorned the walls, and she could see a tall woman stand beside a lit hearth with hanging pots full of a savoury smell. She wore a long silver dress with loose sleeves and a modest neckline around her collarbones, woven with floral embroidery. Her brother sat on a sturdy stone table with bowls and dishes of exotic foods and smells. Viserys looked angry, waving an unrolled letter in his hand. Before he could speak, the woman turned to meet him.

“I have given you every assurance available. If you would not trust the claims of your allies, then I wish you well on whichever journey you intend to embark on. For you will do so without our help.”

Viserys scoffed, standing to point an accusing finger at her, “They—“ 

She grabbed the letter from his hand, burning it in the fire and matching Viserys’ glare with equal fury, that seemed far calmer, “They have taken every measure possible, given the circumstances. And their silence to you does not speak of their loyalties. Remember, of what was taken from them by the Usurper. Whose eyes still dangle above their kingdom.”

He bristled at her admonishment, putting his hands on his hips before breathing a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice was quieter, and almost defeated. “I cannot lead armies from here.”

She laughed, much to his visible chagrin, “You cannot lead an army you do not yet have. And I have no armies to give you. Safety, is my only promise. If that is inadequate, then you are welcome to leave.”

Viserys seemed tamed, turning away from her, clearly embarrassed at the scolding from a stranger.

“Good. Now sit, and eat. You are bone thin. Where is your sister?”

“Here.” Daenerys said quietly, standing half behind the doorway. The woman seemed abashed as she realised Daenerys had witnessed their squabble, quickly coming to her side and leading her into the room gently. Viserys glanced at her for a moment, before returning to his food.

“Come, break your fast with us.” Daenerys stopped, shivering at a breeze that flew through her loose clothing. When she did not move, the woman seemed concerned, kneeling down to meet her. Daenerys could see a silver necklace hung around her neck, a dark sapphire pendant sitting on her chest. It looked like stars shining. Daenerys stared at it for a moment, before seeing the woman’s smile. It was.. sincere, strangely so, and inviting. It made Daenerys want to smile.

“Are you Madam Lyria?” She asked.

“I am, dear.” In the morning light, Daenerys could see the Madam clearly. She was taller than Viserys, with a straight back and sculpted neck. Long long raven locks that fell long past her shoulders. Her skin was tanned and clear, with faded freckles near her a nose and a small mole on her left cheek. But her eyes, her eyes were a striking violet. Daenerys felt herself lost in them. They gleamed tenderly, and looked so very much like her own.

“Did you not like the clothing in your chambers, dear?” She asked, pulling at Daenerys’ dress lightly, concerned, but still with a faint smile.

Daenerys hesitated, suddenly aware of Viserys’ eyes on her. “There were none,” she said after a long pause, looking into the Madam’s eyes to find them still tender and warm.

“None? Ayah did not give you any, I take it.” Daenerys shook her head, assuming Ayah was the marked woman who had guided them from Volantis. It felt odd to hear a name. Intimate, in a way she could not describe.

Madam Lyria stood up and sighed, before taking Daenerys’ hand and walking down the hallway to another room. “Well, tact is a skill I could never teach her.”

When they entered, Daenerys’ feet tingled. There was a thick, woollen rug that carpeted the entire room, coloured red and gold with square and diamond shapes. Wooden benches and shelves adorned the room, covered in different silks and fabrics, most of them half-finished or sewn into rough shapes. A large workbench sat in the centre, illuminated from the light of a large window. Letters, needles and many-coloured threats drown the entire bench, and in the corner, chairs with finished clothing were neatly folded. The Madam moved to a closet adjoined to a large shelf at the end of the room, opening it. There dozens of other dresses, small and large. Daenerys had never seen so many, with so many colours it seemed a rainbow of silk and wool. Daenerys raised her hand to touch them, before pulling it back quickly.

The Madam pulled a stool from the bottom of the closet, wiping the dust away with her hand and placing it squarely in front of Daenerys. “You may pick whichever and as many as you wish. If there are none you like, or not enough, I shall craft some.”

Daenerys stepped back, shocked at the woman’s generosity. “I—I.. I have nought to—“ she whispered meekly, unable to meet Madam Lyria’s eyes.

She smiled, and came to her knees, cupping Daenerys’ face in her hands. They were gentle and smooth, and she felt the urge to lean against them. “It is a gift, child. Think nothing of it.” She stood up, skimming through the old letters on the workbench before lighting a fire with two stones. “Besides, they would only waste away in the closet.” This alleviated Daenerys’ hesitation. She brushed her hands against the dresses, feeling their fabrics and turning them towards her.

For nearly an hour Daenerys browsed through small clothes, shifts, gowns, and many dresses and cloaks. They were plain, but well made and sturdy, and still far fancier than Daenerys had ever worn. She played with the soft silks and spun around in the long dresses, most far too long for her height. Madam Lyria watched, writing letters occasionally. She would ask Daenerys questions about the voyage, none ever too personal, most of food and clothing.

When she was finished, Daenerys arms were piled with so many dresses it reached her nose. Madam Lyria laughed, taking them and placing them on her bench. “I will have these taken to your chambers.” She looked back at Daenerys, who now wore a loose purple dress with silver sparkles. “It matches our eyes.” And Daenerys grins widely in recognition, nodding, before taking the woman’s hand.

When they returned to the kitchen, Viserys had left for his chambers and his books. The tables were still draped in various foods; a large loaf of bread, black olives and dried capsicums sitting in spiced oil, cheeses Daenerys had never seen nor smelled before, a small jar of golden honey that smelt sweet, a handful of dates, figs and a cluster of purples and green grapes. She did not know where to start, so the Madam started for her, drizzling some honey onto a slice of bread with crushed olives and cheese. Daenerys was astounded at the taste, biting into it hungrily, before blushing at seeing the Madam watch her amusedly.

“You do not seem acquainted with the cuisine,” Madam Lyria joked with a half smirk and a grape in hand.

She shook her head, wiping her mouth with a handkerchief. A swell of old memories hit her. “We had many foods. I remember Ser—,” she bit her lip, wondering if it were safe to speak his name, “I remember Ser Willem, before he grew sick, he would go into the markets, and return with dried fish with such hot peppers in them, and often, plates with clams and mussels. Ser Willem said they were a sailor’s favourite snack.” She smiled into her food, but felt her appetite lessen with every passing moment.

“It must be nice to smell food that is less.. fishy?” She jested, her eyebrow raised, and her smile faint. But her eyes are concerned, and Daenerys looks away nodding.

“We had a lemon tree. It would sit right beyond my window. And when the lemons grew fat and ripe, I remember Ser Willem would take them to the baker in the market, and return with lemon-cakes.” And she remembered his smile, and his large, leathery old hands.

The woman studied her for a moment, before placing her hand on Daenerys’ own. “There are markets here, by the Merchant’s District near the port. They are far livelier in the day, I can promise you this. When you are settled, we shall venture into the markets together.” Daenerys accepted, but her thoughts still lingered on old memories. She looked to the windowsill in the kitchen and sees a garden, but finds no lemon tree. The Madam brought her a sweet drink made of grape and berry, and Daenerys returns to her food, this time silently, and with far less joy.

By dusk, Daenerys returned to the kitchen. She had only slept for the remainder of the day, her muscles still sore and tired from the journey. It felt good, to sleep undisturbed. And yet it was equally as strange, to sleep without the gentle rocking of a ship to an ocean’s waves.

When she entered, Madam Lyria was chopping vegetables on a wooden board, placing them into a bowl on the side. “Are you hungry, dear?”

“No, Madam Lyria. Thank you.” Daenerys said quietly.

She chuckled. “So formal and well-mannered. I hope your rest agreed with you.” Daenerys nodded, sitting at the table, staring into the garden beyond the window. The plants appeared golden under the sunset light, rustling ever so slightly from a cool, nightly breeze. Across the room, she found Viserys peering through a curtained window. When he turned to them, his eyes were red and puffed. He had not slept, she realised. He seldom did, and she felt sad, for she had thought their arrival would change his poor habits.

“There are guards upon every watchtower and wall. Why?” He asked, failing to keep the worry from his face.

The Madam keeps her back to him as she slices a large cucumber into a dozen pieces, placing them onto a ceramic plate with a number of dates and nuts. “A passing worry. The city guard has been here since these walls were erected. General Maegyr’s reinforcements serve as a shield against Dothraki who raid neighbouring villages.”

“The Dothraki? Please, their horses would sooner fly than then those savages learning to siege a city with such high walls.” There was little Viserys found impressive, outside of Valyrian history.

The Madam places the plate in front of Viserys, who picks it at, unused to the strange foods. “It is unsurprising. Volantis has recovered from another election, and the Tigers are unlikely to cede the control they have amassed. Dothraki hordes have already begun sweeping the southern Rhoyne, and scarcely a few moons past, another slave revolt left a dozen masters and another General dead in Selhorys.”

“A pack of runaway slaves and horse-loving barbarians. The tiger does not wish to be seen soft, more like. To think this Maegyr is of the Old Blood. You’d think them a pack of eunuchs, with such weakness.”

Madam Lyria tittered at his annoyance. “I did not think you so well-versed in Volantene politics.”

He waved her off, staring at the dates in his hands. “Volantenes are snakes grovelling at a chance to be dragons. I find it an insult to compare them to Valyria. Aegon the Conqueror knew what the blood of the dragon meant. He united a lawless, uncivilised land into the greatest kingdom since the Freehold. What do the Old Blood do? Sip on wine and run endless campaigns behind their Black Walls. It’s pathetic.”

“Politics is scarcely anything different,” she mumbled, taking the plate from Viserys and offering some to Daenerys, who politely declined again, but thanked her. “You would do well to keep such opinions silent.”

“Do you take me for a fool?” Viserys scoffed. 

Madam Lyria bit back immediately. “I take you for a cautious man. And surely not an unwise one.” She placed the ceramic plates into a sink, washing her hands with the warm water from a large bowl, before drying them and returning to stand beside Daenerys. “Politics aside, it would be prudent to protect your identities within the city, regardless of the focus of the General’s eye,” The Madam brushed her fingers lightly against Daenerys’ loose locks, dancing it between her fingers. “Your appearances are less notable, though not ideal. But your names? Names carry history, carry legacy. And there are some who will search for the names, Viserys, and Daenerys. You must shed them. Keep them close to your heart, but away from prying ears.”

Viserys shifted in his seat, visibly uncomfortable at the prospect. “We should be proud of our inheritance. The name Targaryen should be feared. I will not have the Usurper’s comeuppance drowned because of a fleeting fear.”

She snickered. “Go, then. Into the street. Announce your name. Do it with pride, with vigour. And we shall count how many days it will take for a blade to reach your throat.” Daenerys felt uneasy at the thought. “Throwing caution to the wind would gain you nothing. Without this food, this roof, these walls, you would still be begging in the streets for scraps. I ask little of you, and gain far less in reward. Caution, and a healthy amount of gratitude shall do you many favours.”

“How?” Daenerys asked. Madam Lyria catches her eye, and watches her intently.

Daenerys found it unsettling as she speaks again, this time distant, her mind elsewhere, recalling something old and vulnerable. “It will be odd for two such as you, with such colouring, to be seen so suddenly, or excused of quickly. To hide you is to invite further trouble. In any court, prying eyes are not far from sight.” She opened retrieve a small wooden box from a shelf across the room, filled with dark liquids and powders. “It is safer to live as another. Hidden, yet free.”

Viserys bristled at the idea, but soon looked deep in thought. Madam Lyria watched him curiously, curiosity which soon turned to pity. “It is a terrible burden upon the heart, to shed one’s life. But I do not ask you to burn your past. Only to hide it, for now.” And her tone was sincere, and full of empathy. But Viserys seemed put off, his face stuck in an odd grimace.

The Madam came close to Daenerys, rubbing her fingers against her chin and brushing them against Daenerys’ jaw. “Perhaps.. I would have you call me mother, or Mama, as I once called my own. Easy enough to fabricate with a well-placed lie.” She nodded to herself, before looking to Viserys. “As servant or slave, you both remain in danger. As my child, none can bargain nor buy you. And I see no reason for suspicion. My name is known little outside of Volantis and Norvos. Children are a rather boring sight, particularly in my line of work.”

He huffed. “You would have me insult the name of my mother through some deluded pretence? No, never. I refuse to demean myself so.”

Madam Lyria seem unperturbed by his opposition. “So be it. In any case, you are too old, and do not resemble me.” She turned back to Daenerys. “You are as fair as I once was, before my time under the long summer. With a touch of hair dye, none shall question it.”

She kneeled down and holds Daenerys’ hands gently, squeezing them slightly before looking into her eyes. “Is that.. well with you, dear? If it is uncomfortable, I shall not force it unto you.” Mama. And the word looped in her head and rung through the hallways of her heart. She had never known her mother, and Viserys spoke little of her before his rage manifested. Oftentimes, she would imagine her mother in the looking mirror. She wondered if her eyes were coloured like hers, or like Viserys. If her smile was warm, and if her eyes were kind. And when the storms grew heavy on the open waters, she would hold the sheets tightly, and pretend her mother was there, laying beside her, her arms wrapped around Daenerys. With a lullaby and a gentle voice, and a thousand kisses for when Daenerys’ heart grew cold.

Mama. She played with the word on her tongue. Mama. After a time, she looked up and nodded. And when the woman smiled, Daenerys smiled back.

Chapter Text

Daenerys had been awake for some time. She sat at the edge of the bed, her legs hanging, too short to touch the ground. Her fingers curled around long black locks. Dark and colourless. Hair that in hid in shadow, and did not glimmer under the moonlight. She moved to the looking mirror, biting her cheeks and pursing her lips, dipping her hair into a warm bowl of water, slathering it until her dark locks were sleek and shining. Uncertainty danced in the wide comb that detangled the ends of hair, the stray hairs wrapping themselves around her fingers.

Daenerys frowned, pinching each stray hair into a small black clump, leaving it in her closed fist. She opened a small draw beside her featherbed, retrieving a worn leather pouch she had found wasting away at the bottom of her closet. Inside, she had placed other hair clumps. Though, these were a silver-blonde. She had brushed her dry, curly hair until it turned frizzy and brittle, retrieving as many of the strands as she could before Madam Lyria dyed her hair midnight. She played with it in her hand, wondering if it felt different from her the new dark ones. They didn’t.

She put them away, at the bottom of her closet now, away from sight. Better not to look at them. Better to forget what she looked like in the mirror. Daenerys sat by the windowsill, opening the tinted glass slightly ajar, listening to the morning air of the city. The markets were open with a storm, the white walls bright under the summer sun. Madam Lyria had promised to take her into the city once everything was settled. Birds sung in the sky, and if you listened close, you could hear the waves of the Rhoyne, and the crackling of the brazier from the Temple of Light.

Beside her was a small wooden desk, littered with old parchment and pieces of old charcoal and lead that hung over its circular frame. Daenerys had grown bored, and the Madam had bought all sorts of things to keep her occupied. But her favourite were the charcoals and chalks and dyes from the travelling artisans. The Madam had showed her how to crush madder and woad into a deep violet, using it carefully to colour the many eyes she drew on parchment. At first Daenerys drew her own, and then Viserys. And then she had tried to draw her mother’s, without any idea of what they looked like. The product was always the same, strangely like Madam Lyria’s and her own.

She didn’t want to draw today. Her leg tapped the chair nervously as her fingers dug into her nails. The Madam had asked her to choose a name. She had been wrecked endlessly with contemplation. And yet nothing came to her. Was it such a simple task? Choose a name, and shed all that which you are. Choose a name, and be reborn? It felt daunting. It felt unfair. Her mother had named her, Viserys had said. Stormborn, for the rage, for the tempest that bowed beneath her. Must she give it up? I must. For my life. And yet it felt no less of a betrayal. Against a woman she had never known.

And with her hair, as dark as midnight, even Daenerys became strange upon her tongue. She did not want to forget. Would she become like the old strangers of her past, ones she could only recall in half-remembered dreams? 

Daenerys didn’t know how long she sat there by the windowsill. But the sun had fallen past noon, and her hair had turned soft, dry and bouncy. Her stomach grumbled with urgency, and she quickly found herself slowly walking through the hallways, hoping someone would would be in the kitchens so she need not bother anyone.

She passed Viserys’ room briefly, peering in around the corner. He was fidgeting with a doublet the Madam had undoubtedly gifted him. It was a dark grey with blotches of red and white. He pressed it against his body, standing in front of the looking mirror, stretching out the arms and waist of it, looking reluctantly pleased. She moved to walk past, until he caught her small figure, calling her back.

“Daenerys, is that you?” She approached him slowly, standing next to him as he placed the doublet on his featherbed, looking slightly amused, but curious at her new look.

“Gods, what has she done to your hair,” he tugged at the ends of the hair. His remained the silver-blonde, but shorter and cleaner. “Does that woman still insist on you calling her mother?” She nodded. Madam Lyria had made clear that Daenerys did not have to in private, if she wished. Somehow, that made it worse. 

His lips were set in a fine line. “I suppose I cannot blame her reasoning. If it keeps us safer from hired knives and the Usurper’s grasp. But, Dany, you must never forget your real mother. She died to bring you into this world, you should be grateful,” He walked to a chest in the corner of the room, retrieving a small satchel and taking it a mirror opposite his bed. “Come here, I wish to show you something.”

From his bag, he retrieved an item wrapped in the finest black and crimson silks. “Our mother’s crown,” she said quietly. It was Viserys’ most prized possession. Many a night, she would find him simply staring at it. It gleamed always, as he never allowed a single piece of dust nor dirt touch it. And it was beautiful. A thin, silver-black circlet adorned with three slithering dragons that encircled each other, red gemstones in each eye. Any man could see its worth from a single glance, so Viserys kept it hidden, even from her.

He looked at her oddly for a moment, tucking her hair behind her ears, before raising the crown above her head. He was always gentle with it, as if it were a newborn baby made of glass. It came down and felt cold against her head. He turned her towards the large mirror, his hands squarely on her shoulder. “Aside from the hair, you look rather similar to her.” He smiled faintly before staring at her in the mirror distantly.

The crown looked too large for her head, Daenerys thought. And it looked odd against her raven hair, the black of its steel fading away beneath her locks. It was forged for a queen. A ruler of kingdoms, and friend to many. Daenerys didn’t feel like a queen. She felt like a little girl playing dress up.

He snapped away from his reverie, letting go of her shoulders and carefully retrieving the crown from her brow, wiping it with a small cloth and wrapping it again in the silks, placing it deep in a chest in his room. He kneeled there for some time, his hands resting on the locks.

“Before she died, she brought me before her bedside. I remember how pungent the sheets smelled, drowned in blood. I could hear a storm raging outside, and you, a tiny little thing, wailing in the maester’s arms.” His voice was barely a whisper, and Daenerys felt far away. He rarely mentioned their mother’s death. When she had asked once, he had flown into a terrible rage. 

Viserys stood up, returning to the mirror, staring at himself. Daenerys watched from behind, keeping her gaze locked on his face. “I was scarcely a year older than you are now. She brought me forth, commanded me onto one knee. Mother looked so gaunt, so frail,” and his eyes blazed, “But there was a fire in her eyes, Dany. The dragon. And she placed her crown atop my head, and named me heir to our Father’s throne.”

He turned to meet her, taking her hands into his own. “I promised her then that I would avenge her. Avenge Father, and Rhaegar. I promised her that I would protect you.” And his jaw was set as he nodded to himself, brushing his fingers across Daenerys’ hands softly. “Soon enough, we will return home. You will wear our mother’s crown, and I will claw through any man who denies me our Father’s own.”

Viserys seemed terribly far away now, as if he were lost in a distant dream. “I will reclaim the Iron Throne. And when I am King, I shall bring about a terrible justice against our enemies. Against the turncloak Lannister, who slaughtered our Father. Against the Usurper, who murdered Rhaegar, and drove our mother to such despair.”

All Daenerys could do was nod, her heart stuck on a single word. Home. Home had been Ser Willem, and his soft, leathery hands, and fierce voice. It had been the lemon tree, and the large red door. And now, home was.. home was the garden that blossomed behind the kitchen window. It was the moonlight that streamed through the courtyard on a starry night. It was a woman’s gentle smile, and her reassuring hands. At least, Daenerys wished it to be. For Viserys also, although she knew that would never come to be.

“Will—“ She stammered, feeling awkward. “Can you tell me more about Mother?” She waited for his rage to come, but it did not. He only smiled for a moment, before sitting beside her on the bed.

“Of course, sweet sister, of course.” And Viserys spoke of her crown. Of her servants and her regality. He spoke of the smallfolk adored her, of how the knights trusted her every command. He even spoke of her frailty, and how the Usurper’s rebellion had driven her to weakness and sickness. But he did not speak of her eyes, if they were the colour of Viserys, or hers. He did not speak of her smile, or her voice. He did not tell Daenerys if she had sung songs for him as he slept, or if she had held his hands as he cried. He spoke of a queen, and yet Daenerys had asked to hear of a mother. He spoke until his memories became sour, and his bitterness drove Daenerys away.

She found herself in the kitchens soon after, standing half-covered and peering mute from behind the door, watching Madam Lyria fill a large bowl from a basin and carry it to the garden beneath the window. She followed her outside quietly, not wishing to interrupt the woman’s hobby.

Madam Lyria caught her soon, coming to the door to usher Daenerys in. “Gods, you look..” she stammered and stops, brushing her fingers through the ends of Daenerys’ hair, her face grim serious, before turning to a soft smile, “You look beautiful, dear.”

Daenerys turned away, feeling uneasy underneath her gaze. 

“Do you not feel beautiful?” The Madam asked.  Daenerys shrugged, bowing her face down awkwardly.

The Madam turned Daenerys’ chin back towards her, “You look so much like me. So much like my sister. Gods…” Sister. Daenerys didn’t know she had a sister. She clung to the Madam’s every word, wanting to know more, wanting to hear more.

“Do you not wish to look like me, dear? Would that be such a bad thing.” Daenerys opened her mouth to retort, only for the Madam to place a finger upon her lips, “Perhaps I am too old and wrinkly,” she said, smiling brightly.

Daenerys scrunched her nose and frowned, lightly smacking the Madam’s hand away. “You’re not old! You’re pretty!”

And the woman pinched Daenerys’ cheek softly, “Then so are you, little one.” Daenerys blushed, taking the Madam’s hand and following her into the gardens. She let go and stopped as soon as she walked in. She had never been in this room, but she was glad of it now.

The smells were overwhelming and obsessively sweet. Daenerys felt like she was dreaming. She could see beautiful roses swirl in large ceramic plots scattered across the garden, their thorns carefully cut. Clusters of lilies, coloured white and pink and orange, some even adorned with stripes resembling tigers. Twisted wires of ivy were sprawled across the wall and ceiling, with a dozen hanging pots reaching for the floors. Sprinkled throughout were tulips, and so many other flowers Daenerys barely recognised them. They were beautiful all the same.

Madam Lyria caught her dazed staring. “Half the reason I bruise my knees in this garden is for a reaction such as yours.” She smiled, and beckoned Daenerys closer. Her hands were darkened by soil. In front of her were empty ceramic pots and a small wooden wheelbarrow of dirt. “I take it you have never grown anything of your own?” Daenerys shook her head, staring at a rose at her foot, brushing her fingers absentmindedly against a lily near her waist.

Madam Lyria handed her a small shovel. “Come, dear. I have need of young hands.” Daenerys rolled her eyes, which the woman certainly caught, for she snorted loudly. Together, they filled a large pot. After, she took Daenerys’ hands, placing dark brown pods that felt icy to the touch. She smelt them and looked back at the older woman’s amused face. “Lilacs. They grow far better when the seeds are frozen to the touch.” She guided her hands as Daenerys buried them across the pots, before levelling the soil.

Daenerys cleaned her hands in a bowl of water, looking over all the flowers. “How long will they take to grow?” Soon, she hoped. The garden would look splendid with them.

“Oh, years. I will likely have to move them elsewhere once they grow too large for the garden.” Daenerys did not like that. She did not know if she would be here for years. Though she silently wished she would.

“All the others will be long dead by then.” Daenerys said morbidly.

“Of course,” Madam Lyria replied nonchalantly, as if it were no serious thing, to see such beautiful things wither away, “But one day, they shall grow again. Or perhaps something equally beautiful shall take their place.”

Daenerys frowned, staring at the freshly potted plants, and the smallest pieces of dirt still stuck beneath her fingernails. “I wish it would grow quicker.”

Madam Lyria chuckled briefly. “I found myself equally as impatient. Especially in the beginning. Yet,” she looks down into Daenerys’ eyes, holding her hand, “You will quickly find that all things have their time. These lilacs come later. But, they last longer. They smell a little sweeter, and a little stronger.” The Madam begins packing all her tools away, leaving Daenerys to mull over the pot and her words.

“How is your brother, dear?” Madam Lyria asked, cleaning her own hands in the bowl.

Daenerys hesitated for a moment. “He is well. We were speaking of my mother this morning, and,” she bites her lip, “and of my hair.”

The Madam smiled. “He was agreeable, I hope?” Daenerys nods. “Good. There are more important matters to dwell on than hair.”

“He wishes to go home. I think.. I think he is afraid that they think him a coward for running so far. For begging.” Those days had been the worse. They were few, and short-lived, but engrained deeply. She shuddered at the thought of what they have became, begging on the streets for years on end. “He does not want to be weak again.” She did not know why she said that. It was a private thought.

The Madam looked at her thoughtfully, before turning to the flowers. When she spoke, she seemed distant. “Yes, that is of no surprise. I only hope that he will soon realise that who you are trying to become is far more meaningful than who you once were.”

She took Daenerys’ hand again. “Come, all this work has given me quite the appetite. And I know for a fact you’ve not eaten all day.” When they returned to the kitchens, The Madam stirred a large cauldron that sat upon the lit fire pit, soaking in the savoury smells. “Just in time,” she murmured, taking large iron prongs and sliced bread, toasting in the fire and setting it aside, before taking a ladle and preparing a bowl of slow-cooked venison stew for Daenerys. She finished by placing another board of cheeses, grapes, olives and dates in the centre of the table, taking a few for herself.

“Surely you would not start without me.” Another voice said in Valyrian. The woman— Ayah, that was her name, remember it, entered the kitchens, a wooden tray of glass jars full of herbs and different liquids in her hands, a comb rested behind her ear. Daenerys grimaced inside. She knew little of the Bastard Valyrian they spoke in Volantis and the city states. Viserys continued to teach her High Valyrian, and Madam Lyria the local dialect, but it was difficult, and her confidence in speaking was painful.

The Madam snorted. “Please, how am I to stop you? You would smell my cooking from Volantis and be here before I could nigh blink.” She replied in Valyrian, also, Daenerys listening carefully and hanging on to every word.

Ayah shrugged, sitting across from Daenerys. “Well, frankly, that says more of your cooking than my appetite.”

“Was that a compliment I hear, somewhere in that tart tongue yours?” Madam Lyria replied.

“I’ve not a clue what you speak of.” Ayah says, feigning ignorance. Though Daenerys caught her lips twitch ever-so-slightly. She pulled a deep golden liquid from her tray of jars, dipping it into a small mortar, crushing it with rosemary and lavender, before mixing it thoroughly. Then, she pulled a wide comb like Daenerys’ own, using it to detangle her damp hair before slathering the mixture into her scalp, massaging it down her hair.

Daenerys sipped on the scalding stew, finding it pleasant and satiating, watching her intently from the corner of her eye, fascinated, but not wishing to make Ayah uncomfortable. Though, Ayah caught her eye all the same. “You have never oiled your hair?” Ayah asked, in Valyrian, glancing at Daenerys for a moment. Daenerys shook her head, feeling embarrassed.

“There is a merchant from Valysar who sells a most luscious olive oil. We use what we can in our hair. I for one do not wish to be bald and thin in old age.” Madam Lyria said in the common tongue from behind Daenerys.

The Madam turns to grab a curl of Daenerys’ hair. “Perhaps I will show you.” She said, before jumping slightly at the sight of a large ebony man who came through a door loudly at the other end of the kitchens. He wore a gleeful toothless smile, and chuckled deeply at the Madam’s startled state as she slapped his arm. She turned to Daenerys quickly, “Well, later.” The Madam winked at her, and Daenerys smiled.

“How fare our fortunes, Moraq?” The Madam asked him in Valyrian. The large man was a friend, Daenerys had learned, who the Madam had saved from an ‘unfortunate situation,’ saying little else, much to Viserys’ dislike.

“Strong winds lead the General Maegyr home, victory upon his belt.” He said, handing her a sealed scroll, before taking a date from the table and eating it whole.

The Madam nodded, frowning slightly. “I suppose there will be an exhibition or ceremony in honour of it. We will see some old friends, I imagine.” 

“Forever a socialite.” Ayah said darkly, before tying her oiled hair into a neat, tight bun, wrapping a soft cloth around it, and covering her hair completely. There was a pinch to her voice, something old that had festered, so similar to Viserys’ bitter rage.

Madam Lyria replied coolly. “Appearances are important. And flattery is a useful talent.” 

Ayah rolled her eyes. “As you say.” Daenerys watched their conversation silently, a tinge of jealousy of being unable to join.

“Better to heed thy mother’s words. One day, may save you from trouble.” The large man said, sporting a cheeky smile that showed his glittered golden teeth.

“Thank you.” Madam Lyria replied, sharing the same smile, though held back almost. 

Ayah turned back to glare at Moraq. “You are not supposed to take sides.” He laughed, before bowing and leaving. Madam Lyria opened the scroll, reading it with furrowed brows, frowning even deeper, while Ayah cleaned the droplets of oil on the table and pulled hair from her comb. Daenerys sat still, caught on Moraq’s words, staring between the two women. Mother. The word made her feel uneasy. She was meant to call Madam Lyria the same, and she wondered if to do so was only an imitation of the two.

Daenerys played with her food, watching the bread turn stale and the warm stew slowly grow colder. Madam Lyria stood in the corner scrubbing old plates and greasy pots, singing a song in the common tongue Daenerys did not recognise. “High in the halls of the Kings who are gone,” Her voice flowed through Daenerys’ ears as she threw awkward glances toward Ayah, fuelled by the sudden urge to start a conversation, yet unable to find something to talk of. “The ones she had lost, and the ones she had found, and the ones who had loved her the most.”

The stew in front of her was suddenly unappealing. Strong in smell, and no doubt delicious. But the knots in her stomach made her feel nauseous. Daenerys bit the inside of her cheeks, feeling tears coming on. Stop crying, she chastised herself silently, annoyed that she would cry over nothing. “Swung away all her sorrow and pain. And she never wanted to leave…” The Madam’s singing faded away as she dried her hands beneath a damp rag, before taking the rag to clean the tabletops beneath the garden windowsill.

“I must ask, dear, have you given any thought to a name?” The Madam asked in the common tongue, her back still turned to Daenerys.

She shook her head, stirring her stew and watching the swirls absentmindedly. “Nothing.. feels right.”

The Madam looked to her with shrewd eyes. “It is odd, isn’t it? Picking your own name. You parents pick it for you, and it stays with you forever,” she pursed her lips, rubbing at her wrist, pinching at the folds her dress, staring distantly, “Your name is your own, it is who you are. To pick another, to wear that… it can be a discomforting feeling. More than a game of pretend.“ It was only at that moment did Daenerys realise she did not know the woman’s true name.

In truth, Daenerys did not want to have another name. Dany, was still her. The idea of a new name entirely? Her mother had named her. It felt wrong to stray from it.

Madam Lyria took a seat between them, deep in thought, her own food left untouched. “Many years ago, a friend, one I could call sister, told me a story. In the land of your family’s home, Westeros,” Daenerys sat up straight, arms crossed and listening intently, “in the Kingdom of Dorne, lay the Water Gardens. They were built by the Prince Maron of House Martell, for his bride, the Princess Daenerys Targaryen. The woman, I imagine, you are named for.” She was taken aback. Daenerys did not know of the Princess. She knew little of her family, aside from her father and the stories of the conqueror Viserys shared.

“The Gardens were built for the nobility of Sunspear. But, one day, when the sun was blistering against the Dornish sand, the Princess looked upon the gardens and its servants and guards, and decreed that all would share in its waters, no matter how noble nor lowborn. A tradition was thus born, one so beloved that a painting of her likeness still adorns the halls of Sunspear.”

“It sounds amazing.” Daenerys says quietly.

The Madam smiled sadly. “It is. You can smell the blood oranges that surround the flowing fountains, and the breeze and salt of the ocean is never far. At least, that is what is said.”

She looked at Daenerys head on, a half-smile on her lips. “The Princess’ mother was said to be a beautiful woman. With striking violet eyes. And though her life was.. sadder than one would hope, she remained a gentle soul, with a kind heart. A queen in all her right.”

Daenerys eyes widened before looking down at her hands. “What was her name?”

“Naerys. A rather fitting name, I think. For a girl as gentle and kind and strikingly beautiful as yourself.” She smiled as and Daenerys blushes profusely, again.

Naerys. Daenerys found.. she liked it? It was the name of a Queen. And it sounded like hers. It was like keeping apart of herself alive, to never shed herself whole. Like the strands of hair she kept secret, twined together in shades of union. 

She wondered then what Lyria meant. What old pieces it held. 

When she looked up, Daenerys saw Ayah gazing at the Madam, and a sudden rush of courage came to her, “Ayah?” she asked. It was the first time she’d ever spoken her name. It felt.. strange. “Did.. did you pick one? A name.”

“No.” Ayah said bluntly, returning to her hair.

The Madam looked at her harshly, and Ayah relents. She put the comb down gently. “My mother named me. I have held onto it for many years, no matter how long they tried to tear it away.”

Daenerys jumped at the word. “Your mother?”

Ayah’s dark eyes found her own. Daenerys looked away. “My mother was a slave. Born to a slave, born amongst slaves, fathered by a master. She was resigned to it. I was not.” It was said simply. But there is pain behind the words. Daenerys is young. But she knows what pain is.

“Oh, I thought…” Daenerys trailed off, unable to speak, glancing at Madam Lyria briefly who sees the question in her eyes.

“No, dear. I did not birth her. But, I wonder, does that make me less of a mother?” The Madam said. There is a sparkle in her eye, and Daenerys does not know if it is teasing or sad.

“No,” says Ayah, who locks eyes with the older woman, her eyes slightly wet.

Daenerys did not know the answer. “What.. what makes a mother, then?” She had never felt more like a little girl, and less like a dragon.

Madam Lyria raised a brow at the question, moving to stand beside Ayah. “I do not know. Is it folly to believe blood is all that begets family?” She said, caressing Ayah’s cheek, her thumb brushing against her jaw. “Are mothers only born in the suffering of childbirth? Or do we exist for any child of the world, alone in the wild?” Ayah leaned into the Madam’s hands, her eyes closed, savouring the warmth of her skin. Daenerys’ stomach twisted at the sight, simmering with a growing envy.

The Madam smiled to herself. “She was such a thin girl when I found her. And a troublesome one, too. Used to bite at my fingers when I offered her food, and spit out any drink I have.“

“Poisons in the water, poisons in the tongue,” Ayah whispered. Madam Lyria hums in agreement, still looking at her with an unbidden warmth.

“The world had thrown her away. What else was there for I to do, but pick her back up?” She said.

“Why did they throw you away?” Daenerys asked, frowning.

Ayah snarled. “Because the masters believed ‘this one’ was too petulant. Because ‘this one’ had dreams. They could not break me, and I would not let them kill me.” And she said it with venom, with a ferocious fury that scares Daenerys. She felt an immense flow of sympathy, and a shared sense of loss. Of what it meant to be thrown away. To be disposed of.

Madam Lyria squeezed Ayah’s shoulders once more, before returning to her diced vegetables “Hm. There is frighteningly little humanity left in the world. And love,” she cut a large cucumber in half forcefully, “love has never been a popular choice.”

“It is for some.” For me. And Daenerys said it with hope. Hope that feels desperate, like a child reaching for their mother’s arms.

The Madam looked at her thoughtfully. “Yes. It is. And perhaps.. perhaps that is enough. Perhaps that, is what mothers are born of.”

And she thought of Viserys, and her mother. The ghost that held her in her dreams. “Would.. would you tell me of your mother?”

“I tell the tale that my mother was a Lyseni madam. Ha,” Madam Lyria laughed briefly, but it did not reach her eyes, nor even the wrinkle of her skin. It sounded like the sweet laughing lies they told when Viserys had begged for scraps, swallowing his stolen pride for supper. 

The Madam fell quiet, and Daenerys felt the need to apologise. “Mama. My Mama was... she was… my Mama was my Mama. I cannot fathom another word that would truly capture how I felt of her.” She sat down, her hands in her lap, biting her lip and staring distantly at nothing.

“She used to pinch my hips when I’d indulged myself a tad too far, and smack me when I would slouch,” The Madam said, smiling sadly, “And when I was a girl, my Mama and I would sit by the sea. I loved the way the waters rippled in the wind, and the smell of salt in the air. I could feel the sand beneath my toes, and the sun against my skin. She would scrub my hair with herbs and oil, and wrap it in a cotton scarf my grandmother had sewn for her.”

The Madam looked out the window into the garden, a wide smile adorned her face. “I remember her garden. Far greater than mine. More useful too. It sat directly beneath my window, painted with every shade of green imaginable. I could have sworn she loved her plants as much as her children,” she chuckled, and Daenerys smiled. Ayah smiled faintly too, staring down at the table, listening intently, “She had a thousand of them, I swear it. Cayenne pepper, red pepper, yellow pepper, dragon peppers, oranges, lemons, limes, pomegranates, a dozen different flowers. I had never understood why she did it herself. Hours planting the seeds, walking to the river to gather fresh water, reaping them herself. ‘We have servants, Mama,’ I would say. But she never responded. Not even a word. Only a sad smile. I lost her, soon after. All we found were her sandals, strewn across the rocks of the riverbank.”

She looked to Daenerys, and then to Ayah, tears flowing down her cheek and onto her smiling lips. “I had never known, then, what it meant to.. to nurture something. To watch it grow, and blossom.” Ayah ran to Madam Lyria, enveloping her. The woman squeezed her in a tight hug, kissing her forehead, brushing her hand against her back. She was muttering a prayer of forgiveness. For something old. Something painful. 

Daenerys stood there awkwardly, watching the display, unsure of what to say. But the Madam looked to her, outstretching her hand. She hesitated, but saw the older woman’s nod, and took it eagerly. She wrapped her arms around her warm body, the woman’s hands played with her hair as she hummed a slow tune, and Daenerys found that she never wanted to leave their embrace.

Chapter Text

The chamber flickered under the darkened touch of torchlight. A shrouded man sat upon a chair in the corner of the room, his beard thick and riddled with streaks of grey hair, his lips lined in a dry amusement, a lute in his hands and thick dark cloaks draped across his shoulders. An old memory of a song lingered in the air, of the fairest flowers blooming in snowy winter fields, of old bards laughing in stone crypts. Ned glided to the foot of the door, his head pounding, his eyes struggling amidst the darkness. A battle raged behind the wooden walls, and he could feel the fire beneath the gaps of the weirwood doorway. 

“You hear that outside, Stark? Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?” The man strung the lute quietly, his humming deep and earthly. I know you. I have seen your face before. But the man paid Ned’s sickened self no mind, “You’ve a long day ahead. War. Every step is a dangerous gamble. Every swing, every shout, every choice.” The man stood tall, his black cloak in his hands, riddled in a red sewn cloths that glimmered in the torchlight, “Dalla will tell you that the short road is often the most dangerous. That the curse you carry is a hilt-less sword, impossible to grasp, cutting both ways. You.. followed the Kingsroad south. Crowned your friend and brother of rebellion. He sat his arse on that throne for two decades, and like most southrons, turned witless and weeping and murdered by his bloody wife.”

Ned shook his head, rubbing at his eyes weakly, coughing and heaving. But the man paid him no mind once more, “And then? You march south once more. Upon the Kingsroad again. An army of wildings at your side. Deserters and traitors and oathbreakers and a crown upon your brow,” his cloak turned sharp, transformed into a greatsword, carved in smoke-black ripples born of a dragon’s breath. Ned found the sight sickening, the sword blinding, “I tell you again, as I tell you each morning. Tread lightly upon a dreamers path. It is never slow, never one for peace or golden days of summer morning. Hold too tightly to dreams, and a man’s wings shall break. Fly too far, and you will never see the snow again. And there is no winter without snow.” 

The door snapped open, the fires of a burning red sky clamouring and creeping at the edges of the door, wrapping themselves into the dark like hands. The light blinded Ned as he covered himself quickly, and still the stranger paid it no mind, leaning against the chamber walls, sword and smile at hand, “Black forks. White forks,” the man snorted, “Red Fork, Green Fork, Blue Fork. Which one do you choose?” 

“Does it even matter?” 

He placed the sword gently into Ned’s hands. Its touch was cold, and he nearly buckled beneath its impossible weight. The stranger’s shrewd brown eyes flash with steel, and his words are like iron against Ned’s ears, “Old memories. Old dreams. How many men choose to relive the same nightmare without a shred of a lesson? Is it fate? Are their choices sealed?” The rage of the battle grew heavier, and the man finally must of heard it, for he gave Ned one last smile, before throwing him into the fray. 

And the violence is a familiar one. It had stayed with him in his oldest of dreams, etched into the scars that littered his body, carved into the sight of every encrusted ruby. And it reached upon the horizon endlessly. “Forward, men!” Ned bellowed. His lungs sore, strained from endless hours upon the field, screaming commands and roaring against the onslaught of steel. His ankles were buried in mud, the earth beneath him wet like sludge as blood poured from the throats of men’s bodies and the scrape of men’s swords. Ned could not feel his hands nor his legs, only his blade. He hacked at men with far too much confidence, stabbing others with mercy as they writhed on the floor begging for their mothers. There was no honour in this. No glory. Only horror, the end never in sight, growing further and further away with each body slain. 

The loyalists would have them soon, surely. He had seen ten thousand men drape the dirt, some washing away with the Trident. The bodies kept piling up, blocking the fork with a wall of grey, maggot-filled corpses. And the soldiers came down upon them. And the banners came down upon them, each of them adorned with three snarling dragons. The men who carried them were more beast than human, their faces warped with scales and bleeding red eyes. None but Ned noticed. Not even Robert, who swung his hammer as if he were in a dance, laughing.

“Robert!” He yelled, his voice drowned by the screaming and steel. “Robert, we must retreat!” He cried, but the man did not hear him. He plundered through a dozen men, their bloodied black armour shattering like crushed rubies beneath his hammer, his own armour carved with insects and rotted flesh. “Robert!” Ned yelled once more, but all Robert did was laugh. Endlessly, even when arrows pierced his throat and axes sliced his armour. He laughed and laughed and laughed until it was all Ned could hear, clutching his ears as he fell to his knees. 

He ran to the riverbed away from the thick of the battle, stumbling over horrid mixtures of water, blood and shit, forgotten and rusted blades cutting at his ankles all the while. Ned puked into the river, his hands clutching at the moist ground, tears brimming in his eyes. His voice was hoarse and low, and the stench of war clogged his nose.

A fell body washed down the stream, a swelled noose wrapped around its throat. A woman’s body, he realised. Her blood is barren and grey-green, her flesh coloured like curdled milk with decay, her hair white and thin. Deep scratches carved her face, flesh hanging from the bone, her throat cut and bleeding. 

He reached for her, his hand outstretched. But another finds it, dragging him through the dirt as a mounted rider brought him back to the battlefield. The rider’s hand was rough, and unforgiving. His head was gone, replaced by a crowned wolf’s, sewn into the neck, still bleeding. It growled, dismounting and grabbing Ned by his chainmail, before tossing him into the thick of the battle. Fight, it commanded in an unholy tongue of animal and man. And Ned did. 

But the loyalist and rebels are gone. Robert is gone. There is only him, beneath a dark sky and a pool of blood further than the horizon, and a million things that snarl at him, circling him. They are inhuman. Beasts made of flame and blood, with fire for mouths and bleeding sockets wrack with maggots and swirling flesh for eyes. Their skin is darker than shadow, their armour one with their putrid black bodies. And Ned cuts them down all the same, slashing at them until his sword shatters, and their cold, dead hands drag him beneath the earth for an endless slumber. 

“Lord Stark!” A man called, and Ned could only faintly hear it. “Lord Stark!” He heard again, his eyes groggy and struggling against the morning light. The screaming, the snarling, still lingered in the air. But there is no battle here, only soft brown eyes staring down at him. Jory. He took the young man’s hand, rising from the featherbed and returning an awkward smile at Jory’s own. The room was cold, and dark, the earliest light cracking through the windows and beneath the door, the clashing of steel slowly fading, but the smell of boiled blood still stained his senses. 

“Sorry, my lord. I did not want to wake you, but we have passed first light.” Jory offered Ned his cloak, lined in grey and brown furs. No red. He stared at it for a time, before accepting it eagerly.

Ned waved him off. “Aye, it’s alright, man. Thank you. The others are ready?” 

“Aye. Last Hearth is but a half day’s ride. We should be there by supper.” 

Ned sighed, “Supper with the Umbers, Jory. I hope your stomach is ready.” 

“I don’t relish my time on the chamber pot.” They shared a small laugh, before Ned dismissed them him and adorned his grey doublet and heavy cloak. He stood before the closed door of the bedchamber for a moment, squeezing his temples, unclenching his hands back and forth, before wiping the sweat away. A dreamer’s shadow walked with him always. And though they images would soon fade, it left his neck sore and his cheeks gaunt. It had terrified him, the coldness still with him even as he woke. Though, better he forget. Ned’s chained book was still shackled and left deep in his satchel, where he hoped it would remain. 

The northern breeze was a welcome delight upon his skin. Across the balcony, he could see the small Kingsroad village bustle in the light, the morning crowd making their way to bakeries and the inn below. Though his shadow remained absent. “The direwolf?” He asked Jory, standing beside the door. 

Jory shrugged, “Seen it rush into the woods last night, my lord. Gave some travellers a fright. Not seen it since.” Ned grunted in response. The damn beast was better in sight. Letting it run amok was a mistake. 

They had arrived at nightfall, the small town quiet, with only a few odd torches and the shining full moon to light the way. But in the daylight, he spotted a large inn sitting at the far edge of the town, a carved wooden direwolf covered in black, faded dyes and leaves hanging from the pointed rooftop over the entry. It was as large as two men at least, the corners burned to achieve the same colour, the wolf snarling similarly to his own banner. Men walked in and out of the inn, some of the boys jumping to slap the wolf before as they did. 

“In honour of the direwolf, the folk claim.” Jory said, catching him staring for some time. Ned looks at him quizzically. “Innkeeper’s sister was taken by reavers some years past.” Jory added. Ned grumbled, moving along quickly. All these years had passed, the direwolf was still welcomed in village and keep and battle alike. As black as midnight, sapphire eyes as cold as death, hiding in the woods beyond Winterfell until that fateful day not long after the rebellion. Revered but never reviled. The latter was left to Ned, in the silent hours of a quiet godswood. 

The stables of the village were small, but practical. Boys carried hay bales for the morning feed, with the men and stablehands carrying buckets of fresh drink from the watering holes. The end of the stables were blackened, the beams burned and walls collapsed, one man hammering away at old foundations. The fencing around the commons were broken too, a small barn in the midst of being rebuilt as Ned approached. 

A young man leaned against a shovel, his long mop of hair auburn with bright eyes that reminded him too strongly of home. He wore loose breeches and a dirtied tunic, sweating even in the frost this far north. Ned watched him for a moment, shovelling away at hard gravel, wiping away at his slick brow and cursing under his breath. A dark haired women carried firewood strolled by, the two of them laughing, sharing stolen glances even as she passed the corner. 

“You need a spare hand, lad?” Ned asked. 

The man stood tall, smiling with a pinch of embarrassment, “Ah, m’lord. I thank ya, but I don’t want to be stallin’ yer trip any further. Don’t be worryin’ about all that, we’ll do just fine on our own.” 

The remnants of the old barn was destroyed, charred down like melted black candles. The ground was scorched and the soil cracked, but covered in a fresh layer of wet compost and dirt; the smallest blossoms of wolf winter jasmine surviving. 

“A storm?”

“If only, m’lord,” called another, a large man, gruff with short black hair and a hulking bulb nose with chipped yellow teeth. He leaned his rake against a lone fence, wiping away at his dirtied brow, “It’s the same ol’ story. Wildlings. Damned savages. Took a half-dozen sheep a week past. Burned the barn and ran off. Cowards didn’t make it far. Never did get the sheep back… but Lord Umber brought their ‘eads on spikes. Had ‘em by the streams outside til the flies came too many.” 

“Them black crows don’t be doin’ their jobs no more. ‘Spose that’s why ya came out this far, m’lord?” asked the redhead. 

The question perturbed Ned deeply. If only, he wished. If only; icy dreams lingered above him in shadow, his brother’s fallen corpse a pale blue. “Aye,” is all he said. 

The large man squeezed the young man’s—his son’s—shoulder, “The women will be glad to ‘ear of it, then. Don’t know how a savage in bearskin can hope to carry cattle up the Wall, but ‘spose the less they try the better. May be summer, but it don’t mean the land give us any time to rest.” 

Ned noddedsolemnly, “She is unyielding.” 

“That she be,” he said proudly. 

“I’ll leave you to it, then.” 

The older man placed his hand over his heart, “Gods be with ya, Lord Stark.” Ned watched them as they continued, just for a moment, the soft breeze rustling the bottoms of his cloak, and the weeds of grass left restless around the stables. 

A bay coloured horse cried loudly in the half-made stalls, whinnying at Ned, who only smiled faintly, preparing his saddle sat upon a wooden stool. “L—Lord Stark,” squeaked a small voice, tugging at his furred cloak. A young boy, no older than five, surely. His teeth were half missing, the middle two divided by a large gap in a shy smile. He wore a crown of blonde hair, streaked with muddied brown, and big hazel eyes too large for his thin face. In his hands, a half-loaf of stale bread was wrapped gently in a clean cotton cloth. A blonde-haired woman stood against a beam, watching them with mirth. 

“Go on then, Tym,” she said, her voice pitched high, biting her lips with wet eyes of pride. 

“Bread, m’lord. To break ya fast on the road.” He placed it gently in Ned’s hands, red-faced and shivering. 

Ned chuckled, “You bake this for me, little one?” 

The boy smiled even wider, lost in a little memory that reminded him deeply of Sansa and her stories, “No… but me Da did! Saved it just for yer, m’lord Stark.” 

His mother came forward, kneeling down behind him, her head in the crane of neck, kissing at him as he tried his hardest to wrestle away, “He be wantin’ to pet ya wolf, but I be tellin’ him direwolves be no simple pet,” she smiled, slapping softly at his cheeks as he scrunched his nose in protest. 

Ned squats down to meet him eye level, “Your mother tells no lies, lad. They’re dangerous beasts.” The boy blinked at him a dozen times, almost disappointed, but far more intrigued. 

“But he’s your beast?” Fangs bared and bloody, his fur matted in the blood of fallen foes. This was the creature the boy loved, the boy desired. A creature of death and ruin, that chewed away at every soldier’s cries in the salted halls of Pyke. That left Balon Greyjoy a pile of flesh and blood, his bones licked clean. And where was I? Vision run-red, a sword larger than most men in hand, the wolfsblood flowing free. The master, left to toil with his horrible shame when the deed is done, his honour shedded. 

“Aye, he is my beast.” He ruffled the boys dark hair and thanked him for the bread, watching them stroll off, the boy eager to tell his tale to the jealous ears of brothers and sisters, unaware to the dread in Ned’s stomach. 

He sighed, running his fingers through his dark hair, listening to the cries of his steed. “Calm now,” he whispered, “Calm.” Ned’s hands brushed softly against his steed’s dark oak jowls and cheeks, singing quietly, hushing the horse as he grew rowdy at the smell of food. The stable master came rushing in, stammering and abashed. “Let me, my lord,” he cried, but Ned only chuckled, “He has never been an easy one. Winterfell’s master of horse has never held his tongue about it.” But the horse was his lady’s wife’s gift, and he had grown fond of him, in all his wilfulness. 

Jory prepared his own steed, quickly, leading it outside by his hand, “There’s a crowd gathered round the gates, my lord. The folk wish to pay their respects.” Ned nodded, leaving his mount with the stable master, walking slowly to the town square where a group of smallfolk await him eagerly. Young and old, men and women, huddled in circles with gifts and offering. It was an unneeded generosity, but not one Ned could deny. 

The townsfolk presented a sled with large slabs of bloodied raw meat wrapped in red stained cloth and rope. Ned eyed it intently, greeting the smiling faces of his people. Their hands sent a cold shiver through him, his eyes twitching, a familiar sharp pain simmering beneath the neck of his skin. Their eyes are warm, full of life, so unlike the corpses that struggle to tear flesh from bone, with eyes of flaming hatred and cold death. 

The butcher steps forward, proud, strong, his bloodied apron still worn, “We brought you this, m’lord. Wild goat from the hunt. Though you might like the spare cuts for the wolf. A treat, me thinks, for his good work, m’lord.” The smallfolk gather their faces in admiration, and Ned’s men take the sled and ready it with the horses. But he can only accept in gracious earnest, hiding his grimace and his growing desire to reject the butcher’s kindness. 

The crowd parts for an old woman, hunched with grey braided hair that teased the ground, smile so wide you could scarcely see her eyes, an ashen red cane and carefully wrapped furs in her hands. Ned took her shoulders carefully, kneeling to her level. “Please, m’lord. Would you take this to Lord Umber?” She asked, leaning against him slightly, handing him bronze-grey furs, freshly sewn. 

“Aye, m’lady what is it?” 

“Fur for the babe, m’lord. We heard Lord Umber had a son. Some of the boys went down to the woods to hunt some foxes. Skinned and sewed this right up for him,” her voice was hoarse, and her teeth missing. But her rigour was that of a young woman, and her loyalty moreso. 

“Towns’ havin’ a good ol’ feast at the Wolfshack Inn. Celebrate the victory and the long summer. Tables always free for yer, if ya wish, Lord Stark,” the butcher said. 

“Good ale, that inn. Alewives’ pretty too.” Jory commented from behind. It earns him a few laughs. 

Ned turned to him, “And how’d you learn so much about the inn and the women in one night, Jory?” He raised a brow at Jory, who smiled and blushes in embarrassment. “Poor duty not to tell your lord,” Ned added with a smile. 

Jory stood straight and looks the perfect soldier. “You were asleep by then, my lord. I’d thought you’d enjoy your rest. Be a shame to disturb you.” 

“Ah, you thought.” He chuckled, shaking his head at Jory amusedly, who only smiled with his head bowed. Ned turned back to the old woman and crowd, “Aye, it is a fine gift. I’ll be sure pass it along and give your thanks to Lord Umber. I cannot join your feast today. But one less mouth is an extra for the children. They surely deserve a good spoil.” 

She bowed deeply, holding his hand and kissing it gently, “Oh, thank you, Lord Stark! Be sure to tell m’lord we’ll come up to Last Hearth when we can, won’t ya?” 

“Of course, m’lady.” And so they watch as he departs, giving their thanks and their blessing, little boys howling and old women waving, each of them watching for another guest, another beast. But he did not show, following beyond the horizon in forested hills and snowy plains, old stories lingering in each pawed step. For a direwolf was the greatest hunter of the land, friend to many an animal. Fox, shadowcat, crow, each creature careful to never befall the beast’s path, but quick to share in its meals. In such tales, it was the direwolf that taught men to hunt, to consume his foe and bathe in his spoils, leaving his body to rot in the morn. And men had learned well; blood slick upon Ned’s blade, a beast never left hungry, winter kings of ol’ cheering in granite cries. 

Within a few short hours, the glistening streams of the Last River flowed into sight, winding across foothills and plains. Towering trees huddled together to form the Giant’s Forest, the gods-given walls sprouted to protect the fortress within. As a boy, Ned had visited Last Hearth only once with his Father and Brandon, reminded constantly to never stray from the paths set, lest a man grow lost in the realm a thousand, thousand sentinels. Old Nan had claimed the land had been soiled and sewn by the giants themselves, who mated with the daring Children of the Forest in their timber homes to stave off invaders. 

And what a home it was. Pillars of dark ironwood rising a hundred feet tall, beams of light spilling through heavy canopies, birds and beasts fluttering through dense forests for miles. Elm trees sprawled between the giants’ wood, thin leaves spilling snows onto the wet ground, chilling the air. Hills held pockets of small villages, hundreds strong, trips of goat and cattle led by scraggly farmers and laughing children, each giving their greetings as Ned passed through. And in the summer days, the forest clearings grew busy, lumbermen and stonemasons and merchants breaking bread with shepherds and washerwoman and guards alike. Chained giants painted upon banners, flowing from trees and gates, stuck into muddied roads and boulders. 

At the edge of a great clearing, a mountain hill rose high above shallow rivers streaming south. Atop it, Last Hearth stood strong, thick dark walls etched into the stone itself, towers stretched from the foot of the mountain to the flat peaks of Umber keeps, the blood-blotched leaves of an Umber tree peeking through. And in the wide-paved roads of an Umber town, built  beneath an Umber’s mountain castle, Ned recalls old tales from an old woman’s tongue. A giant’s domain, gates and doors and stairs built for a giant’s girth. And soon after, a giant’s dwindling presence, gifted to man before a giant’s sleep in mountain tombs. Erected like a fortress, a bastion of an older time, where man and singer and giant shared tales and ale alike. And in the giant’s honour were stone blocks, carried tall from the depths of the earth below. And in the giant’s lumber, did an Umber man take his name, steadfast and watching upon ancient walls. “An Umber man is a proud man,” his lord father had dared to say, “But quicker-witted than a soldier’s stories tell, and appetites to match their size.” 

In the town square, children held the hands of wrinkled elders, centred around a small weirwood sappling, no taller than a boy of five. They carried buckets of green water, murky like the old recipes Howland had jested of, singing a tune that sounded so similar to the Sapling’s Smile of his grandmother’s songs. A merchant man opened a stall of longbows outside a steaming forge, haggling two men with beards wrapped into their belts. Umber men greeted them loudly, the townsfolk opening windows and pausing the days labour to give thanks and blessing.  

At the foot of the mountain hill, great stone steps were etched into the side; each step as tall as Ned and far too daunting for any horse. Old and weathered, the edges of mountain stone blended perfectly into the smooth corners of a giant’s path, a two hundred small cuts chiselled aside, rising to the fortress above in a winding staircase built for men. Ned sighed, counting each dozen step ahead, finally realising how an Umber man could drink as much as he could. 

At the peak, the land grew flat and wide, but still high enough that a man could gaze upon the canopies of the forest, the cold mist brushing against the snow-tipped stone. Here lie Last Hearth of the north. The castle was carved of a faded dark stone that rose from the belly of the mountain itself. Its design was rough, built for fortitude and fear, the base of the castle keeps and towering towers one with the mountain itself; as if the castle itself were stone warriors still and stout. The walls were jagged and slick with the North’s moist air, slanted slits shaped like arrows littering the outer baileys, drum towers and inner walls. 

The gate itself was iron, rusted and renewed a thousand times over across the ages. From within, Ned could see long chains attached to the portcullis on each side; ten men needed to even dream of raising it. Jory watched with trepidation beside him, Desmond and the other guards heaving in strained attempts to gather their breathes as they dragged their belongings up the peak. As the gate rose, Ned caught the Greatjon standing with his hands on his hips, grinning like a fool with his dark brown beard braided into three points, decorated with small iron rings. He wore a dark oak doublet with padded leather, high collared and checkered; a thick overcoat lined with fur inside and thick at the edges of his collar and shoulders, the rest sewn long past his knees with a deep maroon brocade. His large cap covered his ears, circular and made of fox fur, his belt beneath the coat thick like two chains consuming each other, a snarling face in the middle. 

“Ned!” The Greatjon roared, although Ned assumed the man was simply speaking, embracing him in a thick hug that left Ned winded and chuckling. Decorum was often left by the mountain’s foot when visiting Last Hearth. 

“Gods, Jon! Are you going to kill the man before supper? Let him go before you crush his spine,” cried the Greatjon’s wife, slapping him hard with a smile. She was a tall woman, a head taller than Ned at least, with a long copper braid that fell to her knees strung over her shoulder. Freckled and comely, Lady Branwyn was a fierce woman, her face etched with an expression that could compel any man to cower and bare his truths naked. Her coat was similar to Jon’s, but a brighter red with little golden blotches of giants, foxes, shadowcats, wolves and weirwoods embroidered into the fabric. Thick iron earrings covered her neck, shaped like a crescent moon, her fingers glistening with a ring shaped like a chain, wrapped thrice over her knuckles. 

“Aye, aye, forgive me, woman.” Greatjon took a small basket of steaming salted bread from her hands, a snoring babe in her other. 

“My Lord Stark, I welcome you to Last Hearth.” 

Ned chortled, “Many thanks, Jon.” He took the offering gently, accepting their rite and exchanging the old woman’s gift. 

Lady Branwen cooed, “I ought to kiss that woman myself. Sewn half the babes garb herself.” Four children stood before Jon and his lady wife, adorned in perfectly matching clothing with their father, smiles wide, the youngest two searching behind Ned absently. 

“You’ve met my boy, Smalljon,” Greatjon said, his hands soft on the shoulders of a large boy; towering over Ned with a scraggly copper beard and long copper hair, braided thickly at the ends. “This rascal, Cregan,” a lean boy as tall as Ned’s chest, dark-haired and bulging-faced, “My daughters, Alyssa and Sybelle,” two freckled-faced girls the spitting image of their mother, almost twins, if not for the younger girls sprouting height, “And the babe, Haron,” dark-haired and fat-faced, content in his mother’s arms. 

The youngest girl tugged at his cloak, whispering loudly, “My ma says you’ve a wolf!” Brows raised in swirls of trepidation and excitement, the other children watching intently. 

Ned restrained his frowns, “You missed him, sweet one. I’ve not brought him with up the mountain.” You should be glad of it, he grumbled silently. 

“I might take you for a liar today, Lord Stark,” remarked Lady Branwyn, smirking, gesturing behind them. 

And so came the beast, lumbering and darker then a new moon, eyes as sapphire as the clear sky, its fur tipped with snow upon his crown. It had found its way, somehow, without a man nor animal to lead its path, climbing upon the steps of the mountain and through the cobbled streets without a stranger’s shriek nor scream to reveal it. A fierce thing, taller than Ned, though only a head-and-a-half shorter than the Greatjon. The Umber man had been the first to fight alongside the beast, greatsword swinging with fangs blood-soaked in the halls of Pyke. It sauntered past the party with indifference, licking at the young girl who squealed in delight, before collapsing into the grove behind them upon the roots of the Umber’s Heart Tree. 

And it was a mighty sight, the weirwood. Larger than any Ned had ever seen. As tall as Winterfell’s walls, four thick branches sprawling into the drizzling sky, thick enough for three men to lay side-by-side. Bark as tough as mountain stone, as pale as snow on winter stormed fields. And the face snarled, etched in a grim expression, a great maw of a mouth open beneath it, large enough for the largest of Umber women to give homage to life. For an Umber woman’s birthing bed was not found in soft feather beds, or even upon the edge of a stormy cliff. Rather, in the shadow of a weirwood’s embrace, blood and bone and birth, left to the God’s judgement. And in drunken tales of a soldier’s plight, some would even dare to say Umbers’ coupled within the Heart Tree. Though, none dare ask, lest the Greatjon give a demonstration. 

Lady Branwyn watched the wolf with interest, taking her daughter’s hand silently, “Join us in the mead hall, my lord. It has been a far too long since we’ve held a true Umber feast.” 

Ned kept his gaze away from the black furs of his companion, “Lead the way, my lady.” 

And an Umber feast it was, for no man’s hearing was safe on that night. The mead hall sat in the centre of Last Heart’s fortress, large enough to feast five-hundred men, and shelter twice that. And if Old Nan was to be believed, a hall of thousand men was a hall built for a hundred giants. Crafted with beams of dark ironwood and painted in the crushed dyes of weirwood leaves, the hall could weather any storm, hale and hearty and perhaps too lively for Ned’s taste. 

Its high ceiling was lit in a oil lamps and faint torchlight, barracked balconies with a dozen ladders above for men to sleep in the quiet night. Thick wooden columns, thicker than even an Umber man, were rooted into the warm ceilings and stone gravelled floors below, creating arches a dozen times from one end to the other. They were decorated in crude ironworks and carved runes, each one hanging braziers of fire beneath them; decorated in spirals of antlers that looked golden from the flame. A hundred trestle tables littered the hall, half of them full, the others covered in barrels of Umber ale that could feed a hundred fabled elephants, the Greatjon carrying one on his shoulder with delight. 

But the festivities had barely begun, or so he was told. He carried his own horn, black and glossy and decorated with ancient runes, filled with a strong mead they called Giant’s Juice. He raised it high, clearing his throat. 

“Quiet! Shut it for Lord Stark,” the Lady Branwyn roared, louder then a commander on a battlefield. 

“Thank you, my lady. It is good to see old friends and allies in times of peace. And Last Hearth has only grown larger. I see the Greatjon’s waist even greater, too,” Jon’s wife’s laugh was even louder than his own, “My father would say there is little to be gained in the bottom of a man’s cups, but an Umber man may prove him wrong. The Greatjon is steadfast and strong, loud and perhaps hard-of-hearing, but in the grim road ahead, I am glad to call him a brother-at-arms. And I would never dare to withhold those bonds from my family,” he cleared his throat, holding his horn above a large circular fireplace that blazed bright, “Lord Jon Umber.” 

“My lord.” 

“I would foster your son, Cregan, in the hearth and heart of Winterfell. Let him spill blood and break bones and learn friendship, in perpetuity. What say the Lord of Last Hearth?” 

The Greatjon fell to a knee, arms wide, his eyes wet, “Lord Stark… I would be honoured.” 

“Honour?” Lady Branwyn gave a belly laugh, “Jon, can’t you see? Lord Stark seeks to save our son from your fine teachings.” 

“Are you sayin’ I cannot father my boy, woman?” 

“Oh ho! We’ll see about your fine teachings,” she took an entire minute to down the drink of her horn, ale frothing on her chin, “Aye, Lord Stark has it true. Mors, bring out the damn horn. Time for you to honour this honour, Jon.” The men roared with laughter, unveiling a great white horn, petrified and carved and ancient, shaped like a serpent and as large as a man. Mors Umber stood upon the edge of a table with a barrel of ale in tow, the bung hole fastened tight to the horn and the other end around Jon’s lips. 

“You ready?” She snorted, tapping the side of the horn. 

Jon mimicked the snarl of his banners, “Don’t be questioning my mettle, woman! Get on with it.” The ale came like a raging river, slithering around his braids, down his chin and onto his doublet. The Smalljon smacked his father’s back, the men cackling and clapping with cheers of Umber! Umber! Umber! The Lady Branwyn sat beside him close, whispering foul things into his ear that turned Jon’s face blood red. Jory watched with mouth agape, Ned saw the overfilled barrel turn empty, counting each time he would have drowned attempting the same ritual. 

The Greatjon roared, slapping all those around him in a victory cry, “Bring out the boar!” He lapped the feast hall, thanking Ned again before crushing his wife in a hug. 

And so the feast grew louder, roasted boar crackling in black charcoals. The women set aside bones into a steaming hot cauldron, young men beating away at drums and deep flutes. Rectangular shields and arms across the hall caught the fire light in each beveled edge, each one sporting the personal arms of every Umber man, alive or dead. On one table, the Smalljon danced with a duo of young men, a minstrel singing a hearty song that the crowd sung along inharmoniously. The Greatjon’s uncles, Mors and Hother, stood upon another, playing the Umber’s fist, slapping one another with the force to slay a thousand men, daring the other to shed a tear or wail a groan first. Ned sipped on warm stew, watching amusedly as the Lady Branwyn smacked the Greatjon clean across his face for spilling ale upon her furs. 

Jory stumbled to Ned’s side, “Ah… sorry, my lord. I, uhh—“ 

Ned laughed, finding the younger man a seat, “Found yourself in an unfair game, Jory. ‘Tis a silly thing challenging an Umber to a drinking contest.” 

Jory laid his head in his hands, groaning, “Seemed less silly an hour ago, my lord.” 

“Which champion had you beat then?” 

“Oh, the big one. Y’know him… the one with the, uh… axe? In his head? Boremund, was it?” 

“Harmund. The Greatjon’s brother.” 

“Aye. That be him. Harmund,” Jory nodded with distant eyes, slapping his forehead, “With the… axe… in his head. How did it get there?” 

“I’ve not the guts to ask him, Jory,” Ned said, downing his bowl of stew.  

“Can’t say I’ve the courage either, my lord,” Jory muttered, drifting asleep in only seconds. Ned laughed gently, throwing his cloak over Jory. 

The feast soon turned into a somber quiet, the Greatjon singing a slow tune, his brothers and uncles and son sat cross-legged on the floors singing along. Ned sipped an ale slowly, his cheeks bitten, watching the flickering of the fire, back and forth, his brother’s body hiding somewhere in between, the Wall weeping above. 

“Will my son enjoy Winterfell, then?” The Lady Branwyn asked, coming from behind, sitting comfortably across from him, horn of ale larger than her head in hand. 

He toasted her, “Aye. My sons will make sure of it.” 

“Well-mannered, your boys?” 
 
Ned snorted quietly. A prank was their favourite pastime. Dumping snow onto guards and flour onto maids, “When they wish to be, aye.” 

“Good. Cregan’s a good lad. Thick-headed like his father at times. Childish. Ill-tempered,” she smiled, deeply; those little smiles you reserve only for your fondest memories, “But a good lad. He’s grown too fond of his mother’s coddling, and I can think of no better place to grow into a man.” 

“He will have a tale or two to tell on his visits. That much I can promise.” 

She eyed him curiously, wiping at her chin, “You are a quiet one, my lord,” she only grinned at Ned’s confusion, “The way Jon spoke of you, I’d have sworn a man stole your skin and wore it, for the lord I remember was honest with his courtesies and gracious with his patience. But Jon, ah. There’s a man between this marriage and his name is Lord Eddard Stark. With his great beast of a direwolf, flown from the pages of the Kings of Winter themselves, wielding his Valyrian blade stronger than any Umber. Some of the town even name you Ironbane, though, I’d imagine you mislike that title.” She slapped the table amusedly, standing with her ale in hand, spinning it idly, “No, you’re still as quiet as I remember you. Your brother was the talker. A real charmer that Benjen Stark. I suppose the ladies of the North sobbed for a day-and-a-half when he took the vows.” She rose, standing over him, her shadow enveloping him, “Now, I’ve children to put to sleep. No doubt they’ve their ears to the walls trying to hear a secret to tattle to the father to. But may I ask you one thing, Lord Stark?” 

He nodded, and she sighed, her jaw gritted, inhaling slowly, tossing her horn to the side. 

“Do you swear to keep my husband safe?” 

“My lady?” Ned asked. 

Her voice fell quiet, so different from the roar of her mirth, “Jon tells me all the lords gather at Castle Black. All of them. Umbers to Boltons to Manderly’s, even those horse lovers and bog dwellers. No small thing, that,” she punched the table softly, slowly, weighing her words, “And women often hear rumours their husbands turn their cheeks from. Of brothers in black, with blacker warnings than a child’s night terror,” she took Ned’s mug straight from his hand, “I know… what my husband is,” her finger circled the top of the mug gently, eyes trapped upon the ale swirling like a maelstrom. 

“Lady Branwyn—“ 

“He’s an Umber,” she said with a smile, faint and flickering, “Little else to say, is there? Their tempers are quick to outwit their cunning.” She took a deep swig of the ale, finishing it in one go, “But he’s my Umber. I won’t have him die in some savage’s realm, skinned for furs and name rotted for a wildling’s boast. I won’t have him…” She shook her head, trailing off. And such a fear could not be uttered. Such a fear was one Ned understood. Too well.

The air is grim when Ned nodded, “Aye. I understand.” 

“Good. Good,” Lady Branwyn moved back with a deep exhale, “I’ll leave out a good shank for your direwolf, Lord Stark. No doubt he’s feeling lonesome.” 

And the night was a lonesome thing. The men retreated to the barracks above or to the keeps of the castle, servants helping those slumped asleep into safe positions and cleaning the hall. And those that remained sipped on whatever mead and ale and stew and meat left, a crushing fear, a crushing loneliness looming overhead. 

Ned could feel it, that honest truth. That familiar ache, carved in the smiles of every man who jeered and drunk and sang. The game of veils you play as battles march across the horizon. And the game is an ageless thing, three letters. War. Such a simple word, easy to write in parchment, to ink and letters. “To war,” men would say, as if it were such a simple thing. War, quick to roll off the tongue. And on the eve of war, men would drown in barrels of wine, laugh and sing and growl, some even cry, though never quick to share such tears with the others sat in masks of pretend. But no amount of drink could shield you from the moment. That single second that lasts an age, standing in brothels and homes and stoney septs, steel in hand, breath slow. The fleeting glance you make at glimmering rivers that fork in every direction, beautiful and at peace; nature’s domain blissfully unaware of the blood soon to be spilled. 

And his father had never truly prepared him for that. Not Jon Arryn, wiser than any man he’d ever known. Nor his father of blood, his eyes lingering on Ned as Winterfell vanished beyond snowy hills. Could any father? Would the day come when it is my duty to teach Robb, and gods forbid, to teach Jon? Perhaps such was the father’s experience; to fail to prepare your sons with the lessons you wished you had learned. This must be the God’s duty, the world’s duty. The long wait before battle, where a man sheds his life. And if his corpse is blessed enough to return, he wears his skin once more. But changed, the body beneath the skin, the man beneath the skin, never whole, never right. And Ned recalls the old stories. Of dead men rising in the snow, the same stories he chased now. Were they true? Did corpses of men long dead truly rise? Or were they but soldiers, as dead as any other man roaring in red-run rivers? 

In the morrow he would tell this tale to the Greatjon. And it is the same tale. “To war,” he would say, heavy-hearted. And Jon would make his cries and clamour for  a Northman’s rage, one owed to any wildlings fur. He would lay his case, and make his peace beneath a weirwood’s gaze, preparing the mask all men wear, asking the question all men dare. Was it all the same? His men would follow behind him, a city stinking and sacked ahead, a wailing Wall, cold and cloud-touched. Fighting against a string of skeletons, rows upon rows. Whether  it was soldiers armoured in a dragon’s scales, or a savage’s skin, or a demon’s icy plates. A month later, a year later, a decade, a century, men would rise again for the same gory task. Was it all for nothing? 

Nothing. No, never nothing, his brother’s ashen stares latched on his pouch, hidden in fine leather wrappings. Ned can feel Benjen’s cold gaze. He remembers his cryptic warnings, lost in a burning scream, in a chilling death. “I saw them,” he cried, “I saw them,” he wailed.  His skin as cold as ice, burning by the touch of blood. His cries as chilling as death, his body burning in a vigil‘s fire. And in these fleeting memories, buried by a thin mask of fear, Ned prayed that such tales were only stories. That the only dead men he would ever see walking was the soldier, the father, the lord husband in the mirror. Grey-eyed and grizzled. Never blue-eyed and black hearted. 

Chapter Text

The wind belted through the sky with a howling fury, his hood struggling, his dark brown hair flopping viciously. Here, seven-hundred-feet above the world, Ned could see the rolls of mist and lone clouds brush against the Wall and freeze. The forest line spread for a hundred leagues north, a great fog coming down upon the horizon like a thick veil, the dark oranges of dawn shadowed, a summer storm brewing in the edges of the air. Here, a man could stand atop the world, and be burned by the sun, for the strong winds threatened to carry him to the stars.

To the south, the Kingsroad bustled in the early morning, each end erected with encampments of a dozen different colours as far as a mile. Castle Black struggled beneath the weight of the northern parties, never so lively nor teeming with men and arms. Banners threatened to fly with the rushing winds, the roaring cries of giant men and bears turned to the faintest whispers upon the outskirts where Ned lingered.

He reached out, as if clamouring for the horizon, ignoring the pricking of the wind at his ungloved hand, his father’s burned ring rattling on his finger. For a glimpse, a single flash of a second, he could see Benjen. Lying in the snow, a trail of blood behind him, his brother’s cold hands crawling for a forest beyond sight. He could see it all, his snarling blue eyes lingering on pale shadows, on dead flesh, his paws quick, his claws sharp, his mind beastly. And it was an old memory, an old dream. But the same pain, the same grief. One that screamed so loud, it would rustle the tallest trees of the Haunted Forest below, so loud the mountains would turn away in fear.

“M’lord,” a thin crow called, hooded and huddled, pulling at his black cloak tightly, eyes squinted so tight Ned could hardly see them, “The last party be arriving now. Best be heading down before the wind takes us. I don’t much like my chances out here.” Rolling thunder leagues away trickled after them. It sounded like drums upon a battlefield; soldiers waiting in eager lust, in crushing fear, in pools of regret with each beating mallet.

The lift shook furiously, creaking tauntingly, “A poor way for a man to meet his end,” Ned remarked, holding the steel bars tightly.

“I wouldn’t say that, m’lord. The gods may take it for a challenge. I’ve only one guess to who they’ll test it on first,” the dour watchman muttered, peering to look down before cursing himself. The courtyard was teeming with men armoured in chain and boiled leather, colours far too foreign for the grim black of the Night’s Watch.  Banners were carried by lone guards; flayed men and rising suns joined with roaring giants and mermen. Finally, the lift fell the last few inches with a thud, another crow waiting just outside. “Oi, Edd. Lord Commander wants you stationed above.” He threw Edd another cloak, thicker and as heavy as a hound, the man’s sigh and ramblings fading away.

Lord Commander Mormont stood stoney in the centre of the yard, his dark robes thick with a black bears fur upon the shoulders, padded leathers upon his chest, gloves and boots made of scratched moleskin, his cloak falling onto the ground, Maester Aemon stood beside him, hooded and hunched like a woods witch, wind whipping his garbs across his face, though still listening as silver-grey steeds ambled before them, their riders dismounting. Ned could see a raven circling above them, shrill and shrieking but rendered silent against the harsh air.

“Did you find what you sought?” Aemon asked quietly, his blinded eyes murky, but focused on the lords in front.

“It is far too late for that, maester.” Ned replied solemnly, a similar melancholy in his tone, his hands tracing the woven designs of the pouch upon his belt absentmindedly.

One by one, the lords and vassals of the North pooled into the courtyard, sending away their steeds and men at arms, all grim-faced and gritting, eyes pointed up. The Wall was ice, a man’s blood growing colder for every second he lingered in its shadowy gaze. Even the thickest skins of the north could not deny it, each of them peering at it for a second too long, shivering, staring at it for hours upon the Kingsroad; the North’s greatest accomplishment, and their greatest mystery.

“Lord Stark,” came Rickard Karstark, armoured in a pale plate armour from the chest up, each piece circled like the sun atop old chainmail and beneath ragged grey furs. Lord Karstark was a stern man, a proud man. And he revelled in it, his garb the same worn upon the Trident, in Pyke, but worn well, scratched and cut and faded. His beard grew greyer by the year, his face thinner and gaunt than Ned remembered.

“Rickard,” he said, coming to a firm handshake, “The road was not too harsh?”

“She is a long one,” Rickard replied with a small nod, his hands rough and cold, his beard and hair lightly covered with snowflakes, “But well worth it. I saw my son, Torrhen, off to Winterfell. My daughter is wroth with me, for Torrhen was ever her favourite. But I thank you, again, my lord, for the honour. We are kin, Stark and Karstark. Well past time our blood bonds as brothers do. Your son may be young, but he’s a good head upon his shoulders. And my boy is a fine lad.”

“Aye, he is welcome company. We’ll return to find them amok in the yard, I’ve no doubt there.”

“Rickard Karstark!” boomed the Greatjon, loud and boisterous, a horn of ale as large as a man’s head in his hand. He’d spent the entire morning wrestling and sparring in the yard, black brothers fearful and circling him as if he were a wild beast.

“Jon,” Rickard said bluntly, clearly repressing a deep sigh.

Greatjon only laughed, slapping the man on the back and leading him away, “Ah! Cold as the bloody Wall, this one. Come on, then, join us in the hall.”

And it was almost a market line, as if Ned were an armourer selling his wears. Wyman Manderly wore long turquoise silks decorated in tridents and seven-pointed stars, all beneath the thickest white furs Ned had ever seen. He brought gifts in carts to share along the Watch, the lords regarding him politely, the men with eager thanks. Roose Bolton‘s stare was cool, implacable, his hands without warmth nor cold, his tongue quiet. Rodrik Ryswell’s words were short and irritable, his horses and his sons shivering. Jorah Mormont greeted his father with a tight hug, thick green furs atop his silver plates, an ancient sword clawed upon his belt. Glover, Flint, Locke, Hornwood, even the mountain clans of Wull and Norrey all gave their greetings and their thanks and their sacred stares for the Wall, waiting in the once-abandoned Shieldhall.

But he could not find the lizard-lions of his old friend. No. For the crannogmen dwelled in their swamps and their damp homes and rarely paid any mind to visitors. Ned had known it well, for in all his loyalty, Howland was a guarded man, who’s answers only spawned a thousand more questions and a dozen more secrets. Messages upon messages, letters and riders, and yet the responses were far and few. Sleepless nights had taken Ned for years, dreams lingering above like a cloud, shadowed and stormy, dangerous and dark. And in those nights of terror and tears, even before the days of the direwolf and his midnight malice, Howland had spoken of the sight, of the seer. Old stories and old legends; the warg and the beast, one. His grandmother’s stories, Nan’s stories, Howland’s stories.

But they are not stories any longer. And so Ned had tried once more. Parchment sealed and signed in the Stark name. A command, a Lord’s request, a plea. Returned, to his honest surprise, by a brown and white blotched owl with eyes of golden curiosity. Howland’s words were short, simple, but chilling, a crushing fear creeping beneath Ned’s skin. You are wounded, the letter wrote, inked in a deep red, stained almost like blood. There is a beast by your side, a beast behind your eyes. You cannot see. But you will, at all our peril. He had burned that letter, aye, but the words were branded still. You will, you will, you will. Knowledge was a crannogman’s craft, their most coveted secret. And peril was a pain Ned knew well.

“Shall we?” The old maester asked, wobbling away without a care to hear their replies, the Lord Commander trailing along with a guiding hand.

The Shieldhall was lit poorly, howling winds flowing freely against dark stone and extinguishing torchlight, stewards standing by awkwardly. In the dim day, you could hardly see the blackened ceilings littered in cobwebs and cracks and rats taking home in solitude. The long trestle tables were dusty, worn, but seated now with nearly a hundred men, coloured brightly in the banners of their lords and blood. Broken withered sigils covered almost every crevice; lions, owls, dragons and griffins and krakens and crabs, wolves and moose and stallions, owls, harps, spears and scorpions, the hall was alight with faded rainbows in the flickering flames. Walking through the hall, the eyes of noble bears, suns, giants and mermen and horses and gauntlets and the flayed man watched him intently. He took no seat, standing level with his men, the Lord Commander and maester sat upon splinted old thrones a half-dozen steps higher than the rest.

The black brothers pooled in slowly, standing at the edges of the hall, almost hidden in the shadow of stone, watching with trepidation. Jory and his guards came soon after, the dark-rippling of Ice in hand and given silently, strapped against Ned’s back. But last to arrive is the beast, so dark and blended so well a man would never see it, if not for its great lumbering size, larger than any wolf ever seen, with eyes as blue as a summer sky. The gasps and squawking chairs soon fell to silence, the direwolf’s crown of black fur tight beneath Ned’s gripped gloved fingers.

“My lords!” The silence is shattered, Ned gestured for mead and ale to be shared, “My lady wife would tell me that we convene far too soon for her liking. I only wish… I could bear this meeting with kinder tidings. The faces I see today are wearier, older. And I fear the counsel which I share and seek will do us little favours.”

Rickard Karstark’s voice is clear and blunt, “Then it is true, Lord Stark, this is a war council?” The men grumbled, the watchmen shuffling awkwardly. The word takes time to settle.

A shrill shriek echoes throughout the hall, “War! War! War!” cried a raven upon the Old Bear’s shoulder, his caws soon drowned with corn.

“To war, then?” The Greatjon stands, slamming his hand on the table, “Ha! These are glad tidings, I say. Our lands have been pillaged by damned wildling scum for too long! I’ve half a mind to put an axe in this Mance Rayder’s skull myself.” His beard was loose and scruffy, his face red with rage, simmering and old and waiting to burst.

Jorah Mormont scoffed, his dark beard blended with his thick bearskin cloak that fell into the floor, “Rayder? What of the Giant’s Bane? His ilk come as far south as the Valley of Caves. Damned bastard has no fear of the sea.” The man’s deep-set eyes fell upon the Lord Commander, words shared silently.

Galbart Glover stood next, his voice softer and steady, said with a short nod to Ned, “Aye, he’s no fear of the Northern Mountains either.”

“Build a keep out of stone and you may have better luck,” said the snorting Rodrik Ryswell, face trapped in a bitter boredom, a mug of ale by his lips.

The Lord Commander grunts, his raven squealing in annoyance, “Are you northmen? Or green boys who lose your wits with a single sip of mead?” Half the hall quickly fell to pointless argument, Ned’s eyes closed tightly, his blood rushing hot, his neck twitching and teeth aching.

“Speaking of which, talks of war and wildlings could do with some good wine—“

“—a true northern drink, boy. You won’t find any wine up here—“

“Forgive my son. We’ve a merman’s sensibilities—“

“—use is a merman in battle? You going to ride out with your sons, Wyman? Or shall we pull a cart for you?”

The North was a hard land, Ned mused, and its people wore it well, blunt and harsh. Cunning and clever where it wished to be, but devoid of cordiality when reckless rage took pursuit.

A sharp but quiet voice cut through the battle from the edge of the hall, a black brother hidden in shadow, grey and shrewd and half illuminated by the torchlight atop his head, “You’ll find no glory out there. Hold your tongue, and you may find some wisdom in your lord’s words.”

The Greatjon grunted, a second away from baring his blade. “Qhorin,” called Jeor, sharp and swift. “Lord Umber,” growled Ned, his shadow moving swiftly, the Greatjon falling into his chair, his knuckles white as he squeezes the wood until it shatters in his hand, the blood dripping on the floor quietly. The direwolf’s claws sit upon his chest, its mouth closed, but its eyes locked with the giant’s. The men watched carefully as the direwolf slowly retreated, the Greatjon’s face furrowed, blood staining the floor.

Ned exhaled loudly, his breath misty and cold. He unsheathed Ice loudly, a beastly strength of ten men flowing freely, held high and shining as bright as a falling star for a flicker of a moment, before impaling the sword into the stone floors, the loud crack sending waves of startled obedience across the hall.

“We are not the south. We do not gossip with vipers and lions and share poison from our tongues. End this enmity, you are lords, not boys,” Ned squeezed the bridge of his nose hard, Ice still trapped, a dull rage not of man in his stomach, “I am no stranger to their blight upon our people. Wildling raids have grown violent, desperate. More in three moons than the last decade alone. And Mance Rayder, deserter and oathbreaker that he is, has united half the wildling clans quicker than it took the last hundred Kings-Beyond-the-Wall. And he is well on his way to unite the rest.” He met their cool faces with a tough reassurance, his words falling quiet quickly. “War with the wildlings may come in due time. But you are not fools, nor are you hard of hearing. There is no place here for pretend. I know which words wander with the wind.” And the hall falls to a silent death, none wishing to speak, to utter a word and bring the truth to life. Ned took one step, and another, his direwolf almost silent, but watching, waiting.

“They are children’s tales, Lord Stark,” Jorah Mormont uttered, his voice barely a whisper, but booming in the quiet of the hall, each man as still as stone, faces as grim as the granite dead.

“Are they?” Maester Aemon asked. Ned turns to find the old maester smiling, head high with a profound glee written across his wrinkled face, “Do… the stories only exist… behind closed doors and in a maid’s whispers? Or do they stand before you?” All eyes turned to Ned, and for a moment, he wondered if this is what a King must feel upon a throne.

He finds the Mormont Lord frowning, “They were stories to I as well. But my brother,” he inhaled deeply, “Benjen,” the name comes with the weight of the Wall, “had his suspicions. And in his foolish bravery, he sought the truth with only the trust of his Lord Commander and a handful of men. Now, he is dead. With only a warning left to his will.”

“Your brother was a fine ranger, Lord Stark. His death is a tragedy we—“

Ned’s voice was harsh, and without compromise. “My brother died screaming, Lord Manderly. His skin as cold as ice. I lost my father and Brandon to the whims of a monster. And Benjen claims the same.“

“Not a monster of man,” said Lord Bolton, quiet and discerning, face smooth and oddly unwrinkled.

Ned shook his head, lips tight, “No. But… shall I dishonour his warning because we… fear finding truth in them? Wildling or… not, the Night’s Watch cannot bear this burden alone. Never in a dozen generations has it grown so weak. Nineteen castles on the Wall, and we can scarcely man three of them! Half of the rest have fallen into ruin. Even the rats will not enter the Nightfort or Greyguard as they are now. The south may ignore it; they send their rapists and their murderers and let it become an obscurity, a jape. But I do not seek to follow a southron’s footsteps. And we cannot call ourselves Northmen and allow it to fall further into disrepair, to withhold our shoulders and our arms.“

Lord Manderly stood, nearly taking the table with his girth, “My lord, what of the Crown? It is no secret that Jon Arryn and the King are good friends of the Stark’s. Shall they not share this burden, and their coin, with us?”

“You think the King will send gold dragons for ghosts?” A young man jested, seemingly bored, the Lord Ryswell glaring at him fiercely.

The Lord Commander rose with a huff, smashing his ale onto the table roughly, the drink spilling onto the floor, “Wildling villages up the coast north of Hardhome are empty. Intact, but empty. Food and clothes left behind. We’ve bodies without wounds, without blood,” the Old Bear growled, spitting and stubborn, “I’ve a dozen rangers, so frightened the maester tells me they may never speak again! Don’t dare to tell me what a ghost is, boy.” A sinister air enveloped the hall. It tasted like disbelief, like fear.

“The Crown will hear of it, aye. But there are few among the court I trust as well as the men I stand before. What say you, Lord Manderly?”

The merman nods deeply, raising his mug in toast, “I say your wisdoms speak true, Lord Stark. Better our fortunes and our fates stay steady in our own hands.”

“What is our path forward then, my lord?” Lord Medger Cerwyn asked, soft-spoken and without a trace of doubt in his voice.

“Man the Wall. Gather our builders and our stewards and bring life to stone. If it is an invasion the wildlings seek, or an exodus, we must man the Wall, with not a castle to spare.”

“And what of your brother’s warning?”

Ned paused, “I cannot… sit idle and surrender the future to uncertainty. A great ranging shall come to pass, but I will not ask the Watch to fly into the fray alone. I will join them. I will lead it, if that is what my people ask of me. We must discern the truth.” It is a declaration, and perhaps a death wish. For the unforgiving scapes of the winter lands held many a monster, not of man nor legend, of nature; of earth and tree and beast and river. But his choices were less than sparse, and his dreams spoke of a dangerous doom, daunting and dastardly, blood of a brother spilled, blood of a son, a daughter, a wife, a realm, threatened by the same winter blade.

“But first,” calls the Maester, “You must… listen.” 

“Aye,” said Ned solemnly, a line of black brothers coming forth, each ranger a different story, the same story, each with tales as terrible as the last. Somewhere in the hours of stammered words and half-remembered fears, a man could find the truth in their tongues, as plain as The Wall itself. But it is hidden to them, Maester Aemon’s old words lingering in his mind. Of pretend, the game men play to covet their ignorance tightly, for you cannot see the horror with your eyes closed. Then, you could pretend it did not exist, and never did.

Soon enough, the crows tell their stories and vanish from the hall. There is no mead left to be drank, nor ale, nor meal or laugh, nor even a snide insult and booming temper. The hall emptied into a cold solitude, Ned lingered as dust made hearth again upon trestle tables and within darkened rafters. The torchlight had flickered away, pale embers burning faintly. The wind had fallen silent, Ice almost moulded into the ground, as bright as the sun, as dark as a new moon, stealing all light into its dark smoky ripples.

Forged in the fires of the old Freehold, but named for a legend as old as history. Ned’s hand lingered over the pommel. His father had cherished Ice fiercely, and in old memories, he remembered the long hours of Brandon in the godswood, huddled with his father with blood upon the blade. And in his sorrowful return to Winterfell, the blade, and all that it carried, had been thrust upon him in conviction. Taller than a man, and heavier than hounds. There were times Ned could not lift it, almost impossible to grasp. But when his blood boiled, bestial and blazing, Ice was as light as a needle, a blade now for battle, not ceremony. His hands danced with the hilt, the sword in the stone singing as he unsheathed it from the floor, letting the blade rest in his hands, his palm bleeding.

Across the rows of tables down a straight path, the direwolf sat plainly, every strand of hair shaping a perfect silhouette, two sapphire orbs glowing, piercing. It looked at Ned and his blade with a smile, almost. He wondered if it was taunting, or in admiration. The beast and peril, Howland had said. Intertwined, conjoined like tragic lovers. And it had come to Ned on a perilous day, a bond born in grief, in a brother’s rage. Jon Snow’s dark waves soft in Benjen’s hands, his eyes wet. “She was my sister, too,” he had whispered, a kiss upon the bastard’s brow. “She was my sister, too,” he had roared, hands red on the Kingsroad, Ned’s nose bloodied, tears burned upon Benjen’s cheeks. And from the fog of the forest line, a shadow crept silently, claws clean against Ned’s chest, snarling, staring, a crow’s cry echoing through distant canopies.

The daylight withered quickly behind dark clouds, the Wall grasping at any streams moonlight that sifted through the sky’s grey overcoat. Rain droplets swiftly fell, melting loose piles of snow that littered yards and rouges and towers. Thunder followed soon after, the sky cracking open as bolts of lightning carried the Gods rage. The Lord Commander led them to a small vault at the base of the Wall, colder than the rest of the castle as mist rolled off the Wall, a dozen cells carved into the ice itself. Most of them were filled with barrels, clay pots and shelves sparsely filled with spare cuts of venison, beef, pork, and lamb, the rest empty or containing handfuls of apples, leeks, pears, carrots, turnips, and bags of dry flour. The last two were large enough for men, barricaded with three wooden planks.

“This was a last resort,” Jeor said, the lords of the North gathered in tight circles behind Ned, “But he became a danger to the other men. Took a man’s ear and  hand clean off a day after he returned. The maester says he may recover.” The man’s sorrow was not lost on Ned, nor was the doubt lined in his voice. The barricades came off, the door ajar by less than a dozen inches, iron chains holding them back. Inside, a man huddled in the corner, curled like a frightened child, rocking himself gently, whispering frantically, endlessly, almost in prayer, as if staving away a monster. His black garbs covered him completely, the ends of his gloves ripped, his fingers missing or bleeding by his own doing. He was thin, gaunt, almost like a corpse, loose strands of hair turned a pale white.

“His name… is Gared,” the Old Bear sighed, “One of our finest rangers. Sent him on a ranging with four other men to a village by the Milkwater, chasing odd sightings. He’d been gone for weeks, and we’d thought him dead. He… we found him, in cave not far from a keep of a wildling we oft trade with. Half-naked, frightened half-to-death. By then, the frost had taken most of his skin. The maester did what he could, kept him warm in the thickest furs we could find, in hopes that he could heal, tell us what he saw.”

The Greatjon pushed forward, “Why the damned cell? You find him near frozen and imprison him with blocks of ice? Is he meat or a man?” The rest muttered their agreements, Lord Bolton watching keenly.

“You take me for a fool? We have tried. The undervaults beneath my tower were secured for him. But his skin… the ice… he screams without it. Wails like a child.” Like Benjen, Ned thought grimly. His brother’s body had burned at the touch of warm skin, at the touch of blood. Wailing into the night, the Wall weeping. “I saw them,” Benjen muttered. Them, them, them, the same words the ranger Gared whispered.

“He’s a dead man walking, then,” Rickard said, face furrowed.

“Not yet, it seems,” Roose hummed, expressionless, words without interest or emotion, but eyes locked on Gared.

The Lord Commander shut the door harshly, the noise startling the trapped ranger into a frantic pounding. They waited for his cries to grow silent, dread lingering in the air. “He is but one,” he gritted, gruff but frowning with shame, “The worst of them, aye. But I’ve a dozen good rangers turned into silent mummers, afraid of their own damned shadows!” He calmed himself, slowly, “The other men are terrified. They deny orders! Desert in waves in the night. Rangers at the Shadow Tower have refused to venture beyond the Wall for two moons, now. Eastwatch for a week. It cannot last.”

“‘Tis unnatural, unholy,” Lord Manderly remarked with a disgusted frown.

“He’s lost his wits. What else?” Lord Ryswell snorted, hesitating almost, as if he did not believe his own words, the rest quiet, leaving the ice cells with a foreboding silence.

The day turned to night quickly after, the lords retiring, formalities forgotten, camps beneath the Wall damp from the raging storm. Ned’s hands wrapped around old sheets in the corner of the Maester’s chambers, wooden walls lit by a lone candle, long and crafted with strong-smelling tallow. The week before Robert’s letters had arrived for the Greyjoy’s folly, Ned had wept in this very room, his brother’s body yearning for a single breath. His skin ruined and cracked, peeled away by a formidable cold, his toes and fingers gone, black stumps left in their place, his ears and the tip of his chin chipped away, his eye and even his manhood rotted and sickening. It was burned into his mind, into his dreams and his waking hours.

“Sleep, my dearest one,” Ned bummed gently, eyes shut tight, cloak and sword set aside, a mug of ale in hand, “Moonlight, I am come. Beyond the hill, and over the field, I will abide. Beneath the snow, the wolf howls, where I—“ His voice cracked, a swell of memory pouring in. He shook them away, taking the drink and downing it quickly, before pouring another.

“A lullaby,” said the maester, entering, slow of walk and holding onto walls and shelves and desks, “It sounds sweet, but sad.” Ned helped Aemon gently, guiding him to his wool featherbed, the maester plopping onto it with a great sigh, still dressed in his maester’s robes. Ned removed his long chains, forged in gold and tin and iron and silver, long and heavy, placed gently upon a desk.

“I learned it from my sister,” Ned continued, sat beside Aemon now, “She was not one for song. A listener, not a singer. A song was a rare occasion. Ones I did not appreciate.” Lyanna found song a secret pleasure, or so Benjen had wistfully admitted, “I remember carrying my boy after the war. He would cry rivers under the sun. Nothing would calm him but my sister’s song.” And he remembers her blood soaked bed, and her hoarse voice, singing as softly as she could. The babes’ cries faded away in her arms, and Ned knew then that she would die. And he could do nothing. Only promise.

“He was always a wilful babe. Clingy, ha. Never tolerated a moment away from me. Many a year later, I found him singing the same song to my daughter. Another wilful babe.“ It had taken moons before Jon would sleep comfortably in Winterfell. He had never known a cradle, only the nook of his father’s neck. Even in Starfall, with their silk featherbeds and ocean breeze, the boy would wail in Ned’s absence after mere moments.

“He sounds like a sweet child.” Ned stared at the maester sadly, at his cloudy grey eyes and his near toothless smile, sweet and reassuring.

“He is,” Ned replied, turning away, not bearing to shame the old man any longer.

Aemon’s wrinkled old hands brushed against Ned’s knee, shaking and shivering, “Read to me, will you? I have sent my… steward away… for the night.” He pointed to old letters strewn across his desk, brown and tan, ripped at the corners with small blotches of yellow stains. There were dozens of them, some written in the finest inks and cleanest writings, sealed in the faded mark of a three-headed-dragon, only a single head and remnants of the tail remaining.

“From… Egg,” Ned whispered, tracing the word at the bottom of a short letter, “Marked in the year two-hundred, fifty and nine after Aegon’s Conquest.”

“Oh, yes, yes… before… the fire.” The maester murmured beneath his breath in a language foreign to Ned. “Egg… my brother, he loved his letters. He would write to me of every little adventure he had. Every… tanner or septon or orphan. Even the… squires he would brawl, ha. And at the end of the parchment, Ser Duncan would scribble whichever message he had, always short and often illegible. Egg had taken to teach the man, and it had worked, yes. I can still remember the little squiggles he would write in his words… ever since a child. And he kept the habit hearty even as a man… the squiggles, yes.”

Ned shifted uncomfortably. It felt wrong, for he often forgot which name the maester had once carried. The very name he had bled to destroy, a dynasty left in tatters.

“Perhaps you are too tired, maester.”

The maester waved him off, breathing deeply, “Nonsense… nonsense. I am never too tired for Egg. I must… never be too tired. He was… like you. A dreamer.”

“What did he dream of?” Ned asked quietly. The maester had once told him Prince Rhaegar had dreamt fiercely, feather quill scribbled upon a hundred letters. It felt eerily familiar, but left Ned wondering what Rhaegar Targaryen’s dreams spoke of. What did we bleed for?

“Of a good land,” his wrinkled hand drifted to the open letter in Ned’s own, blind, but still finding a single word on the parchment, “Of dragons.” There are no dragons, Ned thought at first, his mind quickly drifting to the Queen’s young children. Viserys would be a boy of six-and-ten, and the girl, Daenerys, seven or eight. Yet in all the rumours that flew north, he heard nothing of the Targaryen children. Let them live a life of peace. Find a home far from that wretched city. It made him think of Sansa, and her beautiful auburn hair that smelled sweet like her mother’s. And his son, Bran, with swirling blue eyes and fat little cheeks. It made his insides twist and prickle, knowing the cost of this journey would be time, and his children’s laughter left only to his imagination.

The Lord Commander broke their short melancholy, weathered and with his raven snug against his furs. He took a seat beside Maester Aemon across from Ned, sinking into his seat deeply, his hands together in his lap.

“I have seen the men off for the night. Unhappy, many of them,” the Old Bear poured himself a small mug of ale, one of many for the day.

“It was expected,” Ned replied.

“My own son believes I am not fit for the Great Ranging. ‘Let me take this burden in your place, father.’ As if he knew what it meant,” he took a swig, finishing the mug in almost one go, droplets sifting through his long white beard.

“Perhaps he is right. The men will need a stern hand.”

“I owe a duty to my men.”

“And there will be men here,” Aemon remarked, voice hard, “I am not made of steel. I cannot command them as you do.”

Jeor huffed, “Half the lords take this for a fool’s game. The rest… they see the truth, but blind their eyes with blood.”

Ned hummed, “Hm. The Greatjon is intent on the ranging. Whether a penchant for wilding blood or the truth, I do not know. I will take Roose Bolton, also. I will need his cunning,” it was a quiet cunning the Leech Lord possessed, quiet and calculated, “Rickard Karstark is a stubborn man, as is Rodrik Ryswell.”

“They will accept it with time. They have no other choice,” Aemon muttered, eyes closed, “Death is cold… and men must fear the cold. That is why we erect castles with thick walls. That is why we gather around fires beneath the dark night. That is why we huddle with cloaks sewn from the hides of beasts. Let them dwell, let them pretend. They are men, with blood as warm as your own. When night falls… when winter comes, they will fear the cold, just as I do.”

“Hm,” Jeor nodded gravely, “Your beast has taken for the forests of the Gift.”

Ned bristled, “Let him.”

The Lord Commander eyed him curiously, “Aye… we will meet with a First Builder Yarwyck on the morrow, then.”

Ned nodded, watching the Old Bear dwell a moment longer before leaving for his own chambers, buried beneath the weight of a black brother’s duty, his raven left behind with his head tucked neatly into its long feathers, eyes shut in a dreamless sleep. Ned pulled the covers snugly over the sleeping maester, setting his letters aside neatly and extinguishing the candle. And in the dark, where even the embers are turned to ash and cold, Ned swore he could hear the cawing of a crow. It sounded like a bell toll, ringing for horror.

Chapter Text

“Again, woman!” His breath escaped him hurriedly, his chest rising frantically as he gasped for the moist and dirty air, his hands tugging at his limp member all the while. His seed matted his thick, bushy beard, growing dry and flaky. His body was slick with sweat, the linen sheets damp from his prior rutting, soiled in seed and the whore’s juices. His breath quickened as his member yearned to grow harder, still squishy and fat in his hands, his belly so round he could hardly see his own manhood. Robert chased the feeling in his groin, grunting as his barely stiff cock spurts nothing, dry and empty from hours of use.

As his heart calmed, he heard a dull ringing in his ears mixed with the deep moans of the whores next to him, the dark woman’s head plunged into the others pelvis. The blonde rubbed her groin hard against her mouth, biting her thick, wet lips with ecstasy as she screamed, her legs shaking in uncontrollable spasm as she tore the sheets from the featherbed in pleasure. Again, Robert thought, his hand squeezing his soft member, compelling it to harden, his other circling the round pink nipples of the blonde.

“Again,” he said, his voice hoarse, but wrought with desire and a carnal lust, one as bottomless as the oceans and as endless as the horizons. “Again!” he commanded, grabbing the chin of the blonde, her lips pouted and wet. She smiled at him wolfishly, straddling his lap, rubbing herself against his limp member, kissing the dark woman who sat beside them who fucked herself intensely. They hardly even saw him, the King! What good were they? He moved his hips as much as he could, his muscles tired and his weight pinning him to the featherbed. And yet still, nothing!

Robert cursed himself. He refused to harden, staying pathetically soft beneath her swollen sex. She laughed as touched herself harder, her moans muffled in the other whore’s lips. For a moment Robert wondered if Lyanna laughed like that. Would she have giggled in joy as Robert finished inside her? Her dark hair flowing across her teats, her pale skin marked and claimed by his bites, her grey eyes brimming with passion for only him. She would never failed to harden him, not like these whores. All their crafts and they cannot compel a man’s blood.

His imaginings were short lived, the red glint of rubies and a bloodied nightdress flooding his vision. When he looked up, he did not find Lyanna, but the blonde, hair golden like that Lannister bitch, smile wide like a qiuen in a jester’s court. It turned him crimson with rage, and stiffened his sword with a painful fury. He took her then, his stubby steel hands wrapped cleanly around her soft throat, tightening with no care for force, no care for plea or cry or whichever mocking insult the bitch cared to use. Her face turned pink and bloated, choking as he slams into her pelvis, finishing so deep inside her she screamed in pain, before letting her go roughly, leaving her to writhe on the bed, clamouring for air as the dark woman comforted her.

“Out,” he said, walking to the flagon of wine half-full upon his desk. The dark woman glanced at him incredulously, her bruises blended well with her skin. He glared hard, the whores coughing and scrambling at their clothes haphazardly, making a ruckus that drove Robert into a throbbing headache. He threw the spare goblets to the floor in an instant, eyes flared at the whores that struggle with their ripped, dirty clothing. “Out, damn you! Must I say it again?” They said nothing, rushing for the door, slipping and crawling for the handles. A single flicker of a white cloak appeared, and Robert refused their gaze.

He bit his cheeks hard, massaging his temples and cursing the gods. The room is empty, finally, but dark as dusk fades into night, torches flickering like mocking shadows upon his walls. Robert searches for his breeches and torn chemise, both stained black from seed and gods know what else. His mouth turned dry, and the thirst felt painful, almost excruciating. He moved quicker than any knight on a battlefield, wine filling his throat straight from the flagon that never left his lips, even when the Dornish red spilled from his nose and blurred his vision, his body gagging, and the drink spilling onto the headdress.

When the wine was all but wasted and gone, he found the looking mirror a taunting thing. He saw his father’s jaw staring back at him, buried by a mountain of fat and dry beard. He found his mother’s nose, red and blistered and near broken. He saw his father’s eyes, red rimmed and puffy. His mother’s lips, frothed and cut. The veins on his forehead nearly burst as he downed another goblet of wine, before holding it limp in his hands. The ornate golden lions were carved into the folds of the golden cup. The sight made his teeth crack, and Robert felt the goblet crumple beneath his hands, before hurling it at the mirror that shattered into a thousand pieces, his mother’s sleepless eyes the last shade of reflection left. 

“Your Grace!” cried the Kingsguard, his white cloak flowing into the room swiftly, hands embracing Robert quickly.

“Get off, you fool,” he grunted, shoving the man away. His pale blue eyes watched him as Robert wiped glass from his sleeves and kicked the rest beneath the desk, Barristan. Loyal pup, pretending that men could not see the judgement in his eyes. Robert hated those eyes. Pity. He had spared the damn knight’s life on the Trident! How dare he pity Robert. He would not have pitied him, with his silver hair and silver voice. A growl grew in his throat, and he could only turn back to look at Barristan with rage.

“A flagon of wine, the boar from the feast and a plate of sausages and ribs, now,” He gritted. Barristan opened his mouth dumbly, before nodding and leaving to do his duty. Robert scoffed. It was almost pathetic. The fiercest warriors in the world; the hero of Duskendale, the slayer of Maelys the Monstrous! Kingslayers and kingmakers, forced to mind the door during Robert’s needs, scurrying along at every little demand. His stomach grumbled at the thought of a fight, of a hammer in his hand, a half-witted fool to crush beneath it.

Warriors were not made to be Kings, he mused. For a throne of swords was not steel in hand. It was a clever deception, one Robert had quickly realised, and was ever reminded of daily, a dozen cuts prickling his arms and back, some far deeper than others. “The Gods do not discriminate,” Jon Arryn would say, “They make fools of Kings, Hands and cowherds alike.” But the man wore no crown, what did he know? An iron brooch weighed less than a golden crown.

His mouth quickly turned dry again, the barest absence of wine and drink driving his skull mad, his fat fingers driving into his temples. The headaches were often, and they throbbed terribly. But they paled beneath the might of his dreams. They cowered beneath the fury of his nightmares. And the nightmares were frequent, and wrought with misery and horrid pictures that turned his vision red and his blood boiling in the rising hours of the morning. Oft he would return to the Trident, Ned buried beneath mountains of mud and blood, pleading with Robert as the bodies drowned him. Across the riverbed was Rhaegar, and riding with him were a thousand mounted men, each of them encrusted with the same rubies, the same gilded black armour, the same wretched laughing face. A thousand of Rhaegar to kill. A thousand to taunt him every night.

I’ll kill them. I’ll kill every last one of you, he would roar. And his fury would prove true, for each of them would bleed into the dirt, their final breaths like screeching dragons. The work is done, the armies lay dead and his friends blown away with the ashes of the wind. So he marched south, alone, to a burning city that cheered in emerald sways of fire, calling his name. Baratheon, they would cry, but in reverence or revulsion, he did not know. And finally, the day of reckoning would pass. The crimson cloaked babes would soak into the floor and colour the fine silk rugs red, the dragon skulls would wither and fade away.

But then comes the next dream. The same dream. The same nightmare. Of a thousand million blades that rose into a cavernous throne room that never ends, growing sharper with each step. Of a naked woman draped upon the top, moaning and glistening with lust as she rode him. You won’t have her! You can’t have her! But they do not hear Robert’s cries, their moans and carnal smells growing stronger as he latched onto the prickling poisons of Conqueror’s monster. It taunted him all the whole, his body growing fatter and fatter, unable to move, pierced and staked and impaled upon the wretched throne, Lyanna’s ecstasy growing louder until it deafened him, and his blood drunk and consumed by the beast beneath him.

Robert clawed at his temples. Gods! What was taking those aurochs so long? He paced for what felt an hour, his breathe escaping him, teeth gritted and room stinking, stomach churning. Letters littered his desk, spare parchment and half-finished messages and spilled ink written for an quiet friend, a beastly friend, the Stark who thought him no better than an oaf, no better than a monster. He swiped those letters away with a grunt, watching them float and glide onto the hard floors, waiting for Barristan who returned not soon enough, a blotchy faced, brown-haired steward in tow, hands filled with a thick board as wide as a bastard blade. He plopped it down hard on the desk silently, Robert’s eyes salivating.

A roasted whole pig, tinted a golden brown skin through a slow roast, the crispy crackling left behind in the nights prior. The greasy thing had been half gorged from snout to tail, but still thick and wet around the bones where flesh yearned for consumption. He could hardly smell the herbs or the soaked brine that flowed from its long hours of marination. He could hardly even taste it, gouging every bite within a second, scarcely chewing for a second before taking the next. Robert poured a deep, glossy gravy over the pork, intense and almost creamy, bright like blood, staring at the ripples, letting his mind think of savoury smells of garlic and onion and brandy and nothing else, caring not for whichever white-cloaked fool and steward stood watching. This was a King’s meal, a King’s desire. What good else did a crown serve?

The pork soon rattled on the plate cold, overshadowed immediately by thick stuffed lamb sausages, roasted until black. They swam in pools of grease, oozing puddles of thick sheen from every bite, Robert’s hands and beard and chin and lips and wrists and chemise smeared shiny as he abandoned the silver cutlery, thin and slippery and troublesome to use. The rabid chewing and meaty smells drowned the crashing of the waves, old ships tattered and ruined, sinking beneath the unforgiving waters. Next came the ribs, cooked perfectly and glazed in the deepest mahogany, caramelised and still tender, the spices sharp and the shape symmetrical and succulent and sweet and savoury and slimy and sickening and septic. They fell off the bone like rotted flesh, tasting delicious, delectable, tasting dull, dreary, like nothing. He felt his throat drown, his stomach shatter, his eyes yearn for a greedy sin.

The bile crept up his throat, meat and grease still lodged in his chest, trapped behind his teeth and seeping into his lungs. It tasted revolting, repugnant, swiftly solved with a sip of wine, sip that turned to a swig, the cap never leaving his lips even as the drink spilled outward into his face. But the relief gained is short lived, his food belching onto the marble flooring. He choked on air for a moment, heaving on his hands and knees, sweat from his brow and beard mixing with the pale orange liquids of the floor. He could barely stand, his head burning and his eyes watered, breathing heavily on one knee. When he finally stood, grasping into the desk, his hands poured another cup effortlessly, the red of the wine gushing like waves of blood in a stormy sea. It fell down his throat in an instant, swishing for barely a second before he downed it, and poured another, until the flagon grew dry. Loyal knights rushed to procure more, and all Robert could do was spew onto the now red stained floors.

He reached for another, but met a cold armoured gauntlet instead. Barristan’s wrinkled face peering through his white steel helmet, furrowed and frowning, eyes glancing to Robert and the pool of sickness that dirtied his sollerets.

“It’s vomit, you fool,” Robert groaned, struggling against Barristan’s armoured grip.

“It is blood, sire. Your back…” He could smell it now, mixed with the bile and lingering smell of drink, sex and seed. The horrid popped blisters and pus that bled from his back and his arms, staining his small-clothes, the floor a thin pool of blood and mucus.

“The maester,“ Robert hears Barristan say, the thin little steward rushing off.

“I don’t need the maester,” he murmurs. Gods, why did his head throb so?

“Your Grace—“

“Am I a King or a damned squire?” Robert gritted venomously, still trapped in the old knight’s unyielding hand.

“I must protest. Your bandages have come undone, Your Grace. If this were battle…” If only. He would be as good as dead, aye, but what a good death that would be, stained in the blood of your foe. But here, he swam in the blood of his own throat, the only battle a clash of wits and wines and whores. He stood slowly, pushing Barristan away with a growl, gasping for every breath of air, eyes watered and stomach threatening to tear itself open. Soon, the drink would wear away and the wretched pain of old cuts and prickled skin would return, stinging and burning like little fields of fire across his flesh. The maester then, Robert groaned. Let it be done quickly so that he may be free of crowns and councillors and courts for the day.

Robert huffed at Barristan’s open palm, “I can walk well enough, man. I’m not a damn woman.” He lumbered to a small corner of the antechamber by a lit fireplace, the smell of shit fading as he shut the door harshly to the bedchamber, crumbling onto a small wooden bench, leaned over and breathing heavy, his chemise stuck to the open wounds blotted across his back. The maester took an age to arrive, hunched and wobbling, his long chain rattling, his lush velvet robes smelling of a rancid cat piss that flamed Robert’s headache even further. He spoke with Barristan quietly, a tray of small bottles, wears, plants and a mortar and pestle carried by Robert’s steward.

“Ah, Your Grace,” Pycelle unveiled small steel scissors, the handle wrapped in soft leather, “I will need to… cut away your small clothes. To assess and access the wound. May I?” Robert grunted in agreement, biting hard as the torn clothing ripped harshly, little remnants of dead skin ripping with it. The maester took his scalpel and his small knives, cutting away at the oozing wounds of his lower back, the skin rough and blackened and scabbed, a rancid smell emanating that watered his eyes.

“I have cleared the rot, thankfully. Bite this, Your Grace,” he handed Robert a leather strap wrapped in hard cloth, pouring a hot firewine over each cut, scrape and stab, cleaning the moist wounds with vinegar that irked Robert intensely. “There is little cause for concern, Your Grace. I assure you. The Iron Throne can be a troublesome thing. Prickly! In fact… I had spent many an occasion administering the same concoctions for King Aerys… loathe that he was to receive it.” Pycelle rubbed a cool poultice mixture onto each cleaned area, moist and soft and made of a dozen different herbs and plants.

“Am I a king such as the Mad King then, Pycelle?” Robert remarked sardonically.

Pycelle jumped, knocking a jar onto the floor, “I— I, of… course not! Your Grace, I meant no offence, I—“ He raised his hands, still filled with the poultice defensively. Pathetically, Robert thought.

“Enough of that yammering. Finish the work before my ass turns raw.” Even Pycelle’s quiet murmurs fell silent, each man sitting without a word said for a half hour, a terrible beating mallet hammering at Robert’s temples, ears ringing, his nose stuffy.

“There, Your Grace.” Finally! He stood with a groan, losing his balance for but a moment, arm stretched against the wall. Pycelle mixed a pale creamy drink, swirling with strands still stuck to his granite pestle, before pouring it into a small goblet mixed with wine, the rest into a small leather pouch with a stag sewn on each side.

“A single dose now, and the remainder prior to sleep. It will alleviate the dull stings and aching head. Your fever must be carefully watched. I would also—“ Robert downed the poppied wine in a single gulp, head pounding, before taking the rest in the pouch without a second’s thought, indifferent to the Grand Maester’s shocked stutter.

“What else?” Robert asked, brow raised and the pouch and goblet tossed aside on a long leather chaise. 

Pycelle took a long pause before answering, glancing at Robert and Ser Barristan dumbly, “R-Rest, of course. I would also implore you visit the sept, Your Grace. Fevers and wounds of this kind are the Stranger’s work. The Mother’s mercy will do wonders, as shall the Crone lead us from the fray.”

Robert scoffed, “No doubt Jon will have my hide if I rebuke the gods.” He opened a large ironwood wardrobe across the chamber wide, sifting through whichever spare garments remained.

“A— Uh, Y-Your Grace! I would advise rest first, please. Four hours, to ensure the fever does not wreck any further havoc on your body.”

He scoffed with an annoyed snort, “Four hours? I’ll hardly sleep with my skull beating away at itself. I think not.”

“Your—“

“Am I a mewling babe or a King? I trudged through mud and gore older than you on the Trident. You’ve done your work maester and you’ve done it well. Bugger off, now.” He watched as Pycelle stammered his apologies and waddled off, the smell of soiled juices from prior finally reaching the realms of the antechamber. Carefully, he adorned his silk tunic, cursing as it even lightly brushed against the dressed wounds, his cloak and made of fine velvet, coloured a deep indigo with speckles of golden antlers running downward. He had tossed his crown aside long before in the bedchambers as the whores came sprawling for his flesh, leaving it to soak in the bile.

“Lead the way,” Robert commanded to Ser Barristan, trailing along slowly without half a care or idea to where in the castle they were, knocking the side of his closed fist into his forehead roughly, the pain refusing to subside. Gods be good, Robert cursed. Will this headache be the death of me? It was persistent, drumming away at the walls of his skull like raging waves do castle walls. It throbbed and crashed and roared, all with a terrible fury that dragged him to the pale grey stones of Storm’s End, stones turned black in the swirling of midnight rains. Storm’s End, a hulking mess of stone and shit. What was there for him? He dreaded those visits. Better he not return for many a year more. It was his brothers’, and he had not seen Renly in years. Let Renly have it, what good is Storm’s End? Let him have the rage that sweltered upon the sky and darkened the land with harsh rains. Let him have the swirling waves of Shipbreaker Bay and the winds that clamoured against the castle. What was there to be proud of? What was there to cherish? Let him have it. Let him have it and let me never step foot there again.

And the red walls of the Keep quickly turned pale, white and pristine and shining with the flurry of old familiar friends. He swore he could hear the wind whipping at his toes. The falcons soaring high above, the High Hall and its speckled and veined walls where mischief had run amok, the mules and goats and the men of the mountains who bore steel and against his hammer and plate. The Red Keep was a sickening maze of blood and bronze, and even a decade passed he hated the hues of its colour. It was not the Eyrie, sprawled across the peaks of the world, no. There, he would find Jon Arryn, free of the brooch that weighed his oldest friend down beneath the marble. Where the man could laugh and sing and enjoy a cup of wine without the grey, the sunken tiredness that wracked his eyes and turned his words sour and free of fun. A place where Robert could find Ned Stark, quiet and honest and perhaps too sullen for Robert’s liking, but funnier and kinder than a man would expect of a wolf.

Robert laughed weakly, bitterly, the poppy seeping in, his feet numb and gliding behind Ser Barristan with a miracle, somehow never falling fast down spiralling steps and long walkways. He could hear the rustling of the Godswood below. It made him think of Ned Stark, kneeling and mumbling some silent prayer upon a weirwood a hundred leagues from home. Ned Stark, he grumbled. Ned Stark! His mind screamed. Dozens of letters sent in eager earnest, dozens of letters returned with silence. Ned Stark, who had named Robert brother at arms and brothers without blood. He should be here, by my side, ruling this city as we were destined to do. But Ned had long forgone the stink of King’s Landing, Lyanna’s bones in hand, a disgust and disquiet upon his face, defeat within his eyes, despite the shadow of victory upon the sacked city.

“It is this way to the sept, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan called, three hallways sat before him. “It is not far to the Trident, Robert,” Ned had said, three forks across the horizon. Even here, whisking through the outer ramparts of Maegor’s Holdfast, past the Serpentine Steps and high above the lower bailey, he could taste the fog that rose from the winter air. He could feel the fire, and the men all littered around it, counting each single minute, wondering whether death would show his many faces on the morrow. Across the camp, Ned’s question remained, drink and small smiles in tow. “What type of King shall you be?” And when Robert had answered, an answer lost to him now, they had laughed and sang and wept for all they lost, so when the sun did come, all that was left would be their rage, and his fury.

When the storm washed against the beaten stone of Pyke, Robert had cheered and gloated and gleamed, eager to crush a fool beneath his steel and reunite with brothers long lost. And what a brother Ned had become, bearing blood across his armour and a sword as sharp as the Warrior’s fantasy. The Demon of Pyke, and beside him, his beast of judgement, fangs long and dripping, Balon Greyjoy’s body a tangled mess of blood and bone and spare flesh. Robert had clapped and jeered and taken the entire encampment to celebration. Yet the Stark lord did not join them, red-faced and red-run with rage, an ageless anger in his tone and a implacable betrayal in his stare. Robert had met Ned’s fury with his own to no avail and without victory, for when the tourneys and feasts and celebrations died, it was Ned Stark’s words that had been branded upon Robert’s skin.

He could almost tear his hair out. “Your Grace?” asked Ser Barristan, his armour as blinding as the fading summer sun, the Red Keep glowing at its peaks, darkened at its base. The castle sept was only a few dozen feet away, his muscles slowly crumbling with each step. He wanted to feel the wind flow through his hair and brush against the mane of the stallion beneath him. He wanted to cross swords with Ned Stark and dream of a woman beyond the reaches of living. But he could not find that solace in this bloody city, in this damnable castle. Robert could feel the Iron Throne watch him, even through thick castle walls, even past fields and across rivers. Its grotesque misshapen form, cackling, every blade taunting him. Many a king had sat upon it. Madmen and tyrants and butchers and murderers, fools and fiends. “What type of King shall you be?” was the old question. A coward, Ned had answered. One who turned a blind eye to every madman and tyrant, to every butcher and murderer, to every fool and fiend that run amok as his kingdom crumbled.

He could hardly understand the man’s words. He could hardly fathom the man’s rage, this sullen northern fool who had never once seen him in a half-decade. But it mattered little, for somewhere beneath the cups and the feasts and the warm grip of a woman’s cunt that Robert loathed and lusted with equal fervour, there was truth. Damn him, Robert wished to scream. Damn you, Ned Stark, for always being right, for always being true. For every little sin tallied up, the northman holding not a single word back. “They were babes!” Ned had screamed, the Targaryen girl wet in his eyes, her squashed guts that spewed from a hole in her chest heavy in hands. Half a hundred times they had stabbed her. “Butchered!” cried Ned. And he remembered her eyes, once so purple, a lifeless rotting grey, still open. And her nightdress, drowned in blood, hidden by the crimson cloak that wrapped her broken body.

“She committed no less crime for being born than Mya!” Ned had bellowed, his beast growling with him. Mya, Mya, Mya. Black of hair and loved and left by a father black of heart. “Will you catch me, papa?” The girl had asked. With her toothy smile and bright blue eyes. “Always, Mya.” He had said. “I will never let you fall.” But he had. She had fallen far from his hearth, trapped in the corners of his boyhood, buried atop his father’s rotting corpse in Shipbreaker Bay, hand in hand with his mother.

The castle sept stood before him, taller than towers with the doors barred shut, unwavering and unyielding and unable to allow him entry. But Robert supposed it mattered little, he could hardly even see in front of him, hardly even breathe. He never felt his head crash against the stone floor, nor hear the cries of Ser Barristan diving over. He only felt the cold and the darkness and the faint laugh of a girl’s laughter.

Chapter Text

“No, no! Too warm!” Lysa grumbled, slapping at the maid’s arm, a tin bucket of water in hand, full and dribbling onto the floors. The woman nodded clumsily, rushing off, Lysa groaning loudly from her deep leather chair, one hand resting on her forehead and the other upon the thick bump of her stomach. Her kirtle was long and hiked up to her calves, her falcon-embroidered mantle tossed away to the floors, girdle emblazoned in tiny little gems broken on the floors.

“Gods be good, where do you find these women!” She whined, face scrunched and wet and nauseous. Jon stammered with an awkwardly crooked smile, but said nothing more. Lysa’s temperament was vicious, swinging back and forth from a terrible paranoia mixed with sorrow, to a mirthless rage targeted at any who even dared to glance her way. And for the maids and stewards and servants and even cooks, such was the nightly ordeal.

Jon tapped at his knees, slightly sore, with trepidation. Lysa… Lysa’s previous pregnancies had been similar. “Healthy,” the Grand Maester had claimed, “Without issue,” Maester Colemon had echoed. The same assurances once again that inspired less and less confidence with each passing moon.

The Mother rebukes such thoughts. Do not bring bad omens in this place. Jon had carved seven statues and placed them in seven locations across the Tower of the Hand, each blessed by the septons and the septas. He held one of them now, the Father, with his balance of scales crafted of wood and wax but heavier than stone and steel, the feast of his visage only a day away.

His lady wife was intent that this one would be a boy, a son, an heir, intent that this one would live, breathe, perhaps even laugh longer than the last.

A shrill screech cut through the air, old and obnoxious and from a large gyrfalcon sat across the chamber. It put a faint smile to Jon’s lips, but a horrid curse to his wife’s. “Shut that thing up! I’ve not an inkling to why you insist on keeping him here,” she said sharply.

The old falcon seemed to share a mutual discontent, displaying his ash-white wings wide with warning. Jon leapt to the ironwood perch where the falcon sat, glad to have something to do. He brushed his finger gently against the blotches of black and grey that mottled the falcon’s body, his hooked dark beak caught in an amusing snarl.

Alester, an old gift, with beady eyes opaque and clouded, with hearing and wit still sharp enough know a threat, yet too blind to see it. he was a fond thing, a familiar thing, far beyond his years. He had been a chick in the year of his father’s death, gifted in grief and destined for discourtesy. It was always difficult to rouse him from the mews without Jon, a humour he silently enjoyed.

The maid returned soon after, her bucket filled with freezing waters, little sprays of herbs and horsetail soaking within. Lysa scoffed, “Better! Cold water, cold water for the ankles. Do they teach you anything?” Jon smiled at her gently as she massaged Lysa’s swollen ankles.

In a moon’s time, Lysa would enter the maester’s chambers and do her duty. And if the gods were kind, Jon would see the child grow to a fine man, one that could lay the old Hand to the crypt with a strong hand and a safe legacy. He had long forgone any words of comfort or reassurance, for Lysa seemed to think his tongue either poisoned, cursed or simply grating.

But still, he wished this child healthy so his wife may breathe easier, without the cloud of sorrow that sunk her eyes and her frown. For when the vigils were commanded and the children entombed, she had wept and raged and strewn her sorrow upon the marble floors of the Keep, her nails cracking against wood and her eyes distant and gaunt as she lay still and forlorn on featherbeds for days unending. And Jon had consoled her as much as a man could a grieving mother, and he had raged and wept himself in dark lit hours of night.

But under the light of the Seven was peace, and acceptance. The text say that the attendants of the Seven litter the silver halls of the Sixth Heaven, with great gilded trumpets that deliver the souls of the unborn into the wombs of maidens.

But in those days where the only gifts his children had earned in their nameday was a shroud, Jon had held Lysa tightly, her eyes tearing endlessly as her hands sunk into her stomach, clutching a deflated pain. He had told her that their children would reside in the Heavens waiting for their parent’s arrival, and that perhaps the world was too unkind and unseemly for children conceived in such beauty. His lady wife had not liked that, choosing to spend her grief alone and bar him from her chambers.

The doors flew open with a crack, cold summer winds crashing in. Lysa shrieked, ready to attack whichever intruder had flown all the way to the Hand’s chambers after the sun had fallen. But the intruder was but a boy, the maester’s attendant, face blotched with pimples and a Kingsguard in tow, short and out of breath. 

“Corwyn?” Jon asked, shivering slightly. Ser Boros Blount, too? The boy looked as if he might collapse, the knight’s hand holding him steady.

“It’s— it’s the King, m’lord. He— you best come now. The Grand Maester urges it so,” Corwyn sputtered and spit.

The King? Robert, gods. What has happened? Jon sprinted from the rooms almost possessed, only mumbled words for Lysa as they flew through corridors and down steps and through halls and under ceilings and across ramparts. The King? Jon asked his questions, frantically, fervently. “Is he dead?” was the first, his breathe almost stolen from him in the short seconds of waiting. “No,” they said. No, Jon thanked, but the worry soon returned, with little answers from the pink-faced serving boy who no doubt knew nothing, and the silent Kingsguard who could share even less.

They came to a dead stop outside the Maester’s quarter, the Grand Maester and Ser Barristan silent, shrouded in such a darkness that even the faint torchlight between them could not turn Ser Barristan’s cloak white. His heart was in a flurry, beating and beating and beating to the rhythm of the Stranger’s tune, breathes shallow as he held the doublet tightly.

“Ser Barristan,” he said, breathing deeply, “Grand Maester,” he said as he exhaled loudly, “At this hour… tell me. Plainly, please.”

Hunched and hoarse, Pycelle wobbled closer to an arched doorway, shut tight, “A most grievous incident, my Lord Hand. His Grace had fell outside the castle sept.”

He stepped back, only a foot, “Fell?” Jon asked incredulously. Did I hear the man correctly?

“Y-yes, my lord. Not an hours past.”

Jon shook his head frowning. Fell? “Who was charged to guard the King?”

“I, my lord,” the old knight said, swallowing deeply, but with his head bowed in shame.

Jon shook his head like a damned fool, straining his eyes so hard he saw flashed, “Ser Barristan the Bold… and yet the King fell? Not down the Serpentine Steps but a simple walkway? Do the Kingsguard serve only to watch the King or protect him?” Jon almost believed it to be a dream. Was he not with Lysa but a moment ago?

The Grand Maester chimed in quickly, “This was not… long after I had, attended to the King myself at the behest of Ser Barristan. His wounds had opened, most unfortunately… some infected. I cleaned them, applied the relevant remedies and poultice, of course, and recommended rest. I beseeched this to His Grace, truly. But he thought it more prudent to… uh, pray.”

Pray? Jon stained his wrists with the sweat upon his brow, “And before this? The King was?”

“In his quarters, my lord. He woke late, and remained… uh, occupied until the sun began to wean. Then he requested the remainder of the feast and wine. His chambers…” Ser Barristan said, lips awkwardly tight.

“Stained, my Lord Hand. With bile, blood and shattered glass. I  cannot say what compelled the King to such rage,” Pycelle answered.

Women and wine, it came at little surprise. “How much?” Jon asked.

“Four flagons. At the very least.”

He snorted with a riveting astonishment that tasted bitter, “four flagons. Enough to drown a man,” Jon said flatly, “A Grand Maester and a Kingsguard allowed the King to gorge himself to a puddle of his own making, and simply watched as he walked the length of the castle in a drunken delirium…”

“My lord, please—“

Jon sighed, waving his hand at the knight. Robert is his own creature. I can hardly compel the man myself. “It is alright, ser. Forgive my… brashness. The night has been long, trying, and I did not expect… this. Please, relieve yourself for the night and place no blame upon your shoulders. Robert, he,” Jon paused, biting his lip hard, “the King is… the King,” he said simply, watching as the old knight trudged away, shoulders sagged and gaze heavy.

“Will— will he live?” He dared to ask the maester, fiddling with his long chains as he answers slowly.

Pycelle nodded gravely, “Yes, yes. He will. But it will not be without great challenge. Nor time.”

“Such is the case with His Grace,” Jon mumbled.

“Yes. I have administered dreamwine, with no small amount of poppy. After he wakes, I will conduct a more thorough examination. Likely consult the Citadel for.. uh, methods to mitigate any further harm to His Grace.” Jon Arryn threw Pycelle a queer look, “Many, many men consume themselves to the grave, my lord. Many… most, do not even realise it has occurred. The twinge of yellow in the eye, the stomach bulging as hard as steel, shallow breathes and aching pains. Even the throne’s own little malices. Yes, yes, I have seen it before. More than a man would hope to in his life. And I am long lived, my lord, yes.”

“Hmm. Yes, as am I,” he gestured to the doors, “May I?”

“Oh, yes, of course, my lord. It will take a great thunder to rouse him now.”

“Perhaps that is for the better. For now, Grand Maester, delay news of the King’s illness. I will… inform the council and the court in due time. When my senses return to me.” Jon rubbed the top his head clean, removing his cloak as he begun to sweat profusely, body unbearably warm.

“Of course, my Lord Hand. The haze of dark words… none shall blame you.” None shall blame you, the maester says. None shall blame you. Jon shook his head. If the King were to bleed, is it not the Hand who holds the blade?

The maester’s infirmary was large, but made only for the Royal need. Lit only by a burning fireplace, with shuttered moonlight creeping in small streams. When he ripped the curtains away from a great canopy bed, Jon’s face twitched and his thinning grey hair turned a shader whiter.

Robert lay prone, his breathing deep and heavy, each breath a lone echo in a silent room. His sheets were sweat-soaked and stained, his damp beard trimmed, combed and washed by the maester’s attendants. His arms were wrapped by patches of bandages, stained by ointments and the lightest seeping of blood, tunic loose and open, the forest of hair upon his bulging chest and belly buried beneath wrappings.

Jon covered his mouth, falling into the seats behind him. His breathing quickly fell into a trying rhythm, eyes shut and hands gripping the edges of the seat, tears threatening. In and out, in and out, he simmered for a half hour, the air pungent, Robert’s sickness strong and seeping.

As a boy, Robert had been an eager one, energetic and ecstatic to venture into a new realm. Jon had almost sent him back to Storm’s End, disbelieving that a man over sixty could manage such a boisterous child. But Eddard had seen that role for him, he supposed. A temperer for Robert’s tempers and Jon’s age. Two boys, two men, he was glad to call sons. For he had never known any other.

“Two sons, Lysa lost. Two sons, I mourned,” he whispered, gently, toying with cloak between his hands, eyes closed. Even… even the ones who died without hair, without ever peeking their eyes open, even the slightest bit. Even the ones my heart could not bear to even name.

“They were tiny things…” Hardly any bigger than his hand. Jon wondered if his wishes were a curse. To call a son Arryn, as his father and mother always wished. To call a man son, as any father ever did. 

Robert’s breathing was consistent, and Jon wondered what the man dreamed of. Beside him, it felt like a confession. Let the Father be kind, the Mother merciful. 

His little children had hardly been any bigger than his hand. Beside Robert’s shadow, the air felt like a confession. 

Jon smiled, longingly, full of sorrow. What are poor teacher I am. Was this the sum of my lessons? One son ventured beyond to a dangerous realm with little word, only whispers that bring no comfort for his worries. The other…

He sat beside the other until dawn, sleep drifting in and out, the very thought of Robert passing jolting him awake. But soon enough, it is Jon’s name Robert calls, faintly, weakly, pulling Jon from his half-dreamt state to full-attention. Full of rage, he finds.

“Is this not a kingly sight, Jon?” Robert whispered, his hoarse voice lined with a wry humour that dug Jon’s nails into his clenched fists. Robert’s strained snort turns Jon’s vision red, and he fails to calm himself quick enough.

“You would mock my wroth with you, boy?” He seethed. Robert turned away, and Jon’s rage sweltered and stormed, his skin red hot. He had not felt such anger since the Vale, the king’s commands in his hand, Elbert dead on the floors of the throne room.

“You were this close to death, Robert! On a foolish endeavour of a stomach and thirst too large for your eyes and your wits. Of reckless indifference to injuries that I told you… that I warned you would fester and grow infected!” Jon bellowed, “What was I to do if Ser Barristan had found the king dead in a puddle of his own making! Shall I take up the crown myself? Shall I crown your son of five namedays? Or shall I send a letter to Casterly Rock, and hand the damnable thing to Tywin Lannister?”

He stood with a young man’s fury. “You are quick to wear your armour and wield your hammer in times of war, and quicker to bury your head in the sand in matters of ruling! I have allowed you to flaunt your recklessness across the court since Pyke. I have allowed you to taint your tenure with failure after failure in court. And to my shame, I have allowed you to reject the crown that thousands died for, for nothing. Nothing, Robert. The realm is not blind nor deaf. Do you wish for them to say you are the Unworthy come again? I have—“ Jon stopped himself, breathing deeply as Robert watched him, pink-faced and silent.

Calm yourself, you fool. Do you wish for the entire city to hear you? It was unseemly for the Hand to scream at the king like an unruly child. Calm yourself.

“I have, I have, I have,” Jon said, his hand slicing the air with each word, his body growing heavier by the second as he sunk back into the gulping leathers of the chair, his heart pounding, clutching his chest.

“When was the last time I berated you so, Robert? When you had begotten a child on that serving girl in the Eyrie?” Jon shook his head, “You did not care for my words then, shall you care for them now?” Robert’s eyes were dim and empty. 

“I am tired, Robert. I am, tired,” He whispered with a heavy sigh, the Father’s fury lingering in his empty prayers, “If you wish for me to throw myself from the tallest tower of the Keep, then command it of me, so I may rest.” He ripped the iron brooch from his doublet, playing with it, letting it dance between the fingers of his offhand, before clasping it in his closed fist.

Did he mean such words? No. For they were foolish. Words for men who buckled beneath the barest burden of duty.

He stared at the iron brooch, tracing its rough edges. After the Sack, Jon had taken to wearing the clasped necklaces and golden brooches left behind by the many Hands of Aerys. But there was a stench upon those forgotten stations, and no amount of silver nor gold could hide the corruption that infected such old symbols. Yet in the short moons after, Robert had appeared beneath the throne, a small wooden box in tow. The king had been quick to shower the realm and his friends with gifts galore. But for Jon, he had reserved this, an iron pin, simple, sturdy. In in the decade past, it had never rusted. Roughened around the edges, yes. But never broken. Robert had fastened upon his doublet himself, his face serious but confident. And in his growing age, Jon found there was few moments as memorable as that honour, few as cherished.

Robert laughed weakly, blood spitting as he did. “You going to abandon me then, Jon? Go back to home? I shan’t hold it against you.”

He eyed Robert distantly. When the longships had descended upon the Stepstones, he had remained side by side with hundreds of young knights. Steel tore asunder the hearts of men in waves, rusted armour left drowned in the depths of the Narrow Sea. The two-headed monster had called for the rallying of a realm united, and when the dust had settled, squires and men at arms fell to their knees for honour. They had ascended no kings that day, nor earned any penny. Only glory, and fealty. He had learned then, that proof of a man’s providence was blood. The Warrior’s blessing, in heart and hearth. The seal of their devotion.

The iron brooch pricks in Jon’s closed fist, and when he opens it, his palm is bloodied and the pin stained. “When I witnessed you first climb upon the steps of the throne, I swore to ward the King. To unsheathe my arms in times of war, my wisdom in times of peace, and my service in hours of need. I am bound, Robert, by honour, courtesy, and duty, to defend and uphold the realm against all word, deed or force that wishes her harm.” He returned to the pin to his chest, steady, still stained red, “My oath has not rusted since those waning hours of the Sack. It remains true, even if your own has turned brittle.”

At the door, a sudden wave of grief sitting upon his shoulders, not for the man yet still alive, but for the boy long taken by the Stranger’s boat. He turned back to Robert, who still could not meet Jon’s stare. “Rest, Robert. And rest well. We will speak when you are of sound mind, and when I have regained my patience. But I warn you now, a slow death for you, is a slow death for us all.”

If the King cared to hear him, Jon could not tell. “Where are you going?” Robert asked weakly.

“To the sept, Robert. The Feast of the Father has begun, and it is in the Father’s judgement that the realm seeks guidance.” That I… seek guidance. He left, shutting the door quietly without another word nor ear for Robert.

Pycelle stood waiting outside, no doubt drawn by the shouts. “M-my lord?” He asked with a hint of concern.

“Awake, finally,” Jon replied absently, “Do not let him leave, regardless of his commands.” Pycelle nodded deeply, entering the room behind Jon as he stood still, recollecting his thoughts and learning how to use his legs once more.

The walk to the Sept of Baelor was long. The city streets of King’s Landing seemed to grow endlessly in sight. Atop the slopes of the cobbled street of the King’s Way, a man could see the city sprawling for miles in winding webs of mazes, alleys, graveyards and markets, inns, taverns and bakeries, butchers and workshops, smiths and carpenters and tailors all rushing through paved roads and muddied ways.

And beyond that, the sept was a gargantuan thing, like a giant beacon outshined only by the Red Keep itself. A marvel of marble that rose in seven slender crystal towers, glimmering like rainbows, tolling for the sacred day.

But a chasm of guilt followed him in each ring of the Great Sept’s bells. How many prayers had he missed? How many sacrifices had he ignored? I pray the Gods do not punish me.

“What good is faith in a pit of vipers, where deceit is the language of the red halls?” His father had said, never one for the capital, never one for travel. A man sure of his place and life and his security in the heavens. Where the white walled halls of the Eyrie sustained him, until they did not.

The towering doors of the sept were beckoned opened, the masses pooling in and out. Jon drifted aimlessly into the inner hall, cavernous and crawling to a great dome above. Hundreds stood within, wooden pews adorned on each side and gallery, all flowing towards an altar in where the High Septon stood; intricate frescoes and gilded accents above catching rainbow light through hanging crystals and stained glass-windows. Around him stood the granite Seven, watching.

“Lord Hand!” called the High Septon. Even from afar, it was clear the man spared no expense. Too far an expense, Jon thought. He looked venerable. His shoulder-cape grew long, draped onto the floors behind him, split in crimson and white silk, decorated with the hands and tools of the Seven. His chasuble was coloured as white as winter snow with gold strips down the middle, lined in small seven-pointed stars, catching shadows on their raised edges. A larger star sat above his abdomen, the silent faces of the Seven watching within. The rest of his garb was littered in random blotches of rainbow stars, fighting for space, but shining in bursts of sapphire, ruby, emerald, onyx and sunflower silks.

Behind him, a small shadowed septa followed meekly, almost entirely consumed by the growing girth of the High Septon’s waist that threatened to ply his vestments open.

“Your High Holiness, Septa Arielle,” Jon called. The larger man’s hands were sweaty and warm in greeting, adorned with a large ring that glowed with the bouncing fires of the hall, thick and heavy and gold. It wore the face of the Father Above, eyes closed with a crest of stars shooting from his chest. His crystal crown was cut clean, sculpted with refractions of rippling rainbow light, the peaks of the seven-points like little blinding stars. And yet even at its tallest peak, it sat beneath Jon’s chin.

“I am not too late, I hope?”

The High Septon gave a belly laugh, spitting slightly, “Not at all! Come, come. I shall reserve a place for you at the front. Though, in truth, I expected to see you in the Keep’s ceremony.”

“I felt my place was here. In this sept… I am sure you can understand.”

“Ah, of course!”

The High Septon came close, hushed, snarling almost, “Before we begin, my lord. Forgive my insistence. A matter of grave importance has been brought forth, and I feel… that there is no better time to let our thoughts dwell on this… obscenity, than our most honourable feast.”

A grave matter. The gods surely enjoyed their little jests. “Of course, Your High Holiness, speak freely.”

“I had heard directly from the good septons and septas of this hall, that is, of a foreign witch, a priestess, no less! That cavorts in the streets with great malice. Naturally, I could not allow this… attack on our Faith, this denouncement of our Gods, so plainly blasphemed, to be left unchallenged.“ The High Septon enunciated each word, hands waving up and about in clenched fists, like commanding a poor man’s choir opposed to speaking to a Hand.

“And you saw these crimes?” Jon asked quizzically.

“Oh, yes! Showering peasants in foods wrought with disease, while brewing strange medicines and magics to heal rapid illnesses. I am no fool to her foul arts in the dark of night. These eastern folk, using debauchery to pervert our streets with her heresy. It is beyond outrageous! The Mother, by the Seven, the Maiden, would wail at these trespasses committed in the vision of their visage!” The High Septon spit venomously, but quiet enough to be unheard from the crowd. “She is no better than a whore. Worse even, for even whores know to commit their sins within the confines of their craft.” 

Septa Arielle shuffled uncomfortably behind the large man, her head bowed, but cheeks crimson even in shadow. Her bodice was simple, plain; the standard for septas. But tighter around the waist, her figure ample. 

“Hm. I hear your words plainly, Your High Holiness. Worry not, I will see that it is sorted quickly.”

“As long as you… and, uh, the King, of course… are aware.” Jon Arryn eyed the man, not knowing if his frustration was with the man himself or simply the day’s events. Words and whispers and rumours were aplenty in court. Great monstrous direwolves and sickly daughters and an old man’s childless sorrow. They rose and crashed and withered like waves. But the Fat Septon remained the court’s mascot of ridicule. His demands and complaints were many and his promises worth little, brazen with the honours gifted upon him.

Jon would investigate this priestess, yes. The Red Faith was known to him briefly through Thoros of Myr. But he was no fool, and despite the shame and guilt that it brought upon him, he doubted the High Septon’s worries were of any great concern.

Here, he could only see Robert coughing, wheezing, bleeding in every stare of the Seven he sought.

The first row was littered with lords and ladies and rich merchants, many of which Jon knew. Master Appleton, Lord Estermont, the young Master Baelish, Ser Davos, Lord Rogers, and… Prince Oberyn Martell, whose gaze locked with his sooner than Jon’s could escape; sharp shrewd eyes, his tongue edged like a Valyrian spear.

“Lord Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King,” Prince Oberyn waltzed to him slowly, a sly grin plain across his face. “May I?” he asked, gesturing to the empty place beside Jon, sitting before he could even answer.

“Prince Oberyn,” he nodded, lips tight gaze elsewhere.

The Dornishman leaned forward, turning his head to invade Jon’s vision, “Such a lovely place. Sitting within it… I understand why men are driven here to reflect,” the Viper’s tongue is sweet, and almost genuine. “The gods must be great to have such shrines dedicated to them.” Prince Oberyn leaned back, staring at each of the Seven altars. He was as slender and fit as Jon remembered, his hair slick and tied back, draped in chainmail and copper disks. Poorly blended, Jon found. But it made him no less fierce, and no less challenging. For Prince Oberyn was a bloodthirsty man. An unpredictable, bloodthirsty man.

“Have you come for the Fast of the Father’s prayer, then?” Jon gave a strained smile.

The Dornishman seemed amused at Jon’s visible discomfort. “I did. I have never attended such a… holy event before. Is it as exciting as they say?”

“Not the word I would use, but… yes. Something along those lines.”

The Dornishman smiled, “Of course.” Slowly, the attendants made their way to each row, passing along small candles to be lit in prayer after the High Septon’s blessing. Prince Oberyn took a handful, passing one along to Jon, before looking at him strangely, and passing another.

The prince’s own hands were filled. “One for each of my daughters,” he said, and Jon knows it to be a true, for a father’s love cannot be imitated, “In the capital, it is the Stranger a man must pray to first, no? To shield oneself. In Dorne, it is not so morbid. It is not even the Father, that a man must dedicate his fast. Did you know this?”

Unpredictable, yes. This is was certainly the Viper of Dorne. “Vaguely. It is the Mother you celebrate I believe. An old tradition?”

“Some say it is the oldest there is. The Mother, Maiden and Crone, one of the Seven-Who-Are-Three. To tie us to the water and roots of the Rhoynar, I suppose. My daughter, Sarella, is fond of these stories.” He smiled to himself, lost in a memory. One that quickly turned grim, the edge in the man’s eye leaving Jon guarded. “The Mother is fiercest of the Seven. Merciful, yes. Beautiful, most certainly. But dangerous,” and the Viper snaked forward, slowly, “It is a great sin to come between the Mother and her children. To tear this bond… the greatest affront to the Gods. All there is left for the sinner to do is pray. For the Stranger will not be the first to visit him.” His smiles’ wrinkles were lined in careful threats. No, promises, from the way the man spoke. Jon Arryn matched his word with a stare and a curt nod. 

“I come before you, on the precipice of the days of the fast, before the Great Feast of you, our Holy Father,” The High Septon called, the septons stood at every dozen row repeating the same, “I pray that your holy name be honoured above all…” His words seemed to drown away as he droned on, Jon Arryn’s silent prayers feeling wrong, feeling misplaced without he guidance of the Seven to lead him.

Soon enough, the crowd thinned to the few still seeking the greatest penance, the sept darker, quieter, figures silently moving to each altar, hundreds of candles lit beneath each of their feet.

In the centre, seven stone basins were erected upon a central altar, glittering beneath rose, gold and pale blue streams of light from the dome of glass above. When a man must pray beneath the feet of the Seven, he must dip his fingers into the cool waters, marking his forehead as to invoke the right of purity needed to step into the halls of divinity.

For it is said that when a man dies, his soul sits in a sea of judgement, where he must present his seven rejoices, each held in seven bowls, chosen and filled by the deeds of his acts of living.

Jon’s fingers lightly hovered above the basin. He had once caught his father dipping his fingers silently into the wooden pools of the Eyrie’s sept. Gods, it was an old memory. He been barely a boy of five-namedays, pulling at his father’s long beard. A stern man. An honourable man. One Jon often felt he was only a pale imitation of. But he was a kind man, also. Yes. That he could say about his father.

And so he comes before the first great altar, the silent sisters watch him intently, ragged cloths wiping the Stranger clean. Dignity for the Stranger, so a man may be dignified in death. “Seven blessings,” he remarked. And so the sisters smile, and leave him to his prayer.

His fingers dipped into the first bowl, the one you must present to the Stranger. It is only in this moment where a man may gaze upon the eyes of the Stranger, flashing and fierce and feverish, but forever concealed beneath the shadow of an endless hood. Jon lit seven candles beneath the Stranger’s marbled black visage, never daring look up. For it is upon Their dreary coast and sordid hands that you must give thanks, as it is the Stranger, with a heart of a burning hollow furnace, foul with wroth and steaming, screaming attire, who ferry your soul across the sea of between, Their long paddle crafted of bone and flesh. “But you must never test the Stranger’s patience, nor Their wit, for the sea of the Stranger is harsh, and Hells lie beneath them,” his father would say, and so Jon gives his thanks for the Stranger’s absence, snuffing out each candle, as not to light the ferryman’s way.

A woman came forth, belly swollen and heavy. “What do you wish the Crone show us, good ser?” Guidance, for though my vision is strong, I am oft blind. Yet it is “Wisdom,” he said aloud, “for the young, so that they may never lose their way.” And so the woman blushed, making her wish beneath the wise one.

So come the second bowl, which you must hand to the Crone, and tread upon the waning moon within Her holy eyes. For the waters of your bowl are lit by the constellations and wanderers held within the Crone’s hand, and in the halls of the wizened one, it is She who guides your light through the mist of the Second Heaven. Jon sat beneath the stone sandals of her visage, her candles large and brighter than any other, to ensure a man may never lose the path. “The far-reaching one, the all-seeing one,” his mother would say, so it is before the feet of the Crone, with Her lamp lit to illuminate the wrinkle of her age, that Jon prayed for wisdom, and the foresight to hold a King’s crown within his hand.

The High Septon walked towards him, hands wrapped around his belly. “The Maid’s smile is a truly pretty sight. I cannot imagine a greater thing than that.” He said. Love, for even the oldest of men fear a lonely touch, Jon laments. “What of love? For the kindest beauties of the world, as none are more deserving of warmth,” he remarked. And so the High Septon chuckled, and made his leave.

In the hand of the Maiden’s light did Jon find the third bowl, Her other holding the waxing moon. For it is the Maiden, the mistress of love and beauty, whose words a man must follow, but skirts he must never desire. For the Maid’s hand is promised only in the starlight of a woman’s love, and a wife’s promise. Jon’s eyes shut tightly, and it is beneath the loving gaze of the Maiden does he send a prayer for Lysa’s safety. “The Maiden walks in in forests of oak and pear, of fields of myrtle and white lilies, and of streams of bird’s song and water’s gift,” his mother had sung, and so he lit each candle with a prayer for the children lost to the womb, and the safety of the children yet to be sent.

A stonemason knelt before a statue, hands bruised and calloused. “What wisdom can the Smith impart on us, my lord?” He asked Jon. The path to rest, and a dreamless sleep, Jon thought. “He is the guide for all our labours, unending that they are,” Jon said instead. And so the stonemason nodded, thankful and determined.

It is then he found the fourth bowl, beholden to the Smith, as it is in the deeds of the water that He gain replenishment for His labour. And so in the mountain valleys of the Fourth Heaven, the hammer of the Smith does carve the lands, His chisel the tallest peaks, His hoe the rivers and streams and soils of life, His axe the forests and woods, and His brush, the colours and beauty of a golden world and a golden heaven. It is in his hands does Jon feel the weight of work, for an iron pin is oft heavier than any iron hammer. “The Smith does teach us the paths of hammer and measure, by anvil and spark, by carve and craft,” his father had taught him, and so it is before the tool of the Smith where Jon prayed for strength, and the skill to mend a fractured realm, and a fractured son.

A knight stood steely beneath a shadow, his helm in his hands. “What help can the Warrior give us, my lord?” He asked, searching in desperation. A quiet armoury, and a quiet realm, Jon hoped. Though, it is “Courage,” he said, “In our hands and our steel.” And so the knight bowed, inspired by his answer.

And so came the fifth bowl that runs thicker than the rest, as blood is the seal of the Warrior’s devotion. For it is in the razed fields of a war’s trail, in the burned villages and red run rivers, does the Warrior find His craft, as the Fifth Heaven is one of renewal. Of corn replanted, of soil sown, and wounds healed. The crowning glory of the Warrior’s oath is a garden, where His compassion and protection is the only sustenance. And so Jon lit a candle for every war he had fought and lived, gratitude in strength, and in courage. “Bloody, bruised knuckles are of little worth. For what good comes from a perished flower? What true warrior does not desire peace?” His father had asked, and so he prayed beneath the bastard sword of the stone Warrior for a lesson, and patience, for a rebel King’s lust for battle in the brevity of quiet.

A septon approached now, hands holding a closed Seven Pointed Star. “The Mother is merciful. What will you find in her embrace?” He asked. The pink-swelled cheeks of a healthy babe, Jon wished. Instead, it is “Safety,” he said, “And a fruitful harvest.” And so the septon gave his thanks, bowing deeply.

There he found the sixth bowl, sitting in the palm of the Mother, her eyes swirling with the glint of a full moon. As it is the cycle of the Sixth Heaven where a daughter may find hearth, and a son may find shield. For it is the Mother’s love, and the Mother’s home, that all children, young or old, must return. A home of bountiful gift for the wise and the foolish, for the storytellers and the minstrels, for the hallowed souls in search of warmth, and the babes sucked at a mother’s breast. And so Jon lit seven candles in gentle solace, in search of a mother’s hand to guide his wife through the fray and fury. “For the Mother’s heaven is endless fields of harvest, where a child’s laughter knows no bound, and the eternal sunrise bears all shades of loving,” his own mother had gently whispered. So it is in prayers and promises did he find his desire, of safety for Lysa’s swelling womb and swelling sorrows, and his own swelling yearn to share his children’s laugh in fields of morrow.

A septa sat in tears, eyes stained and puffy. “What do you seek in the Father’s judgement?” The septa asked, her head bowed. Absolution for an old man, too afraid for confession, Jon mused. “Guidance,” yet he said, “As all wise and honest folk must.” And so the septa nodded, pleased with his answer.

And so he reached the final bowl, owed to the Father. Jon’s hands lingered above the waters for a time, as it is the Father’s heaven which all men desire. For a man may feast and love and laugh forever in the gilded halls of light of the Seventh Heaven. A place where judgement is but a passing thing of the mortal realm, where beams of starlight enveloped the soul, dotted stars adorned in endless trees and branches of the Father’s divine love. Jon lit each candle, slowly, reluctantly, the walls of his surety crumbling with each flickering flame. “What man does not desire paradise? What soul does not yearn for eternity?” His father had asked him. But am I deserving of paradise? Have I bled enough? And yet he remembered, that it is not blood that seals a father’s place. “Take upon yourself the Father’s honour, and be just, so that the Father may be just upon you,” his mother had echoed in many a lesson. And so Jon gave his prayer, and promises to atone. To right the wrongs as best he could. To build a better realm, and sculpt a better King, even if the crown must lay upon the same man’s head.

Chapter Text

“Not a cloud in sight,” Madam Lyria murmured, heels loud against the cobbles of the street. The city sprawled like a cascading mountain, streaming down from the pristine and spired white walls of the Upper Gardens to the coloured buildings, villas and many manses of the Ivory Ring, flowing aqueducts cutting through and above. Beneath the summer sun, every corner was painted blotches of yellow, gold and orange.

Today was the market day! Daenerys thought gleefully, for the General of the city would return by nightfall, the merchants and sellers and hagglers all alive and ready to sell their wares and their goods to a city of more than a quarter million.

From here, she could see the Merchant’s District breathe, even smell its sweet foods.

The Madam only shook her head in amusement. “How many mazdōna shall we buy today?”

“Too many!” Daenerys replied, squealing as the square came into sight. It was her favourite pastry sweet, and she never ignored any opportunity to venture into the city and buy a dozen too many. Even Viserys enjoyed them, in secret however, for he would never ask for his own share, but was hardly reluctant when she brought them anyway. Daenerys felt a little tinge of sadness, wishing Viserys would have joined them. But her brother enjoyed his books and his business and barely spent a moment to explore the city in earnest.

“You are impatient today, aren’t you little one,” the Madam remarked with a crooked smile.

Daenerys huffed, “They will all be gone by the time we get there! I wish we had a carriage.”

“And who shall pull it for us? Better those young legs of yours work, little Naerys, lest you forget how to use them.” She somehow huffed even more, feeling strange to hear the name Naerys once more, but saying nothing of it.

“Come, give me your hand.” The Madam must have quickly regretted the offer, for Daenerys sprung to life with a young girl’s fervour, pulling her through large crowds, jumping over stray feet and sidestepping tomcats, all the way to the edge of the white market square. There, bakers setup shop upon a large cart carriage, so large you would need ten men to even dream of wheeling it. There were no signs, for every spare compartment and inch of space was stacked with half-a-hundred different pastries, breads, sourdoughs, cakes, biscuits and puddings.

She groaned. The line was too long! After an agonising hour — though, Madam Lyria swore it was scarcely ten minutes — she’d reached the front of the cart, the line no shorter than when she’d started, but behind her at last. Beside a wide bench in the wheeled-kitchen, Daenerys could see three burly men serve customers beside her, all wearing thick twirled moustaches and shiny bald heads the same colour as their aprons.

Daenerys frowned. The baker, the main one that is, was a thin man with a large white hat called Cha Han. He was from Yi-Ti, Madam Lyria had said, with his shrill voice and strange accent and thin eyes and wide smile. He’d always have a spare treat for Daenerys, taking his time to serve her separately with no care for the crowds behind her. Today was no different, but it was not Cha Han who served her, nor any of the three moustached men. Today, at the edge of the cart carriage, leaning against a wooden beam was a strange looking man, with long shiny hair, straight as a needle, but coloured white on one half and deep red the other. His nose was strong and his skin was tanned. But his eyes were full of mirth, sweet and steely and odd.

“Go on, dear,” Madam Lyria urged her.

“Sweet girl,” he said, “How can this man serve you today?” She opened her mouth but the words would not come. Why was he talking like that? He seemed to understand her confusion, leaning forward over the cart with a grin.

Madam Lyria spoke for her, “It is a busy day, too busy it seems for my dearest. Stolen the words right from her tongue,” she snorted, pinching at Daenerys’ cheek, “Two ludōna, fresh. Four mazdōna on the side and another two dozen to be sent to the Lady Mellario’s manse, on the second floor of the city. You know the place?”

He nodded, throwing a quick glance toward Daenerys, “This man does, I will take but a moment.” Daenerys counted every second until he returned, her stomach’s ire growing greater each second.

A loud bell rung with his return, two tin dishes on his palm and wrist, cream cloths beneath them. He handed them to Daenerys’ hungry hands, ringing another bell and winking at her as they shuffled to a small table behind the cart carriage.

And the ludōna was warm, Daenerys thought gleefully. Circular and golden, it was an ancient dish said to have been made in the days of the Old Rhoyne; layered of thin buttered dough and white cheeses, topped with baked pistachios and a sweet syrup soaked in rose water and sugar.

Madam Lyria enjoyed her own, but smacked Daenerys playfully to stop her from choking it down in under a minute. “Enjoy it,” she said pointedly. Daenerys stuck her tongue out, blushing when she realised she’d yet to swallow her last bite.

When they’d finally finished, the strange man returned, free of his apron, but holding a small cloth that covered four small desserts.

“The rest, lovely girl.” Daenerys accepted them hesitantly, Madam Lyria thanking him on their behalf.

She bit her tongue, “Where is Cha Han?”

The man collected their empty dishes, shrugging, “A baker’s mother grew sick. The city of Jinqui called a man home. This man serves in his place.”

“What’s your name?”

He smiled cheekily, his hand over his chest, “Name? A man has many names. Each day he may take another.”

What? Daenerys didn’t understand, and Madam Lyria only watched curiously, “What about today?”

“Today this man’s name is the baker. And what of a lovely girl? What name does she wear today?”

My name. She frowned. Daenerys, she thought. “Naerys,” she said, “Why do you talk funny?” The question comes with little thought.

“Naerys, that is hardly a polite question.” Madam Lyria interrupted, breaking the dessert into half pieces. It was another layered Rhoynish treat, made of a special dough and many different nuts, buttered with sugar and a cinnamon syrup, baked until crispy. Daenerys eyed the mazdōna, but clung to her courtesies as the man continued.

He bowed faintly, “A man takes no offence. In the Free City of Lorath, all men and women speak as a man does. If the lovely Naerys were born there, a girl would know.”

“Sorry,” she replied abashed.

He waved away her concerns, “A man is happy to teach. Where did a girl grow, if not the cities of Volantis?”

“Tyrosh,” Madam Lyria answered, her voice calm, but careful. Daenerys smiled politely and nodded. She could hardly remember Tyrosh, recalling the days upon the ocean and Viserys’ endless complaints more than the city itself. Its walls had been painted a glittering orange by the setting sun, and she could hear the crashing of the waves against the fortress city. She remembered dyed beards and strange hats and hairs, but more viscerally, she remembered Viserys’ desperation and paranoia, never remaining on a single street long enough to recall any stone.

“Ah. This man knows Tyrosh. Would he be there, a man may run into a girl once more, selling pastries by the seaside,” he smiled faintly once more, placing an silver coin for the baker’s order in Madam Lyria’s hand, before vanishing back into the cart carriage. Daenerys frowned. That was odd.

“Eat your food,” Madam Lyria said, pushing the cloth forward. Daenerys giggled, biting away hungrily as her fingers grew sticky from the syrup, licking at them as the Madam shook her head amusedly.

Down towards the port, a loud horn rang once as the crowd seemed to cheer. A troupe of mummers rolled through the streets, flailing their hands in small dances and throwing treats into crowds. One of them had a beard braided so long, the ends were wrapped in sewn cloth as it dragged on the ground in front of him! Another woman had ears with enormous discs in them, as far down as her shoulders at least, the men behind her all painted in the oddest shades of violet, indigo and green.

“Look!” Daenerys tugged at the Madam’s dress softly, unable to look away from the dazzling assortment of the strangest people she’d ever seen. Every mummer was stark against every dancer. But it made her think of the baker’s queer look, the little glint in his eye that seemed almost pale, but sparkling, as if there was another person behind him. She frowned, Viserys’ tale of ancient maze makers ringing through he ears.

“Is Moraq from Lorath?” She asked Madam Lyria, “Is that why he speaks so strange?”

The older woman snorted, “Moraq is from Moraq, my dear. A great island east of the shores of Qarth. He once told me his mother loved their home so much, she named her son for its forests and hills and jade-coloured waters.”

Daenerys nodded absently, her mind lingering on Moraq and the odd baker, watching as the festival look life with the pastries soaking in her mouth.

Illusionists in long top hats played cheap party tricks that earned them silver honours and even a bearing from disgruntled watchers. Musicians carried lyres and harps and drums, one boy with a fiddle in one hand and flute the other. Two men carried at least a dozen swords as tall as Daenerys by their nose, one of them so short and stunted, he walked on stilts to reach the other’s height. Another man wore colours as orange as the glowing sunset overhead, taking a sword from his belt and swallowing it from tip to hilt! The men and women around seemed to laugh at that one, though to Daenerys it seemed more terrifying than anything else. 

A stranger’s silhouette suddenly came before them, draped in fine maroon silks with little falling crystals bordering every the entire bodice, a small scroll tied with a white ribbon in hand.

“Madam of Lyria?” She asked, her face covered in a dark shawl, the black ink of an elephant’s trunk peeking through with her sharp black eyes and strong nose.

“Yes?”

“My Mistress Vaelaros bids you well. She has come to the Honeycomb and asks you attend to her.” The Madam read the scroll quickly, smiling gently with a roll of her eyes.

“Ha. Asks. That woman. Now?” She asked to the stranger, a slave, Daenerys realised. Scarcely an inch taller than Daenerys, perhaps even the same age. Her eyes watched her intently, curiously, little pits of longing and pity and bitterness creeping through that left Daenerys shifting uncomfortable beneath her gaze.

There were few children that were not unmarked, she had noticed quickly in their excursions in the city. Few children at all, rare in the Merchant’s District and rarer in the Ivory Ring, but teeming behind every corner, crevice and compartment in the bottom slums, or even in the great temple of fire where priests and priestesses welcomed them openly.

She frowned, looking around properly. The shackled ones were teeming in numbers, riddled throughout the streets. But draped in their master’s silks, adorned in their master’s colours and their master’s symbols. Fine clothing, soft, expensive, half of them covering the iron cuffs that were moulded into their wrists or their necks. If not for the streaking ink across their faces, it was almost as if they were master’s themselves.

In the stories, Viserys had talked of slaves as if they were animals, chained and dirty with mud for clothes and grass for hair. It felt wrong. But it felt even worse when she realised she hardly saw them, the coloured fabrics blended so perfectly into the crowds of thousands, into the city of many thousands more.

“It seems I have a visitor, my dear,” the Madam said.

Daenerys swallowed her frown. I thought this day was for us. “Oh.”

“It shan’t take too long. The house is even closed for the morning, I believe.” Daenerys accepted begrudgingly.

Madam Lyria was a talented seamstress. Her work kept her sleepless through the night and tired in the mornings, the sparkle of a finished dress a greater reward than any gold coin. But “the house” was not a dressmaker’s dream. It was the Madam’s other work, the work that earned her the title Madam. “A brothel,” Ayah had once put bluntly, where men went know women, or even other men. It made her skin itch and tingle and her face feel uncomfortably warm, but she did not know how to tell the Madam no, lest the woman grow cross.

The walk was a short one, just beneath the shadow of the Ring’s walls. Madam Lyria hummed a gentle tune while the… slave girl followed closely beside her, glancing at Daenerys. Daenerys wanted to tell her she was sorry, to ask her a thousand things about this life she didn’t understand. She wanted to hold the girl’s hand. She wanted her to go away.

“Has your mistress been in the city long?” Daenerys asked quietly. The girl only shook her head. “Does… do you, live here?” The girl did nothing this time, only watching Daenerys peculiarly, eyes slitted and untrusting.

“Are you one who serves?” She finally asked, barely even a whisper, in a crude Valyrian Daenerys only just caught. Daenerys shook her head awkwardly, suddenly anxious to speak.

“Are you a master?” She asked again, slower with a drip of poison. Daenerys’ eyebrows shoot up as she raises her hands defensively and shakes her head frantically. “No! No, never!” The girl said nothing more, walking ahead of the pair as Daenerys fell back to take the Madam’s hand, squeezing tightly.

The word slave was a twisted thing here, across every tongue and tale. “To be taken in hand,” was the meaning they claimed. But Daenerys found it odd. It was not the same as a mother taking a daughter’s hand in a market crowd, she mused. Not a lover taking his maiden’s hand for a swirling dance, nor a father pulling his son’s bloodied fingers up upon a battlefield. But this was the story the murals told, the mosaics and paintings and books and the master’s themselves. Even the priests who tolled in the streets and fed the masses and spread herbs and medicines to every level of man alike. To serve was a righteous cause. To serve was a holy cause, ordained in fire and forged into iron.

The house was hardly even a house. Rather, it was a fat stone block, carved and curved and chiselled into wonderful shapes and statues and arched doorways. The floors were soft with silk rugs, every walkway built with marbled white pillars surrounding a giant courtyard in the centre that opened to the sun above. A streaming fountain, velvet covered benches, even a great oak tree that crawled into the air, the branches rubbing against the the ledges above. Small wooden stools were placed around the tree with straw upturned baskets fastened tightly, a faint buzzing ringing from with them.

She nearly tripped at the small steps leading in, caught by the slave girl who said nothing as she helped and nothing as Daenerys silently thanked her.

“Madam Lyria!” called a tall woman, tanned a deep bronze with silver-blonde hair fighting with streaks of dark blacks and browns, her large eyes a pool of dark purples that seemed black. She greeted the Madam with a deep kiss. Her long shapeless dress was woven in the pale decorated greys and whites of the Elephant clan, fastened at the sleeves by ivory cuffs and ivory bracelets, ivory rings across half her fingers, with ivory tusks carved small with Valyrian inscriptions hanging from her ears. 

Daenerys could almost hear Viserys behind her. One of the few Old Blood, and brave it seems, to be touting her tusks in a tiger’s jungle.

“Now who… is this?” Her full, wine-red lips smiled at Daenerys, her dark eyebrows were furrowed in a curious lust as she put her finger beneath Daenerys’ chin, titling it up.

Madam Lyria put a steady hand upon her shoulder, “My daughter, Naerys.” She said it with a smile, pulling Daenerys closer against her body.

“Another daughter. You seem to be building yourself quite the army,” the lady snorted, her gaze tracing Daenerys’ body, lingering on her eyes, “And look at her! By the Lord, are you certain you did not pluck her from the past?“

“My dear, this is the Lady Nyessa Vaelaros. An old friend.”

“The word old is slander,” she jested, sharing a curtsy between them, Daenerys’ far less elegant, “Oh, look at you. How cute. If you are any bit like your mother here, you will no doubt grow to be beautiful, loyal, pragmatic, and a very large thorn in my side,” The Madam faked offence, slapping at Lady Nyessa lightly. Daenerys only gave her blushing thanks with a tight lipped smile.

Lady Nyessa found a flagon of wine, brushing her fingers against it before silently gesturing to the slave girl to pour two glasses. Madam Lyria led them to a smaller room sunken into the ground, veiled by a circular beaded curtain. With her chair and her drink, Lady Nyessa swirled the goblet with her legs crossed, watching Daenerys and Madam Lyria with a smirk. “Her father… is it…?”

Madam Lyria snorted, shaking her head. “No. Thankfully. Though, he certainly tried.”

“Hah, he will likely try again. It is abhorrently annoying that he is so…” Lady Nyessa huffed, biting her lip.

“Persistent?”

The woman giggled, “I was going to say attractive, but I suppose that works just as well. If you hear from him, do tell him I wish to see my daughter, will you? Her letters are hardly enough.”

“Vipers are difficult to catch,” the Madam remarked.

“Harder to get rid of once their fangs have latched, believe me,” Lady Nyessa muttered, “Did I tell you I had to force him away at sword point?”

“You did. Even the parts best left as keepsakes.”

“Can you blame me? The minute details are the best parts? And they were… good details,” Lady Nyessa retorted with a crooked smile, soon turned into a frown and sigh and a dejected look unbecoming of a lady, “Unfortunately, I cannot name this a social visit. Not entirely, at least.”

Madam Lyria nodded sharply with a click of her tongue. She leaned down to poke Daenerys gently on her nose, taking her by the shoulder to lead her to the gardens outside. “Naerys, dear. It is a beautiful day. Enjoy the gardens, I will not take too long, I promise.”

Her dismissal was not as brash nor blunt as Viserys, but Daenerys found it hurt far more. She could steal only a glance or two more at the pair before the beads covered them, her clenched fists and red-flushed face following as her she stomped off to sit beneath the oak tree.

It wasn’t fair! Her scalp was set aflame, hot tears pricking at her eyes, palms rubbing them dry with a fury. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! All she wanted was to spend the day with the Madam. With this woman she was supposed to call… Mama! Mother! Daenerys huddled on the roots of the tree, shaking as her bit cheeks tasted blood and her palms stung from the edge of her nails.

The faint buzzing of the benched baskets drew her from her tantrum, almost rustling as moved towards it slowly.

The slave girl was stood by the door like a stone statue, watching Daenerys intently.

“Do you know what they are?” Daenerys asked with an awkward smile. The girl said nothing, deep dark eyes flickering to the basket and back to her.

“Do you—“ Is this my fault? She had to wonder. Ayah seemed to dislike Daenerys too, always cordial but almost grated by her presence. Is something wrong with me?

“Do… do you have any friends?” She turned away sharply, clenching her teeth hard in frustration. Why would she ask such a silly thing? Slaves do not have friends. They are tied to their masters. Daenerys could almost hear the clink of the cuff around the girl’s skin.

She mumbled her apologies and returned to the buzzing basket, ears blaring with an overwhelming ringing, wondering, hoping, that a sinkhole would consume her any second now.

“I would not touch that, little one,” called a voice loudly from the bushes behind her. A short man came over, so pale she swore he might be a ghost, draped in emerald green silks with fancy green leaves embroidered across every inch. His accent was Lyseni and thick, but he spoke in Common, “You’ve such lovely skin. All those little stings, it’d be a shame to ruin it.”

Daenerys stepped back quickly, hands raised, “Stings?”

He raised a brow, tapping at the basket gently, “Bees.”

“Oh.” That made sense.

The man snorted, “What are you doing over there? Come on then, you might do well with a tour. Young girls seem to nest nicely in this place, more so with a mother’s approval.” Nest? But this was a brothel, a… whorehouse. She accepted his tour reluctantly, but declined his offered hand with a shrug. The slave girl did not follow, and Daenerys was half-tempted to beg she did

“Your name?”

“Naerys,” she mumbled.

“Naerys. How quaint,” he stopped in front of a large room, pungent smells of lavender and rosemary seeping through, his hand extended out to her, “Dandelion.” Dandelion? Daenerys shook his hand, soft and powdered slightly.

He opened the door with a slam, chuckling at her displeasure, “Look at you, such a young thing yearning for a wrinkle well before your saggy days. Worry less. The girls, they are harmless. Otherwise I’d have hung myself from that tree you’re so fond of.” He paused, rolling his lips for a moment, “Ah, is that too grim? Do forgive my mouth. I am not used to apologising for it.”

She smiled quickly, half-listening and understanding even less. The room behind him was modest, the walls painted in beautiful murals of ponds, beaches and flowery fields, leather seats and chaises and tall wardrobes scattered across. Vines and beads hung from dressing screens, candles lit and burning strongly.

A blonde woman hung her hair over the edge of a seat, smiling at Daenerys with an upside-down frown. Another decorated her face with pink-rose powders in front of a looking mirror, sparing only a short look for Daenerys, her bright yellow dress pooled on the floor around her. Dandelion smiled tightly, leading her to an empty seat which she declined, staring at a woman moaning from a steaming hot bath across the room, hands draped over the edges, golden bracelets and rings dripping wet.

“Fresh meat?” called the powdered woman, her midnight black hair obscuring her face, accent quick and odd in the Common Tongue, “Well wishes to any fool who thinks a girl like that will seduce a priest.”

“A priestess?” Dandelion asked with a smirk.

She snorted, “You, Dandelion, have never seen the underside of their red robes. And you never will. Not an ounce of charm, or courage, I say.”

He shrugged, “The courageous burn and the cowards live.”

“I hear they’re to put on a play for our Lord,” the blonde woman murmured, sitting up to look at Daenerys warmly.

“A play? Oh. Will they send the mummers our way?”

“It is not the mummer’s we want,” said the powdered woman.

The blonde woman scoffed, “You are upsetting the poor girl with your politics, Lotus. Have some manners.” Lotus? They were all named for flowers, she realised. Lotus was from the far east! They bloomed from the muds and river waters, opening and closing with the sun and moon. In Yi-Ti, the emperors wore the lotus in joyous communions of birth and grievous commemorations of death.

Her brows furrowed, in these same stories, the water demons of Yi-Ti swam beneath the lotus, luring prey with scents of mist and flowery lust, horrors lurking beneath the still waters.

Lotus pointed at Daenerys, “I am dutiful to the task her mother set for us. Seducing nobles is hard enough. But religious fanatics?” She said with snark, lying on her side upon a long chaise. “Do you want a drink, girl? Tell us a tale, sing us a song,” Daenerys said nothing, “Did your mother not teach you to be less boring?” Daenerys frowned. I do not like you, she wished to say, but held her tongue wisely, plopping down on a leather settee with her legs tucked and arms crossed.

The blonde woman grinned, “You are the Madam’s daughter?”

“Yes.”

“It is quite obvious. Your hair is lovely,” she took her own hair to one side, sitting beside Daenerys and running her hands through her golden waves, “Your locks curl wonderfully. I am rightfully jealous.” She look a stray curl from Daenerys’ side and wrapped it around her finger, tugging very gently as Daenerys watched with trepidation.

“Oils,” she replied. They smelled strong, but Daenerys kept to her routine rigorously, washing her hair with the new oils the Madam had bought from the Summer Isles at least thrice a moon.

“Oh?”

Daenerys nodded, “Made from a special bean, Mad— Mama said. I leave them in my scalp for at least a day.”

“Well cared for! I could learn a thing or two from you,” she hummed, “Guess my name.” Daenerys sat up, pouting her lips as she searched across the woman’s dark robes for a hint, a thousand different flowers embroidered in, half of which she did not know. Hmph! Her hair was a golden blonde, her eyes dark. But sunflowers were yellow, not gold. And lilies came in a hundred colours too many. Daffodils only grew in the west. Tulips…

Oh! “Marigold? No! Uh, buttercup,” she answered eagerly.

The woman deflated slightly, “Rose. For the hair. Unoriginal, I know. Buttercup is far better,” she turned Dandelion, “Can you imagine? Why’d I not think of that.” Daenerys giggled quietly. Rose was a boring name. She leaned back, pointing at the other women, “That charming woman is Lotus, named for the river plants of her village, and Ivy… named for the Naathi florals.”

Lotus scoffed, shining her nails in a dark paste that smelt like old beeswax. The woman in the bath, Ivy, was silent, but turned her golden gleaming eyes to watch them. Dandelion seemed uninterested, picking grapes from a branch and tossing them into his mouth whole.

“Why do they call you Dandelion?” She asked.

He raised an amused brow, leaning forward, “Why do they call you Naerys?” That was a dangerous question, she realised, her eyes glancing to each of their eyes. Each of them wore a different name and a different face with it. She did not know the slave girl’s name. She did not know Madam Lyria’s true name. Even the baker with the strange hair coveted his name. A name was a secret the tongue kept tightly sealed. Some as simple as a flower, some as perilous as a Queen.

“Take a guess. He looks like a dandy, and fucks like a lion,” Ivy called, water flowing on the floors as the stretched her muscles wide, all while naked, before wrapping a thin silk cloth tightly around her body. Daenerys blushed. Madam Lyria was always very modest and private. Ayah seemed to value skin more than life, covered completely in decorated cloths and scarves much like the slave girl outside. 

It offended the dark skinned woman deeply. “Oh, we’ve a newcomer with sensibilities. What do you know about brothels, girl? Your mother is the Madam, no? She ever care to ordain you in our holy art?” Daenerys kept her silence.

She jumped as the woman clicked her fingers in her face, “Were you born with your mouth sewn shut?” She could see the Naathi woman’s faded tattoo, striped and across her cheeks. 

“No,” Daenerys replied quietly.

“Then answer.”

Daenerys looked to the others, their gazes all shy. “Mama said nothing.”

The cruel woman shook her head, “Nothing. You’ve not a clue as to the game and gamble your mother plays? Well then, best we teach you. You are more than a pretty face, no? It would poor courtesy to mingle with your mother’s rabble and not spare half an ear for them.”

Daenerys shifted awkwardly, scratching at her arms. She didn’t think they were rabble. That was rude.

“If you mother neglected your education, then take this for a first lesson, girl. The simplest, most important one. Why do whores work?” The woman asked, sitting across from her, chin in hand, staring at her unblinking.

Daenerys shrugged. “Gold?”

“Gold? Ha! There are many masks men can wear to earn a petty honour. Do we toll our bodies in empty service only for coin? How fickle. We are not mummers, nor minstrels, nor a master. It’s a whores’ game we play, and we start younger than even you. Tell me, how old are you, girl?”

“Eight.” Soon to be nine. She’d spent her entire eighth nameday at the manse, at her own request. The Madam had braided her hair, brushed and oiled and washed prior. Viserys had read to her the stories of their family, without a single frown or bitter remark! He’d even complimented her dress, and kissed her sweetly on her forehead. It had been a good day. She could only hope for a thousand more.

Ivy snorted. “Eight? I’ve seen little boys with breasts heavier than yours.”

“Ivy!” The blonde woman cried.

“She’s flatter than the stone,” Ivy laughed. Daenerys could feel her skin itch terribly as goosebumps rolled over her in a storm of warm embarrassment.

Her wet eyes only fuelled the woman further, cold eyes keeping Daenerys still through her stare, “Look at that, I’d not a clue Madam Lyria could birth such a prude. You should do better than to be so offended. Breasts are natural! Round… soft. Men may spare half a stare for a medal, but these?” Daenerys looked away as the woman unwrapped the silk from her chest, letting her heavy chest hang freely.

“Do you want to hold them? They don’t bite. Oh… I used to spend my evenings gathered around those braziers, praying to the Lord to make them round, and firm. Supple. I could teach you to fill a man’s hunger. In a few years, of course. Even the tasteless will not spare a glance for a thing as thin as you.”

Rose stood up, throwing the silk cloth back at the other woman, “No manners. I have seen little boys with better brains than yours. You would look and serve better tongueless.”

“Sit down!” hissed Lotus.

The dark woman laughed softly, resting her finger on the woman’s lips to silence her, “Your tongue is as poisoned as mine. She brought her here to learn, no? Either way, learning is hard. Tough. We know as well as each other how far naïveté will take us in this world. A woman’s name is woe, but what of a flower? You pay for its nectar, not its name and its worries.”

Her gaze fell on Daenerys again, but this time with pity. “Nothing, truly? Not a word for why she keeps a whore’s wisdom? Not a word for why we speak Common? You say Madam and believe it is but a title? Are the mummers the only ones that wear masks? Or do mothers do as well?”

“Leave her—“

She snickered, “Did she even tell her what those bees are for? The venom is potent. It can turn a sausage to steel. Do you understand, girl?”

Dandelion stood up, Daenerys’ heart bouncing as he opened the door wide, “You frighten the girl with your frivolity. Leave her alone.”

“Are you a whore or a wetnurse? She wanted to know our names. To know this place. I am simply informing her. How can you play in a house, a city, a life like this if you do not even know the game?” She takes Daenerys’ face in her hands, holding tight as Daenerys squirms and squeals, “A honeycomb serves secrets sweeter than any other. Many nectars here. A lick of wine, a warm cunt to grip, a tit to suck. Slather it any way you wish, men can hide no secrets naked. And a whore’s eye sees much. This one learned that well, and this one learned that true. Now this one’s name is Ivy, be glad that this one was not you.”

Daenerys smacked the woman away, rushing for the door as the tears began to swell and trail on the floors behind her.

“That’s your mother’s game, girl,” the evil, stupid horrible woman called after her, “Secrets. For the longest time, you were one of them too.”

She ran with her palms pressing her ears deep into her skull, salt upon her lips and cheeks aflame. I hate this place! I hate these people! She wanted to tear those stupid sliding doors down and scream into the stupid faces of those stupid people until they cried and squirmed. But she had no claws, nor could she breathe any fire. All she could do was cry like a stupid little girl and complain to the Madam. Why would she bring me here? Surely she would have known how horrible those women were? The answer could only be yes, the pit in her stomach and hole in her chest stabbing sharp.

Would her real mother have brought her to a place like this? She was a Queen, a dragon. What does it matter? She is dead. Dead, dead, dead! Her blood left somewhere in the pink of Daenerys’ flesh and the cold of Viserys’ blame.

Her hair itched terribly. She pulled at it hard, the pain making her tears stronger, the black strands running between her fingers enraging her. All the little secrets piling up. Why could no one be honest? But they were. That horrible woman and her words echoing loudly. All she could hear was the name Naerys fluttering in the air, cackling with the wind. She hated this game. She hated this game. And her anger led her to the Madam’s rooms once more, seething as the beads swayed slowly with more secrets.

Their voices were sharp, carried loudly from the Lady Nyessa’s spitting face. Daenerys breathed deeply, and then again, and again, and four times more, calming herself before poking her head around the beaded curtain, careful to keep half her face obscured.

“—when a fear-mongerer’s sage counsel outweighs his own family! It is outrageous, foolish! But I cannot dare utter such profanity in his face,” cried Lady Nyessa. 

“Your grandfather is prickly,” the Madam replied, sipping at her wine gently.

Lady Nyessa snorted bitterly, pouring herself another goblet of wine before taking it one go, far more dishevelled than before, “Prickly. Prickly! Blind, bow-legged and rat-faced, and yet he thinks his words carry weight in the enclave. I want to piss in his wine. Enamoured so foolishly by those red witches. He does not listen to us any longer. My sister, my brother, my uncle! That… bitch! She whispers poisons in his ear, caressing his lap and his cock and pretending she is his loyal agent.”

“The wedding came as a shock,” the Madam murmured.

“Shock, yes, what a surprise. Parquello Vaelaros, Elephant candidate, and he remarries to a fire worshipping fanatic. Not a soul will see this scheme? I should have taken her by the teats, flogged her and then thrown her from the Black Walls. Let that tattooed mongrel Benerro have her hide.” She laughed, throwing her goblet aside and falling into the chairs. Daenerys frowned. The woman unravelled like the silk yarns of the Madam’s workshop. 

“Am I some accursed troubadour, Lyria? Do I sing the same song until madness? Half the magisters in Myr have taken a red priestess in counsel! General Maegyr takes one for a concubine, Belicho Staegone the same. It does not take a shrewd man to see a conspiracy!” 

Elephants? Red Priestesses? The woman’s ramblings made little sense as she continued, Daenerys’ patience wearing thin.

“—word travels, I hear they have even reached the Seven Kingdoms of west,” the Madam said.

“You hear, yes.”

“The General will return by sundown with his red-robed companion, and my girls will learn more. See where their allegiances truly lie.” 

Lady Nyessa scoffed, “I believe in you, in Lady Mellario… and your girls. But it is a fruitless task. These priests claim to serve the Elephants, and yet… they turn their eyes in places we cannot see. And carnal pleasures? I swear, beneath their red robes they are sculpted like the gods and goddesses of the Summer Isles. And yet their cocks and cunts will only glisten for their Lord. Perhaps they spurt sermons when they finish. Or fire, or some other—“

Daenerys moved the beads aside to finally enter and leave this place. But a tight hand grabbed her first, pulling her back hard into the open gardens as she squealed quietly.

“No,” the slave girl said, sharply, swiftly. Without her hand on her arm, Daenerys would have sworn she imagined the girl speak.

She let go, returning to the edge of the door, as still as stone, words level. “Mistress does not like to be interrupted.” But you let me listen? Her eyes did not blink, not once, locked with Daenerys who huffed but relented, pacing between the gardens and the doors.

What were they talking about? Why did the Madam ruin their day to talk about religion? It annoyed her ceaselessly, sitting for supper, stags and wolves and vipers thrown across the table in hushed whispers she could not hear, in hidden words she could not decipher.

They always excluded her. “Worry not, little one,” they said. “Eat your food,” they said. “Be quiet, sister,” they said. Why? In the stories, Daenerys had learned that Daeron the Young Dragon had been four-and-ten in his conquest of Dorne. His father, Aegon the Third, had been ten when he sat the throne! Ten! She would be nine soon. And there was little difference between nine and four-and-ten, and even less between nine and ten. She was a dragon! Like Daeron! Like Viserys! But they treated her like some stupid little girl.

But I am a little girl, her mind said in whispers of betrayal, and it only made her angrier.

The slave girl watched soundlessly, hands tight by her waist. Another tinge of shame fell over Daenerys. Did the girl have a mother to complain of, even a day to cherish or to ruin?

Talk to her, her mind implored. But what would she say?

The same foolish question. “What’s your name?” Daenerys asked. The girl said nothing, looking at Daenerys like she was some animal in a mummer’s play. It made her feel small and impatient.

“Tell me your name. I don’t like calling people nothing,” Daenerys huffed, whispering her pleas, “Names mean something. Tell me yours, please.”

“This one has no name,” the girl said after a long pause, her voice even.

“Everyone has a name.”

“Everyone is not everyone,” the girl replied, her voice wavering, “Not this one.”

This one, the girl said. This one, the Naathi woman said. A name without a name. “No better than a number. No better than a thing,” Ayah had said in hatred. Even animals had names. Even monsters.

“I’m… I’m sorry.” The silence took them both again, Daenerys mulling her words and her trespasses and the little insults she realised she had given. Ignorance or malice, did it matter which one? The Madam had dismissed her in caution, not cruelty. But it hurt no less, no.

“The Madam is always keeping secrets,” she murmured. I am one of them too, that woman had said. She came close to the girl, offering her hands a moment before realising the mistake, tucking them behind her back tightly. “If… if I tell you a secret, will you tell me one as well?” Daenerys searched the girl’s eyes frantically, tracing the flecks of brown in dark pools. Eventually, the girl nodded. Only once, sharply, but hard to miss.

Daenerys swallowed deeply, sweating ever so slightly, unable to keep her legs and her fingers still. “My name isn’t Naerys. It’s…” she breathed deeply, “Daenerys. Targaryen.” She waited, watching the door and listening to the marching of knives in the streets to see if the world had truly disappeared. It did not, and neither did the girl, still as stone but with eyes squinted. Not in shock, but confusion.

“Do… do you know what that means?” Do I?

The girl shook her head, raising her hands slowly to the covering wrapped tightly around her face. She stopped, hands shaking, and Daenerys smiled, stepping back as she pulled the covering down to reveal her face.

She was… young. Soft. With thin, dark lips, and two moles on the edge of her cheek, black ivory inked into the folds of her skin.

When Daenerys finds the girl’s eyes again, they are wet. Is it fear? Or is it courage? The Madam will say it is the same, that the two cannot live without another. She offered her hands now, and the girl took them eagerly, hands cold entwined with hands warm.

“I will tell you two,” the girl whispered, “One for the first, Daenerys. One for the second, Targaryen.” Daenerys nodded, squeezing her hands gently. “My Mistress plays with secrets. They are worth more than any gold honour. This one knows it well,” she open Daenerys’ palm, drawing a circle again and again, “the elephant chases the tiger’s tail, the tiger the elephant’s. This is the story the minstrels sing, the histories the heralds write. But in the shadows of their game, our shackles come undone. He… He will free us. This one knows it true. That is the first,” she draws a circle around her heart, again and again, “Secret. Secret… this one’s secret is that she dreams. That He will come. That He will free us.”

“He?”

“He. Her. Them. This one hears much. The Breaker. The Burner. Hiding in the waves of the Rhoyne, in the ruins of our old places and our old names. They say He was one of us. They say He will kill the masters. So this one hopes in silence. That is the second,” she placed her finger soft against her lips, and leaned so close Daenerys could feel her warm breath, “Secret. Secret… this one’s secret is that she dreams. Of living her name, Moirai, never to hide again.”

Moirai, such a pretty name. Daenerys did not understand this “breaker,” nor if he was even real. But it didn’t matter, no. The girl— Moirai, did not understand her either, but she did, in a way. And Daenerys, her, in another way. She nodded again and again like a fool, rubbing the sweat and away and breathing in and out a dozen times, smiling and frowning and everything in between.

“Friend?” Slave girls had no friend, that she knew. But Moirai could.

“This is the third. Secret, secret… friend.” She pointed to Daenerys’ face, “Naerys,” she said, pointing again to her heart, “Daenerys,” she whispered. Her eyes were wet, but her face was steel, her coverings returned.

Daenerys nodded, finally understanding, repeating the same gesture. “This one,” she said, “Moirai,” she whispered. Moirai smiled beneath the scarf. Daenerys could tell by the way her eyes squinted and the lines around them deepened. She smiled back, even as the tears fell slowly, even as Moirai brushed them away quickly, returning to her post, and Daenerys the tree. 

The Madam cut through soon after. “Behaving, I hope?” She jested.

Daenerys did not share her smiles, tugging at her hand tightly, “Can we go? Please.”

Madam Lyria nodded slowly, frowning, turning back to meet the Lady Nyessa. She did not seem the good noble lady. Her name seemed to carry her better than her own bones.

“The minstrels and mummers will be teeming. Care to join us?” The Madam asked.

I do not want her to come, Daenerys thought. “No,” she whispered furiously, the Madam squeezing her hand in acknowledgement.

“Perhaps another time,” Lady Nyessa said, moaning lightly, “That Naathi woman… with the amber eyes and the long fingers. Is she…?” She made a pouty face Daenerys did not understand, leaning against the door frame, the beads falling upon her shoulder and head.

The Madam snorted, “I believe so. Take a gander, and try to be quick. I do have a business to run.”

“No promises,” she replied with a half-smirk, walking slowly to the main rooms. Moirai followed wordlessly, bringing her hand over her heart for a moment. She waved back, the Madam watching intently.

“I want to go,” Daenerys said as they turned the corner, “Now. And I do not wish to return here ever again.” Madam Lyria pursed her lips tightly, but remained wordless, the walk to the White Road quiet.

The festivities were still endless. “How wonderful,” The Madam cheered, clapping quietly at all the little acts. Daenerys joined in, but felt her mood soiled.

Two women had setup shop with puppets, each woollen man and woman embroidered in flowers, lilies, sunflowers, even dandelions and roses. The crowd threw copper honours to the stage as eastern lightcrackers burst into the sky in a thousand colours of the rainbow. The colours seemed a lure, the puppets laughing and dancing in flowery smiles. Mummers cartwheeled from the port in droves, her eyes transfixed on their faces. Masks made of painted wood of sewn leather or waxed leaves stared back.

Some with their eyes covered, others with their eyes peeking through like the baker. Some with smiles etched in, others with confused looks and grins and snarls and leers and even frowns to match her own.

Daenerys pressed her body tight against the Madam, “Do you wear a mask?” It was a rude question, maybe, for the woman was taken aback, but composed herself quickly.

“The girls?” She asked, and Daenerys nods.

“I often forget how overzealous they can be. All these years and I cannot teach a wh— people manners.” She seemed angry, frustrated, but kept her chin high and away from Daenerys as they sifted through the crowds to a tall building, open at the roof, passing through steep stone stairs, Daenerys barely keeping up. They found small seats, old and broken slightly, slumped against the rampart. From here, they could see the port and the White Road flowing up to the Great Palace.

“What did they say?” Madam Lyria asked.

Daenerys ignored her. “I don’t like her.”

The woman’s head snapped to hers, eyes squinted but face even. “We will be seeing more of her, unfortunately. She has invited us to the General’s exhibition, as I and the Lady Mellario expected.” Daenerys knew little of Lady Mellario, and cared even less for her now.

“I don’t like her.” She repeated.

“You have never been so short with me. With anyone. Do not be so alight, Naerys,” Daenerys bristled at the name, “I am here to listen, to protect you.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” she murmurs.

The Madam sighed, turning away. The lightcrackers enveloped the sky, the glisten of a dark sky glimmering with a million stars too many streaming through.

“We all wear masks, my dear,” the woman finally said, toying with the ends of her sleeves. She sighed again, taking Daenerys’ hands and leaning close to her face, “I gave you one to wear as well.”

“You know what is beneath mine. But… what about yours?” I don’t even know your name. She kicked at a pebble beneath her seat. Why did it make her so sad?

Perhaps it made the Madam sad as well, for her voice was lined in an old longing, “You are a clever girl. I fear it may be the death of me.” They said nothing else, watching the festival with hands intertwined.

Soon the fire breathers grew cold, and the illusionists grew still. More than a hundred braziers burned beneath the night sky, a hundred heralds waiting on pulpits. A procession moved in great waves from the port, two great black Volantene galleons shadowing their entrance. As they passed the the market square, Daenerys spotted cloth dragons as large as longships held by half-a-hundred mummers. Slaved men pushed a wheeled cage, gilded on black iron and gold bars. A great golden lion lay dead, pierced and bleeding and withered to a pale yellow, still shackled at its feet and neck.

Dreaded words echoed from the Old Blood, armoured in smokey black scale, his red gold with blades of victory still slick with blood. Roars of triumph cried in the wind, the chant of “Mynos Maegyr” echoing loud. 

Behind him, flames of red priests fell upon the road. They chanted an old story, repeated in the herald’s perfect harmonies, their red lips smiling, red eyes gleaming, red heralds echoing. Many hundred slaves joined them, heads bowed and chained in one great link, the crowds of freemen and slaves and masters watchful with silent reverence. “Azor Ahai,” they all chanted. 

Azor Ahai. She had learned that name in the streets of Volon Therys. The hero of the helpless, the saviour of the slaves, the prophet of the poor. The Madam’s face flushed with fear as Daenerys frowned. Why? It was just a story. 

The last of the procession was but a single woman with dark robes blacker than night. Her lacquered mask looked shrewd in the flickering torchlight, red as the robes of the priests in front. She traced the city silently, a perfect smoothness to the turn of her head, as if her gaze was undisturbed by the mask she worn. Even in the many thousands that littered the streets and roads and roofs and alleyways, she found Daenerys, a smile on her expressionless visage, her eyes poking through, shining like stars upon an empty sea.

Chapter Text

In his dreams Jon Arryn could see the Great Sept burning. Claws erupted and yearned for the sky in a blinding flash of dark emerald, dragons’ breath melted the blackened walls like wax candles, laughing with a terrible madness. Ash lathered the land in piles like pale snow on winter’s eve, staining his fingers with death.

His stolen solace followed him to his waking hours. “Enough!” The High Septon cried, the ends of his starry robes muddied upon the white plaza of Baelor, the old king’s visage staring down at the mob snarling beneath, the streets of Visenya teeming with anger.

“Demons and heathens, fell lickspittles that insult the name of the Seven! Begone!” he screamed, voice cracking and spit flying, “Free this holy place of their sacrilege!” He demanded, eyes flared at Jon Arryn atop his mount, gold cloaks pressing into the mob as Jon rallied his personal guard to push through with cries of “make way for the Hand.”

A rotted onion swept past his head, knocking the High Septon flat onto his back with a screeching curse, his crystal crown shattering against the marble like glittering stars strewn across the sky.

The gold cloaks kept a steady line behind him, the crowd parting as Jon’s sky blue surcoat and silver-white robes shone through crowds of poor browns, starved greys and muddied blacks run red with rage. Their attention was sorely divided, few caring for the Hand as pungent shouts of “scum!” and “fat bastard!” and “fucking knave!” stunk the air.

A horrid howl blared louder than Baelor’s bells, a woman wailing as she hobbled down Visenya’s Hill, shrieking at those came too near, their hands too close. Her white robes were mangled at the bottom, bare-feet bleeding and cut by the harsh edge of King’s Landing streets. Jon cantered quickly, following her bloody trail, her dark matted hair flailing with cold tears and snotty sobs.

“Septa Arielle!” Jon yelled, his guards unsheathing steel to form a small circle around her. She fell to her knees with a yelp, grasping her stomach tightly.

“Septa Arielle,” Jon said quietly, hands drawn as he came close. The young girl slapped him away with a sorrowed snarl of “don’t touch” and “keep away,” writhing on the floor with her sharp nails piercing her skin. Her septa’s robes had been stained in pale blood, ripped at her abdomen down to her groin which spasmed as crimson blood pooled out, her womb decorated in gashes.

His hands hovered above her in horror. “Septa…” he whispered breathlessly, searching for a maester, anyone! who could help the poor girl. The septons would not come, and the High Septon only blathered behind Baelor’s doors.

Her murky blue eyes stared up at him in a twisted amusement, hands rubbing her smile into a crooked grin of blood and pain. She laughed, loudly. Laughed and laughed and laughed until it stole her breath and left her heaving on the ground. He grabbed her wrists tightly, kneeling down to stain his knees red.

“Septa. Septa Arielle!” He called, but her eyes danced in every direction as tears ran like rivers. 

“Defiled, m’lord,” she muttered in her garbled ramblings, “Defiled and unwashed and profaned. I have sinned, I have sinned, m’lord.” She snaps her arms away viciously, smacking at her skull furiously and tearing at his robes if he tried to stop her.

“Sin, sin, sin! Accursed is the sinner. Accursed is the whore that dwell in sin and burden the Holy Seven with profanity!” Sin, sin, sin, she screamed endlessly, shaking her head and rocking herself in the growing pool of blood that circled beneath her.

Jon rose, fingertips stained crimson, “Edwin! Summon Lord Stokeworth here, post-haste! Disperse this crowd at once. Rickard, find the nearest motherhouse and bring a healer here, at once! In the name of the King!” It was to be another routine day. The Feast of the Father would soon close in the week coming, and as before, Jon would spend his morning with the gods, cold waters dripping down his forehead with bowls of judgement before him.

But the Gods enjoyed their little games, the water rippling as self-proclaimed sinners were thrown down the steps, crowds forming to gaze upon the High Septon’s judgment. The Feast of the Father was a time of guidance, a declaration of divine judgement, and perhaps even salvation. And yet in King’s Landing, the people fasted, the septons feasted, and the Father remained silent, even to Jon Arryn.

A gaunt beggar approached with sunken eyes of sorrow and a frown. On his knees, he tugged at the cloak of a tall woman, her cloak draped upon the ground in embroidered layers of ruby, scarlet and fiery red. “Help her,” the man cried, “Help the poor lady,” the people echoed with him.

She withdrew her hood, long hair billowing down her shoulders. Jon was struck dumb, her flawless skin flushed with the lightest tinge of rose, ringlets that fell like curled rivers of molten gold. And her eyes, her eyes were like emeralds, playing with light ablaze.

“Your Grace?” Jon whispered. The people cried “The Queen is here” and “Gods save the Queen” and “Good Queen Cersei.” She smiled, turning to the crowd with a soft expression, a coldness passing through Jon like winter’s chill. Her eyes met his, shrewd and watchful, tracing his skin with a cool acknowledgment.

No, not the Queen. Jon frowned. A red priestess. The very same that the High Septon had damned to the Seven Hells, cursing her nameless name at the foot of the Iron Throne, beneath the shadow of the stone Stranger, heresy and sorcery and evil claimed upon his tongue.

She moved with an effortless glide, red robes unblemished despite the grime of the ground. A pale horse neighed gently behind her, silver-maned with dark eyes, unperturbed by the crowd amassed around it. The cries of “save her” drowned beneath her quiet touch, a hundred gazes locked on her flaming figure.

“Be soft, child,” she fell to her knees gently before the young girl, brushing her hands against Septa Arielle ever-so-lightly. The girl did not jump, breathing loudly as her tears fell in a soft silence.

“He hurt me…” she murmured.

“Hush, child. I know,” the priestess said, taking her face in hand, rubbing at the blood lapped upon Arielle’s lips without staining her fingers. She brushed her tears away, staring down at the wounds of her womb, frowning. Jon Arryn watched with trepidation, faintly listening to the buzz of the mob above.

“Will you come with me, child? You are hurt, and I would help you.” The red woman outstretched her hand, crimson jewels adorning half her fingers in gold.

“Y—yes,” Septa Arielle said, taking her hand and embracing her in a final sob. The priestess took spare cloths from the satchel hanging from her mount, pressing it against the girl’s exposed groin, following with a dark robe hung about shoulders.

They trotted off slowly, half the crowd watching, the rest enraged at the stairs painted in an innocent’s blood. The gold cloaks charged through soon after. “Make way,” they cried, “to the sept,” they ordered, galloping around the red woman’s pale horse like a forked river, as if she immovable, implacable, none of them sparing a glance for her, as if she were unseen.

“My lord?” enquired Lord Stokeworth, staring Jon straight in the eye. Jon stuttered, befuddled for a moment, rubbing at his sweat-slicked forehead.

“Disperse the mob, carefully. We have shed enough blood today,” ordered Jon, staring at the pool that had spread across the walkway, his own reflection peering up. “And I will need a horse,” he added, finding the red woman a distant dot in a sea of men, fading away slowly.

The Dragon’s Square fell beneath the afternoon shadow of the Great Sept, miles of sprawling city teeming with life. The Guildhall saw hundreds bustle atop stone steps shoulder-to-shoulder, merchant and labourer haggling and children underfoot at every corner, thousands more littering the cascading hills of a hundred-thousand homes. Banners and buntings hung between wide streets, stalls set on each side. Smoke rose from open windows and vaults in smells of meats and odd incense, the fog of the city’s fervour running down the Street of Sisters to the shadow of the Dragonpit, Fleabottom floundering beneath it.

Rickard Stone followed closely, bruised and battered from the morrows’ events, Jon’s sole protector still withstanding. He was a jumpy fellow, stout and black of hair with soft dark eyes. “Make way,” he called loudly, hand tight upon the hilt of his sword. All the while, Jon’s eyes searched for a familiar cloak of fire, giving his greetings and his small thanks and kind gratitudes absently to each passing stranger.

“M’lord!” Rickard cried, scrambling to unsheathe his sword as a flung a door open, two men crashing loudly into the middle of the street. A steel knife impaled one’s hand while the other clutched his groin, curled on the floor like a babe. A chestnut barb horse reared in front of them angrily just as a woman’s long nose and naked breasts poked through a hatch two storeys above, yelling to keep the commotion down.

Jon frowned. The men’s doublets were embroidered in gold and red-lined patches of wrestling lions, their cloaks wet in the puddles of mud and spraying blood. A familiar tune sauntered from behind them.

“And so he spoke, and so he spoke…” a calm voice sang, whistling the rest as he grinned fiercely at the groaning men, squatting over them as he retrieved his knife. He cleaned it with a burgundy handkerchief, little red suns decorated with little red blotches of blood.

The grinning man kept his grin as he looked up, each tooth glittering, Rickard on guard, Jon sat idly upon his mount.

“Lord Jon Arryn,” he said with glee, licking his lips, like a viper spotting his prey.

“Prince Oberyn,” Jon nodded politely, eyeing the Lannister men with brows raised.

The Dornishman did not spare them a second glance, evidently bored with their escapade. He wore the same poorly blended mail, robes bright, eyes dark and glinting, studying the stains of Jon’s hands and knees.

“You are looking for the red woman,” Oberyn deduced, eyes locked with Jon’s.

The Viper of Dorne. Dangerous. And far too astute. If the red woman passed through the Street of Sisters, hundreds would turn their heads in wonder. And the High Septon had hardly let her presence go unknown.

A bright red lamplight hung from the building, vulgar art lined into the panelled windows. A brothel. Perhaps Prince Oberyn’s reputation could be of some use.

“You are… acquainted with her?” Jon asked.

“Only the tale the ears tell. We all have our duties in the sept, Lord Hand. She is hard to miss. Though, it seems you did,” he snorted, gesturing to the far edges of the street.

“I—“ Jon frowned, holding tight to the reins and nodding at the grinning prince, “As you say. Good day, my Prince.”

The Dornishman placed his hands gingerly upon his horse’s mane, “I shall join you.”

“There is no need—“

Oberyn waved him off, climbing to his own chestnut barb in front, “Nonsense, Lord Hand. These streets grow perilous of late, and your guard remains few. It would be my pleasure.” Jon swallowed deeply. He had no time to scuffle in the street, and the prince would only insist. He nodded at Rickard reluctantly.

“She lives in Fleabottom,” Prince Oberyn continued, “In an old home with a great gash wound running down the middle, I believe. Worry not, I will escort you. This city is a maze, even to men of yourself with such… long-lived experience.” Jon Arryn ignored the insult, thanking him quietly and gesturing ahead with a short sigh.

The Viper watched him intently, eyes shrewd and sharp. There was a jape upon his tart tongue, and a bitter remark behind his eyes, swirling with a fury that left Jon looking away, acutely aware of the pain in his lower back and knees.

“They say she is Lord Tywin’s long lost daughter. Queen Cersei’s true twin. More gracious than Her Grace, perhaps even more beautiful,” Prince Oberyn said.

Jon rattled the thought in his mind. This priestess resembled the Queen ever so eerily. It swelled the linings of dread in his stomach. Coincidence, surely. What else could it be? Grand Maester Pycelle would call it a mummer’s trick, and perhaps a poor attempt to defame the Good Queen. Lord Estermont and Rogers would have little opinion, and Lord Varys had already claimed sorcery. But the Spider’s web was weaved with old hatreds and tittered tales, and Jon mistrusted him deeply.

At the end of the Street of Sisters, hagglers covered in ash  and dirt with odder clothing promised the best prices for a dozen goods. Prince Oberyn chuckled with glee, purchasing a poorly made satchel and filling it with tallow and a small stunted plant that looked like old mandrake root. He took his time, forcing Jon into conversations with each merchant and artisan and thief, before relenting and leading him towards Fleabottom.

Their short silence was broken quickly as Oberyn said, “I hear the King is no longer abed.”

Rumours still ran aplenty, Jon rued. Robert had healed slowly. Weeks of sleepless nights, restless tossing and turning, Lysa’s shrill complaints leaving him in long loneliness. One son slept, sickened and sorrowed, and another was born, hearty and healthy. He had named him Robert in a dazed delirium, in some old man’s prayer that the gods would bless the child and his namesake. That the king would will himself to leadership, become more than the shell of the boy Jon had known, more than the shell of the man Robert had drowned.

“A terrible shame what befell him. Funny, that such simple pleasures can be a greater poison than any concoction,” Prince Oberyn jested.

“Prince Oberyn. I would ask that you speak lightly, and wisely.”

It only amused the Dornishman further. “Do not be so prickly, Lord Hand. It is a beautiful day. And besides, is it treason to say men are mortal?” He galloped ahead in a swift spur, forcing Jon to match him, and then again as he slowed to a slow trot in an instant, a wry grin plastered across his face.

“Give him my regards,” Oberyn said, scratching the ears of his barb, “And my brother’s. From the rumours, I hear his affliction is similar to Doran’s own. For that he has my pity, much that he will loathe it.”

Cobbled streets soon turned to stones to wet mud, the ground sinking Fleabottom drowned in its own stink. Streets turned narrow, some alleyways no wider than lone men. Horse-drawn carts and wagons climbed to the edges and rises of the streets where loose stones were left in chunks, the houses leaning in over the streets like rotted wooden canopies.

Prince Oberyn enjoyed his detours, leading him up narrow hills, and down slopes where sewage flowed openly, and twice through in circle with naught but an amused chuckle at Jon’s questioning. Toying with his food. Jon Arryn was not a foolish man. He saw the veins on the Prince’s hands glare with each Lannister banner that draped the streets, grinning all the while.

“May I ask you a question, Lord Hand?” Prince Oberyn prodded as if Jon had a choice in the matter. He nodded, only sparing the Dornishman a glance.

“Do you recall the last time you and I spoke? Not in the sept some weeks ago, but before.” The shadow of Sunspear fell dark upon the land, domed towers and stone homes turned red beneath dusk.

Jon kept his eyes ahead, clearing his throat quietly. “I do.” He had carried a chest with him; a chest that was a tomb, blinding under the blistering Dornish sky, shining brighter than ever the sun, sculpted in the finest red-gold and carnelian gemstones, beaded pendants and bevelled carvings shaped into Martell stars. The Princess had likely brought it with her from the old rooms of home. She had never seen it return there, even if she did.

“Yes, you do,” Oberyn murmured, “It was a terribly cold day. The maester told me it was the driest, coldest day in the last century of Dorne. The deserts scorched in the daylight, and the Marches wept with melting winter snows. I remember your ship making port in the city. I remember your procession rolling under the gate, and my brother’s commands to silence my tongue,” he spat bitterly, snarling the next words, “Leashed. Left only to watch. Now I return to this… stinking city of shit, and find banners of crimson-gold where black-red once flowed. And a Queen, so very beautiful, with beautiful children of her own,” he spoke with a painfully wide smile, eyes sharp with amusement, “I hear you are a father now, Lord Hand. A true father, so they say, of blood and name.”

“Yes,” Jon murmured. A babe of chubby skin, flushed pink with smiles to join his wails, and little stubby fingers to grasp for his father’s chin and his mother’s tight embrace. A healthy babe, a healthy son. The Gods were kind.

“Named for the King, I hear. Let us hope he is not as unruly as his namesake, and that his father may teach him goodness, and not cowardice.”

“Prince Oberyn, I—“

The Dornishman trotted forward loudly, “I wonder, when you look upon the faces of the royal children and their little manes, do you think of my sister’s children? You were there, no? When Lord Tywin honoured our King with his butchery?” Jon swallowed deeply, marking the thatched roofs and collapsed balconies and muddied roads of Fleabottom.

The Iron Throne had loomed above, stained with black-blood as Aerys’ life poured onto the steps beneath it, steel eyes glaring. Jon had sifted through the crowds of soldier and sword, crimson cloaks unrolled beneath the feet of all them all. Some said the Princess had killed them in grief, in fear. Others said she suffered the Mad King’s final madness. The rest spoke of a mountain of a man, cruel and callous and commanded by his master’s golden glint.

But he could not destroy what was built on rumour.  The Warrior knew how much they had bled for it. But Eddard… he did not understand. “Coward,” he had bellowed. “Coward,” another young voice whispered by his mind’s ear, so similar to his own.

He had never looked upon their broken bodies again. Not even as the silent sisters took them, and draped in the softest silks. Never again, never again.

“What happened to your sister was a tragedy,” Jon whispered, so quietly, it was almost lost beneath the trot of his horse’s hooves.

“Tragedy,” Oberyn spat, laughing with a furious contempt, sharper than any spear, “A tragedy was the death of your little children, Lord Hand. Babes who bore only a single breath, a single taste of life, burdened only by the god’s cruel jests.”

“Tragedy,” Oberyn said, toying with the word, letting it roll and simmer on his tongue, “The victors are crowned, and the realm’s old idols are forgotten. A cold crown in reward for black-hearted murder. Ned Stark speaks true, then, winter does come.”

“We do not reward murder, Prince Oberyn. Understand that—“

“And yet it is a Lannister queen, that wears a crown. It is Lannister children that the King sires. Lannister men that arm the Red Keep. Lannister lions, that adorn the walls. I have heard your reasonings before, Lord Hand. I disagreed with them then, I disagree with them now.”

“You are a devout man. Tell me, how does the Father deem which are worthier than others? What is a little Dornish girl, to a son of the Vale, to a throne of conquerors?”

“I wonder… how quickly would you call it tragedy, if it were your little son’s head crushed beneath a monster’s grip?” the Viper smiled tightly, snorting as he slapped his barb’s head, “but worry not, I did not come here seeking vengeance.“

“Then what?” Jon retorted quickly. Doran was prudent to keep Prince Oberyn’s tongue taut, and I was a fool to speak to him alone.

“My old follies and new.” He galloped ahead, jumping over children and stray carts. Jon followed, but slowly, watching the Prince stop and circle a slum beneath the Dragonpit.

Between two cluttered and cramp streets lay a tall home, small fumes of smoke rising above with puddles by the entrance. A gash ran down the middle of the structure, the cracked daub and wattle shaped into a thousand bolts of broken lighting. Jon could see holes in the thatch where water and storm would freeze the insides of the home, thin slices of horn where windows would be, the outer yard littered in spare straw and shattered clay. The pale horse neighed quietly, watching Jon as they approached.

“The red woman lives here?” Rickard muttered, mud creeping up his legs and sky-blue cloak.

Oberyn marched ahead, avoiding the grime, knocking harshly on the door. He then turned to him, lunging quickly, his breathe upon Jon’s cheek, his touch harsh against Jon’s arm, thumb drifting down to press against his wrist.

Steel caught the light of the sun like a flashing star, “Unhand him, good ser, at once!” Rickard demanded. Oberyn did not look at him.

“I will not hurt your lord. I only wish to remember his face. He is an old man, and I am not long for this city,” his smile fell, “If you look into a man’s eyes, you will see his soul,” Prince Oberyn stared with pits of dark venom, drinking the light with rage, “I look into yours, Jon Arryn, and I do not see a monster. Just a man. Craven, and old.”

The Viper loosened and let go, facing Jon, walking back slowly, “That was my folly, then. Expecting cowards to have courage and call murder for what it is. This is my folly now, remembering. The way this city remembers her, I wonder if she had even ever been a Princess of the realm. If she had ever been anyone at all.”

“Someone must remember. If not me, who?” He said, mounting his barb with a final scoff, “You?”

As Oberyn rode off with a gallop, a taunt in his wake, Jon Arryn sighed, rubbing at his arm and flexing his hands. The skin sagged over his long fingers, wrinkled and blotched with darker shades of faint bruises that never left, cracking as he stretched them wide and then  tight into a fist.

“M’lord, shall I send—“

“No,” he said, “Thank you. It is— never mind the Prince.” More trouble than it was worth. No doubt the man would have long left the city the moment the cloaks caught his shadow.

The door to the motherhouse opened gently, a gust of warm, incensed air of meadowsweet and burning marjoram harsh against the gamy spoils of Fleabottom’s grime.

“Lord Jon Arryn.” The red woman’s robes rippled in the breeze, a dim light behind. Her golden ringlets fell perfectly on each side, cloak forgotten with her figure flaunted.

“My lady—“

“You are the Hand of the King,” she said curiosity as she smiled faintly, catching the trail left in the Viper’s temper, denying Jon a single word.

“Your guard must stay outside.”

Rickard scoffed, “I protect the Hand, and so I must follow.”

“You are a man. There are those who have suffered your peers’ presence. I cannot deny the Hand. I will deny you.”

Jon relented. “Rickard.”

“M—m’lord,” he said dumbly.

“Stand guard, good ser. Do not fret.”

The red woman met Jon with a brow half-raised, leading him inside, stale bread salted by hand upon an uneven wooden board. If there was danger here, it was not of daggers in the dark.

“Do tell if I fail your tradition. It is an interesting one,” she said, watching him intensely with each bite, with each platitude, eyes like embers, unblinking. “You wish to see the young Arielle.”

Jon nodded gravely, “Yes. I was known to her in the past. What befell her today… ‘twas nothing short of horror. Is she… is she well?”

“As well as can be. Quiet. Some wounds cut deeper than flesh and blood.” Long rang the bell toll, crowns and thrones and sons drowned beneath its duty.

She led him to a long room, plastered in ripped settees and damp, swollen seats and tables. Rugs were matted and worn and stained, children’s toys piled in corners, spare breads and grains shared in small meals by a half-dozen women, old and young with babes at breast or lap. The ceiling was chipped with small droplets of water falling, weeds weaved in between, the cobbled tiles cracked with mud creeping through like scuttling hands.

“Oh, it be the Hand!” cried a thin woman, hair knotted and face blotched in old dirt, a babe rocking in her arms. Questions of “the Hand?” and “here?” and “how?” ran around the room, the quiet mothers, the loud children, each calling his name and sharing their shock.

Jon smiled, leaning to meet her and the babe, “My lady. How fare the babe?”

“Oh, she be a sick one, m’lord. Wee thing was retchin’ me milk all over. The nice lady was of too good help. Now she be sleepin’ and eatin’ without the wailin’.”

“Seven blessings. I am glad to hear it.” The babe was a thin thing, without name like the many graves of Fleabottom.

“There is a basin to clean, Lord Hand,” the red woman noted, glancing to the blood dried beneath his fingernails. Jon thanked her, abashed, letting the cold waters, clean somehow, fall gently from the ends of his fingertips.

This place… it was a holy place, once, faint carvings of the Mother, Maiden and Crone entwined with old paneling and crown mouldings all across the walls. Seven bowls, though only one remained, seven effigies in the hands of the few.

A different kind of holy now, Jon mused, watching the red woman whisper gently to the old woman, faint smells of coriander steaming from her cup.

“A motherhouse?” he inquired. There were dozens across the city, held up by the hands of the High Septon’s generosities. Far and few between, these days. A regretful thought. Shameful, no matter how true.

“Once a motherhouse. Now a house of mothers,” she said, brushing her thumbs against the thin woman’s hands tenderly.

Down the hallway, past a broken staircase and the patches of hard dirt that plied through floors, was a small bedchamber. The red woman kept her hand tight on the handle, free of her golden rings, but long and delicate and painted. Up close, Jon spotted the fine embroidery, as fine as the Queen’s Myrish dresses of lace, skin as light as the Queen’s, red rubies adorned snugly upon her neck as clean as the Lannister red.

Her eyes watched his fascination. You fool, Jon chastised. Ogling her like a drunkard does a whore. His cheeks fell aflame in shame, stammering a half apology.

She chuckled, “You are a man. And I am a beautiful woman. I could hardly blame you.”

“I— Forgive me, my lady. It was a terrible trespass upon your person. It is… you… you bear a remarkable resemblance to the Queen Cersei, is all. It is hard not to notice.” So much like the Queen. It dumbfounded him, for the oddities were not clear. The nose, perhaps? The shape of her eyes or lips? He could not find it, and side by side, they would surely be the same, and yet entirely different.

It made her wine lips widen, teeth glittering, “I have heard. It is a dashing compliment. Unearned, for I have not a drop of royalty to my blood.” Her hand met his in greeting, impossibly warm, tingling the underside of his skin, “Medeya, of the Free City of Myr.”

“Well met, my lady.” Medeya was tall, barely an inch shorter than him, with eyes of glittering allure.

She defended the septa’s door well, squinting in shrewd questioning, “You are here for the young Arielle. But do you come in the bidding of the Hand, the High Septon, or simply as a man, indebted to another?

“In the bidding of good health, my lady. The Septa Arielle’s wellbeing, and little else.”

“Septa,” she hummed deeply, “There was once a fellow that claimed her in the bidding of good health. Of good gods.“

“My lady. Whichever… qualms you may hold with the gods of this land, I would ask you set them aside. Her well-being is the only matter of importance.”

His politeness amused her, “I have no qualms with the Holy Seven, Lord Hand, but the men who adorn themselves in their colours. The pain inflicted on that poor girl… and the babe she tried to tear out…”

May the Mother have mercy, Jon prayed. Defiled, the girl had screamed. The wounds of her womb, the blood of her life spilled. In his dreams, he could hear Lysa scream, the cloaks of babes lost wrapped in white, wrapped in blue, wrapped in crimson once again.

He cursed whichever fiend committed such depravity, and cursed himself for his anger, “Who?”

The red woman threw him a sneer; sneer that looked a smile that looked a sorrow. “A man who blinds himself has no use of penance. For what good would it bring him? Only cowards asks questions to which they already know.”

“Do you?” She opened the door, dim candlelight like the silhouette of a mountain range set across the room.

The septa’s struggled breathing rose and fell in the corner, the walls stained with black tears, her featherbed sliced and stitched and stitched again in odd shapes, lumpy and uncomfortable. Her thick wool blanket could not hide the pungent smell of blood, nor the thinning of her arms and the bump of her mangled stomach.

He looked away as Medeya changed Arielle’s wrappings, wiping away the leaking blood as red her robes, the smell of vinegar heavy and the stitching deep. Yarrow poultice and garlic was smoothed across her gashes, her murmured pains sharp and sobbing, the poppy calming her after.

Fell magic, foreign poisons and witchcraft, so said the High Septon, more concerned for her charity in the streets than the bellies of which she fed. All Jon saw was a maester born a woman.

“My lady, may I ask why you have come to this city?”

She washed her hands in a small bowl set aside, “Why does anyone go anywhere?” Medeya dried her hands with worn sheepskin, sitting down beside Arielle, chin in hand and searching Jon Arryn’s face, “They say you are a kind man, Lord Hand. Honest and honourable to a fault. Is it honourable to ask a woman veiled questions, hm? The High Septon would see me dressed in motley and flogged out the city gates. For no reason but the colour of my cloak. I ask you again, have you come to enact that man’s justice?”

He pursed his lips, holding his cloak by his knees tightly. “No, my lady. The High Septon speaks with the Gods favour. He made his complaints, but I, in good conscience, cannot err on the side of prejudice. I see an citizen acting per own her good will. You are free here, my lady. There is no further charge.” King’s Landing was no stranger to exuberant personalities. What harm could a lone priestess bring, one who shared no sermon, where red warriors and summer princes could not? Even Oldtown tolerated their temples.

She watched him, many questions behind her eyes, silenced by her smile. “I find him to be amusing. Sickening, deplorable, but amusing. He cries heresy and insult, and yet flails his hypocrisy plainly. Ha, forgive my impertinence, but is the Feast of the Father not a time of judgment? Justice?”

Medeya took Arielle’s hand, kissing it gently, “Is this justice? I wonder, is the true sin…” she brushed away a small lock from the septa’s face, “the sin of silence, as monsters lurk about?“

Then there are many sinners about. He rubbed the rough of Prince Oberyn’s touch, his skin bruised and tingling. He had told Robert that the Gods bring justice to all men. Cowherds and Kings alike. But in the red woman’s eyes swirled an impossible question, for one he had no answer. 

“I did not know it was a motherhouse, at first,” she continued, “The woman you met, Betha, was heavy with child, hiding here, with little prospect of life. I did what I could. I do what I can. As the Lord wills it.”

“You have done a well job with it, with so little. Call it a passing interest, but one of your countrymen resides in the castle and court. Thoros, of Myr. He is good friends with the King.”

She chortled, “We have met. He is a drunkard. Funny, but… lost.”

“From your Lord?”

Medaya shrugged casually, as if her faith were no serious thing. “From purpose. He is an aimless man, let alone a priest.”

“You asked me why I came to this city. To help. Most men take it for a simple answer that is a clever subterfuge or a lie, perhaps. But the truth always very simple, made into the world around us. This place, this city, perhaps this realm… it is wounded. There is good and there is evil, just as there is night and day. Black and white. And the young Arielle, we know well enough where she falls. But where will she go? Who will take her? For the blackest of men will call her goodness a sin. For now she is now a whore. She would be ordered to prostate herself with her blood still trickling down her leg, until her life is spent. Then, she may find some forgiveness. The poor girl cannot find embrace in the halls of her Gods. But here, where the Gods remain, but her monsters do not…”

“Not in your fires?” Jon inquired.

She snorted, “Fires? My fires may impart many wisdoms. Take a gander and you may glimpse the gleam of your greatest desire, or the even the dread of your death. A soldier may find his peace or his courage in flame, or a wizard and his tricks, or even a priest and his prayer,” she swirled a small cup of mead with a damp wooden spoon, mixing small bundles of yarrow, meadowsweet and heather. A medicinal for the babe, Jon mused. Pycelle had concocted many for Lysa, most of which his lady wife had refused harshly.

The red woman whispered sweet words to the teary septa, leaving the drink by her side to grow cold with a wooden effigy of the Mother.

“In the fire, just as one does with their wooden gods, you may find worship. But can fire suckle a babe by its breast? Can it feed a babe’s belly, or hold it with a mother’s touch? Perhaps here,” she raised her arms to the dim walls of the chamber, dingy, undone by the seams of its craft and smellier than barracks at war, “I may offer them some semblance of the mother’s mercy, for I too, was once a mother.”

Jon frowned, tracing the corners of the young woman’s face and the tight width of her hips, perfectly curved and without wrinkle.

Medeya raised her brow amusedly, “You think me a liar? My master willed many a child on me, Lord Hand.”

“Master?”

“Master, yes,” she spit, “Though, not a master of tanners and chandlers and merchants and key keepers, as you are accustom. A master of man. And if I were to believe his words, then once, a master of my soul. Does the word displease you, Lord Hand?”

“Ah, I—“

“If it please you, my master saw it prudent to leave my face unblemished. Pretty slaves bear the ink of their ownership elsewhere,” Her long fingers dug beneath her robes, coming undone by her sharp shoulders to flash the ample of her breast and the pink of her nipple.

Jon looked away, flushed, hand raised in protest, “Please, my lady, I believe you.”

“My master thought my beauty and the warmth of my sex a blissful pastime, and his lady wife was never one to voice displeasure, for his hands were rough, and the pain plentiful,” she sat down, her eyes heavy on him as Jon lowered his gaze, “Most died within the womb, a few in the small cloths I stole to birth alone in the alleyways beyond my master’s manse. Perhaps that is the mother’s mercy, Lord Hand, for they were saved from the only life I could offer them. The clink of my master’s shackle.”

An abhorrent, disgusting practice, Jon mused with pity. Lysa’s wails rung in his ears, around and around in old anguish. “My condolences, then, my lady. They are with the gods.” In the Mother’s Heaven. Perhaps this woman would see them again, as Jon hoped for his own.

“So I believe. And so it brings me peace, as it does many,” she nods to the fire aflame in the hearth, crackling in their silenced. She nods to the wooden mother, now tight in the hands of the septa.

The red woman stands to meet him, “But peace in death, does not mean a peaceful life. Take you, for example, Lord Hand. You are the master of this city, and so the master of this motherhouse. If your duty was to demand I abandon this place in exile, then I would have no choice but to obey. It would calm the High Septon, but could you live with it?” her eyes flowed like running rivers covered in a wildfire’s green, unwavering in their stare.

In the distance, muffled cries of a wailing baby mixed with the soft sobs of Septa Arielle’s moans and twitches, an old nightmare plaguing her.

“Have you lived with it already?” She asked. Jon could feel her gaze, like beams of sunlight scalding his skin, hotter than the Dornish desert, or a Prince’s hatred.

Medeya of Myr’s face blazed with an amused understanding. “My master was once a lord himself. I know politics well-enough, and the lives crushed beneath the game,” She rose to the door, her figure dark as the light formed a blazing silhouette around her, “If you have found what you sought, then I must kindly ask that you leave, Lord Hand. Look to your sins, if you must. For the night is dark and full of terrors. I shall, and so shall she.”

He gave Arielle one final prayer. Coward’s prayers mean little, the red woman whispered in his mind. Jon ignored it, avoiding Medeya’s watchful gaze.

The old mothers had taken their children to rest, the house of mothers quiet, each creak an echo. Rundown and vulnerable to even a single storm, but strong enough with each other in hand. They may do well with the Seven-Pointed Star, if they cared to learn their letters. Mayhaps I shall send a copy. Jon wondered if the red woman would take kindly to that, or laugh in his face.

The septa was in good enough hands, then. Jon sighed, part relief and part exhaustion, and some little part guilt that he had buried. The High Septon would dislike it, but there was little be done. Many had accused the man of corruption, and yet Jon had remained resolute despite it all, trusting in the Most Devout’s judgement. But now, a flash of crimson spread across a girl’s skin, seeping like the cloaks of Jon’s old cowardice. Was he truly as blind as Alester? Or as old as Prince Oberyn claimed?

Sweat clung to his forehead. Robert would return to court soon. News would trickle south of the banners raised beneath the Wall. And now, he had a son. To teach and love and nurture in the lost time the Stranger had given him. Duties of a father he thought he had left behind decades ago, but kept with him still in the brooch pinned to his doublet. He could not waste time on foolish malcontents.

The red light of dusk streamed through the cracks and slits of the walls. Rickard waited outside, dutiful, the pale horse watching Jon again. When he looked back, Medeya of Myr lingered in the ends of the hallway, a shroud of blackness shadowing her fair skin. Her golden ringlets did not sparkle, dark now, her cloak of flaming red faded. But her eyes peered through, like little braziers of wildfire singing with a strange tune.

The door shut, and a coldness swept the streets of Fleabottom. The bells of Baelor rung like drums of death, again and again as crows fluttered awake and searched. The soft pudge of the ground was swallowing, and his breath hitched terribly as goosebumps warred across the field of his skin. His heart drummed at the thin layers of his chest, hands clutching his robes in tight creases, breathing deeply as if he had been woken from a restless dream, terrible and tortuous.

Chapter Text

“Seven Hells,” Robert grumbled. A long slab of polished steel sat before him, his sunken eyes staring back as his chemise flowed to his knees. The king’s wardrobe was larger than a peasant’s hut, looking high vaulted ceilings with unlit candles swaying gently above, the red tinted walls of stone alive under streams of summer gold. Ornate cabinets carved with stags and sailors and stones lined each wall, enclosing him like a dungeon cell.

Beyond her a feast gathered in hall of the Iron Throne, guests across the kingdoms snivelling and serving beneath its shadow. Groaning, he pressed his palm hard against his forehead and scrunched in frustration. The day had barely begun and he wished it over. His mouth was parched. Any wetness tasted bitter and metallic ok his sore tongue, his knees aching with a lingering pain of old injuries, the haze of poppy long faded and the absence of any sweetness unforgiving.

As unforgiving as these damned dresses littering his wardrobes. Gods, when had he needed so many? There were hundreds, coloured like an endless rainbow that sent his mind in a thousand directions with another sharp pain, a dull pain, a pinching pain, all taking turns to never let him rest. Deep red burnouses slithered across the floors with sickeningly ugly shines. Velvet cloaks tailored with golden paw prints and golden manes and golden antlers and golden flowers, and golden swords. Hats embroidered in crimson with a falcon’s feathers, more suited for fools than kings.

Gods, what Lannister fool had left his robes in the king’s quarters? He tossed them to the floors, trudging through robe after robe, tunic after tunic, cloak after cloak, endlessly, mindlessly. A girdle as orange as dawn, silver-lined in equally sun-blotched silks. White leather moccasins with another stag, this time frowning, adorned with faded bead work, velvet cuffs and ribbon ties. Had he ever seen half of these? Had he ever worn half of those he had seen?

“If you have a grudge with the seamster, Robert, there are easier ways to show your displeasure.” He turned to find Jon Arryn, a crown tucked beneath his fingers, staring amusedly at the growing piles of clothes.

“Have you come to chastise me, Jon?” Robert asked. Jon wore the same sky-blue surcoat, the same silver-white girdle and navy mantle. His hair was thinner, wrinkles deeper, but he was still the same old man Robert met beneath the Gates of the Moon.

Jon snorted, “To what end? I’ve not a cane nor stick to teach you.” He bent down, taking a few tossed cloaks and draping them neatly across his forearm.

“You used to enjoy that quite a bit,” Robert muttered, a pale green cloak tight between both hands, littered in tulips and roses and sunflowers and jasmine and orchid and a thousand flowers more he’d never recognise. What man needed so many flowers on his body? He threw it behind without a second look, only nearly missing Jon Arryn.

“Ah, well, you were but a boy of nine then. I remember you growing far too burly to grace my knees quickly after. But… alas, tempt me, I may try once more.” Jon took one of the many old Lannister cloaks in hand, “I remember this one. Lord Tywin gifted it not long after your coronation,” he pointed to another deep navy tunic on the floor near the edge of a great arched window, “that one Lord Yohn and I had handcrafted in Runestone, from Gulltown longwool mind you. The sheep had hardly lambed.”

“Yes, yes. A thousand honours in a thousand different colours. Gods be good, not a bloody servant in sight. Would you have me spend hours digging through all this?”

“You dismissed the lord steward the night before, Robert. Hurled your crown at him, I believe.” He handed Robert him the same, carved in a deep gold with studded jewelled hematite, shaped into two thick antlers with enshrined runes, sharp at the peaks but flying no further than man’s ears. Robert pushed it away with a grunt.

“He had the foresight to sort to organise it well. Though…” the old falcon continued, walking across the room to every open wardrobe, “hard work for naught, I suppose.”

“Organisation,” Robert scoffed, “This? Looks like a painter shat all over the room. Do we grant stewardship to the blind, is that it? What organisation did the man bother with?”

“These are old, mostly the odd merchant or lord’s gift many years past. So… size, it seems,” Jon remarked, pinching a long pink cloak between his fingers, little specks of dust like mist in the air. Robert huffed, thank the gods for Jon the Jester. He had grown wider by the year, a few inches lost in the months of half-dreamed sickness. Thicker than the Trident, so be it. But he was a king, the king! Better yet the court and their mirrors kept their mouths silent and eyes bowed.

“That one,” Jon called, “the black and yellow with the… stampede down the edge.” Robert pulled it out, unfurling the cloak by its corners. It was a dark and mottled with yellow treated wool with gold at the borders and collar that streamed down to the bottom like rivers, countless yellow stags and fawns and calfs trailing along in a mismatched stampede. The sleeved tunic beneath it was white wool, cuffed at the edges, the outer vest snug with ties running down the black velvet, a crowned stag emblazoned in the centre, the antlers sprawled to the tips of his shoulders.

“The Stormlander traditional,” Jon noted, “Still ripe with the oilcloth. Yes… I recall I had this commissioned for you only days before the ravens came from Lannisport. I had it modelled after the Myrish silks I gave to you when you came of age… do you recall?”

Robert nodded with a short hum, eyeing the fabric quietly. It was harsher, lined with fur inside, little ties and ribbons at every joint to shield a man from the winds, lined in thin layers of oilcloth so a man did not freeze in soaked storms.

“Aye, this will do,” Robert muttered absently. He was tired of this damnable room, and he’d no desire to start the process anew.

“I have spoken with the cooks,” Jon said as Robert dressed, “They have prepared a few dishes per the Grand Maester’s orders. Baked cheeses, a few puddings and roasted vegetables. Even a lentil stew,” his voice is soft but stern, “Adhere to his recommendations, Robert. Please. You’ve only now begun to heal, and there is no sense in throwing caution to the wind for something so simple.”

Simple, Robert bristled. Trying to starve the sin from him, robbing a man of his pleasures to turn him lackey. It was ridiculous, treating him like some gluttonous cheesemonger. He had woken from his fever after weeks, dreamwine and poppy withering away, his servants and guards all changed with Valemen who spoke with Jon Arryn’s voice, and fell silent with Jon Arryn’s patience when Robert raged. All while his wine had been plundered from his rooms, his whores barred and his feasts forbidden. 

All by Jon Arryn, the Hand that was both a Kingsguard and a wetnurse. “Hundreds of men, hundreds of fools consume themselves into oblivion. And Kings are not wont for fools nor ordinary men,” he had lectured, tales and tortures of a gouty and aged Estermont great-uncle on his tongue.

Robert remained silent, standing by the mirror again, shocked at his own appearance. Angered, his visage a poor imitation of his father’s lordly manner. His beard was trimmed, clean, the skin and rolls hidden beneath now visible, hair cut short as he had during his youth. His clothes the colours of the Baratheon banner come to life.

In the Vale, Robert had wondered what had become of his father’s fashions. His mother’s too. Perhaps Renly had kept them, dusty and old and untouched in cold cellars. Or perhaps he’d burned them. Or thrown them from the cliffs.

“Shall I show you the Grand Maester’s books, Robert? Of what a man’s stomach looks like once the septons and maester’s have cut him open? The little demons that gorge his insides from within,” Jon droned on.

Robert scoffed, “I know well of corpses, Jon.” The way flesh seemed crumble from the bone, the earth and maggots and sins of a man’s body consuming him.

Jon moved in front of him, still a tall man despite his age, standing only a head shorter than Robert, “Is it weakness to heed wisdom? Or do you prefer to die a common fool’s death?” He asked, brow raised, his faint smile falling to a faint frown as he retrieved a small leather box from his cloak.

From it, a small golden brooch shined, shaped into a stag with a thin layer of black patina flecked across, the antlers as wide as a man’s palm, “Here, this was your father’s. See… even with the same flecks he wore on his rings and robes. I had Lord Cortnay Penrose deliver it a week past. A brooch he commissioned from this very city, I believe. I recall he wore it at the tourney of your thirteenth nameday.” Jon Arryn held it between his index and thumb, letting the sunlight catch on it, before pinning it to Robert’s chest, “There we go.”

A brooch, hm. That seemed to be all Robert could ever truly recall of Lord Steffon. His love for the Baratheon name; his rings and cloaks and doublets and chains; all littered in stags and antlers and furies. A practical man, a confident man, never without the fury of their house, but far more courtly. He used to wonder if his father had screamed when the Windproud had crumbled against the rocks. Or had he comforted his mother as the gods threw him to the depths?

Now, he wondered if he had even had a father. Or was he simply another name for the maester’s books? One that leapt from the pages to haunt Robert’s wrinkles and eyes and jaw when he fell too far? The word father was muddied, grey, almost like a fog, and when he cared to sift through it, he found Jon Arryn staring at him curiously.

“It’s a funny thing you do, Jon,” Robert murmured, looking at the older man distantly, “You open your mouth… and suddenly we’re, back in the Eyrie. Scolded like a boy again.”

Jon chortled, but it felt sad, and for a single moment Robert can hardly recognise him. “I give you a wooden stick, and you pick up steel in the night. I give you lessons, and you take it for lectures.. I hand you a crown, and you toss it away for a cup. Somewhere… somehow, I feel as though you will always be that boy, Robert.”

The boy who must be king, Robert mused.

“Are you ready?”

Robert grunted, “This is a bloody waste of time. Mingling with every piss-sodden fool grumbling for a favour, an honour, a deed. Out there… pah! It’s a half-witted idea, that’s what it is.”

“Is it?”

“Yes! Going out there! Gods, Jon. I can hardly walk ten feet without my skull plying itself open. This, this is her doing, I tell you. That golden bitch, Lannister cunt. Thinks to parade me like a damned mummer’s animal!”

“Robert. That woman, is your Queen. Your lady wife. Her hand and her name and her womb were not easily won. And I am akin to agree with her! The Crown Prince’s nameday is hardly a waste of time. I will be there with you. By your side. The King needs a Hand just as the Smith needs His forge. You would do well to remember that.” Jon rose, staring intently into the mirror, voice quiet, “How many opportunities do I have left to right another wrong?”

Robert stopped, “What are you doing? Talking that nonsense.”

“Ah, Robert, perhaps it is…” Jon shakes his head, “simply the age speaking. Nearly thrice yours now. It creeps up on you. Comes as often as dawn and yet, it is always a shock, a surprise… as if it was not the way of the world. It takes your bones, your lungs, your eyes. Even your hearing, and gods forbid, your mind.” He muttered too quietly for Robert to hear, before chuckling briefly, “I have all of them remaining, gods willing. Save my hair, of course.”

“Jon—“

“I can feel it, Robert. The Stranger, lingering at the end of the corridor, at the edges of the hall. I can see Them, ringing the bells of the Great Sept, calling my name with my father’s voice,” Jon clutched his chest, eyes tight, “Oh, yes. Yes, I can.”

“The looking mirror does not lie. I see my mistakes… the wrinkle of my skin. Trapped in the Eyrie as my brother died. Too weak, too timid to protect his son. To keep Denys from death. My sister’s children…” he chucked sadly, “Eddard… Eddard was right. My principles, the very same I taught you, I taught him, betrayed for a crown of cowardice. Princess Elia, we—“ Jon’s voice cracked, trapped in a sorrowed smile as he wiped at his wet eyes.

He gestured behind, “Sit down, Robert.”

“Jon—“

“Sit down, my boy. Please.”

Robert relented. Gods, when did you get so old, old friend? he mused, looking up at the wispy hairs plastered across Jon’s bald head.

“So many mistakes…” Jon muttered, fingers brushing against the golden edge of his antlered curse. He placed it on Robert’s head, black hair tangled in the corners, cold against his skin, “I don’t want this to be one of them.”

 Jon looked so old, gaunt where he once been strong. Aye, for you Jon Arryn, I’ll try. For you, old man. Robert stood tall, holding his weathered father by his shoulders, “Alright, alright. We’ll get on then. I should know better than to argue with you.”

“You’ll forget and try again, no doubt,” Jon waited by the doorway, turned back to watch him curiously. “Well?”

Robert nodded absently, transfixed on the old mural on the far side of the room, suddenly come alive under the streams of yellow sunlight.

It was faded slightly, painted years ago. Like a mother’s tale, ancient, lodged deeply in his mind somewhere. A great mountain of a man, armoured in the fiercest bronze that taunted the storm, in the brightest colours that drowned the darkness of the sea. Tall, with eyes as blue as sapphire skies, and hair as dark as midnight. He found his love on one knee, his burly hands, scarred and calloused like mighty stone, but soft in yearning to a woman as fair as the spring dawn, shining like blooming flowers in sunlit meadows. In the summer sun, her hair was as bright as daylight, as glimmering like gold, strewn in long curls that turned into gentle winds, singing sweetly. Her hands were delicate, soft as a maiden’s touch, as innocent as a child’s smile, brushing against the man’s own, blushing, eyes full of some desire that Robert could hardly place. It felt familiar. It felt sickening.

“I had that commissioned many years ago. Good of you notice. Durran Godsgrief,” Jon said, Robert whipping his head to meet him, “And his marriage to Elenei, daughter of gods, forbidden and forgone in a legend long told.” Durrandon, Robert mused, nodding briefly, looking back to the man to find his own face, somehow, staring up at this golden goddess. Aye, a child’s tale. No woman so beautiful could be so kind.

The sun filled the hall with hues golden red and orange summer beams, illuminating each and every lord with their cheers and claps as he entered. Like crows fluttering above the eve of battle, their leering gaze followed him in hunger, the Iron Throne watching as he took his seat upon the high table.

Gods, how many did that bitch summon? Two hundred lords and ladies at least; Mace Tyrell with his silver-haired hag and his ridiculous feather hat; Tywin Lannister with his gold-plated stare and his Imp; bald-headed Randyll Tarly; pig-faced Tanda Stokeworth; Selywn Tarth with his sapphire silks and son; a sunburnt Yronwood; flesh-faced Mooton; the grinning Addam Marbrand; Tytos Blackwood seated next to some Bracken, fork in clenched hands; some old wine-wearing fool; a young lightning lord; a dozen Freys weasels; three-dozen knights with sigils as stupid as the next; Bronze Yohn Royce, just as he remembered; sour-faced Stannis whose look matched Robert’s own; even Renly, the spitting image of some old portrait of Robert at his mother’s skirts. The rest, men and women and children with names he did not know, would never remember, and never cared to meet.

And yet not a single northerner. What a shocking surprise, Robert mused bitterly. He was better for it. Let them bury their head in the snow with their fool of a lord, playing at King of Winter beneath the Wall.

The queen sauntered across the hall, the court cheering her on with cries of “Your Grace” and “Queen Cersei” and “Prince Joffrey!” for Robert’s blonde sons, each draped in crimson doublets, embroidered stags buried beneath the golden threaded gleam.

“Husband.” Cersei bowed deeply, the little rubies embellished into the curve of her chest glistening like a blood-lipped lion. 

“Wife,” Robert replied cooly. His daughter and tubby son held their mother’s hand while Joffrey ran to Robert’s side.

“I’m six, Father. Mother says I should be old enough to hunt, now.” Joffrey’s green eyes grinned, and Robert could only recall the bloodied lump of kittens dripping from his fingers. Had he even spoken to the boy since? How did I sire such a son?

Cersei drew her son in and kissed his cheek, “Now, now, Joff. Don’t bother His Grace with such meanderings. He has yet to return to full strength.”

“Your Grace,” Jon said.

“Lord Hand,” Cersei smiled cooly, tracing Robert, “You look healthy. We were so worried. Joffrey was inconsolable that his father would miss his nameday, weren’t you dear?” Robert only met the nodding boy’s glance for a moment.

Jon Arryn cleared his throat. “Kind of you to be so stricken with worry, Your Grace.”

“Aye,” Robert replied through gritted teeth, the court’s stares mixing with Cersei’s smile drumming at his skull. She sat beside him on the high table, Jon and his sneering Tully wife and babe on the other, the feast beginning in earnest as dishes and wine and chatter of a thousand putrid smells incensed the hall.

It prattled on for hours, days, years, none taking notice of Robert’s silent grumblings, too engrossed in the decadence of a feast served in Lannister gold. Robert kept his place, playing the dutiful son and king as Jon rallied his hand for every grubby lord and merchant and fool worth half-a-moment’s time. The queen retreated to her pride, the high table emptied bar Stannis and his man-faced wife and scarred child. 

“Your Grace!” called his other brother, draped in green and gold with a sword sheathed his waist, “A fine feast. Must you wallow all alone? Or is our dear brother’s company a sunnier sight than the blush of a dancing maiden.”

“A Lord should know better than to speak of his King with ribald and insult,” Stannis scowled, half-a-dozen seats down with his fork as loud as his gritted teeth.

Renly chortled, “Might that you tried some yourself, dear brother. Then the court would not suffer your insult.”

“Lordship has evidently done little for you, Renly. Better—“

Robert slammed the table, rattling the plates a dozen seats away, “Must you? Gods be good, shut it. Listening to you two squabble is worse than a thousand onion-eyed widows. Get on.” His headache throbbed with the beating drum of his brothers’ quarrel.

My brothers. Gods, how blessed am I. Stannis, the sour-faced drudge did nothing but prattle unending on matters of duty and justice, as if his entire life were some terrible injustice wrought by Robert’s hand. Give him a gift, and all he did was grit and swallow his bitterness he kept as well-hidden as a whore’s cunt. And Renly was no better. Charming lords and ladies with a tongue better suited for some cheesemonger than a high lord. Renly, barely a man yet he believed he knew all there was to war and women and the world.

The slow of tune harpists died as the lords sung and ladies danced. Mace Tyrell, Kevan Lannister, Marbrand and Frey, cheering to the beat of his shattering skull. He downed his cup of water with no relief, and all Jon Arryn prescribed was Pycelle’s dishes that Robert eyed with disgust. All a bloody waste. Even the sight of Yohn Royce and his little black-haired daughter of the Vale irked him.

“Your Grace,” A red-gold servant appeared with a smile, pouring him wine while Robert swallowed Jon Arryn’s protest.

“Drunkenness is but the sin of gluttony, Robert,” Jon would reprove, prating seven sermons from the Seven-Pointed Star on a drunkard’s seven sins. Better yet, crush my head in seven times. It would be a better lesson than any other.

The goblet before him glimmered with Lannister lions encrusted on the sides, wine swimming in their jaws. Just one. What harm could one do?

“A drunkard will sell his honour and duty for the power of wine,” Jon Arryn would answer. The power of wine, he said. The power of wine! Robert had a throne, a crown, and Jon still admonished him for the few pleasures allowed to him. Look at them! He was no more a glutton than any other in this hall. He was no more a sinner than any of them. But he was a king, the king! If any man could sin, was it not he?

Jon mingled with roses and huntsmen in the distance, and the drink was plain in front of him, swirling with dark blood. What was one sin in a hall of thousands, in a lifetime of millions?

Just one, and then Jon could have his victory. Just one. The strongwine was sweet, terribly sweet as it lined Robert’s throat with a sickening richness. He flushed it almost instantly, letting it dribble down onto the cloak of his father’s image, Lannister lions laughing as the goblet cluttered to the table.

“Careful, now,” an ugly voice called, “the Grand Maester tells me wine can be a perilous thing for sure-footed men.”

Robert scoffed as Cersei Lannister approached, leaving her family’s pride to play whichever petty insult she wished. Cersei Lannister, his queen. Even conjuring the thought poisoned his tongue, her venomous eyes aware every little movement Robert took, feigning her delight behind concern and compliment.

“I’ve a gift for you, husband. But it seems you’ve started early,” she smiled with such honey. It made the bile in his throat rise.

Servants carried barrels decorated in garlands and burgundy ribbons before the high table, each one carved with clustered grapes and twisted vine. Lord Redwyne bowed stiffly, “Your Grace. Fermented and brewed specially for the occasion.” A sommelier in navy livery poured a small glass, relishing its taste before pouring two others for the queen and Robert.

Cersei thanked him profusely, raising her glass in toast, “Lord Redwyne has donated a dozen barrels of Arbor Gold, and Lord Tyrell another two dozen of Honeyed Hippocras. For the king’s continued good health. To King Robert!”

Jon Arryn pursed his lips in a silent stare. Robert would not refuse. I will not be made a weakling in front of this woman. He quaffed it quickly, muttering his gratitudes.

Cersei did not end her tirade. “I have another gift. The Grand Maester had me sick with grief. And in the spirit of madness I had this crafted for you,” she said, smiling as a servant unveiled a short staff shaped with a stag’s helm and gilded gold. Cersei stammered and blushed deeply as the court laughed. Robert rose furiously, breathing hitched.

“I know, it has little use for a warrior such as yourself, but you must forgive a woman’s weakness, Your Grace,” she curtsied. Robert’s fists clenched. I will not be made a weakling by this woman!

Jon Arryn swooped in quickly, cup raised in an assuaging toast, “We shan’t have it go to waste, Your Grace. I am in dire need of one as of late!”

Cersei’s crow court clapped for Jon, his wrinkled hand accepting it readily, “Well wishes, Lord Hand! Some good has come of my ninny, then.”

Jon Arryn nodded at him sternly, lips and nod tight. Robert only fell back into his chair, skin sweltering and flushed. Damn them all. The spectacle had hardly even began, the court all coming forward to bless Prince Joffrey in gifts and wishes, dancers and jugglers and jesters taking stage as the feast continued tenfold.

His barley stew was overfilled with mushrooms, the stench of garlic insufferable and the quake of his hunger insatiable. He scoffed. Perhaps Jon Arryn meant to poison him.

A familiar voice saved him from his bitter dirge. “Glad to see back on your feet, Your Grace,” said Thoros of Myr, red robes as red as his swollen face with a flagon of red in hand.

Robert set aside his cold stew and embraced the man grinning, “Robert. I won’t suffer another Your Grace from friends.”

Thoros snorted, “To Robert, then,” downing his wine and pouring another.

“Come with wizardry to dazzle the court with, eh?” Robert asked. He would have enjoyed the priest’s fiery blade here.

Thoros chuckled, tapping a cup of spiced Dornish red, “Red prayers for a red wizard. Would that I have a dozen more, then I might find a spell or two for you.” Robert laughed, a good laugh, the first honest one of the evening.

“Out of trouble, then? I hear you knocked Yohn Royce flat on his arse a week past.”

“Oh, yes,” Thoros teased, “Even as a poor priest I find myself in a muck about. But you? Oh, the barkeeps and boars certainly miss you.”

“Pah! Light a fire and pray, Thoros, they’ll be quivering soon enough.” Robert raised his cup to find it empty.

“Let me,” Thoros offered.

Robert said nothing. He would not look weak in front of his men, no. One more and let it be done, with Jon none the wiser.

“To kings, wizards and wine,” Thoros toasted.

“Wizards and wine,” Robert murmured, the drink sweet but his mouth drier. Another might alleviate the thirst, one more at least.

“Ser Thoros,” called Jon Arryn from behind, a maester’s mug in hand.

Thoros bowed low as he approached, “Lord Hand. You honour me with ser, but I am but a priest.”

“Ah, of Myr, yes? I was recently acquainted with a peer of your order, I believe. A, Medeya of Myr?”

The ragged priest grinned sheepishly, “Name a thousand of them, my lord, and I’d hardly recognise one.”

Jon smiled cordially, “We find our faith in special ways. May I?”

“Of course. Your Grace,” the red priest said in a teasing bow, taking the wine and his humours with him. Jon Arryn watched him vanish into the crowd, finding his same well-worn frown at the puddles of wine left in Robert’s cup.

“Scarcely a cup, Jon. Save the lecture and sit down. Your king demands it.”

Jon pursed his lips, “Here, drink,” he handed Robert a pungent cup of vinegar mixed with dark honey and thyme, “Might you find some clarity with it.”

Clarity, he mused. Robert did Jon the favour of repressing his disgust at its taste. The old hand plopped to his chair with a heavy sigh, hands kneading his knees harshly.

“Ready to retire, Jon? Better you dress in motley if you wish to speak with them again. I told you this damned day was a waste.”

Jon clicked his tongue, “Gather your affairs in one place and settle them in one swift motion. You would not prolong a battle at the cost of lives, just as I would not at the cost of another headache.”

Robert huffed, “Aye, well said then, old man. Which fool and flatterer did you settle now?”

“Lord Tyrell and his taxes, Your Grace. Blight sweeps the Reach, Oldtown has shut its gates, and the roseroad has dwindled for nigh a moon.”

“Copper counting with misers and tight-fisted coxcombs. Did you remind them who the king is?”

“Yes. Though, the High Septon answers to a higher power. One who is most displeased, supposedly,” Jon grumbled, “His blood ran hot at the sight of Thoros of Myr. A newly found feud.”

“Another damned knave.” He searched for a drink that was not there. “The sept is made ever brighter by his presence. Pah! We should have had out with him years ago, Jon.”

The falcon eyed his cold stew, swirling it thrice before letting it freeze further, “Well, regardless, pay it no mind. I will resolve the High Septon’s complaints. Better you focus on the evening. You’ve done well, one cup not withstanding.”

“Sooner done and better yet. Let me wash my hands of this vanity.” Clarity, Robert mused. Which would shatter first? His skull or his sanity?

“Duty demands patience, Your Grace.” One of Jon Arryn’s oldest lessons, told a thousand times until it lost all meaning.

Robert scoffed, “Jon Arryn and his patience. If I’m to suffer one more damned—“ The court awed as the queen returned for another game, clinking her goblet loudly. She turned to him, hands brushing peaks of his seat, her strong perfumes spiced and snared.

“I’ve one final gift for His Grace, the king. His favourite,” she called, clapping and grinning as six men carried a wooden platter larger than Robert before the high table. They bowed before him, removing a black cloak to unveil a monstrous boar skewered and prone.

It was terribly fat, larger than any Robert had ever seen, skin sizzled into a glistening gold, legs splayed awkwardly with its underbelly exposed to the laughing court. Undignified, Robert fumed. Such a beast deserved to be exalted and the hunters praised. Not ridiculed by fools who would sooner soil their breeches than stand against it. Its mouth was agape with a leaking blood orange between its jaws, sliced beetroot garnishing its tender underside, dripping like blood. Dark rubies stared at Robert from the hollow of its eyes, glossy and glowing.

“The King of the Kingswood, served for our king of the realm. As fitting gift as any,” Cersei said.

Servants waited by the boar, carving knives in hand. His skin scorched beneath his blazing rage. She thinks to humiliate me! Servants bowlegged and pox-faced, serving such a prize on gilded plates. Serving the king as if he were some common milksop too weak to hold a blade.

Robert rose with a fury, “Get off it,” he commanded, storming to the beast himself. I’ll not be make a fool in front of that woman!

“I’d thought to let the carvers do it, but this honour should be yours. Forgive my misgivings,” Cersei apologised, watching with wine.

The carving knife was solid gold, ornate and cold to the touch. He opened it down the spine, slicing the hind legs and shoulders, ribs and backstraps, loins and belly, blood splaying across his embroidered forearms and waist. This was the smell of battles hard won, the taste of victory. And yet grease plastered his fingers, blood hid beneath his fingernails, and Cersei smiled and toasted him with a goblet of a golden laughing lion.

The court pecked at the plated boar with squawks of gratitude and compliments, a slab of tenderloin growing cold before him.

“Is it not to your liking?” Cersei asked with a putrid sincerity, “I am sure there are some cheeses and roasts to your liking, husband. Perhaps the Grand M—“

“Enough, woman. I’d sooner hear a half-wit in motley than your sage wisdoms.” She fell silent, but her eyes spoke every horrid little insult.

He cut into the meat fiercely, ignoring the stab of his swollen stomach and quaffing down a goblet of strongwine, and another, and another, as many as needed to rid him of this vile woman and her false courtesies. Some grubby Stokeworth asked questions that Jon Arryn answered, the Imp played a harp with only the pout of his lips, the queen chortled as if she were the fairest maiden alive, all while Jon pestered him with silent complaints and well-placed stares.

The doors soon opened with a screech, minstrels and cantors encompassing the court. Servants swept the feasting tables away while others carried wooden planks thirty-feet long, arranging them upon a small platform, painted props of tents, banners and spears and shields and stallions held by mummer’s in colours from an old memory. Gods, what now?

Cersei clapped loudly as Joffrey ran to Robert. “Father! Mother said you slew Prince Rhaegar on the Trident, and took the throne for her. I wanted to see!” For her? Robert snapped his head to the bitch, her green glance grinning.

“What better way to honour our king and Prince Joffrey’s father, but in the tale of his great victory, a great gift for our son. My lords, King Robert’s Rebellion!” She called to the court, cheers and claps cascading to the tune of his headache.

“A damned mummer’s play,” Robert gritted, hands squeezing his armrests painfully.

“A mummer’s play. Nothing more, Your Grace. Neither here nor there,” Jon Arryn reassured, voice steady.

Cersei squeaked like a giddy wench, bringing Joffrey into her lap and whispering into his ear sweetly. She met his fury with a smile, pouting her perfect lips in mocking, “You’ve always talked of it with such pride. Best our son learn it firsthand.” Behind him, he could feel the Iron Throne laughing with the jeer of a thousand taunts.

One by one, the mummers came and bowed. The mummer’s Robert shorter, though still tall, strong, though still scrawnier than Robert had been. A poor imitation. But for no fault of his own. Few could live to the warrior Robert had been. Let them try, he huffed.

The mummer took the stares of many blushing maidens as he passed, bowing before him for a king’s blessing. Robert only grunted. A sickly old man for Aerys; a pretty boy for his sad old wife; a plain man plainer than Ned, but without the hard edge of his beast’s cruelty;  a fat girl with a crooked nose; even a mummer’s Jon Arryn, comelier than his old friend.

“Who’s that?” Joffrey sneered, pointing at the ugly girl.

“The Lady Lyanna Stark, Joffrey.” Cersei sighed dramatically, “She had the wild blood of the wolves, the Stark’s say. Such a shame what befell her.”

Lyanna? Lyanna! She was plump, in all the wrong areas, her chest flat despite the girth of her waist and the roundness of her cheeks, her bosom sagging and without arch nor shape. With great big hands, roughened and calloused and burly! Lyanna?

“Robert,” Jon whispered, “A show, a show. Nothing more.”

Robert clenched his fists. Lyanna Stark, his would-be-woman. Half-horse, they had said, with of the North’s pale beauty. He… he could not recall her hands in detail, nor the face of her ridge or hips. She had must have looked like Ned. Surely. But she had not been fat! This was her work, that vile, evil cunt. Giggling like a girl.

Giggling still as the last man entered upon a wooden destrier. Silvery-haired and pale purple-eyed. Some snobby-faced street-begging Lyseni mummer, Robert surmised. Likely a sword-swallowing whore from the shape of his lips. It was a poor fools attempt at imitating the silver bastard, for Rhaegar’s face had been delicate, soft, with a deep indigo stare and silver-blond strands, not silver-white. Half a woman from the way Robert remembered. Soft, warm, kind, loving Rhaegar Targaryen! That was how he fooled all the naive maidens who wept like mewling babes at that obnoxious harp of his, and his gentle voice that grated Robert’s ears. All the good it got them. He scoffed. This Lyseni fool, it was not near him. They could not see the rotten rapist Rhaegar had been in this poor mummer. Gods, it made Robert sick to even see a man pretend to wear his face.

The mummer’s play begun with no care for Robert’s distaste, dead wolves and dead men and dead histories recalled by a young chorus, voice fair and shrill. Through every battle. Every false word never spoken. Every bawdy ballad. Stone bells and summer halls and stormy sieges. Let it be done. Let this tomfoolery end.

The mummers danced circles of false steel and battle while minstrels sang in frenzied rhythms, mallets upon drums of war rumbling deep. What did they know? Only a handful of the men in the hall had muddied their armours on the banks of the Ruby Ford. What were three coloured rugs strewn in forks across a stage to the carnage of his greatest victory, of his worst day?

The mummer’s Robert swung his wooden hammer like a madman, the Lyseni whore feinting him in circles with fiddling remarks upon his tongue. What did they know? Rhaegar had said not a word. Blade held high like some damned illustration in a knight’s tome. So sure of himself, of this battle, as if the outcome were foretold and he had known it all along.

Soon enough, the mummer’s blow struck true, as if he had stumbled upon it. The mummer king preened as the Lyseni choked, throwing his false rubies to the crowd as he lamented Rhaegar’s false regrets. Of “good intent” Robert knew a lie, of “true love” Robert knew a farce. Let not a soul weep for this mummer’s show, let not a fool weep for his silver memory.

His raged turned his vision white. What did they know? What did they know! Robert had walked away, not Rhaegar. Robert. Rhaegar had died a coward’s death, on his back, or on his knees or side, his last whispers lost to the rush of the stream, blood like rubies. Robert had killed him a thousand times. Skewered, crushed, beheaded. A thousand different ways until he had forgotten how the bastard had died on the first. What did it matter? I walked away. Not him.

“For no true dragon could muster the might to challenge our great king,” the chorus called, the stage a blur as the set changed quickly. “A war not yet won, for one foe remained. But where mad kings fall…”

Emerald cloth flailed in spirals beneath a mad mummer’s moan, his long robes sewn with burning dragons upon an ironwood throne. “They dare defy the dragon,” he bellowed, the cantors chanting a vicious roar. “Let them burn with our breathe,” he declared, wooden wolves and falcons and trouts painted aflame. “Let them burn!” the mummer king squealed as he fell pitifully, a golden cloth lion draped upon his beaten body.

“Good kings rise!” they finished.

Stag-sewn dancers crossed the stage with flowing Baratheon banners. The mummer Robert rode in upon a white hart, a medley of stalwart warriors behind. “Fasten your fury for the war is fought. A dragon prince felled, a dragon’s throne forgone,” he preened, pinning silver tokens of victory upon each victor, each of them dancing and drinking and delighting in his war. The war in which Robert had bled.

Ned Stark would name it defiance. War is not a game. A king is not a mummer, and a soldier is not an actor, he would say. He would not have stood for this. He would have never allowed it.

“Enough,” Robert said.

“Scarcely a few moments left, Robert,” Jon replied, hand as tight as the old man could muster upon his arm.

“Only a few moments left,” Cersei echoed, biting her lip with glee.

Mummers wore mourning in shades of grey and white, wolves weaved into their wears, circling a grey girl. The mummer Lyanna cried quiet tears, her grief sung so beautifully, little dotted dragons of death sewn into her black dress. “Farewell, o’brother,” she cried, limp in the mummer Ned’s weeping arms. “Gaze the final warmth upon my lips. Thine journey injurious that it were. Feeble and fruitless, faultless not of thou own.” Her voice could almost be Lyanna’s. Would that he remembered it.

The mummer Ned took her away, again, gone from his sight, leaving only the throne. The chorus fell to his knees, “And yet despite our griefs, so came his victory and a reign of peace.”

The mummers circled a crimson cloak beneath their throne, “Brought forth by a golden long summer,” then rose a fair woman of pale gold, opals glimmering in her golden dress, “the Light of the West and our good King Robert,” the mummer king bowed before her horrid imitation, embracing her with a sweet disgust before placing an antlered crown upon her brow. “For only the truest love could unite a realm, and usher peace to the fallen.” The mummers all knelt, their false king and queen kissing ever so gently while cantors sung a sweet song of love and beauty.

Robert felt his heart thunder. Truest love, he gritted. Truest love! The mummer queen was a young delight, a maiden no doubt, so green she knew nothing of the love she imitated. Golden haired and golden faced, and yet nothing like the witch, the hag, the harpy that wore a good queen’s face. That stole his seed, his crown, his love, all owed to his dead woman and his true children. Not her, never her!

“Enough!” Robert roared, the table nearly overturned by his rage, “Enough of these lies! Drivel spewed by cravens playing at courage! Milk-levered mummers who would sooner shit themselves than face any man in battle! All of you, get out!”

The mummers guffawed, tumult spreading across the court, whispers growing incessantly upon his inflamed ears. “Y— Your Grace. We meant no ins—“

“Did I ask for your flap-mouthed apologies! Get out, damn you, now!” He bellowed. The queen’s children had begun to cry, little Tommen wailing to the sounds of clambering mummers.

Jon tugged at his cloak discreetly, “Your Grace, perhaps—“

Cersei scoffed in derision, “Save your hard-spent breath, Lord Hand. The king is far too ruttish for any of the fineries I have gifted. His heart covets a dead woman fiercer than the mother of his children. Shame that I did not a procure a whore from the Street of Silk to appease—“ The Queen fell from her chair with a deafening yelp, her skin torn and bloody as his fist backhanded her.

Frantic cries of “Robert!” and “Cersei!” and “Mother!” and “Your Grace!” and “Ser Jaime!” clamoured across the hall with the song of steel and the clank of cups. The Kingsguard ushered around them in a tight circle as the golden cunt pushed them all away, tears of trickery spilling freely as her wails echoed against every marbled pillar and lord’s ear. Her dressed spiralled around her like a river of a spilled blood, begging for her life as if Robert were some vicious murderer. But her eyes, her eyes were gleaming with triumph, with a sneer that turned his vision red.

“Robert,” Jon pleaded, weathered hands against the King’s chest. “Robert,” he begged again and again, his voice muffled through a fog of rage, Robert’s face carved with contempt. Jon’s sagging face covered his vision, grey-blue eyes peering in desperation, whispering some mangled prayer Robert couldn’t hear.

Blood oozed from a blotch on Cersei’s cheek. She stood clumsily, head high as red rivers stained her lips and fell from her chin. Her hands wiped it away, hands outstretched to the court as if she boasted of rubies, her tears mixed with Robert’s red fury. The queen’s daughter tugged at her dress, crying, Joffrey frozen as he stared up at the King.

“The Gods have cursed my children and I,” she cried, tears felled by her lion’s pride, “for any devotion to my king cannot change his nature. Look at how he honours me, so. Ser Jaime, please.” Cersei stormed from the hall, marked face turned towards the court. Good riddance.

“Ah— yes, Ser Jaime. Escort the queen and the king’s children to their chambers. The night grows long.” Dusk had barely settled upon the horizon, and the pair had already left when Jon Arryn gave his orders.

They all watched as Tywin Lannister rose. Declare your war, old fool. But he only bowed his head with gritted teeth, ignoring Robert for Jon. “The queen is undoubtedly tired from the festivities. Let us speak on the morrow.” The Lord of Lannister left, his imp rising in his wake, “To King Robert, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms…” he quaffed his wine, slamming it on the table with a clank and waddling away, “and Protector of the realm.”

Jon Arryn stared down at him. Where his eyes wet? I tried, old man. I truly did.

He found the court’s gaze heavy, and unneeded. Half of them returned to their meals, some whispering, the others wroth. The oaf Mace Tyrell threw his cap down in displeasure, marching out in protest. Jon pleaded with lords in the centre of the hall, head snapping to each call and cry and complaint, dancing like the court fool.

Fools! The whole fucking lot of them. Who were they to judge the king? The King! Let them share a crown with that Lannister whore. Let them share a bed with her vicious smirk and coy insults. They would sooner drown than spend a second staring at that crimson cunt and her golden gloats.

He took what he deserved. Putting up with her, gods. Roasted capons, suckled pigs, boar’s head, sauced mutton, larded hares, roasted chicken, baked cheeses, lamprey pies and venison pies, any stew or soup or wine of gold or red he could find. Robert ate until the sickened stares of the court grew too fierce, and Jon Arryn’s pleas grew too pitiful.

In the blackened steel laugh of the Conqueror’s monster, he found a glimpse of own blistering reflection. Damn you. Damn you for everything you have done. He tossed his cup at its gaping maw, the gold pierced on its toothed steel, the wine spilling down its blade like black-blood, the throne drinking Robert’s protest with a mocking taunt. Damn you, and damn them all. What do they know?

He stumbled through this forsaken place, lost in the maze of blood that Maegor named a holdfast. Winding steps and long hallways, his cloak fallen in his wake, his crown tossed down a narrow corridor. The damnable crown Jon Arryn had promised for him, forged for him, placed atop his brow! Look at what you’ve done to me, Jon. Married me to that woman, to this place and those people. What did you know?

He tore his clothing as if they burned, tossing them to every edge of his chamber walls, heaving onto the ground as bile flowed freely, roaring and grunting and slamming anything within his reach between every breath.

The moonlight struggled through the towering arched window, falling flat, the mural across without the sheen of daylight, enveloped in a faint darkness. Durran, handsome and strong, now faded, his disfigured face wrought with a harrowing grief more terrible than his name. His love is yearning, but futile, his glimmering golden goddess gaunt and ghastly, turned a terrible grey. Her face scarred from age, her skin as pale as freshly fallen snow in moonlit meadows, her hair dark, turned into a howling wind more sorrowful than any song. Little holes of plain stone crept through where her eyes must have been. It made her look hollow, dead, like some corpse queen in an ancient tale. She felt familiar, and yet, more foreign than anything else. A child’s tale, Robert remembered, lost like the rest.

They did not listen to him. That conniving bitch! He should not have hit her, he knew that. It was not a kingly sight, Jon would lecture. Not honourable, not courteous, nor just. But what was just of this? Forced to sit beside a woman with the Stranger’s smile.

Jon Arryn found him there, pacing like a storm swirling in his chamber, his crown and cloaks in hand.

“Don’t,” Robert spat, finger pointed like steel, “I shall not hear a word of honour and duty and courtesy. For all your prattling, you take no heed of the king’s word!”

Robert stomped, searching for the nearest flagon, raging when his cabinets remained empty. “After the Sack, I told you I would sooner deny that bitch her crown,” he muttered angrily, crushing his fingers into his desk, the oak creaking, “When I swore to hunt that dragonspawn across the sea. When I promised to bring my daughter to court. Always Jon Arryn’s wishes. Jon Arryn’s decisions. Jon Arryn’s wisdoms!” The old man said nothing, staring through him. Robert towered over him, and yet Jon Arryn stood as tall as the Eyrie.

“Why should I suffer that whore any longer?” He warned Jon years past, and now look. “Her and her damned children. Better I banish her from court. Bring Mya here. Let them know that the Baratheon name will be sullied by churlish whores and covetous wenches no longer.” Let the histories say that Robert Baratheon was never a weak man! Brought down by women and laughing lions, pah! Let them whisper not a word of Jon Arryn’s queen.

The old fool kept his lips tight. “Well?” Robert demanded. “Speak, gods be damned!” The king bellowed.

His pale face paused, stone like the statues of the sept. “Your father would be ashamed of you, boy.” He tossed the stag cloak to the floor, but kept the crown, “I shall see it done, Your Grace.”

Father, father, father. Why should he care for an old man’s opinion? Why should he care for a dead man’s memory? Robert roared, tossing his father’s brooch at the door. It shattered in two, broken and blackened in the shadow of Jon Arryn’s absence.

Chapter Text

The girl was frustrated. Snow crunched beneath her tapping feet, spilling through her naked black-bitten toes. “Do you have coin, or not?”

He searched through every pocket, crevice and pouch. “No,” he relented.

She huffed, scowling from her missing lips. “You have to remember. Here, try this.” The blood came spewing from his palm quickly as she sliced the black ice in a swift arc. His life steamed on the frozen blade, red blood black in the pale hour of moonlight.

With an eyeless stare, she urged him forward. “You have to go, now. He’s waiting.”

“Who?” He found the answer soon enough. A crow man waited by the edge of the treeline. The forest towered around him, with black bark as dark as the man’s black garb.

“Come, brother,” he whispered in echoes of wind, set upon the cold horizon. You’re going too quick, he wanted to say. I cannot fly. I cannot fly.

“You mustn’t look back,” the faceless girl told him.

“Why?”

“You know why.”

I know why, he remembered. In the dream, a shadow clung to him with mocking mirth, eyes of sapphire watching and waiting. Its fur was darker than midnight, flesh more demon than direwolf. On and on he would run without avail. For each time it found him, its third eye would open and swallow the world.

A prickled pecking snapped him awake. “Corn, corn, corn,” cried Mormont’s raven. Blue breath mist matched his frost-ridden furs as dull lights of dusk crept through the tent flaps. “Corn, corn, corn,” said the raven again. Ned brushed him away, tossing spare kernels to the snow which the bird gnawed greedily.

Loud voices moved as Ned dawdled in the dark, a daze swirling around him. He searched for the direwolf, but found only Jory. “My lord. The scouts came across a village ahead. Wildlings spotted.” Ned nodded, wiping at his sweat-slick face.

By the camp edge, the Greatjon’s black stallion reared as the man roared. Rangers ran around him as Ser Jaremy Rykker, Thoren Smallwood and hunched Ser Ottyn Wythers rode to Ned. Their black cloaks were thicker than the typical garb, so large it seemed to swallow their figures.

“Snowstream,” Ser Ottyn said, unrolling an aged map, “a trading village. Home to the chieftain Klyn, once. Jarmen Buckwell says it is largely empty, now. No more than a few dozen women and children. Likely the remains of the tributary settlements we passed.”

Across the camp, blue eyes pierced the morning fog. The beast stared at him. Hoarfrost froze at its feet, snow melted in its hair.

A rough hand shook his shoulder. “My lord?” The Greatjon asked, brows furrowed. The watchmen studied him with unease. When he looked back, the beast had vanished.

“We ride three-hundred mounted,” Ned said. “Armoured in chain and bearing steel. A few common folk in skins pose no threat. I would speak to them.”

“Where one wildling lurks, a dozen follow. Where there are fifty…” Ser Jaremy said, stubbled chin high.

“Still, I would speak to them. Lord Umber. Gather the lords.” Ned flexed his near-frozen fingers a dozen times as they left, leather creaking loudly. Weeks beyond-the-Wall, greeted only by snow and ice and wind. Not a soul lived in the villages past, nor shadowcats, white bears, ice spiders and many a more creature of Old Nan’s tales. Benjen’s notes had spoken of living wonders. Hundreds of villages settled at the tips of the black wood, calmer than any raider if you knew their way, with talk and trade to share. And yet now the world seemed empty. A graveyard of snow and forest.

A half-hour past, the rangers moved a half-mile west as the lord’s retinue a hundred strong rode north into the village. A few dozen men and women encircled a funeral pyre in the centre, bodies torn to tatters set aflame with pale fire. The other villagers watched from the hovels and huts littered across, and across the pyre, a heart tree scowled with bleeding white bark and drooping crimson leaves. Ned waited silently until the fire dwindled into cold ash. The wildlings chanted in different tongues, carrying sticks that were bones and coals that were skulls to the frowning maw of the weirwood.

Ser Jaremy and Ser Ottyn spoke to folk brave enough to meet them. The Greatjon watched with greatsword half-drawn, Jorah Mormont, Cregan Karstark and Roger Ryswell echoing his snarl, Roose Bolton, Robett Glover and Ser Wendel Manderly silent and watching. Ned dismounted, treading slowly to the pyre where a woman knelt. Her hair was bound in honey-gold braids, thick furs framing a pale freckled face stained with tears. She looked up at him with weary eyes. Blue steel, not blue sapphires.

“I am Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell,” he said.

She said nothing for a long moment, eyeing their party and the silver of his robes. “Rangers…” she replied, dragging the word. “There have not been crows for many a moon. Now a lord? Might be I am dreaming. Do you come to bleed, Eddard Stark of Winterfell?”

“The villages we passed were empty. I’d hoped to speak to these people.

“They are gone,” she said simply. “They will not return.” Her voice was heavy with sorrow. She stood at Catelyn’s height, shorter than Ned. “Why do the southern lords come north? There is nothing here for kneelers.”

A piercing howl answered before him. His shadow glided past, settling beside Ned, larger than a stallion with fur like midnight. The woman jumped back, hand lingering above her belted dark dagger. She muttered in an alien tongue, watching wide-eyed. “Your beast… is it yours?”

“He will not harm you.”

The woman kept her gaze locked on the beast, as if it would strike at any moment, “Warg…deathbringer,” she hissed, “Direwolves are dangerous.”

Ser Jaremy Rykker joined him with the Greatjon. “These people move north, Lord Stark,” the ranger said.

Ned frowned. “North. Why?”

“The woods witches call for a king,” the woman answered. Her voice turned unwavering but sad. “Once there were as many kings as stars. Every village a kingdom, every hovel a stone castle. Three hordes and three kings soon to be one.“

“King, king, king,” Mormont’s raven cawed, pecking for corn in Ned’s tousled crown. He brushed him off and uttered, “Mance Rayder.” For years the deserter had made his name and crown, and for moons the winds had silenced all talk of his kingdom.

The Greatjon spat into the snow, “Oathbreaker and deserter.”

She eyed him cooly, “Or a giant of man, broken free of his chains.”

Ned ordered the men away. “Thank you,” he said to the woman, mounting his garron.

She stopped him, brushing the garron’s grey mane with a sad amusement. “Go home,” she said. “Stark of Winterfell. You will find no truth here. I told your brother as much.”

His blood froze as he snapped his head to her. “What would you know of Benjen?”

“Enough to know a ghost when I see it. I will tell you the same as I told him. You know nothing. The truth you seek is in a child’s song. Pray that you never hear it. Follow the ice dragon’s tail and go home to your children while your summer still rules. You know nothing of what lies within the mountains. Nothing of what stole the Thenn. Nothing of the cold you claim is coming.”

Ned swallowed deeply as his hands tightened around the reins. She shook her head at the sight. “If you follow the ice dragon’s eyes, then you will die. So remember this, Eddard Stark of Winterfell. In the true north, a dead man rarely ever stays dead. Now go, let us mourn.” The heart tree howled as she left, its jagged mouth roaring with trapped wind, eyes bleeding and watching.

Damn you, Benjen. What world did I follow you to? His father’s signet ring tingled at his finger. Fog had crawled into the village. Above him, snow fell.

As they reunited with the rearguard, Ser Ottyn tended to a small wire-and-wicker cage with another man called Tollet. The ravens all shrieked as Mormont’s circled with them. Buckwell’s scouts waited anxiously at the edge of the caravan, talk dead and tempers somber, the other men chewing on burnt bacon and tending to mounts and packhorses, while the lords rode silent and sour, eyeing each hovel suspiciously as if a battlefield waited within them.

“That woman was of Mance Rayder’s camp,” Ser Jaremy said, searching Old Mormont’s maps for any remaining ranger roads. “A spear wife, I gather. Sent to make quick work with chieftains and stray smallfolk to join the horde. A likelihood for every village we’ve passed.”

Lord Jorah Mormont scoffed, eager to press ahead. “Whitetree, Hill Town, Snowstream. Women, children and elders. They’ll find no swords here. Only mouths with feet.”

“We do not leave behind our people in war. Not with an enemy at our doorstep.” Ned hummed in thought. “They are desperate. Enough to chew through the land and amass a force that cannot last. I had hoped we had time.”

“The Wall will make quick work of them.”

“It is not the Wall they fear,” Roose Bolton said. His eyes seemed to blend with the cold mist. “She carried a blade of obsidian. A brittle, ineffective weapon against men.”

Dragonglass. The word flashed across every man’s face. “Hold tight to frozen fire,” Nan had whispered. They all knew its meaning. Every rotted, damp annal buried beneath castle and long dead maester’s halls had spoke of obsidian. Black and glossy and bane of the dead.

Greatjon had fallen silent, the column fallen still. Even the ravens seemed to watch, Mormont’s tilted with eyes strange, and at the end of the vanguard, Ned could see the direwolf, frozen black. “Send another letter to Castle Black. Have the watchmen double the walkers where the Wall can see the Milkwater. We press on at once while there is light left to us. Have Ser Mallador follow a mile back and Buckwell a half-mile north.“

Not a soul spoke as they moved toward the Milkwater.  The further west they marched, the dimmer the days and darker the nights. The maps had neared useless as the Haunted Forest’s hands scuttled to the Wall without rangers to cut down its forested fingers. Whatever crude roads and paths that existed were buried by snow, villages eerily empty from Whitetree to Silverstream. Others were marked as ruins like Craster’s Keep, or simply vanished. Benjen’s notes had written of bleak valleys and perilous mountains and deserts of ice, but also fields of violet and cold blue tundras and forests a hundred shades of beauty. All with a hard people much like their own. He had learned to hunt foxes and skin bears and trap elks and sell seal blubber. Raiders slain and the name Stark remembered. For nigh a year Ned had coveted this piece of his brother. But in his old footsteps, Ned found only death.

To the west, Qhorin Halfhand would join them with another hundred strong. Enough men to learn of this threat of legend, face it and destroy it if the gods were kind. If not, gather enough word and bear witness, and move to the Fist of the First Men if the wildlings proved unruly. “The Fist is defensible,” the Lord Commander had said, “High peaks and a fort and forest to last moons. Thenn to the north, Antler to the east and the Frostfangs to the west. Every man is worth ten, and you won’t have green boys beside you.” Every man a tested ranger, a tested warrior.

“Souls shiver beneath their gaze. Steel shatters from their touch,” Nan had said. In the stories, the old monsters were shadows. Wraiths without forms, bodies born of mist and snow and ice. Dream-walkers in some, night-creatures in others. Dead things with stars for eyes and malice for names. The wildlings fear their eyes, Benjen wrote. The wildlings fear their names.

The rangers who lived had lost the wits to speak. The rest had never returned. And in the stories, all the warriors died.

As the fifth day passed, they found a desolate lakeside village branched off the Milkwater. Struggle marred each wall, wells and lake frozen over. Swords were drawn in fear and Mormont’s raven screamed above with “trap, trap, trap” as dozens dead littered the ground, spiralled around a silent heart tree. Their bodies boney and burnt and cloaked with hoarfrost, some fresher and left against huts marked with scratches of desperation. Every step uncovered a new skeleton beneath the snow, mouths agape and screaming, eyes shattered like icy crystals. Even the smell of death had long left.

A girl’s corpse leaned against the weirwood. Flesh remained to her, skin intact and pale. But her jaw was a sunken hole, half-missing with tongue and gum and cheek stolen by rotted black frost, her river of tears turned to an icy cloak. A shimmering black blade pierced her throat, hands still clasped around the hilt, eyes cloudy but sad.

He knelt to meet the dead girl with a silent prayer and apology, wrenching the blade out. It shattered as it left her throat, steaming chunks like dark stars across the white snow. “She cannot be more than a fortnight dead.” From her hand, Ned found a crudely carved iron trinket.

Roose Bolton’s face seemed equally dead as he squatted down to study the girl’s skin, turning her over and crushing the spare dragonglass in his gloved fist. “Her eyes have yet to shrink, and her flesh is yet to rot in her fingers. No more than a week.”

A week, Ned cursed silently. If we had been swifter. “Her throat…” he dared to ask.

“Of her own doing. Terrified enough to seek her own mercy.”

“A child.” No older than Sansa.

Bolton’s eyes were unperturbed. “Yes. Alone, and afraid in the dark,” he remarked, walking away without a second glance.

When Ned looked up, the heart tree’s face was weeping.

Ser Jaremy Rykker worked with other rangers to gather each body as the lords watched silent. Ser Ottyn fiddled with frozen ink, lighting cookfires by the lakeside to dry the moist parchment. “They were taken unawares,” Jarmen Buckwell said. The oldest bodies were  naked and armed with rusted steel or bronze blades,  while the freshest were covered in bloodied furs.

“These bodies are old,” Ned murmured. Very old. One man’s skeleton had browned like centuries past. Its truth stared at them from the hollow of its haunted eyes.

Thoren Smallwood snorted, “It seems some wildlings refuse to flee. You have to admire their stubbornness, if nothing else.” He kicked at skull, crushing an arm beneath his boot. “They drink with their neighbours one day and are slain by them the next. No wonder they crave a king.” It earned him a few laughs from the fools.

The Greatjon grunted, shoving the ranger from the bodies and laying the skull to rest. “Do all rangers blind their eyes with blood?” Smallwood scowled but stepped back as the Umberman tore down a wooden hut with bare hands, crafting a pyre before the weirwood as the wildlings of Snowstream had done. The others followed suit. Wildlings were not friends. But even children of foes did not deserve ignoble deaths.

It took a half hour for the fire to catch in the cold. It coloured the snow a pale gold, rising furiously with shapes of fear. The Greatjon only watched, face queered by a thought he refused to voice. The rest said not a word, listening as the bodies screamed into the ash.

The girl’s trinket twirled between Ned’s fingers. It was carved in the image of a spearwife, crudely and stained with blood.

Come the morn, Jorah Mormont sent steel-tipped spears soaring into the lakeside, shattering the ice sheets to discover schools of salmon and charr swimming beneath. Greatjon Umber’s sombre mood had risen, taking turns to compete with Robett Glover like haughty fisherman. The ringwall covered the village as the camp settled out further west where the lake met the river. Ned rode with Ser Ottyn Wythers, comparing maps, surveying the land and recounting each ration and packhorse and letter sent. They could not dawdle in this land, where winter was the norm. But they needed something, a sliver of proof that no stubborn man could deny. To convince Jon Arryn, reason-bound that he is.

By the third night’s dusk, the Halfhand was late, and he had left only doubt for them to feast upon.

The chitters had truly begun then. Jarman Buckwell led his scouts past the dark horizon. For each hour he did not return, phantom horns haunted each man. Sleep became a taunting thing as each night the fogs grew fiercer and the nights colder. The men huddled together to a save every sliver of warmth, muttering in the night with prayers of “one for friend, one for friend” frantic and fleeting, and even Ser Jaremy had began to doubt. First Ranger but second to all in courage.

Their bravery dwindled at the first sign of doubt. It irked Ned’s patience deeply.

Mormont’s raven fluttered above. “War, war, war,” it cried. In mocking or fear? The damned thing spoke in riddles. Ned wondered why Mormont had taught the bird such cruel jokes, remaining behind to man the Wall with those too blinded or too afraid to journey north. But he had given his raven, aye. It tittered at Ned’s skin every spare moment it was not vanished in the forest or hunting.

Yet it wore courage better than its crow cousins, and kept him sleepless in the night. Better for it. A raven was kinder than the dreams.

Long past dusk on the fifth night, Ned wiped Ice clean with quiet prayer, slick blood dripping into the gnarled bark of the heart tree. A garron had fallen over deep snow, snapping its leg clean. He had lulled her before his mercy, giving her the honour of a pyre than a feast. The Greatjon joined him soon after, wiping his spears and wetting his hands of dried fish blood.

“Cold?” Ned asked.

The Umberman chuckled. “I ought to bring my son here. He will never whine of summer snows again.”

“The rangers life would suit us poorly.”

“Suits half these crows poorly as is,” the Greatjon huffed. “Cannot last a day without a mutter or curse. A year without a ranging has unmanned them. Half of them wish to retreat. Gods, did they spend their lives at the Wall or skipping in grass like maidens?”

Ned sighed. “They’re afraid. They cannot find their bravery, and rather use that fear like a shield and wonder why it fails.”

“Nineteen castles, Ned. A year restoring what we could. For what? For men to forget their own vows?”

“Nan says men are long to forget. After the Nightfort, when I returned home for those short days. She pulled me aside as strong as a soldier. Winter is coming, she swore at me. ‘You Starks say it so often. But do you remember what it means?’ I do not blame them for their fear. But it has crippled them, aye. Best the Halfhand arrive quickly and rouse them from this damned cold.” The Greatjon murmured his agreement.

Ned looked up to a clear sky of a thousand-thousand speckled stars, shining like stray snow on a blanket of black. The ice dragon’s wings soared wide. Its eyes pointed north, shining brighter than any other star. “Do you remember… Brandon the Smith?” He asked wistfully.

The Greatjon chortled knowingly. “The forgemaster of Ice. Aye, what a king he was. Old Hoarfrost loved that tale. The King in Black, just for a day.”

Ned nodded. Once, he had asked Nan why Brandon donned the black robe. “A fine question, dear Ned. For Brandon had many sisters, but a brother too. His was Ulric the Untamed, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.” A crow who knew many a friend and slew many a king. For half a century he manned the Wall. But Brandon was long to see his brother go. So, he gifted him a great blade sculpted in the cold forges of Old Winterfell with the strongest piece of the Wall. At the end, Ulric had faced a savage king who rode a savage beast. The ice dragon, who froze the crow solid, and stole the sword. Until Brandon rode out in black garb to slay the monster and his beast, and return his brother home.

When Nan told the tale, she would cover Little-Big Walder or Brandon or even a horse in feather and cloth to play the dragon. Benjen would don the ranger’s garb, Lyanna the wilding crown, and Ned the King of Winter. Forever born to avenge.

“The wildlings tell it different. The Smith, the King in Black. To them it is another man. Torolf,” Ned said quietly.

“The Thief,” the Umberman spat into the snow. “Damned trickster savage. He even takes the life and glory of better men. A fitting name, aye. He slew Lord Ulric and plundered his body for the blade. Hoarfrost said he stole his soul with it too.“

“So we say,” Ned mumbled. “This tale has it different. Torolf was a king who lay with forest folk and drunk with giants. They taught him to bend bronze as they did earth and song, and carved a secret kingdom of mountain stone for his people. The wildlings gave him gift, and he gave them a home.”

“The rangers could not find him. In those days, the sky was few with star and rivers were different as they are now. Ulric was a great ranger before he was a Lord Commander, but men are quick to forget themselves. Aye… we know that well enough. He travelled far in search of this Torolf. Past the forest and the mountains and far beyond any help the Watch could give him. Atop a mountain peak, he sought the Wall from afar, but saw only snow.  His fear took hold. Then, it came.”

“The ice dragon,” the Greatjon muttered.

“Aye, the ice dragon. silver-white and born of snow with stars for eyes. Ulric had never seen its kind, but heard its cry and knew his duty. But his bronze blade was weak, and shattered from the dragon’s cold breath.” A gust of wind met them, and Ice’s Valyrian ripples seemed to sing.

“When he woke, he found himself in a green valley. Torolf’s kingdom, with his children surrounding Ulric’s bed. From the valley, they had seen him battle the beast, and commended his bravery. The forest folk healed him, and gave him sweet drinks so all manner of birds and beast could speak in his mother tongue. ‘The dragon came from the icy wind,’ they said. ‘From the heart of winter.’ A monster that threatened all men. So, together they rallied Torolf’s men, and hunted the beast atop the mountains. Torolf plunged a weirwood arrow through its wing, and Ulric cut him from gullet to groin. From its spine, Torolf and his forest queen forged an icy blade, gifted to the warrior who slew him. Its milk-white flesh melted into a great river, and its eyes and wings were mantled wide and placed into the sky, to warn others of the danger north.”

The snow seemed to glow in the clear night, but now, Ned would not dare look up.

“Ulric had broken bread with these people,” he said solemnly. “The wildlings claimed his friendship. Singing songs to children and hunting for game and trading like common neighbours. He learned their stories and their legends. And when he died, the wildlings say Torolf mourned for a moon, before donning the Night’s Watch garb, climbing the Wall and riding south to Winterfell. The King in Black, Ice by his side.” The Greatjon rose in anger, lips pursed in silent study as the tree rustled above him gently. He huffed, but said nothing and fell again to quiet thought. The hour of ghosts had come.

“But the King of Winter was no friend to wildling. The Night’s Watch foreswears all family. Ulric was a ranger, not a Stark. And Ice was but a blade. A token of nothing. The wildings claim the king rejected Torolf’s kindness, and took his head in the same swing.” In the North, men would curse you for spreading such lies. Name you turncloak for believing them. But Benjen had wrote the story with interest. With detail that Ned had surely lost and Nan would cheer for, and with scribbles that seemed sad. Foe turned friend turned foe once more. For nothing but a stranger’s ignorance and blood in the eye. Men have forgotten, he wrote.

Ned only realised he whispered it aloud when the Greatjon scowled. “Who said that?”

“Benjen. Likely the words of this wilding woman named Dalla who told him the tale.“

“Hmph. What else did your brother write?”

Scrolls of stories and songs. “Rangers coming. Rangers going,” Ned said plainly. He fiddled with the pouch ash in his palm. Of winged wolves and forest folk and fell dreams with a black beast at the end of it.

“Chasing ghosts,” the rangers whispered. Men that were not his own, in an unfamiliar land, chasing footsteps of a brother he hardly ever knew.

Was Winterfell ever your home? Or was it your gaol, and I your warden? “Chasing ghosts…” he murmured. There was no crypt for Benjen Stark.

Ned sighed. “Let the dawn come fast, Jon. Let it come quickly and the Halfhand with it. Our time is wasted here.” And I cannot doom us to retreat.

“Don’t I know it, my lord.” The Umberman shook his hand, walking off slowly until a moving shadow caught his eye.

Across the camp, blue eyes watched the pair of northern lords silently. His father’s ring pricked, the iron direwolf upon the signet melted away to a monstrous black.

“The old powers are waking, Ned,” Greatjon whispered, “I can feel it in my bones.”

The wolf lord hummed his agreement, watching the giant lord closely. As a younger man, he rode to war with Jon Umber. A hulking warrior with a greatsword in one hand and a mug of ale in the other, right at the eve of battle. “If there was any man to wake giants from sleep, it is Greatjon Umber,” Catelyn had jested. Once, Ned was quick to agree. But the Wall had chilled him. Many a night, Ned would find the man staring off in grim thought. He had even foregone the drink with an unsaid oath. Ever since the Nightfort, and its accursed black walls.

“Winter is coming,” the Umberman said.

What brings it? Ned mused. “Winter is coming,” he nodded to the giant lord.

“Winter is coming…” he whispered in mists long after the Greatjon slept. With winter came the snowfall, and the white winds, and beneath a clear sky of countless stars, a lone wolf howled.

But there was no pack to hear it. Only the quiet wolf.

On the seventh dawn, the rangers followed behind him, chittering their fears with ravens and horns ready to signal their retreat. Jory handed him a bowl of stewed venison and hard tack with cheese, seated on stray logs by the riverside.

“Lord Stark,” Ser Ottyn began, face bursting with red doubts.

Ned sighed. “No sign of them?”

“None,” Ser Jaremy affirmed. “It may be time to consider an end, Lord Stark. A cold beginning is a cold death. We can’t afford to send more men into the dark. For all we know, we send them to a horde, or—“ he stopped himself. Or worse.

“You would have me, have us, abandon the men of the Shadow Tower so readily?”

“My lord,” Ser Ottyn chimed with cautious reproach, “if the Halfhand’s host has fallen, then we cannot dawdle any longer. The horses grow restless, the men the same and wearier. This village is unfamiliar to us, these lands have changed. We have already stayed put long enough. Anyone may fall upon us.”

“Aye,” affirmed another ranger, Dywen, “Little word speaks of the Giantsbane. Nothing of Halleck and Harma Dogshead. And even the other men can smell the snow. Only the gods know what lurk beyond the forest now.” A forest with cold gazes that tingled at his mist-ridden skin. Ned frowned. They were easy prey here. The black wood sparkled, watching with a thousand eyes.

“One, one, one,” the Lord Commander’s raven sang as a thundering horn swept through the camp. The men froze, moments turned to years as the second blast did not come. One for friend. At last.

They galloped towards the edge of the camp, where a hundred men rode in, every second man covered in ripped robes and shining blood. The horn blew again to signal the end of Qhorin Halfhand’s party, circling the idle rangers and scaring the mounts to a frenzy. The men of the Shadow Tower ignored all protest, setting their dead in the centre of the camp, the Halfhand riding straight to Ned.

“What happened?” Ser Jaremy cried out.

“Wildlings,” Qhorin Halfhand said like steel, dismounting with another man in his arms.

“Where—“

“We’ve not time for chatter. We’ve two dozen dead. Burn them. And bring me Ser Wythers.” The Halfhand dropped to a knee with the other ranger. Stonesnake, Ned realised. A fierce scout and good man. His hands and feet had rotted away like black ice, mouth ajar without tongue.

“Speak, swiftly,” Ned said, holding Stonesnake straight.

“The Giantsbane fell upon us. Four-thousand strong. His people flee. Ruddy Hall is gone.”

“Flee?”

Qhorin Halfhand had never seen so grim. He looked a dozen years older. “The sun does not rise over the Frostfangs. There are no stars. A darkness has fallen across it.” A grumbled fear spread through every watching man, and above them, rain had begun to drizzle.

“Speak clearly,” the Greatjon said, hand against Qhorin’s collar.

“A storm,” Ser Endrew Tarth whispered. Tears fell across his face as the Stormlander fell from his mount, “I’ve… I can’t…. I have never seen its like.”

“Ride with us, and ride now. Cross this fog a few leagues ahead and you will see.”

Ned did not hesitate, riding out with the Northern lords and a dozen rangers upon the path the Halfhand had lain, riding through the worsening rain that barraged his skin for near an hour. The cold had harshened into stabbing ice. Trees had fallen with roots ripped and out, the morning sky turning to darker greys as the sun paled and withered behind growing clouds. They rode past another village left in tatters, past dead garrons and frozen rivers and howling woods until the edge of a rocky scarp. Across it was the Milkwater, and beyond that the Frostfangs.

“Gods be good,” Jory muttered. The wind stole any words Ned had.

A fierce shadow swept across the stone peaks. It rose above the mountain skyline like a thousand colossal giants with flesh of malice, darker than midnight, darker than anything. Like a gaping hole in the world that spread with fury, stealing even the flashes of wrath bolting across it. Each cascading crack plied the sky open further, rumbling the ice sheets of the river and whipping the forest empty of leaf and skin. The stone beneath cowed like a terrified child, clawing clouds rolling towards them like corruption, like a rotted infection of the world that brought death.

Ser Ottyn collapsed to the ground, hands gripping his skull. “We must flee! We must flee! There is nowhere to go!” Even as he yelled, he was no louder than a whisper.

“There is one!” Qhorin Halfhand bellowed behind his ear. He pulled a torn map from his cloak that rattled in the air furiously. But one location was clear beneath his short finger, marked alive unlike the ruins of Ned’s scrolls. Craster’s Keep. The Halfhand’s eyes kept a secret, but Ned would see to it later.

Wardrums beat before him. He had never seen a storm like it. It looked like a monster, and its sound was screaming.

Chapter Text

Above her, glimmering glass gods shimmered in stained windows of black glass. Polished flame slithered upon the feet of their noble eyes, robed in golds and reds so warm, she could feel the heat sing from above their surface. Like fire, rolled into the very fabric of its birth. Stone dragons kneeled beneath the towering windows with inscriptions woven into their scales, telling a tale of noble birth and righteous life.

Their eyes were glowing amethyst. “Dragonlord,” said Daenerys in quiet musing.

“Master of masters,” replied Moirai, black voice hidden beneath her black silk veil.

Their clothed hands twirled together in a shy and silly game. A stout pillar shadowed the lonely pair, darkness dancing in the ceiling above as a hundred stone sentinels encircled a crow-infested courtyard. Daenerys watched each of them chatter and caw with careful smiles and calculating stares, entrenched in a thousand shades of colour. It mattered little, for every shade of blue garb and every shine of violet wear drowned beneath a monstrous fire with a maw risen to consume the sky. Beacons of armoured men came alight in figures of golden light, and risen above, dozens of buttresses were shaped into hands of molten gold as they raised a great dome carved like scales. She found the smell almost intoxicating. Some terrible concoction of ash and cold moonlit night. It embraced her skin with searing hugs, and if she closed her eyes, she could hear a screech, a growl, a cry almost like a child, exulting upon her flesh.

The closest crow broke her reverie as Moirai’s hand came undone from her own. Brave girl, Daenerys thought. Stupid woman, she cursed as Lady Nyessa Vaelaros snatched her slave to her side, Madam Lyria conjoined arm-in-arm.

“Come, dear.” She outstretched her jewelled hand with a curt stare.

Daenerys took a restless breath and remembered her promise. For Viserys.

She had begun the night the same as every day past for a moon and a half, tolling over scrolls of names and signs and sigils and cities. “Be nothing, see everything,” the Madam had said. “Your brother’s name will not fell the Usurper alone. Allies are hard-won and hard-kept. He needs you. You who walk in crowds unseen. If you are nothing, you will discover who is something. And in war, a something can be everything.”

Tonight she saw the names of a hundred men she had learned, and a hundred others unfamiliar as the Triarch’s court fell across the east with friends within each palm. Her fingers chewed the edges of her nail skin. How could she see them all? There had be five-hundred, at least! An ivory smuggler from the cliffs of Komarq, the governors’ Ilos and Ilan of twin daughters Myrin and Myros, a slender merchant by the name Hizdar out Meereenese-way, a corsair captain from the port of Lonu, the Archon of Tyrosh, half-a-dozen of the Myrish conclave, jewelled-toothed Ession Emeras and his sellsword smile, the high steward Cennius from the Bank of Volantis, and even the Elephant Triarch, Nyessos Vhassar. It kindled her headpain long through the hours of feasting and dancing and endless chatter.

For Viserys, she reminded herself.

Though her mood quickly saddened at the thought of her brother. All this was for him. Coin, confidence and favour brokered for the cloth banners he dreamt of. “I won’t!” he gritted, “I won’t grovel beneath their feet any longer.” And when dusk fell and the game began, he drew random words into her hand, jaw as hard as steel. And under shadowed city wall and swollen ship cabin, huddled in the corner of sellsword streets and the shops of seers and sorcerers, Viserys always did the same. Careful to keep his whispers quiet, offering any toys and food he could spare. And if there was nothing, he offered only his hand, telling stories in the depths of her palm.

“Remember, sweet sister, that we, are more royal than any of those snivelling charlatans. Let them stare and sneer. They are mummers, desperate for a sliver of our blood. Remember, we…”

“Are the blood of the dragon,” she had finished. A thousand thousand times.

When the slaves servants passed her, she stole a goblet of withered white wine that burned her throat as the Madam was too embroiled in talk to notice. She swallowed a burp and the rush of bile, red-flushed as Moirai prodded her with a mirthful look and bitten cheeks. Dany put a finger her to lips and giggled, returned to her friend’s side with distance enough to avoid a prying eye.

Still the ivory woman was yet to be quiet. “Awfully plain, no? You could do with twice as much upkeep.” She tugged at the Madam’s dark-chestnut robe pinned by an unassuming cream-coloured cape.

“Only the Norvoshi favour,” Lyria replied, tracing the edges of a thick, gaudy necklace of dark gold upon her chest. The same as upon Dany’s, but built for a woman and not the small statures of little girls.

Nyessa sighed. “You are annoyingly tall, Lyria. But even you cannot wear favour enough for the fashions you dream up.”

By hours end all patience had burned away. The merchants and minstrels waited for their esteemed general, their faces wide with shock as the brazier of fire blazed so high into the air, it changed the sky from night to day for a moment, before guttering out into a thousand crimson-embers on black oil. First she heard the silence, the shock and awe and creeping realisation as her eyes adjusted. Then she heard the song, the shrill screech quiet like featherfall that grew to a deafening thunder. It sounded so sweet, half-beauty and whole-horror as a blackened pedestal rose from the ash, detailed with four dragons in each corner with jaws that caressed a dark stone near as large as her.

A dragon egg, Daenerys realised. She had only seen drawings of them in Viserys’ books. But she knew, never could she mistake it for another. Even in the night, it shone like black diamond under a burning sun. Its scales were bevelled, jutting at the talon-edged bottom with light specks of haunting violet strewn across it.

Her skin boiled, blood pounding against her skin in a possessed yearning. It drowned her vision. The way the light poured through the scale gaps, the swirl that danced across it. And the song, the song. Could no one else hear it?

A woman’s voice in Common startled her. “Gorgeous, is it not?”

The Madam’s hands held her shoulders tight. She did not realise how close she’d been, hardly a feet away from the brazier now. “It is,” Lyria replied.

But the stranger’s starry stare found only Daenerys, face hidden beneath a lacquered mask the shade of blood. You, Dany realised wide-eyed. The lone straggler at the end of the procession moons ago. Masked and silent in her steps. She returned the woman’s words with shock, whisked away as the stone’s song grew faint.

“Wait,” Daenerys mumbled as the Madam’s grip turned to iron. Her muttering silenced by a blaring horn and the low the hum of an approaching party.

Atop the hanging gallery, she rubbed her bruised wrist, high on her tiptoes as red blurs slithered through the court; shapeless, the ends of their red robes closer to red mist, formless with whisper closer to red hiss. Every face was hidden behind silver lattice and red veil, eyes aglow like crimson sun. Daenerys watched as they surrounded the brazier with perfect unison, salt and spice mixed with the still breathing embers.

She heard the woman’s voice again and swallowed her snarl. Nyessa strolled in spitting, too lax with unwashed wine and scowl that would surely wrinkle. Moirai carried half the woman’s ivory upon ivory jewels, and Daenerys wondered if she would trip upon the ends of her silver robes. She though to laugh if not for Lyria’s paled face, who took the Vaelaros’ arm with a fear-struck venom, “You did not tell me—“

Thank the gods. They resigned to a quiet corner as Dany pulled Moirai away to hang their heads over the balcony. Her friends’ hands were soft as she brushed her thumbs atop her knuckles. “Did you see it? The egg?” Moirai nodded, and Dany’s grin only grew wider. “It was beautiful,” she mumbled wistfully. I heard it sing.

Madam Lyria still argued beneath the statue of a bull-headed beast, and knowing her she was not likely to finish soon.

“I want to see it again. Will you come with me?” she asked the girl.

But in Moirai was trepidation. A fear beneath her wet black look. Daenerys misliked it deeply, queer betrayal dulled by quiet anger. She is not the dragon. How would she know?

She wished Viserys were here. He would love this. He spent so much time lost in old books, old stories, recounting the deeds of conquerors and the quotes of kings. Sometimes, Daenerys did not know whose life it was he wished to live, if not his own.

“I cannot leave my mistress.”

Dany’s mouth twisted awkwardly. “Only for a moment, Moirai—“

The girl recoiled as if whipped. “No, no! Secret, secret. Not here.”

“Sorry.” Daenerys held her hands dumbly her friend left her. “I thought you’d like it,” she mumbled to no one at all.

A dark diamond glint haled her eye, and her hands squeezed the balcony edge.

Step-by-step the song sung again, her feet possessed as she passed the long winded staircase and carrion court as if adream. How could live life like a meek queen? Some sad story the minstrels sung for coin and cries in dingy taverns. Daenerys knew defeating the Usurper and his dogs could cost their world, but she promised.

What gift could she promise better than this?

When she found the egg again, she swore its scales breathed. It sound was something magic. The minstrels would all forgo their crafts if they could hear it. Why bother?

“Careful,” said a voice in clear Common. “You would not want to burn.”

You… Daenerys froze beneath her masked stare, heart pounding restlessly, hands recoiled from the brazier’s hot iron edge. The shadow moved to her, lacquered mask a rippled crimson, almost moulded to her skin. Her dark robes fell without blemish nor crease. If not for her long, silver-ringed hands, clasped around a weathered black and white bark-scroll, Daenerys would have sworn she was closer to wraith than woman.

“You must be careful, child. Curiosity will lead us beyond wit.”

Dany huffed at the reprimand, from a stranger no less. “What’s your name?”

“Quaithe,” she replied softly. Daenerys narrowed her eyes. Every one she had met wore a name better than a mask. Behind the woman’s own, Dany swore she was saw a smile. “And you?” the woman added.

Daenerys chewed her lip, mind fallen to the cyvasse board. “Naerys of Lys.”

The woman studied her, but lacked any reaction, turned again to the egg. “It is a wondrous sight to behold. Though, a sad thing, I suppose, to see such creatures turned to stone. We shall never hear their song again. Do you know of dragons?”

Daenerys looked at her feet. “Only in the stories.”

“I am the same. As a child I dreamed of them. Fluttering from the craters of the moon, burst in colours of gold and bronze and ivory light. Dreaded even in dark dreams, with scales as black as its flame. Oft, I would chase the starfall across the sky, and make pretend until the sun rose to burn my wish.” Her hands lingered upon her heavy silver necklace, adorned in dark sapphire gems like eyes of their own. “Beyond the days of my youth, I searched far, past even the fell lands sister to Asshai.”

Asshai, Daenerys mused with a chill. They said men feasted upon children and women birthed monsters by-the-Shadow. She knew little stories of adventure beyond her long city streets.

“I know a story about a dragon king,” Daenerys blurted.

“Oh? What was his name?”

Perhaps not. She shrugged and swallowed her lips, abashed and baby-pink like a silly girl. Dany expected the woman to laugh, but instead she quirked her head with a piercing stare, “May I ask you a question, Naerys of Lys?”

“…yes.”

“Are the chosen… born? Or can they be made?”

She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

Quaithe hummed. “In the eastern fields, I learned the name of Hyrkoon the Hero and his Men of Mourn. In the golden cities, chorus’ cry of Yin Tar, and the mummer’s delight in the legend’s fame. In Asshai, there are no shadows where Eldric the Pale is not known in reverence. In the west they name him Hukko, and across the sunset sea, Hugor.” Her hand drifted dangerously above the black ember oil. “Even here, we celebrate Azor Ahai, the cleanser in the Second Coming. Do you know the tale?”

Daenerys nodded. “My mother says it is a red story. The hero of sword, courage and sacrifice.”

“How apt. Born amidst salt and smoke. Born… some men say the warrior’s blood flows in flesh, passed amongst sons and brothers. An odd thing, for I have known selfsaid kings greedy for feast, warriors who languished for love, and quiet princes who preferred book to blade, but wielded each nonetheless. We must whip a dragon to heel, and break a horse to saddle. We must shape boys for battle, and discard the unfit when through. But all the heroes are born. Perhaps I shall see her birth tonight.” Her gaze grazed across Daenerys, voice low.

Riddles and secrets and stories, Daenerys mused. She decided this Quaithe was much the same as everyone else, and could only be making fun. “They’re just stories.”

“As are dragons, now. Much to our shared shame.” From a small engraved pomander, she took a pinch of red salt and splayed it across the black oil. In a blink, her hand was upon Dany’s wrist and eyes level. “Or perhaps, prophecy is the mother, and the world her womb.”

The horns blared, and the woman of shadow vanished into the red crowd that slid toward the brazier. Daenerys squeezed her wrist, skin still cold and tingling from her touch. She stumbled back, held steady by heated hands that touched her curiously, trailed from her collarbone to chin.

“Are you lost, little one?” asked a woman's voice, a slender, smiling woman with a scarlet stare, standing tall over her. Dany stammered a stupid reply as the woman loomed, long hair like burnished copper trapping her in a red world, red lips near to her own.

“I—“

“You mustn’t wander, child. The night is dark and full of terrors. You may never know which you may stumble upon,” she continued in High Valyrian, her red eyes searing into Dany’s violet.

Daenerys did not realise she had been crying until the the witch moved aside. Cold tears wicked away upon her cheek, and Madam Lyria was kissed her brow frantically. Mama, she thought as the woman’s beating heart pressed against Dany’s own. In the sky, a swollen crimson moon decorated the sky, the thousand thousand stars bleeding beneath it.

“Sweet girl, dear girl. Never run off from me.” She kissed her a hundred times more without any sense of decorum as the court leered on. “Sweet girl, forgive me,” she whispered.

Lyria hid Daenerys behind, bowed before the priestess robed in flowing blood brocade. “Forgive me, mistress.”

The red woman fiddled with her gemmed choker. “You are not shackled here, good woman. Children are slippery. Have my respect in hand. The world relies on the wombs of its mothers.” From here Daenerys could feel the sparkle of her eyes; rubies encrusted within her flawless heart-shaped face. She turned to the red shadows in common circle around the brazier, whispers cutting and song drowned.

The Madam embraced her, hidden beneath a shadow of black pillar. Their tears became one, and Daenerys had never felt like such a foolish little girl. “Naerys,” Lyria whispered so sweetly, brushing away the stray strands loose from Dany’s cord cap. “Naerys, my sweet love,” she breathed into the nook of her neck.

“I’m sorry…” Dany croaked. What was she thinking? You’re just a little girl, a voice told her. This is why they never let you play. Never, never, never.

The red woman’s eyes had chilled her bone, and her skin yearned for deep scratch where that Asshai’i had cursed her.

Lyria laughed wetly. “Why would I ask your apology? I am a stupid little lady, with eyes too narrow and mind too short. My beautiful, beautiful girl. You do not yet know the danger I have doomed us to. Will you forgive a foolish old woman?”

“You’re not foolish or old,” Dany sniffled. Lyria laughed, and kissed her brow another hundred with “Naerys, Naerys, Naerys, my love,” for each one.

They felt cold. Daenerys, she wanted to reply. Moons had passed, a dead queen’s name no less strange than those first forlorn nights.

Only her brother called her Daenerys now, Dany, on softer and sweeter moments. But often, she could hardly recognise it. In the silent night when sleep evaded her, she would it repeat endlessly. Daenerys, Daenerys, Daenerys. Strange on the first, unrecognisable on the thousandth. Crossed-legged and bathed in moonlight, she would hold the loose clumps of hair she hid in the bottom of her cupboards; raven-black intertwined with silver-gold. Hardened and tangled tightly, she would dare to try and tear it apart, see which side would overcome the other, but never follow through, hands frozen at the thought.

“I wanted… I wanted to be something, Mama.” I wanted to help. I wanted to play. Like Viserys and his cyvasse board. He had never cared to teach her, but his game had come alive, each piece sought in the arms of this court. He was to be the king, and they his rabble, his spearmen, his horses and his siege weapons.

And every board must have a dragon. Like me. I’m a dragon. I wanted to help.

But again she thought of Naerys, the dead queen of a sunset kingdom, forgotten in a mother’s duty like she was nothing.

“Then forgive my foolish advice, damning that it was. You are something to me, sweet child. We will dance in the gardens of our love and leave this place, yes?” Daenerys nodded, and Lyria wasted not a moment. They bolted for the gates calmly, past the court and many doors of dark steel and guarded spiral staircases and passages locked behind iron and chain, until the spiked gates fifty-feet tall, where two dozen guards dressed in flaming robes lowered their spears and rendered them prisoner with silent stare.

The Madam caressed her cheek. “Only a short while, more. Yes?”

Daenerys nodded. When she looked back, the courtyard seemed to glow from afar. A red sun rising at the verge of dawn.

When they quietly returned to gallery overhanging the courtyard, Lady Nyessa stood shrivelled beneath a crowned woman of Old Blood, slaves prostrated at each side with Moirai at her feet. Her crown was topaz and black-gold, her flowing beaded veil lifted to unsheathe her piercing eyes and carved wrinkles. Silks of embellished black with encrusted waists and cuffs and collars, each with claws at every threaded line.

Daenerys frowned but bowed with the Madam.

The crowned woman sneered at Nyessa, sparing only half-a-glance for them before she spat, “And this? A whore and her lickspittle. Embarrassing the court. Your vanity has long tainted your standing, Lady Nyessa. If we fail to maintain a certain decorum, then we are no better than common dogs. You grow quite the collection. Was your last conquest not a Dornishman? Did you drown that bastard child as was expected of you?”

Lady Nyessa swallowed deeply, her pride and her wrath falling to the depths of her stomach in silence. Madam Lyria said nothing. To speak here was a dastardly offence. There was only one price.

The cruel woman continued. “How fortunate for you, Lady Nyessa, that my courtesy extends to all those of the old kingdom. Even to those who are undeserving.” She extended her hand, fingers dancing with a taunt. Slowly, they each kissed her cold ring, and dared not rise until she left.

“Withered old hag,” Nyessa spit as she collapsed into the leather settee.

Madam Lyria cleared her throat, “You may benefit from a guarded tongue, Nyessa.”

“Or what? The looking mirror does her no favours. Fucking knave. Angered that her husband would rather fuck a red concubine than bear to see her shrivelled cunt.” The woman swirled her silver goblet of water with a scowl, gesturing to Moirai to mix it with wine, before dumping it to the floor in impatience and taking the wine raw and pure. Daenerys frowned as Moirai scrubbed it away immediately. I should free her. I need to help my friend.

Dany, Daenerys, Naerys. Useless, useless, useless, her mind whispered cruelly.

“Your little king will have little luck here. He is not ordained by our great lord of fire, and who else is there to trust? Surely not common sense?” She quaffed another goblet. “It’s all one colossal jape,” Nyessa said, giggling hysterically. Daenerys could only agree. What use had the night brought them? Viserys would find no allies here.

Nyessa rose with a little drunken twirl, and Daenerys found a pang of pity for the woman. In a single moment the threads of her farce all unravelled. She rose her goblet high and said, “Mynos Maegyr, Mynos Maegyr. I hear he laboured in that temple of theirs for a moon. Tempering that blade of his as if he were some smith of legend. I have seen Qohorik pigs piss better steel. Did you know… forty years ago, my mother wasted away in a court very much like this. Then, these same fucking red-robed demons boasted of another prophet. Oh, saviour they named him. But to the world he was a monstrous black dragon, slain upon the banks of the sunset stones before his first victory. How does the fable of Azor Ahai go? Blood of the enemy, blood of the lover, blood of the innocent? Pah! There are no fucking innocents in this world.” She dropped the goblet. It clattered and echo and spilled wine the colour of blood. “But I suppose we’ll see soon enough.”

The woman stumbled away, and Moirai followed silently with only the slightest wave to say farewell. Dany smiled and circled her heart, blushing underneath Lyria’s probing eye. “Only a few moments more?” she asked.

“Only a few moments more,” her mother promised.

Be nothing, see everything. Only a little while longer. Dany pressed herself against the Madam’s side, the two conjoined without any intent to sever.

The priestesses had set charcoal aflame as the brazier oil began to bubble, and the egg’s song turned a sorrow that clenched Dany’s heart. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Though the thought of why confused her.

Soon the great gargantuan gold doors of the palace proper unfurled. Slaves in black garb carried a gilded gold palanquin in striped with the Tiger, Malaquo Maegyr, seated atop with a bejewelled bronze cape, a brooch of pure gold, a half-dozen courtiers surprisingly modest upon his lap. The cloaked tiger guard followed closely behind, joined by the towering General Mynos with a cruel look and smokey steel plate. A lion-skin mantle brandished his warrior form, its top jaw draped upon his left shoulder with whimpering, hollow eyes. His aged wife, Matalla, followed in tow, with two priests trailed in far last. The first was a comely woman of molten black hair and eye, draped in the finest silk with a thousand thousand flames embroidered through. The second, amethyst-eyed with silver-hair and robe enough to cover only her arms, bosom full and body slick with bronze sheen.

“The excessiveness is certainly not understated,” The Madam muttered. But a pit of dread stole Dany’s stomach.

The naked woman laid a kiss upon the General’s brow and another at his nether before stepping into the brazier of lit oil, moaning as the flame peeled her flesh from anklebone. With arms spread, she chanted something fell and dark with red tongue as the heart-shaped red woman sung a shrill sermon. The General’s black blade came alight, and in single thrust he skewered the burned woman through her heart. She groaned for only a moment, pleasuring herself as her life slowly seeped from her wound in steaming death. 

“Do not look, child,” the Madam said, pulling her back. But the song was loud again, Dany was transfixed with morbid fear, stuck still to her spot as she stared at the dragon egg.

A cage was wheeled next by fresh whipped slaves. The man within trapped with thick iron shackles upon his legs with only bandaged and bloodied stumps for his hands. The slaves held him softly before the brazier, waiting as the molten-haired woman brushed her finger against the searing iron edge.

“It is a glorious day to celebrate,” she declared. “We can only hope in R’hllor, with his Heart of Fire, who yearns to cleanse the unclean. We gather here, not only as friends, but protectors of the people. A great darkness rises, and with his Othered form, his servants. See here, the truest testament of the Lord’s justice. He would defile the Lord’s name.” Rusted swords and maces were tossed into the fire, along with broken bows, shattered pieces of armour plate and chainmail. “In the coming of the Great Evil, we have taken his first servant. His champion of war.” She circled the brazier thrice, and screamed with joy into the sky, “The Breaker of Chains!”

A scream cut through the air. 

Moirai’s scream, she realised. Her coverings gone, mouth frothed with disbelief. No, Daenerys must have said.

“Take her!” some woman called, “An agent of rebellion, clearly. Would you not agree, Lady Nyessa?” The stupid ivory bitch said nothing. Did nothing as Moirai writhed and screamed in another tongue. Nothing as the General grappled her by her jaw and unveiled his whip of silver steel, striking true with a thunderous crack against Moirai’s skin.

Please, she must have begged as her heart hollowed away. Something evil stole Daenerys’ voice. “Do not look, my love, please!” the Madam pleaded. But she had to. She had to. Moirai, Daenerys bit into the Madam’s palms, reaching for her friend. Moirai, her mind wailed. Her friend, her friend.

Again, he brought it down, cutting through her robes and skin, the bones of her spine poking through the pummelled flesh, screeching so loud Daenerys could hear the tear of Moirai’s throat. With her skin mangled, he tossed her to the brazier with the other dead woman before he roared to the other slaves, “To the flames! Toss it into the fire.” The fire’s jaws devoured the Breaker whole, and together he and Moirai twisted and turned in frantic scream. Their legs sizzled, charred like pigs in eager roast, crept up with cruel hands to their waist, to their ribs that plied his heart open before setting it aflame with burst black blood. Fire born of a friend’s flesh. Her friend. Her Moirai.

Save her, she begged silently, Save them, Mama, Muna, please. 

Her mother pulled her away. Her friend was already gone to ash and bone.

“Do not weep for the betrayers,” the witches said. “The night is dark and full of terrors,” the red demons called. And so repeated the monster, and so repeated the crimson beast that set the sky ablaze. “But our Lord is merciful, and He is generous. And in His flame, we have found His chosen. Risen to bring punishment and repentance for the disbelievers… and the surety of deliverance for the faithful.”

Chapter Text

The marble was cold. Tiled in mismatched stones of pale blues and whites, Daenerys pressed her face harsh against it as moonlight entrenched the Madam’s courtyard. Her tears encircled her in glimmering pools, cradled like a babe as she sobbed silently. Her scalp burned and her skin itched, worms and insects and fell feelings scuttling beneath her skin, her heart beating in painful pinches.

Viserys roared, eyes aflame as he shielded her from the Madam, insults of “incompetence” and “fools,” calling to Daenerys in gargled tones that she could hardly understand, a fog of invisible fire flaring around her.

See everything, she remembered. Her friend’s life coiled in greasy black air, flames of cruelty feasting upon her as she crackled and cooked. See everything. Daenerys wanted to tear her heart from her chest as it drummed so painfully, her vision a flashing white as memory blinded her.

“Let me take her to bed, there is—“ the Madam pleaded as Viserys pushed her away, spitting venom.

“Stop it!” Daenerys wailed, tugging at Viserys. “Stop!” she screamed, her throat bleeding and hoarse, slapping at the Madam as she tried to touch. Get away, get away. Leave me alone! She could hardly breathe.

Soft hands squeezed her shoulders. Please, go away, she begged silently. Her tears met Ayah. The woman’s dark eyes swirled with pity, draped in dark shadows like the slave that was once her friend. “Come, child,” Ayah whispered gently, carrying her as Daenerys went limp, sorrow staining the nook of her neck.

The muffled arguing faded away. Smells of lavender and jasmine burned faintly as Ayah prepared a bath, saying not a word as Daenerys sobbed in the corners of the room. Slowly, the woman undressed her, washed away the stains of her powdered face, tossed aside her jewels and unbraided her hair.

The scented waters were scalding. Steam rose in sad shapes as Ayah rubbed cold cloths against her skin, soaked hair clinging to her back as a wide wooden comb sifted through it. Her sobs turned silent, knees pressed against her chin.

“Look at me, child,” Ayah said, the familiar sharpness of her voice gone. Without her shawls, Daenerys could see the sheen of her dark hair, speckles of brown where candlelight shone. Old burns carved her face, shaped deep in a tiger’s snarl, caved slightly as cuts littered the mottled mix of brown skin and dull whites. “I was a child, once. I was hurt, once.” Ayah did not smile, but her gaze was painfully soft, and gentle, and kind.

See everything. The words were deafening. Her tears returned furiously. She thought her body would melt then and there. Burst into tears itself as her sadness swelled. But the woman brushed them away, fingers tracing her flushed cheeks, leaving her to wallow as the battle outside grew louder.

In the rippled reflections, she found a terrible, ugly liar staring back, the roots of her hair sparkling with silver as the black washed away with each frantic, desperate and painful scratch. She tore at her skin so hard her nails tasted red, water tainted.

“Naerys!” Madam Lyria cried, hands tight against her arm. She had not even heard the woman enter.

Go away! Go away!

“Naerys, stop,” the woman begged as Daenerys struggled against her grip, shaking violently. “Daenerys, please.” Her eyes were red, stained with dry tears and quivering lips.

Madam Lyria still wore her cream-coloured robes as she entered the bath, arms wrapped tight around her, hands scarred with bite marks. “Forgive me, sweet child,” she whispered, breathe warm against her nape. Daenerys held her arms tight.

Madam Lyria had held her tight, protected her against those horrible, evil people who took her friend away. Moirai… she had screamed so loudly. It would not leave her! It rang in her ears, her chest empty and hollow and hurting. Why did it hurt so much? Why won’t it go away? The steams of the water left Daenerys nauseous, her breathe escaping too quickly, each inhale quicker and shorter than the last.

“Steady, child. I have you.” She focused on the woman’s heart beating against her back, one drum at a time.

“She was… she was—“ the words choke as Daenerys bites the scabs of her cheeks. She was my friend.

“I know. I know.”

“I told her my name. I showed her my mask. And she—“ She showed me her own, and now she is dead. Her name was Moirai, but how could Daenerys dare to say it? It was not her secret to tell.

The Madam’s slow hum soothed what little sorrow it could. “The Gods made us flawed, my dear. Our ribs are our cages, built so our hearts do not grow so large from love, built so that we do not burst.”

Daenerys bit her lips, her eyes clamped shut as she held her the tears fiercely, “But it hurts.”

The woman rested her chin upon her shoulder, her skin so close and so warm, it melted into Daenerys’ own, “I know, my dear. I know.”

She sniffled, “Is… is Viserys—“ Her brother would rage into the night.

“Hush, worry not of your brother,” she ran her fingers down Daenerys’ thick hair, “He is… he is right in his anger, but it is of no avail now.” They said little else. Madam Lyria cleaned her stinging wounds, dressing her in soft silks and humming her slow tune.

On the first night, Daenerys wept in the Madam’s bedchamber, their bodies pressed together with their tears intertwined. She had slept for a day-and-a-half, a pinch of sweetsleep and posset a passing solace, for in the darkness, fell terrors followed her in lacquered tongues and red whispers.

The day passed in blurs. Each window had been shut, streams of the blistering summer sun creeping through checkered panels. Daenerys fiddled with creased parchment on the Madam’s desk, charcoal smudged. The more she remembered her friend’s face, the more she wished to forget.

Madam Lyria spent a half-hour fixing the ends of her featherbed, flattening any the creases and sparking dull conversations that Daenerys ignored. She could hardly speak without her eyes swelling and her throat choking, silence her somber shield.

“Shall I make for the markets, dear? Perhaps the baker has returned,” the woman asked, caressing the stiffness of her shoulders.

The thought of food was nauseating. “No,” Daenerys mumbled.

“What of… what of your hair, then? The black has begun to fade.” The woman searched through her cabinets, small jars of thick, blue-black paste in hand. “Shall we do it anew?” The silver-blond of her strands struggled to be seen. The more Daenerys wept, the brighter her crown grew, the black falling in clumps still floating in the cold waters of her bath.

The black felt a lie. The silver felt weak. Like the friendless, motherless little girl running from the shadow of a red door, from the shadow of a burning brazier. “No,” Daenerys repeated.

Madam Lyria’s hands fell limp, her voice fell flat. She returned to her thread, weaving dresses Daenerys did not want to wear. Telling stories Daenerys did not care to hear.

The ends of her charcoal snapped, the wooden handle and wrappings coming undone upon her parchment. Daenerys bit her cheeks hard, bleeding once again, pressing her fists into her forehead as she groaned and forced her tears dry. Why do the gods hate me?

The Madam rushed to her side, but Daenerys slapped her away. She heard the woman’s breath hitch, fresh tears upon her tanned skin like little stars. Daenerys stopped, stomach twisting. I did not mean to make you cry. I only wished to be left alone.

And yet the Madam read her concern and snorted, salt upon her smile. “You— you remind me of a woman I knew.” She bit her lip, staring through Daenerys distantly.

She looked… different, another woman creeping through. “Who?” Daenerys asked.

The stranger’s smile fell, her skin steel. “You asked me about… our masks. The names that become us, that change us.” She fell to the floor, the weight of her words crushing her, habitual in her absent tugging at the hem of her dress.

Daenerys approached slowly, tracing the edges of her eyes. The way they flickered, sifting through the memories that bounced from the little dark refractions of violet. This was the woman Daenerys had wished to meet, cross-legged like a maid.

“I—“ the stranger stumbled. This was the woman, yes, reborn in apprehension. But terribly sad. Always so. “I knew a fair maid long ago, with starfall in her hair. Her name was… Ashara, of House Dayne, born upon the lapping waves of the Torrentine,” she whispered.

Ashara, Ashara, Ashara. Hidden like a locket in cold drawers, like tangled hairs in shadowy wardrobes. Ashara stared up at Daenerys, seeking her sentence. As if it were the gallows behind her.

Daenerys faltered, frowning. Dayne? Old words bitter upon her brother’s tongue. For in his stories, he heralded the Sword of the Morning. The finest swordsman to grace the blade. The finest liar to grace the old guard, a dead king despite his oath, a dead prince despite his promise, her dead mother to spite his grave.

She was born in the Seven Kingdoms. The truth only enraged her. Everyone here is a liar! Was there any truth to them at all?

Yet her mask fell down in the mismatched shades of her curls, the brothel woman's words stinging. Everyone here is a liar, and I am one of them too.

The ends of Ashara’s loose hair wrapped snug against her finger, avoiding Daenerys’ eyes in pained reminiscence.

“She was… she was fun.” Daenerys did not understand. The woman’s words split as if they were two. “She… she had a daughter, once. So little, with… stubby little legs. I— she. She was beautiful, and so… little. I could, she could hold her in her hand. Five-and-sixty precious breaths. All the life the babe knew. Buried beneath a pale tower, red earth as red as her skin.” She wiped away her tears, forcing a smile, nodding for herself.

“Who were you?” Daenerys probed.

“I… I was—“ Ashara stopped, a flash of rage flickered then faded, “It matters little who she was. Or what she suffered,” Madam Lyria answered.

She held Daenerys’ hands, squeezing tight. “We suffer only as long as we allow it. Ashara’s child? Ashara’s pain? Ash in the wind. But Lyria? Why must Lyria suffer her pain? I can… I can make her go away inside. That pain doesn’t have to be any longer. For both of us.” A mask washed over the woman’s face. The mask that was her skin, with wrinkles and freckles and smiles that spelt Lyria, Ashara Dayne buried somewhere far away.

“I don’t want to forget,” Daenerys murmured.

“Few do. Few know what it bears.” She caught Daenerys’ stray tears, so many that there were.

The sky captured light in nets of grey clouds, faint gold peeking through. The Madam’s garden sparkled in glittering gems of rose reds and lilac purples and buttercup golds. The wind and world carried on and the garden lay untouched, pain and sorrow unbeknownst to the soil and its song.

A small bed had been laid, soil unearthed only half-afoot deep in with little white pebbles. Bodies stolen, only keepsakes left to bury. But she had nothing to offer. Not even a piece of fabric. Only a name, Moirai. A name known only to Daenerys. Why must Naerys suffer Daenerys’ pain?

Only her hair, tangled in the uneven shades of her heart. Her mask of black and past of silver. She breathed in deeply, letting her tears fall again. One last time, Daenerys hoped. She buried it deep, kneading the cold soil half-a-hundred times, moist with her sorrow. Buried and laid to rest, finally.

And yet the pain persisted. Her heart still beat furiously. Had anything changed at all?

“How long?” Daenerys asked. “I want it to stop, please.”

The Madam brushed her cheek. “Wounds heal, and scars fade. But time is long in triumph.”

Daenerys frowned. Naerys. Perhaps one day it would feel real.

“Here.” The Madam carried a small clay pot, coloured-bronze with a seedling a few inches tall. “I thought to save this. A surprise suited for the grandest occasion. But, I see now there is no better time.”

“What is it?” It smelt familiar, leaves sprouted like an open hand.

“Lemon tree. From the coasts of Tyrosh.”

Daenerys choked. “I—“

“For your friend. Dutiful that he was.” She smiled, prizing it out gently. Daenerys accepted it eagerly, biting her sob back with eyes shut.

Ser Willem. Her oldest friend. Left behind in her first home. A thousand years ago. Daenerys often searched for him, sought in half-dreamt imaginings, healthy with a great burly laugh and “little princess” upon his tongue. She never wanted to forget, yet the memory hurt every time she touched it.

The dirt marked her hands. Her sobs marked the air. Her memory marked her soul. She didn’t want to suffer. Is it such a terrible ask?

Madam Lyria held her tight, thumb brushing against her back, “Our memory becomes us. As bone does the body, as salt does the sea. But it always changes, as we do, my dear. Beyond recognition. Beyond all that we wish. Hold too tightly, and it will only leave us burned. Better to bury it. In the depths of our seas, in the earth. Let it become treasure, to be cherished, not mourned.”

Somewhere in her sobs, in the gentle breeze, in the memory of friends old and new, Daenerys found love. “Thank you, Mama,” she whispered.

And so on the second night, Daenerys slept a dreamless sleep, forehead gentle against her mother’s own.

It was not until the morrow did she realise her words. Mama, mother, muna. Each traced into her palm. “Mama,” she whispered, faltering. “Mama,” she called, steady.

Her mother watched her wide-eyed, hands toying with one another anxiously. “I had… I had thought you misspoke, or that I had simply misheard. A lapse born of pain.”

“I—“ Daenerys stammered. The word felt true upon her tongue. Different from the game of pretend they played for politics. The one she had wished true. She shook her head and smiled, “Mama.”

Lyria chuckled sadly, “My mama claimed grief was the surest path to truth. And, I… I wanted you to say it. Within these walls. Without the pretence.” She smiled,  cupping her cheek, “My child. My little Naerys.” Daenerys took her hands, fiddling their fingers together with quiet chortles.

They shared their meals together in the fallen hours of dusk. Her appetite returned slowly in buttered breads and the odd fruit. But the old favourite meats crackled and cried, the char sickening in flashes of red.

Viserys joined them, watching her intently, picking at his baked cheeses and steaming stew, carrying daggers behind his eyes. He always hated the small silences filled with unknowing. Uncertain glances that set his skin aflame, his teeth on edge. More than all, Daenerys knew he hated weakness. His own weakness. What he could not have, he must destroy.

His food was left unfinished as his bitterness drove him away once more.

“Viserys…” Daenerys called, voice trailed off to a whisper. She wanted to tell him of the dragon egg, beautiful that it had been before the thought turned sour.

In those old days, it was Viserys who held her in comfort. “The dragon must not cry,” he said, drying her tears with his own turned away. “The dragon should not cry,” he repeated, humiliation born of hurt turned to hatred. “The dragon does not cry,” he demanded, comfort turned callous that neared cruel.

“Hush, child,” Lyria said, hand steady upon her shoulder. “He will temper.” No he won’t, Daenerys mused. Viserys would hold on forever. As was his way.

She caught her mother’s scowling, wry face as she lingered on the creeping silver of Daenerys’ crown.

“You can fix it. I don’t mind,” she mumbled.

Lyria blushed, abashed. “Are you certain?”

Daenerys nodded. It would make you happy. Lyria always loved to match, sewing sets for Daenerys wherever they went. Even her nightdresses. Like a girl playing dress up with dolls.

“Good. We’ll only need a little. Better you look like me.” Silver-blond gone again, buried and blackened with a burden that hurt.

Dusk brought grim tidings and grey letters. Her mother’s face fell into a pensive melancholy. Viserys had almost cheered, his impatience met with promise of an ally soon to join them. She thought he would be happy, but when twilight fell, Daenerys found him cradled upon the floors, silent tears like little diamonds upon her queen mother’s crown.

Her brother’s stories grew fainter with each day, the mother she had never known fading away. Sometimes she danced in her dreams, laughing with “Daenerys” in her songs. A half-remembered dream of a woman. A woman who was but a name, carved into the pain of her brother’s skin.

Was she cruel? To seek a mother of flesh when Viserys had only a mother of memory? A few words and a pair of names scribbled away in a maester’s histories. She wanted a mother of comfort, not the garden of ghosts she was born to, the family of burden. The dragon’s daughter, the stormborn. Was it so cruel to be only the girl, even for a day?

The gods refused her. For on the third night, her new mother downed wines in dim firelight, her tears black in the dark. Old letters were strewn across her desk with little painted wolves sleeping atop, chipped and faded and carved for a child’s innocence. They fell limp in Ashara’s hands, stained by age and her sorrow, to be cleaned on the morrow by Madam Lyria’s resolve. Daenerys waited by the door, but her courage did not take.

The cool of her bedchamber returned, windows flung open with wind finding hearth. Moonlight hues lined each wall as her candles sputtered dry, and in the pale darkness, draperies wafted in lonely tunes.

Across her desk, an ugly scroll invaded her desk, born of black parchment that drank the moonlight greedily, crimson letters and golden runes glimmering in odd tongues. It was not Valyrian nor Common or any language of the Free Cities she knew. Daenerys traced it cautiously, the words tingling at her fingertips. What is this? Her mother owned no scrolls of such kind, heavy and half as large as her and longer than any man was tall. It was… old, terribly so, the parchment wrinkled and flattened a thousand times over until it rippled like a stormy sea. With… white ripples like bark all across.

Her breath hitched, stumbling back. This was that woman, Quaithe. Her scroll of secrets. The shadows of her bedchamber danced as the wind howled. How? Does she know my name? She must. What would Viserys do? What would Mama say?

Nothing good, she decided. Daenerys unrolled it hesitantly, odd tongues turned to odd paintings, faded and chipped in some places, as fresh as drawn blood in others. Wyrms of flames, hairy beasts of old night terrors. What is this?

“Daenerys!” A voice called. Her breath hitched, stammering as she rolled the scroll closed and threw it to her featherbed before wrapping the sheets over.

“Dany?” Her brother called.

“Viserys?” She replied, swallowing deeply and rushing to him by the door.

“Dany.” As he brushed past her into her room, her heart stopped and bones froze still. Her brother searched the dark of her room absently, scoffing as he moved towards her bed.

“Wait—“

Viserys slammed her window shut, featherbed falling to shadow, “Shut these windows, Daenerys. There’s no good won from catching a chill.”

“Sorry, I…” her eyes darted to her bed back to her brother. He shook his head, bouncing his leg incessantly as he waved her off.

“Is the Madam abed?” She dare not call her Mama in front of Viserys. A word so soft upon her tongue, but harsh upon his ears.

“Yes, and better for it. I see she has coloured your hair again,” he scoffed, kneeling down. Her brother kissed her gently upon the brow, intertwining his fingers with her own. Tears brimmed gently, her mind reeling with pale anger. Stop crying! Stop it! The dragon does not cry. The dragon must not cry.

“I… I only wanted to help, Viserys. I swear, I didn’t know they would… they would…”

“Hush, Dany. Those fools are unworthy of your sorrows. Charlatans. Soon, we’ll sail with the wind away from this world. One day… soon, sweet sister. I will make it right. All that pain…” he breathed in, steadying himself, “The turncloaks and usurpers will be dead and forgotten. In that place, of true knights and full bellies, I will keep you safe. You will never be hurt again.” A home of stories. Told only in suffering. Had she ever truly wanted it?

But her brother desired it so. “Promise?”

“I promise. I carried you steady upon my back through all those streets. I ought to carry you steady up the steps of our home. Make you my queen, not a secret.” Viserys and his promises, a thousand of thousands. Daenerys wished them true each night. If not for herself, for her brother, who never truly smiled.

She wanted him to stay, to sing for her, to read to her. Tell her a story and wash it all away. The brother she loved, the brother that left, old sorrows in his step.

Daenerys closed her doors, sliding the iron lock shut, listening for any distant intruder. After, she lit a small tallow candle, hefting the hidden scroll into her desk and unrolling it.

This was wrong. The runes and dark drawings came alive under the flickering light, eyes of old dragons and masters staring up at her. She saw an egg, gold and green, held high by a thousand spiraled hands. Next came a ring of fire, mother and son, father and daughter, all conjoined in a bloody dance of life and death. Is this what my friend died for?

Her breath stopped. In the drawing, the mother had carved the child’s guts, the flesh of the body burned with the flesh of fire, a pale dragon’s egg buried within her ribs by her beating heart. The same again, but now a father and his son. A lover and his betrothed. A daughter and her mother.

As she rolled it out further, the parchment turned impossibly cold, the candlelight stolen by a painted column of black glass, twisted and tall, sharp and spiraling and sparkling. Her fingers tingled as she traced it, its touch like ice, so black it gorged on shadow, burning as she pulled away, faint whispers growing, calling her name, calling…

She rolled the scroll shut.

I should burn this. I should destroy this and never speak of it again. But the hearth’s kindling would not catch, and her hands refused to set it aflame.

I should give this to Mama. But a voice screamed with her mother’s mixed with her own, driving her far from Lyria’s chambers. Instead, she plied the loose stones of her wall open, burying the scroll behind block and banner.

She wiped the dust away from her desk and featherbed. Wrapped in her silk sheets tight, she felt like a criminal, eyes shut tightly as Moirai’s screams lulled her to sleep with disquiet.

In her dream, her name was Naerys. The sky was coloured in black parchment, stars of white bark speckled throughout. She chased them across the horizon, stars falling where the river met the ocean.

In her dream, she found Madam Lyria, mask shedded and bloodied upon pale stone, Ashara Dayne sobbing with the blood of her womb, in a dress as beautiful as twilight.“Mama!” she called. “Muna!” But the woman ignored her, hands clasped upon her breast, nails slick with a babe’s life as crimson as the sky above the Doom. Her tears were blood, burned upon her soft cheeks. Up and up a tower she rose, clouds nipping at the pale marble stained with sorrow.

Naerys cried for her mother, but it was a corpse that met her, dragging her to the ground in a gravely hug. “Daenerys,” the dead queen’s voice whispered, “My precious daughter, my little princess.” Her skeletal hands embraced Naerys with a searing cold. Upon the tower, her mother’s voice cut sharply. “Naerys!” She screamed, her flesh molten and melted and marred. They screamed together in names she could hardly recognise. In a begging cry, mother she had found and mother she had never known.

The queen turned to ash, her mother upon the tower aflame as her skin erupted, winged-shadow with flesh of fire and flames of blood soaring up above. The flowers blackened, the dirt scorched and the tower fell away like wax.

Naerys followed it in the sky as it screeched like the Black Dread of stories told. She chased it for a thousand leagues until it crashed amidst a burned city, a crowned woman muzzling its black snout. A fair maiden, with midnight in her hair, who smiled a terrible smile.

“Look at little Naerys, dancing in the sand,” she sang, skipping around her in circles.

“Look at little Naerys, crying in the field,” she teased, cutting at her arms in cackles.

“Look at little Naerys, wailing in the fires,” she bellowed, searing at her skin with flame of black shadow.

The girl’s hair faded away to silver-gold. The girl’s skin flushed with crimson death, eyes of dark violet staring into her skull with a searing pain. Eyes that were her own, swirling with a doom that was destiny, with a shadow of a mother’s monster. A dream of Daenerys Targaryen. 

Chapter Text

In the black of night, there were no stars to light the world.

In the greenwood, he could hear a storm. It was coming, creeping, crawling. Closer, closer, colder. The man in crow skin was there once more. “Come, brother,” he laughed. “Follow, follow.”

He thought it foolish, but the shadow was growing. The beast was coming. Watching, with eyes of blue horror.

He chased him far past the weeping willows with tears of black ice, past the sad sentinels with wounds in black garb, past the raging blizzard where ashfall fell in gentle touch. Past all the northern fields and seas of snow to an old castle, burned and brittle.

A stone guardian waited by its crumbled gate. A bird had stolen her eyes and her name. “I want to go home,” she wept. “Will you help me?” She handed him a parchment drawing of a snow castle. But the man did not know it, and passed her by.

Beyond the gates was a graveyard. All the ghosts had risen, hand-in-hand, almost human again, waiting before a white bark platform. Little faces were drawn with red ruin all across it, and lodged in its heart was a blade of ice. One by one the ghosts of glee waited by the block with spikes in hand as a headless headsman beckoned them in lordly wear. Soon, the crowman’s turn had come, kneeling with a sad face, with a cloak woven by blind men.

Up and up the blade rose. But he never saw it fall. The beast of three eyes came for him first, screaming as it swallowed the world.

A steady hand grasped his shoulder with “My lord?” as Jory eyed him wearily. Ned thanked the man quietly and recovered his senses, mind still groggy with walking dream as he shook off the grey blurs of his night terror. I have become an addled fool, he cursed.

 Before him burned a dwindling black pyre upon an ash-ridden road. The rangers dotted the snow around, burying the black bones across a mile with dark looks and dark muttering. Stonesnake had died as he lived, loyal to his black cloak. A fine ranger with the finest eyes. They had closed them in death, as not to see the horror swirling deep within them. When the fire burned, Ser Jaremy Rykker could not meet his gaze, Ser Ottyn had hunched into a ball, while Qhorin Halfhand matched his stare blankly.

Mormont’s raven circled them above. “Dead, dead, dead,” it cried, taunting them with blame. Ned wondered if ravens kept their master’s secrets, or spoke with their master’s tongues. If so, how many more did the Old Bear keep?

They had ridden northeast of the Milkwater far beyond the comfort of any man. But the crows had sewn their beaks shut. If there was protest, they wore it in silent exhaustion. Drizzles of cold tears followed them from the sky, but faded the further from the storm that refused to pass the Frostfangs, waiting with snarls in unnatural swirls. Ned was glad to be free of its stare. Half the men had near soiled themselves from Stonesnake’s word alone. Ser Wythers had even fainted at its sight, babbling about retreat as if it were his mother’s name.

In the lord’s guard, Greatjon Umber’s rage had returned. Ser Jaremy still wore the bruises of its reawakening. “Are you touched?” he had bellowed, sword-half drawn for any crow who thought to hide. Even Lord Jorah was not exempt, bear against giant for his father’s soiled honour. Ned had calmed them with a word, careful to control his own frozen rage. “Secret,” the rangers claimed. “Mormont’s secret,” the Halfhand admitted. “He swore them to silence, but I took no such oath. To the north you will find an ally. A savage who dwells in the forest, aye. But with blood half as black ours. Craster.”

Craster. Ned fumed at the thought of their deception. Not a crow had let it slip. Even the maps were inked with lies. Even Benjen did not speak of it, dead but alive in writings cold.

Now they spoke this wilding’s name as if a curse.

He rode ahead with the lords bar Bolton, who watched the rearguard closely for the few who thought to flee. The world darkened as the forest canopies entwined, snow grimmer with only pale light for the path ahead.

Shallow mists warmed the Greatjon’s face as his knuckles creased loudly against the reigns. “They say he weds his daughters,” he  spat quietly.

Ned had heard the same. “A half day’s ride, Jon. Then we will have truth of it.” The truth of it. Nan had spun a thousand grim tales of the savage wilding. The enemy that stole your women and bathed in the blood of babes. But the stories never spoke of the same savage breaking bread with brothers in black, or his brother of blood.

The thought of Benjen only irked him now. And beyond the forest he could feel it lurking.

Jarmen Buckwell rode to his side from the vanguard. “Dalbridge is yet to return. Ser Endrew says he is hardly late without word. And I have never known Harclay or Norridge to dawdle.”

“He was to simply inform this Craster of our arrival. What could cause the delay?” Ned asked.

Buckwell shrugged. “Snow. A shadowcat. A fallen tree, a lost path. A dozen other things. But I’d name it a ranger’s hunch. Dark things are lurking out here. Craster is one of them, but only one. And he himself I worry over. Craster has been indifferent at best. Difficult at times. But this is no ordinary ranging, and he has not seen our like for over a year. Who’s to say he still remains.”

Ned found that sour. “What says the First Ranger?”

“Patience and haste and little else.”

He hummed deeply, glancing to the Greatjon who watched the exchange. “Tell Smallwood to quicken his pace. We will match.”

The ranger nodded, but made it no further than a dozen feet before a single horn blast shook the trees. The vanguard stopped suddenly as they split for a lone garron, grumbles and a few stray shouts heard as the rider cantered towards Ned aimlessly. A limp ranger with brown curls sat atop it, bloodied and slumped against the mane. “Ronnel Harclay,” the men uttered. The horn fell from his hand as his body crashed to the floor, red life staining the snow.

“Help him,” a man cried. Buckwell and Eddison Tollett heaved him against a heavy log, cutting his garb open to find a spurting stab wedged deep into his stomach. “Water,” the man begged, barely brushing his matted locks away. Ned gave him wine, holding him steady as his skin paled to a bleak grey, emerald eyes fading slowly. “Craster…” he muttered hoarsely. His last breath spat blood across Ned’s face.

“The Watch’s friend. With warm welcomes,” Roose Bolton said. The lords were ready to carve flesh. The rangers only looked on in shame.

“Lord Stark—“ started Ser Jaremy.

Ned was past courtesies. “We have no time for another pyre. Ride quickly, and carry his body beside you. Then you feel the weight of his life and pray his death was not needless.”

Crimson washed the sky rolling clouds of dusk raged above them. The damp forest wept the colour of blood, the flesh of snow trampled beneath their ride. They were a wardrum of their own as they broke into a large clearing beneath a low hill. A bright daub-and-wattle hall stood tall with fires lit within it, the ring wall half torn down by sword slashes and snow falls. Bears and rams and shadowcat skins lined it with skulls of men long dead, but at the gate square in front of them, a pair of spikes stood fresh. The heads upon them dripped blood down the hill where bodies rested with black cloaks torn to tatters.

Squire Dalbridge’s keen eyes had been slashed away. Edwin Norridge’s quiet mouth had been sliced to a scream.

When they approached the keep swords drawn, an ugly bellow echoed past them. Greatjon Umber smashed the door down, jumping back as they found the direwolf battling a burly man. Around and around him it ran, taunting him as if it were a mummer, and the wildling a red-faced fool. The beast saw Ned and finished its game, snapping at the wilding with a grin before bolting past them all.

Slowly, they each lined the keep with swords pointed out. The wildling, Craster, looked closer to animal than man with his sickly stare and spitting snarl, baring Dalbridge’s steel closely. His bearskin cloak was tangled with dry blood, jerkin cut away with a carpet of chest hair slick with sweat. “Crows!” he screamed breathless. “Why won’t you bloody listen? ‘Ow many will I skewer before you get it through your skulls? I won’t have crows beneath my hall!” No, no!” Craster spotted the silver direwolf across Ned’s surcoat, eyes-wide before he swore at Ned’s feet. “Stark! I won’t have you either. I told your damned brother as much when ‘e came snooping. You won’t be my guest here. Bugger off!”

“We don’t come for your hall, wildling bastard,” Greatjon spat.

It turned the wildling’s face scarlet. “Let my walls taste your blood, damned clod. Barging in here, with that beast of yours. Fools who think they own the wood. No… not beneath this moon. The cold is here, and I paid my dues. I did right by the gods. You won’t have me.” He spat the Greatjon’s feet, feinting a stab at the giant before slicing the blade in a vicious arc against Ned. But Ice was quicker, ringing with song as he locked their swords together, before twisting the dragonsteel’s edge to sever Craster’s fingers clean, cutting the wilding’s knee as he fell back.

Craster’s blood spurted against ends of Ned’s cloak. “Half-mad,” the rangers had told him. “But with good counsel.”

Good counsel, Ned mused. He writhed and cursed on the ground while all the men watched in shame and pity.

“Seems though the Halfhand has kin, now,” Cregan Karstark jested. No one laughed.

A rush of cold blood froze his skin with gooseprickles. Rage crept down his spine as a familiar scent invaded him. He could feel his fur battle the wind, and his teeth turn to fangs and hands to claws. “Restrain him,” he managed to croak, barking another order he hardly heard before escaping outside. The Night’s Watch filled the clearing, crows dotted across all the white like a forest of their own, fallen friends collected and left to mourn.

For a moment, Ned could hardly breathe, stumbling into a blood-soaked sheepfold.

The lambs had been gutted in the snow. A few feet away, his direwolf nuzzled its snout to the snow to wipe the red off. It matched his stare, sauntering past the weary men and squealing pigs down to the brook at the bottom of the slope. Ned could feel the water on his own lips, head throbbing with dark thoughts.

“My lord,” called Jory, coming close to whisper in his ear, “Lord Umber has found the wilding’s children.”

The fire had puttered out in the main hall. Craster squirmed in the ranger’s hands, and above them, small eyes and messy peaked through the shrouded loft above them. A girl. As they locked eyes, she vanished again, small sobs falling slowly behind her.

“You won’t have them!” Craster swore. His hands still bled and his face had turned near as white as snow, spit bloody but rage still blazing. “Moon-eyed crows. You think I never saw ‘em? That Old Bear? Eyeing my wives. I gave them board and counsel! What’s mine is mine! Curse you, Stark! Curse you. It’s my daughters you want you—“ A gloved fist smacked him to the floor, three of his rotted brown teeth flying into the dead cookfire.

“Lord Jorah,” Ned said cooly, “He is our prisoner. You will not redeem your father’s honour with this man’s blood.”

“This creature follows no law nor loyalty. I will not have him besmirch my father’s name,” the Bear Islander spat.

Craster laughed cruelly, “Old Mormont gave me wine and slept cold beneath my roof wanting of warm teats. He—“ Lord Jorah growled, stopped still by Ned’s hand before he stormed off into the clearing.

“Ser Wendel, Lord Glover. Take him outside. Let no harm come to him.” Craster screamed and squirmed as they dragged him by his bleeding knee. His complaints fell to silence as the embers finally faded. The hall fell to pale darkness, and a crushing shame enveloped every black cloak. It sounded like a little girl, weeping for her mother.

The ladders were splintered but strong enough to hold the Greatjon’s weight. Atop the hall sat a damp loft. The thatch roof dripped with melted snow, the logs swelled with years of storm, and moonlight streamed through the many-blotched gaps. Spare wooden larders sat against the slanted walls with barrels of Night’s Watch mead, stale bread loafs, oats, barley and even spare corn. But beside them were a dozen strawbeds with chittering bodies cornered atop them.

“Gods be good…” Greatjon muttered.

They sheathed their blades quickly. Near two dozen women huddled in the corner, cowed and crying. Half of them girls, the youngest still in swaddling clothes. The eldest shielded them with only a stick, skin weathered and old like the sags of Old Nan. Her knees were shaking, tears fresh and body impossibly thin. But she is brave, Ned thought. Braver than half the men we caravan.

“We will not harm you,” he said, tossing his gloves away and approaching hands naked.

The elder hissed as she swung at them weakly, “There are words and there are truths. Menfolk hardly know one from t’other.”

A little girl squeezed her hip from behind. “He cut Craster,” she murmured, eyeing them with glossy brown fear.

“One for the other. Menfolk always want,” she said. She was a woman grown, garbed in brown sheepskins and cloaks too thin for the weather. A woman grown, yet she feared him like a child. Like prey did the hunter, did the beast.

Ned nodded slowly, fallen to a single knee. “I am Eddard Stark of Winterfell. I want… only your name.”

She hesitated. “I don’t want ‘em near the girls. They want us the same way he does. Your name is Stark… like the First Ranger? Ned nodded with shame. Damn you, Benjen. What were you doing here? “He gave us quiet smiles and sad stares. But he shared Craster’s fire and left anyway. All crows are liars.”

He kneeled down close to her. She jumped back and stifled her squeal, but held the stick strong. “He will never hurt you again.”

She saw his eyes and nodded, dropping the stick at his feet. “Ferny,” she murmured, moving back to a large strawbed against the wall. A young girl lay upon the mismatched wool sheets in pale fever, blood by her womb and hands. Her dark hair flowed in a half-undone braid, eyes worn and wet. Bunches of tied flowers littered around her, and the sight of Ned only left her wailing.

“Roses,” said the girl beside her. “Other flowers too. For the smell.” She paused, glancing down. “Craster don’t like the smell.”

Roses, Ned mused. For a moment there was another girl in front of him. He picked a stray few from the ends of her strawbed, enclosing them in her hand as he entwined his own. She was cold, shivering to a deathly pale. “The child?”

Ferny’s eyes were dry. She had given her tears to the little girls by her. “You’re long late for that. He took Hilda’s boy already. The cold is here now.”

“The boys,” Ned uttered in realisation. “Where does he take the boys?”

“Where do menfolk give blood, m’lord? In the forest. For the the gods. For the cold ones.“

Hilda sat up weakly, “Will he… can he?”

Ferny settled her down. “What’s done be done. Rest, gir—“

“I will,” he said. Ferny gave him a disbelieving glance and a shaken head, but the girl’s sliver of hope held tight to him with a thin thread.

“Bring him back. Please, please.” Her grey eyes were pleading.

“I promise,” he said, moving quicker than shadow.

The Haunted Forest encircled them like a black wall of its own. Drinking moonlight and snow and life with it. He mounted his garron, riding down the slopes, following the brook and the earthen dike for any semblance of an opening. “Search the wood. Spread out in groups and find the child!” Find the child. Save the boy.

On the northside clearing, blue eyes shon through the dark, and Ned knew. “Follow,” he ordered Jon and Jory and the rangers beside him, galloping through the black wood. He followed the beast who knew its way, cutting through the dream-dense fog, through hills and down slopes and over fords to a small clearing, where a swollen moon stole the sky, leaving a weirwood stump glistening with white shine.

A babe in white fur shivered with eyes closed upon it, tears frozen with frost embracing his flushed skin, and beside it, the beast waited by it with eyes of knowing. Always knowing.

The Greatjon leapt from his horse, sword drawn as he fell to the stump. The fog hardened as the cold grew impossible, droplets of moist air frozen to glass shards. Ned unsheathed Ice as the Umberman nuzzled the babe close by his chest. “Alive. Barely, but alive,” he whispered. Ned’s heart jumped.

“Ned.” Dark clouds stole the moon, and in the dark, Ice glowed like a sword of white flame. “Ned,” called the Greatjon again.

The fog grew so thick you could not see the sky, and the cold wanted his skin. It wanted his bones and his flesh and his blood as it swallowed the forest. He had never felt a chill like it.

“Go,” Ned uttered, “Quickly.” The beast howled again, bolting back while Mormont’s raven flew from branch to branch with “follow, follow, follow.”

The babe woke as they rode, wailing and wailing even louder as a guttural horn screamed and Qhorin Halfhand marked their return. All the crows were faceless as he passed them, vanishing in quick blurs behind craven veils. A fire burned dimly in the hall, the women all huddled around it. Still the babe was wailing. Still his blood was freezing. Rageful. Like the winter blizzard that takes and takes.

Little Hilda ran for her babe. She hugged Greatjon with a mother’s strength, kissing the child’s cold blue forehead and wailed and wailed with him. “He’s alive,” she sung, sweet and wailing, “Alive, my boy.” The girl took Ned’s arm and cried into his chest, while his hands rested inches from her back, before he held her in shivering embrace. Behind her found the old woman’s eyes, steely and grateful but hurt beneath it all. This was the first that lived. No one said a word. No one lifted a finger.

“How many?” Ned asked, breathless. He was a coward for not wanting the answer.

She chuckled with an ancient sadness. A mother’s sadness. “A dozen myself. But I was good, m’lord. A good woman. I knew how to care for the girls. I was even… gentle with his favourites. I swear it. So he kept me. I was worth the mouth to feed. I made sure. I made sure. Dyah there… she had two. She’s mine Dyah. Her boys… Demon and Devil I named them. I thought…” she trailed off, biting her lip. “Munda had four. Hemma was his favourite. All boys. All doubles. Bera had girls, three girls. They never saw the sun. Craster didn’t like that. One more chance he said. Yema… Yema had one. Morna, six. Ness, two. Nella gave three at once, two boys. Edda had eight. Strong girl. She may live for another. Willow wa—“

Ned stopped her. “Please,” he muttered, eyes shut with simmering fury. In the winter blood, he found the beast. Waiting, waiting, fangs and claws with greed and hunger waiting.

“Will you be killing him, m’lord?” A small girl asked. Ned did not answer. “I want to watch,” she said. Another woman held her back with admonishment. “Gilly,” she cried as the girl bit her hand, squirming through their grasp to tug at Ned’s cloak. “I have to,” she whispered, crying. “How will I know he’s gone?”

Only a few years older than Sansa. But in her eyes, she hated.

He stepped back with frozen skin, fists clenched so tight his palms bled. There, he saw them all, watching him with stares that dared to hope. Children with cruel stares. Maidens with dark hair. Mothers with grey eyes. Flowers clasped within their hands, winter roses dead and bloodied. Did you look upon their faces and think of her, brother? Did they serve you meals and smile, and beg for your help in the same breath? What did you tell them? Benjen had never written of them. All those stories, and never a word.

A grumble rose outside. Craster’s screams echoed and echoed while Ned’s mouth yearned for blood, for flesh. His shallow breath overwhelmed all sense. Step by step, his paws prowled into the open snow. The crows all watched, and his prey was blabbering, seething and spitting and snarling as if it would save him. “You can’t!” it yelled, “I paid my dues, I paid my dues. I be a godly man, a true man. I paid my dues. All you piss-sodden crows. You’ll have your coming. You’ll have it, I swear it! I paid my dues!” Every word made Ned hunger.

The wild man fell silent as his shadow lumbered before him. Drip, drip, drip, fell the drool of its beastly death. The smell of piss and shit stunk as Craster writhed, and the men held him down with hesitant hands, fearful of the direwolf’s bite.

Then it came. The beast opened its jaw.

Then it did not. Ned roared as he forced the direwolf back. It growled and snapped with dark look. But Ned was no fool, he was not a monster. I am a man, he knew, I will pass the sentence. I am not a butcher, who deals in ignoble death.

“No,” he decided. And so the beast listened, and all the men watched, and all of Craster’s wives stood in silent rows waiting from above.

One by one he found their faces. “Is this the honour of the Night’s Watch? Naming women and children savages, while breaking bread with another? Hiding your shame behind broken maps as if it washed away the lives stolen by your blind eye? Where was your action? Are all crows so craven? Which of your vows was upheld here? Speak now so I may have the truth of it.”

There was a damning silence before Ser Jaremy said, “The Night’s Watch takes no part.” His voice did not believe it, grasping for conviction.

“The Night’s Watch takes no part,” Ned echoed. “Hiding behind your twisted word. The black does not hide the stain, ser. Every moment you sat in that hall, you dishonoured yourself, and the men you serve. You swore to stay true. You swore to guard the realms of men. You swore to pledge your honour. Did it ask you to sentence these women to a monster’s will? To sentence their sons to the cold? Did they ask you, Ser Jaremy? Did they plead?” The man glanced to another, and another, and nodded. “If you had listened, and stayed true, you would have taken no lands, nor wife. Father no children, wear no crown nor win any glory. No vow was sullied. Why did you stay silent?” He had no answer. “Why did any of you?”

Thoren Smallwood stepped forward, scowling. “The Watch owes him a debt. He’s saved our lives on many occasion.”

“A debt,” Ned repeated plainly.

“You’ve seen the blackwood, Lord Stark. The sky snows that bury you, or the slushes that drag you to doom. The wildings that wait to bury axes in our skulls and string us up like good meat. Or leave us to the crows so they may have their japes to tell. This keep was life where the wood was death.”

“Your life.” Look at what the cost was, you fool. He could still see her grey eyes. She blinked a thousand times, as if to convince Ned she was strong. That she would not cry.

“My life. That which I pledged to the Watch and the realm. I stayed true. Besides, his wives drink warm mead and eat hot meals and pass a smile if they liked the sight of you. A better life than half the peasants south and the savages north. Aye, my life. Might be they find the courage themselves then lay their plight at our feet. It’s hard enough with so few allies. I’ll turn my eye if it’s life he gives me.”

Craster squirmed and cursed as Smallwood said his piece. All the men watched the wildling. His snarl proved more than any word.

Ned turned to his lords, resolute and ready. “I have learned some men are not worth having. Better die with dignity, than live with blackguard villainy.” Finally, he found the woman again. Their eyes were solemn. Above him, snow fell gently. “Aye, the Night’s Watch plays no part. Turns its eye at the cost of its honour. But I’ve sworn no vow to the Wall. I do not wear the black garb, nor follow its black rules.”

He unsheathed Ice. “Lord Umber, fetch me a block.”

Craster’s silent spell broke as he exploded in shouts and pleading cry. Ice burned in smoky ripples, steaming from the moist air as it awaited the taste of fresh blood.

Old words flooded him. Where had he heard them? In a dream? Perhaps he always knew. “I do this, not in the name of kings, but in the sight of gods and men. By earth and water. By bronze and iron. By ice and fire, I, Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell, sentence you to die.”

In Craster’s eyes, all the cruelty had washed away to dull fear. But beneath it, a flicker of mirth flashed. “I am a godly man,” he said, calm and spitting. “Curse you, Stark. The gods will come. They always do.”

The blade came down swiftly in one clean strike.

His blood trickled down like little rivers in the pale snow. Ice drank the rest greedily. As Ned took his shallow breaths, and muttered his quiet prayer, the world waited for him.

Craster’s head froze in mouth agape. A pale horror lingered in his dead eyes. Them, them, them. “The cold ones…” Ned murmured. How many more lay with monsters and call themselves men? What of you, Benjen? What else did you watch? Did blind evil happen in your wake?

The women circled Craster, palm against his limp body. Perhaps they thought themselves dreaming. Finally, Ferny looked to Ned. “This was your home,” he said.

She smiled sadly, “No. Never again.”

He nodded. “Aye. We will not linger here. We move north, and I cannot see you to the Wall. But this land is yours, and I will see you to safety.” Bolton’s men had taken to the sheepfold. Greatjon was already mounted. The other lords waited by Ned, while the crows sought to sink away. “Damn the night. We will march. If you tire, remember your failure here. Remember your oath, and the cloak with it. Forage this place for any goods of worth. When it is stripped bare, burn it. Burn this Craster’s body with it. Spread his ashes in the ruin of his folly and let his memory wither away.”

They did not dawdle, every man glancing at his bleeding blade. For nigh an hour, he saw only mist and fire. When the kindling took, and giants of flame rose from sin, a small hand took his. It was the girl, dark of hair and pale of eye. “Thank you,” was all she could muster. Ned squeezed back.

But in the distance, waiting in the shadow of the forest, the beast waited. It wore a dark grin, with blue eyes that seemed more man than beast, more monster than a man.

Chapter Text

“Shall I tell you a story, sweetling?” He circled the pink of her firm nipple, tongue slick against the soft pinch of her neck, spare hand rummaging the moist skin beneath her breast. Her moans came with half a giggle at first, her pale slender leg draped atop his own with a single finger brushing the stiff vein of his manhood in taunt. When her long locks of honey-gold fell across his face in scents of cinnamon and civet, his jaws found flesh, her moans half-groan and half-shriek as Tyrion exulted.

Breathlessly, she wore her sweetest voice, “Always telling stories. How do you know so many?”

“This one I know all too well. As well as a septon and his sermon. My father’s favourite.“

Her lopsided smile was sly. “What about a septon and his sin?”

“Clever girl. But surely they sing the Rains of Castemere in these halls?” The shade of her thicket fell darker than gold, his fingers like snakes as he slithered closer to his prize.

“Oh yes,” she managed, lips bitten near to blood. “All you Lannister men sing it.”

“Then you should know the tale well enough.”

She grabbed his searching hand and suckled on his ring finger. “I have never heard it finished, m’lord. All those men seem to…” slowly, she prowled towards his stiff member, lathering his body with her tongue, “…forget it.”

“Might that I humble you with a true telling.”

She giggled again with green-eyed glint. “Might that you try.”

The imp grinned wickedly with a handful of of her hair as she made her attack. “Our lion’s roar was not always so… formidable. Oh, my, you may have me beat. Ahh… my grandsire… he was a sheep in a lion’s pen, with cubs fiercer than his trembling tail. But the West was home to many shades of lion then, and the Reynes of Castle Castemere saw a toothless beast in Lord Tytos’ prancing softheart. A bold mistake, but mistakes are rarely bold for long. Ahh… oh… my father, my father is not one to be made of a mockery of. Lady Ellyn learned it well, and her red-bold brothers boasted of a blood-coat sigil. They took my father’s silence for victory, and found the hymn of their defiance turned a watery dirge. They wept and wept, until their tears had long joined the waters that drowned them. And then—“ a rush of pleasure rushed him from groin to skull, eyes rolled back as he squirted his seed deep into her throat. Damn.

His chest heaved with quick defeat, “Might that I try again.”

She grinned, relishing at her victory with her lips around her finger. “Finish the story, then.”

Tyrion shrugged, “My father had done his work, and now the rains weep o’ their halls.” The fire blazed for a day and a night after, townsfolk watching as the red lion banner burned in gold flame. Ghosts sweltered, their debt paid, their castle left a heaping mass of black stone and black blood. A mightily poor imitation of Harren’s hubris, but no less cursed. Forever in Lord Tywin Lannister’s name.

And now it is mine. He was hardly drunk enough to laugh in his bitter rage.

The gilded oak door of the chamber swung open with a gushing cold wind that forced Tyrion beneath the red-velvet sheets with a curse. “Hear, hear. The runaway lord,” called Ser Jaime Lannister, though less a knight now without his white cloak. He wore a crimson silk tunic embroidered with gold lions, his black boots and black gloves joined with a thick black oilcloth cloak.

Tyrion blew a raspberry. “Shall I remind you the meaning of a closed door in a whorehouse, brother?”

Jaime feigned a befuddled look. “I must have missed it. Besides, if I let a closed door prevent the capture of a common brigand, I would be a mightily poor knight.” His grin revealed his bright perfect teeth, and Tyrion could see the lust in the whore’s emerald eye.

“A knight in a brothel. Which of us is the brigand now?” Tyrion drawled.

“The Brigand Brothers has a tune to it, no? Perhaps I should sell the name to a mummer’s troupe and reap our reward.”

“I am reaping my reward. As we speak, in fact,” he took her nipple in his mouth like a wineskin, but ignored his limp cock beneath the velvet.

“He can stay. I’ve never had two brothers at once,” the whore purred. I’ve forgotten her name, Tyrion realised, watching her eyes undress her brother with her eyes unabashedly. You’re not half as blonde for his taste, and I have no intend on being made a cuckold this morn.

Tyrion huffed. “Could an hour more not do? One hour more, Jaime! I’m hardly half-spent.”

Jaime snorted. “You have been here since dawn, little brother! Any more spent, and you’d be spurting blood for a week.” 

How lovely. “As I am wont to do. I paid these ones myself, brother. Don’t fret. And it’s my nameday! I should be allowed such frivolities.”

“It is your nameday,” Jaime said wryly, tossing an extra silver stag that land square on the whore’s bosom. “There’s your first gift of three.” Her eyes turned wide, and Tyrion relented. His brother was as stubborn as a mule given the chance.

The golden-haired whore took her chance, kissing his cheek quickly and disappearing in a robe of silk red. She had fucked him blind, heard his japes and his stories and laughed a sweet laugh like the honey between her legs. Then she took her coin and left without a second glance for him. I gave you three stags, not a dragon. You only fucked me.

The scarlet-tint window clattered with a wave of summer storm. The rain flowed down upon the glass in rivers, and the beams above were swollen. Drip, drip, drip, fell the droplets slowly.

For a moment, Tyrion wondered what Lord Reyne thought of the first trickles in his soon-to-be tomb.

“You owe me a flagon of wine in recompense,” he muttered as he sprawled across the sheets in half-exhaustion.

“You’ll have a dozen barrels if you change quickly,” his brother replied, leaving him to an empty bed.

King’s Landing enjoyed its cruel little jokes, he quickly realised. A tirade of thunder greeted him with a wet embrace, laughing like a jester god. All manner of vermin swam in flooded cobbles down the Street of Silk to Fleabottom as Tyrion trotted on a grey garron beside his knightly brother, half-soaked with a cloak that would surely stink of rank damp for days. Soon he would be free of this wretched city, but that thought alone was a mighty mix of bitter contradiction. The mildew muck of King’s Landing proved a comelier sight than the black rot and burn of Castemere’s sunken halls. Only a leaning half-crumbled tower and the mountain rookery stood now, and the only whores to ravish in Lord Reyne’s tomb were those that drowned with him.

Halfway down the Streets of Sisters on an offshoot alley, a triple-storey tavern rose with a leaning tilt, built in half-stone half-timber with wet gabled roofs, checkered with black-white walls and bolted stag banners. The iron antler signed rattled and the lamplight snuffed out in the strong wind as they entered, the tavern alight with bustling music and a dozen barmaids in bodices too tight to claim chastity. The king’s tavern, they had dubbed it. Tyrion was begrudged to visit that fat fool’s drunken hideaway. “We should fuck his boars and hunt his whores, too,” he told Jaime once. But no alewife in the city compared to the drink flowing from the hundred barrels set upon the walls, and he supposed even a crowned lecher needed taste.

“Shall I find your second gift amongst this muck, dear brother?”

Jaime crossed his heart. “You wound me. I am capable of standards. Of course not, I left that one in your chambers.” Tyrion gave him a pointed look. “Mistrusting today, aren’t you little brother? It was a book! The Hundred Tricks and Turns of Lann the Clever, by Septon… Lannis.”

Tyrion guffawed. “Old Creylen finally let it loose, did he? Niggardly old bastard. Uncle Gerion had to beg the man for but a glance at the damn thing. How did you manage that?”

“I am not without mine own charm. To be frank, I was certain it was a jokebook until I laid eyes on it myself.”

“Hmm. I’ve decided, brother, that I shall forgive you for your terrible crime this morn.” He called for the inkeep and added lowly, “And the kestrels.”

“Oh, enough with the birds, Tyrion. I beg you. My featherbed still reeks of their droppings.”

Tyrion shrugged. “I rather enjoyed them.”

“Selmy did not. Perhaps next time I’ll let you stomach his wroth. Withered old fool. Besides, I’ve not a clue why you wasted your hours on anything but the simple cousins.”

“They’re a challenge.”

“They’re stubborn. Try your luck with ravens. Better yet, pigeons.”

“You have to run before you crawl, Jaime. And ravens have better purpose. My kestrels were… a simple parting gift.”

“A parting gift. For Cersei’s wardrobe, I’d wager.”

“You wound me, brother. I am capable of letting enmity rest. We are only as strong as the weakest in the shield wall.“

“For a time.”

“For a time. It was for the king.“

Jaime barked a laugh. “Now you have me in a regretful mood.”

Tyrion clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Always sword first with you.”

Jaime had let the birds free much to his dismay, but Tyrion was not without his other spiteful reprisals. The night of the king’s royal honours upon his queen-sister, he had snuck into the cellars and loosened the cogs of King Oaf’s favourite wines. Just a turn before he scrambled away, woken promptly to the scream of murder as the drink had flooded the kitchen floor in shades of blood.

The wine in his silver goblet now seemed the same shade of black betrayal. Swirling and swirling like the golden chalice he had held in Lord Tywin’s makeshift solar.

He shoved the thought aside. Worse yet to let his father ruin his latest nameday. 

Half-a-hundred queer characters littered the long hall. Off-duty goldcloaks dotted the long benches at the end with landed knights and pimple-faced squires, minor lords and second sons and peasants who had surely stolen some silk surcoat and fooled the doorman. Tyrion spotted a band of westermen by the counter in sigils of flaming tree and brindled boar, a barrel heaved atop the big one’s shoulder.

“Lord Imp,” said a grizzled regular. Tyrion turned to find the fat fiend, Thoros of Myr, with his crusty beard riddled with grease and meat scrap. “We’ve not shared a cup in some time.”

“The last we did, Prince Oberyn had you keeled over naked in a cow dung. I’d have thought you learned your lesson. Still playing tricks at the melee?”

The Myrishman’s voice turned dark “I no longer hold King Robert’s favour. Your gods saw to that.”

“Start with the clothes. An easy tell for a red wizard to wear red robes.”

“Then I would be no balder nor drunker than the common man. Hard to sell a spell without the garb.”

“Mayhaps a pointed hat and a rabbit,” Tyrion muttered dryly.

“Or a dwarf. Can you twirl and flip?”

Might that I wring your neck instead. The dwarf that slew a wizard sounded a better song than the red drunkard. The poor priest laughed and called for mead as the Lannister pair brushed past to a longtable at the farside.

“Ser Jaime Lannister!” A voice shouted in approach, his lopsided smile raised at the sight of the Imp. “And the man of the moment, Lord Tyrion Lannister.”

“Ser Addam. Come to pay homage?” Tyrion jested. The westerman’s shoulder-length hair was tied back neatly, strong jaw smiling with a mug of ale in hand.

“Of course. Do you think me such a poor neighbour?”

“Spare me your empty-handed platitudes.”

“Empty-handed, he says.” Addam Marbrand smiled and gestured to the burly man and barrel. Lyle Crakehall flashed an ugly grin, opened the keg and poured wine into a gold-band horn near a large as Tyrion. Ser Addam gave Jaime a light shove, “this coxcomb’s not half-as-clever, nor can he hold half the weight as you, I hear. I’ll raise my cup to you, Lord Tyrion.”

“Hear, hear,” spread across the hall. His father’s people stared at him as equals. Marbrand, Strongboar, weak-chinned Steffon Swyft, some Freyson of Aunt Genna and another gold-haired cousin with a name too lowly to remember. “Hear, hear,” they cried. Hear hear, Tyrion sneered as he quaffed his goblet and readied himself beneath the horn. Tyrion Lannister, once heir of the great Casterly Rock, turned the lord of japes and jokes. Get on with it, you sons of whores.

The hours tolled by in a mix of feast, game and wine. Tyrion wore a pot-crown of brass with ale in half the cups as his belly bulged like a boulder, so filled he could feel the swish of his stomach’s sea with each step. He retched twice into stray buckets and once into a woollen rug as he collapsed onto the long seat in Jaime’s innchamber. His brother sat in slack-jawed stupor, a draught of bitter herbs and another of posset still steaming. Tyrion downed them, swallowing his bile with it as hearty song still echoed from drunken fools and sobered newcomers.

Crimson wine pooled over the table. He found his mismatched stare muddled within, the torchlight summoning his father’s emerald-gold flecks. Drip, drip, drip, fell the droplets briskly.

Tyrion turned away groaning. “I hope your last gift is of such fine quality. Though, now I may settle for a very large bucket.”

Jaime chuckled groggily. “My last gift was no thought of my own, I must admit…” he paused, staring through Tyrion before he cleared his throat. “A hundred men. Sappers, stonemasons, stewards, some carpenters. A dozen quarrymen, miners. Good men. Paid in perpetuity.”

“Ah. Then I shall thank Lord Tywin for his generosities. A hundred men to rebirth the legend at last.” Tyrion snorted sardonically, renouncing his crown as he poured the drink into a pint before he fell into a fit of bitter laughter.

“Lay your thanks at Aunt Genna’s feet. She picked out each man herself.”

Shrewd and supple Aunt Genna likely did more than just pick them. “Well, I shall be sure to thank her.” He toasted Jaime’s furrowed brow.

The knight placed his palm to Tyrion’s cup, “One too many, little brother.”

His laugh turned to growl as he slammed the table, pulling his pint from his brother’s grip. “A jape is best told drunk. And there is no better jape than this.” 

The chamber had been cold despite the summer day. A scarlet sky fell on the horizon as the world glowed in blood red. Cersei had sat beside their father, grinning like a halfwit. Jon Arryn sat across him, old and frail and useless as the rumours told with letters sealed in the king’s restitution. The Hand’s solar, yet there was no question of who truly ruled. “You will be a lord,” Lord Tywin commended. “Castamere.” Bestowed upon Tyrion’s name with a thousand gold chains tied upon his neck to match his red-bloated face. Ink on parchment, seal and wax, the golden lion ripped from his doublet with Lord Tywin’s generous word.

My father’s generosities. The wine swirled the same as that day. Bottomless with a tasteless poison. His father was an unyielding man. Grimmer than any. But Tyrion swore he had seen a smile, a flicker of a laugh.

“It won’t be so—“ Jaime began.

Tyrion slammed the mug down. “Don’t… don’t start with the mummer’s farce, Jaime. Will you blither about how it not a slight? A gift, an honour? Oh, I am well aware what his honours pertain. I only hope Tommen is as fit a son as the one he envisioned in me.” The boy was already the image of Cersei, a green-eyed little thing with strong legs and a head well-fitted for his pudgy body. He would undoubtedly grow tall and strong like his father.

Jaime frowned. “Cersei will never let father have Tommen.”

Tyrion chuckled. “I am glad you’ve caught on. Cersei will certainly refuse him when he is finally a man. And father? Tommen Baratheon of Casterly Rock?” His sister would covet the boy now. Whisper in his ear and suckle him at her full breasts long into boyhood. You have lost your son, he wanted to retort. But she had grinned alongside her father’s phantom smile, and Jaime could never refuse her. How does our sister’s cunt taste, brother? A shame you never thought to share.

“A knight of the Kinsguard is sworn for life,” Jaime insisted.

“You’re as big a fool as Moon Boy. At least that ninny bastard has mind enough to know his face in the mirror. Father will have his way. He built this honour himself, and was kind enough to let it stew for my rise. Castemere is a ruin now, but worry not. I shall put the ghosts to work. Perhaps even beseech a drowned priest for their favour. And if all else fails, I shall take a little skiff, with little oars for my little arms, loll on the waters and pray for a little drought. A little red waste for my little red castle. ‘Oh, Tyrion, oh, Tyrion, kind that you are,’ the gods shall lament, blessing my little land with their love.” The Lord of Castemere burst into a coughing fit of laughter, choking down the rest of his ale with half spilled onto his stained doublet.

“I suppose I shall have to take a wife, too. Shall Lord Tywin gift me a bride to be? No maiden shall take the Imp’s bed. Perhaps a poor widow. A shame the Lady Ellyn is but ashes. We would make a fine pair apiece… why the grim look, dear brother? At least this time, I shall have a noble lady, not a whore.” How high shall the bride price rise? Even a sullied lady deserved more more than a handful of silvers too many and a single dragon.

His mug was empty. Tyrion rose with a stifle, vomiting across the table before falling to the floor. Tallow candlelight swayed from the ceiling, and when he reached for it, his brother helped him up and shook his shoulders down.

Tyrion slapped him away. “I am not your squire.”

“No, but you are my brother.”

The dwarf scoffed, stumbling away with a drunken dance in his step.

“Where are you going?” Jaime called.

Tyrion twirled around, spread his arms wide and bowed like a mummer on stage. “Why, to my castle of cripples, bastards and broken things. There is work to be done.”

The main hall still reeked of song and story as he staggered past. The storm outside raged and roared with a virile taunt, and his grey garron had come loose from the stable yard. Tyrion could only cackle as the rain lashed his face and filled his mouth. Drip, drip, drip, fell the droplets furiously. 

“Tyrion!” called his brother. He rushed out into the street cloaked and tossed Tyrion his own. A silence fell between them, and stray chortles still escaped the imp’s lips.

“Tyrion,” Jaime said softly, his hand on Tyrion’s arm as he squeezed gently. “Do not think so unkindly of me. I am not filled with such dishonour as to usurp my brother’s birthright. I will speak to father. I will make him listen.” He wore a foolish lopsided smile, but the rain made it seem as if he wept. “Say, you may even geld me to sell the part.”

Oh, Jaime. You are a fool, he thought sadly. Tyrion  sighed, but mustered the truest smile he could and nodded. “Well, you can start by finding my garron. Pesky thing sought freedom.”

As his brother trotted off, his bladder cramped desperately.

The alley beside the tavern winded through mud-ridden puddles, shattered carts, and even a buried lichyard off in the distance. The kissing rooftops protected him from the storm, and when he dropped his breeches, he groaned as he pissed liquid gold onto lightning-cracked cobbles. A small groan escaped him as he swung his cock about in circles, last little leaks staining his hose.

When he moved to leave, a one-eyed one-eared arse brayed loudly. An ugly moan followed as a lumbering old giant with beard and breeches brown with shit stumbled out of a narrow wynd. His long pecker throbbed as a young woman cradled it, her mouth chewing hungrily upon his lips. Tyrion watched absently as she reached into her embroidered cloak and rubbed the blood red of her sex across his lips, voice sweet and girlish.

A lucky fool ravishing some lost lord’s daughter. Her grinning pale eyes fell dark as she spotted Tyrion, the ugly snarl spreading across her face matching her gnawed crescent scar that jutted from temple to chin. The raven calls the crow black, Tyrion mused bitterly, smiling smugly.

“I didn’t ask for an audience,” she huffed, face hooded as he pushed the man back and made for the street. Her lavender perfumes clashed with alley stench, stopping above Tyrion with a queer, deformed look to her once-pretty face.

“Will you dream with me, my lord?” His heart leapt oddly as she sped past him and he shook his face.

The man growled, red upon his lips brighter as be twitched oddly.  

Tyrion laughed. “Worry not, there’s a dozen whores cheaper and prettier than that marked hag.”

“Bugger off, dwarf,” he grunted, pushing Tyrion hard, face-first into a shit-filled puddle before riding off into the street.

His Lannister crimsons and golds turned to a tainted black and ugly yellow as his back and twisted leg cramped. Tyrion writhed like some common whore’s bastard as his mouth swelled with slough and spit, and when he searched the puddle, his father’s face cackled at his red-run rage. I’ll have you fed your own cock, you pox-born ass. Both of you.

When he finally rose, he screamed. He screamed until his throat tore and his fists bloodied against the brick.

“Brother!” Jaime called with a laugh, horse whickering mere inches beyond his sight. “You would not believe where I found your—“ His brother choked, fallen to knees instantly as he wiped the mud from Tyrion’s face. “Gods, Tyrion, what—“

The imp pushed him back with a giant’s strength. “That fucking knave. The wretch with the arse. Where is he?” Tyrion gritted.

His brother lurched back in confusion, swiftly fallen to angered understanding. “Down to the Dragon’s Square, I think.”

Catch him. “Go!” Tyrion growled. I’ll kill him myself.

Jaime lifted Tyrion like a feather and plopped him on his garron, leaving his own free for the city. In an instant, they pelted down the wet cobbles of the Street of Silk. The world blurred past him, the only smell the rain and his brother behind. Storm clouds thundered and cracked the sky open. In that moment he smiled, something euphoric, exulting as it kissed his face. Do it, his mind bellowed. Do it, father. Send your streams and your storms. I will not drown. I will not drown.

A soaked mob flowed from the the Street of Sisters. Down the middle, a riot tore them from their mount. Jaime shielded Tyrion tight, their eyes transfixed on the same lumbering peasant with his fists crimson and rage black. He struck septa, septon and stranger in a blind rampage, snarling like a hound with mottled blood blisters ripe upon his lips. A swarm of gold cloaks buzzed past them, spears singing as they gutted the beast. He squirmed and screeched and screamed as Tyrion relished in his life splayed against the storm-hammered street.

Beside them, a dragon of red flame burned against the rain’s wet spears in a clash of the elements. The building ablaze crumbled to a black ruin, and from its flaming maw, a score of immolated men sought the sky.