Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“[...] I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat. We have before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind. We have before us many, many long months of struggle and of suffering. You ask, what is our policy? I can say: It is to wage war, by sea, land and air, with all our might and with all the strength  that God can give us; to wage war against a monstrous tyranny, never surpassed in the dark, lamentable catalogue of human crime. This is our policy. You ask, what is our aim?

I can answer in one word: It is victory, victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory, however long and hard the road may be, for without victory, there is no survival.”

- Winston Churchill, 13 May 1940. 

House of Commons “Blood, toil, tears and sweat” speech

Bran’s face was cast into shadow, creating a hood around his eyes as he sat still and patient in the Godswood. The flickering torches - spread thinly amongst the trees and illuminating a path from the gate to the Weirwood tree - were few and far in between, leaving the spaces between them filled with an all-consuming inky blackness.

A blackness that seemed to move and warp on its own, making Theon Greyjoy swallow thickly as his eyes darted nervously around the sacred space. He shifted nervously, his leathers rubbing against each other in a soft whisper that cut through the stillness of the evening air.

It is evening, isn’t it? he thought with a frown, his hand coming to rest on the dagger at his waist. 

He wrapped his fingers around it as he thought back to the scrambled preparations earlier: how scouts had seen the slow, determined amble of dead as they began to crest hills and emerge silently from wooded groves, their eerie blue eyes the only light against the creeping darkness as clouds blocked the sun, snow blocked the landscape, and darkness descended on the North and Westeros.

Then it had been mad, with Daenerys and Jon taking to the skies on their dragons; Lannister, Brienne, and the Wildlings had moved to be the front line once the Unsullied and Dothraki took the enemy outside Winterfell’s walls; and Arya, Davos, Theon, and Sansa were to remain inside the castle, protected only by several curtain walls and a maze of boobytrapped corridors that would hopefully slow the dead down.

Slow. Not stop - because there would be no stopping them until the Night King was eradicated. And Theon wasn’t sure who was going to deliver that fatal blow when his job was to protect Bran Stark, whose eyes were milky while as his blank, placid face with his chin tilted up fixated on the weeping face carved into the Weirwood tree. He was lost somewhere in time - or perhaps space, Theon was never sure and didn’t quite understand what happened to make the young Stark the Three-Eyed Raven particularly - leaving him vulnerable to an enemy who was coming only for him.

And then, faintly, a sound caught Theon’s attention and he turned his head toward it, squinting in the darkness.

He sucked in cold air harshly as he recognized it: cries. Cries of pain, war cries, cries for backup. The fight was now within Winterfell’s walls.

Lights flickered beyond the Godswood, breaking the darkness of the wooded area as rooms within Winterfell lit up, a fire beginning in one tower as it slowly expanded and crept upward, smoke spiralling into the black sky. Theon could vaguely hear the roar of the flame and the crackle of wood as it splintered within the tower, but the flames themselves were a beacon of light that illuminated the space around.

A large shadow swooped through the clouds and smoke, too fast to make out except for the distant roar and accompanying shake of the earth. A further, distant roar responded, and then another - but a cry of pain.

“It’s not going well.”

Theon jumped, his heart furiously thundering as he spun to face Bran. 

His eyes were no longer milky white, but dark and hooded. His facial expressions were still blank, but he was facing Theon and not the Weirwood tree anymore, despite not moving his hands from their folded place on top of the thick woolen blankets that covered his legs in the wheelchair constructed for him.

“What’s happened?” asked Theon, through a suddenly dry mouth.

“Jon’s dragon is dead,” replied Bran, his voice monotone. “He cut its head off with the help of some Wildlings, but the courtyards are being overrun with giants now.”

For a strange, wild moment, Theon imagined Jon’s headless dragon getting to its undead feet and chasing after him, only to squash him; but the image was quickly dispelled as Bran continued to speak.

“Please go find Sansa and Arya, Theon. Bring them here. Jon is already on his way.”

Theon paused. “I’m supposed to remain with you--”

“I will be fine while you are gone. You won’t be long,” the younger teen assured him, although his assurances fell as flat as his voice.

Theon grimaced, but nodded and took a hesitant step forward; then he took another step, and another until he was marching purposefully through the dark of the Godswood and through the gate, keeping his back along the rough stone so nothing would sneak up behind him.

He found Sansa first, near the kitchens, shouting orders and directions for those to gather what weapons they could - knives and pots and iron pokers - and ordering others to boil water for wounds and poultices to be mixed with the mortar and pestle.

She paused only when she saw him. “Theon?”

“Bran wants you in the Godswood,” he said, dipping his head briefly in acknowledgment. 

Her thin red eyebrows furrowed, but she nodded slowly. “Gyllis? Take over for me.”

“Yes, milady,” a portly, worn-looking with flyaway grey hair replied, her voice already hoarse and weary. She curtseyed once and then turned away, taking up Sansa’s position as Theon gently took her arm and guided her from the warm space.

“How bad is it?” Sansa murmured as they stepped outside.

“Bad. Can’t you hear?” he replied just as quietly, and they both stopped to listen as the screams and cries grew louder. The burning tower - to the far southeast of them, one of the parts of Winterfell near the main gate, drew their attention.

“Do you know who set it?” she asked.

Theon shook his head. “I’ve just been sent to find Arya next. Bran said Jon was on his way to the Godswood.”

“Why?” asked Sansa, following Theon as they inched down a dark hallway, Theon’s dagger held tight in a white-knuckle grip. “Oh. His dragon?”

“Dead.”

“Any news from the others?”

“Nothing yet. Just that we’re not doing well.”

Theon glanced back long enough as they edged around a sharp L-corner to see Sansa’s face. It was long, in Stark fashion, but tinged grey and there was a tight, pinched pull at her eyes. It was enough that Theon took her hands in his. “It’ll be okay. Bran has a plan.”

Sansa offered Theon a small, wobbly smile, but it never reached her eyes. They both knew how the night was going to end.

They found Arya by accident as they exited Winterfell, near the Godswood gate. She launched herself from above, from one of the covered wooden catwalks that joined two stone buildings, just as a blue-eyed wight burst from the grainery door on their left.

Sansa sucked in air sharply and Theon bent his knees, readying his dagger to slash at the wight but it was Arya who landed heavily on it and hacked it quickly with precise slashes of her thin sword.

Body parts fell to the frozen dirt, the limbs still twitching and one of the hands trying to gain purchase against the slick ground to pull itself forward toward them.

With a scowl of disgust, Theon reached for the nearest torch, tucked into a metal sconce, and thrust it at the nearest limb, watching dispassionately as it burst into flame.

The head, still on the torso of the wight, opened its mouth and let out a high-pitched, unearthly wail.

“Shut up,” muttered Theon, poking his torch at the other body parts, beginning with the torso and head.

“There’ll be more coming soon,” warned Arya, nearly blending in with the wall and shadows around them.

“Theon said Bran is asking for us,” replied Sansa instead, drawing her cloak tighter around her body. It was the brightest part of her outfit, a dull Stark grey against the black of her leather and cloth dress.

“Then let’s go. I’ll take point,” said Arya, turning on her heel and moving through the courtyard with ease of working in the dark.

Sansa and Theon scrambled to hurry after her, Theon taking the rear to protect against any wights that were following, but the rest of the journey to the Godswood was quiet. As they passed under the thick wall that separated Winterfell from the Godswood, Arya pulled them aside and then swung the rusted gate shut. It creaked loudly in the still night but latched with a loud snap .

“It won’t hold them long,” she said grimly at Sansa’s look. “But it’ll give us a warning that they’re here.”

“Good thinking,” murmured her sister, although there was something resigned in her eyes.

They hurried down the uneven ground to the familiar Weirwood tree and reflection pool, where Jon stood facing Bran, his back to the pool, as he ran his hands agitatedly through his curls.

“--me anything of what’s to happen?” he demanded as they approached.

“What’s going on?” asked Sansa, her voice the slightest bit sharp.

Bran’s dark eyes flicked toward his remaining siblings and Theon, who brought up the rear until he stood at Bran’s side once more.

“We’re all here like you asked,” continued Arya, her mouth pulling down into a frown. She crossed her arms. “We should be out there, fighting. What did you need of us, Bran?”

Sansa moved to stand at Jon’s side, touching his arm lightly. Jon dropped his scowl at the touch, glancing at his sister-cousin before sighing. “He wouldn’t say anything until you arrived.”

“Well?” prompted Sansa after a long, pointed silence.

Bran turned his head back to face the weeping tree and closed his eyes. 

Something clenched tight in Arya’s chest at the expression and she slowly dropped her arms. “Bran…?”

“It was too little, too late,” he finally said, the barest hint of something in his tone. His voice was tight. “We have lost.”

“No.” The word was wrenched from Jon’s mouth before he consciously realized he spoke. “No - Bran - we’re still fighting - we can continue -”

“Your dragon is gone,” replied Bran, opening his eyes and turning back to face his siblings as they lined up in front of him. “Daenerys is overrun in the skies with the Night King controlling the other. The Unsullied and Dothraki add to the undead, and the main gate has been breached. Winterfell will fall.”

“If Winterfell falls, so does the North,” whispered Sansa through bloodless lips. An aborted move of a hand coming up to flutter at her throat became a clench of her fist at her side.

“And then so does the rest of Westeros,” finished Arya grimly. “Had Cersei actually sent men--”

“We can’t think that way now,” interrupted Jon, his mouth pulled tight. He turned partially to Sansa. “We need to evacuate whomever we can, quickly--”

Sansa nodded, her blue eyes turning vaguely inward as she began to think logistically. “We’ll need to send a message out, send everyone south--”

“It won’t be enough.”

Jon and Sansa fell silent, turning to Bran.

“We have offered our blood, our toil, our tears, and sweat,” began Bran slowly. The expression on his face was surveying, one of the most emotive expressions he had worn since returning to Winterfell. “But it is not enough to ensure victory.”

“Then what must we do, Bran?” demanded Jon, his voice tight and furious. Theon shifted at Bran’s side, uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation. “If we cannot flee, if we cannot send those south to continue to fight - must we fight to the end until we become part of the Night King’s army of the undead?”

“No,” said Bran slowly. “Not you.”

That took the wind out of Jon’s sail and he paused long enough to stutter, “What?”

Sensing something off, Arya’s body tensed and she moved her hand slowly to Needle, stroking the hilt like one would stroke their favourite pet.

“What do you mean, Bran?” asked Sansa, a quiver in her voice.

A bang, another, and then a loud creak broke through the silence between the Starks. Theon’s head whipped around to face it, his body turning wholly toward the path to the gate.

“They’ve broken in,” he said, unnecessarily.

“We’re out of time,” said Bran in response, blinking. With each blink, sorrow etched its way onto his face. “Please know: I am only doing this because it is the only road to victory.”

“Do what, Bran?” Sansa’s voice trembled, rising shrilly.

Twin bobbing blue lights began to blink into existence, and Theon withdrew his sword instead, shouting, “ they’re here, they’re here! ”

“I’m sorry,” whispered Bran, closing his eyes as his mouth turned into a frown and his brow furrowed.

Alarmed, Jon took a step toward Bran -- but Bran’s eyes opened, a brilliant white that was more than the Three-Eyed Raven of the Stark warging ability. Red began to bleed toward the center of his eyes, stretching like the limbs of a tree, just as blood began to bead at the corner of his eyes, trickling down his cheeks like tears.

Bran shifted in the chair and then stood , causing Jon to stumble back in alarm as his eyes turned all red. His nose began to bleed, dark red, but the sight of their paralyzed brother standing and then stepping forward stunned the Starks long enough that Jon was unable to defend himself when Bran shoved him - hard - and he tripped over his feet, falling heavily with a loud splash into the reflection pool behind him. Shards of ice from the partially frozen pool broke and splintered onto the ground around them.

Theon leaped forward at the same time, toward the wights as they emerged from around the thick trunks of the godswood, his sword clashing with the first that approached. Arya, torn between helping Theon and Jon, hesitated for just the barest moment.

“Jon!” screamed Sansa, turning to her cousin; she never saw Bran’s hand as he shoved her, too, and she flailed her arms, shrieking as she tipped face-forward into the pool.

The Others could take Theon , determined Arya, turning to Bran and whipping Needle out from its holster. “Bran - why--”

“It’s the only way,” said Bran, but there was something off, different from his voice. He took another step forward and Arya slid around him, away from the wights and Theon, who was screaming something, just noise, not words as he hacked away. She kept her eyes on Bran as she took a step back.

Bran didn’t move, just watched her. “You need to hurry.”

“ I need to hurry?” repeated Arya, snorting as she tossed her head. 

“I can’t keep them in between forever,” answered Bran, something tense in his voice.

Arya blinked. “Inbetween?”

But Bran made a move toward her, almost a puff of his chest as his tall, thin form loomed, and Arya jumped back to keep the distance between them. Only when she landed, it was on the splintered ice Jon’s fall into the reflection pool scattered, and she slipped.

“Bran!” cried Arya, her arms wheeling up as she felt gravity pull her down. She went to twist her body, to move and land to the side of the pool, but something was wrong and she couldn’t move in any direction but down, down toward the water…

“Whatever you do--” Arya heard Bran’s voice say, although his mouth didn’t move “--No matter how afraid you are, you must keep going. This is the only way we survive. The only way we win.”

And then Bran was gone as she hit the freezing water, bits of ice swimming in front of her and blocking the sight of her brother just as the Night King appeared behind him.

No! Arya tried to scream, but nothing but bubbles emerged as the dark waters swirled around her and dragged her further down.

Her thoughts raced, jumbling together: the reflection pool isn’t this deep; I’ve swum in it before… Where are Jon and Sansa?... What did Bran mean?...

She could no longer distinctly see the surface of the reflection pool, but there was something pale and welcoming above her. She began to kick.

At the first kick, she barely moved. The water was thick and determined to keep her, but Arya’s lungs were burning and she had to move up. With the next kick, she moved - and she heard a voice.

Do you fight for the living?

It was Jon’s voice, familiar and loud with anger and grit.

She kicked again, and then she heard a low, mean voice mutter: The Lannisters send their regards.

Mother screamed.

Arya tried to scream back, bubbles escaping her mouth and she kicked harder against the thick water. With each kick, a new voice echoed around her, sometimes murky and distant, and other times, clear and distinct. But each kick brought her closer and closer to the gentle, pale light that filtered above her. 

The King in the North!

I am the dragon! Me! Not you, Dany--

In the game of thrones, you either win, or die.

Sun of my life -- Moon of my heart --

We’ve come to a dangerous place.

A direwolf for each of your children, m’lord. And a runt for Snow.

Ser Jorah Mormont, you are to be exiled--

The Other’s take Balon Greyjoy if he thinks he can defy me by becoming king! There is only one king in Westeros, and that’s me: Robert Baratheon! It’s war!

There is no one like us, Jaime...

Let it be known that Cersei Lannister and Robert Baratheon are one heart, one flesh, one soul…

What did you do , Lannister? You -- You are a kingslayer.

Burn them all! Burn them ALL! If I can’t have King’s Landing, then no one - least of all Tywin Lannister - will!

Promise me, Ned. Promise me.

RHAEGAR, YOU BASTARD! COME AND FIGHT ME, DRAGONSPAWN!

I, Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, offer my cloak --

You are with child? Then the prophecy will come to pass: there will be three heads to the dragon, Lyanna…

Trial by combat, Lord Stark? Very well. My champion -- will be -- FIRE!

And then, as Arya stretched her hand toward the surface, the water warming the slightest bit, she heard another voice. It was a man’s; clear, sorrowful, and deeply conflicted, and he spoke in a low rumble.

--please protect Brandon and those who went with him south. Please, I am in need of your guidance. Please, send me a sign, something to help me. I know to answer the King’s summon means my death, but he is my firstborn and my daughter is missing…

Arya’s hand broke the surface and then she surged out of the water, clutching tightly at the rock protrusions around the pool with a white-knuckle grip with one hand and Needle in the other as water sluiced off her and she heaved deep gasps of air.

She heard Jon’s pants and saw his black form as he heaved himself further up out of the water and onto the mud and grass, just as on Arya’s other side, Sansa shivered silently with streaks of long red hair plastered to her forehead and neck.

“Well,” began a familiar voice - only it was no longer sorrowful but rather cold. “This is a surprise.”

Arya glanced up, blinking water from her eyes.

A man in black fur slowly rose to his feet from his perch on the edge of a rock at the reflection pool’s side. It was a rock that Arya was familiar with, as her own father often sat on it when he needed time with his thoughts. 

When the man reached his full height, he was imposing. He had a thick black fur cloak around his shoulders and was dressed in grey and black leathers and tunics, while a large Valyarian sword glittered in his grip as he held it aloft from the pool. His eyes were icy shards that flicked from Arya to Sansa and Jon, and his long dark brown hair was pulled back from his face in a manner that reminded Arya vaguely of her Uncle Benjen.

Slowly, Jon brought himself to his feet unsteadily, teetering as he blinked at the man that was a near mirror image, except for the difference in their hair. Somehow, even though the armour and furs must have weighed more than twice Jon’s weight, including Longclaw, he had managed to swim upward as Arya had without losing his sword and weapons.

Sansa dragged herself a bit further onto the ground and then rose, until she was once more the Lady of Winterfell, chin tilted up stubbornly as she smoothed her waterlogged dress and then her hair.

Arya jumped up, ready with Needle to defend her family.

But the man merely glanced back and forth at them. Finally, in his low voice, he growled, “And who are you to emerge from a shallow reflection pool in my Godswood?”

“ Your Godswood?” spat Arya, glaring at the man. “Winterfell is our home! This Godswood is ours !”

“Arya…” whispered Sansa suddenly, her voice low and cautious.

The man blinked. “Arya? My… my mother’s mother was Arya Flint.” He suddenly stared hard at her and then Jon, his grey eyes flickering back to Sansa every so often.

Sansa instead sucked in a breath, her entire form freezing.

The man put his sword down slowly, resting it against the rock he was previously sitting on. Then he put his hands out and took a step forward.

Arya wanted to shuffle back, but the last time she did she ended up in the pool and wanted to avoid that, so instead, she stood her ground, baring her teeth at the man.

He paused, his entire face softening as he looked at her.

“Lower your weapon, child,” he demanded, although it was a command without any harsh edges. “You will come to no harm here.”

“How can we trust that?” asked Jon, wariness in not just his voice, but his body as he inched toward Arya and Sansa and his hand twitched back, toward his scabbard.

“We are family,” the man said.

“Oh?” snapped Arya. “Just who are you, then?”

The man stared down at her for a long, long moment, and then said, “I am Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.” The man paused, hesitating and almost frowning, but he then pushed forward. “And I believe you are either my grandchildren or some other close relation.”

With that, Arya’s jaw dropped in shock, and so did Needle as it fell from her hand.

[...]

Chapter Text

The Road to Victory

SNOW, pt 1

The man - their grandfather - ushered them through the Godswood in the predawn light that just edged over Winterfell’s ramparts, stretching shadows into long, twisted things. The halls were quiet, the courtyards empty and Jon, Sansa, and Arya did their best to not stop and gape at Winterfell during its heyday.

Rickard constantly turned back, quietly murmuring to them to continue moving until they entered his solar - their father’s solar - and found themselves sitting in comfortable chairs before the fireplace as the heat steamed the water off them.

“I am sorry I cannot offer you tea,” he began, pushing instead heavy cups of some sort of mead toward them, from a decanter on a sideboard. “But this should help warm you up.”

Sansa was the only one who took it with thanks, while both Jon and Arya took it, stared at the cup, and then put it down without tasting the liquid sloshing inside. Rickard took no offense, instead of sitting behind his desk and steepling his fingers in front of his mouth as his icy grey eyes flicked from one Stark to another.

“You have travelled through time,” he finally said, once the silence stretched long.

Jon violently flinched.

“But from how far in the future…” the Stark trailed off, but his eyes landed on Sansa. “You must only be a generation away - with that hair, and Brandon’s betrothal - your mother must be Catelyn Tully.”

Slowly, Sansa inclined her head. 

Rickard breathed, a long exhale as he closed his eyes. “Then going to King’s Landing is the right thing. I will demand trial by combat and save my heir and return him to Winterfell.”

Arya snorted, and Rickard’s eyes shot open, a heavy frown pulling at his mouth. The girl caught his eyes and shook her head. “That won’t work.”

Rickard’s brow furrowed.

Sansa leaned a bit forward and tentatively began, “My father was not Brandon Stark, Lord Rickard.”

The man’s eyes widened as he slowly came to the realization and then he slumped, heavily, in his seat. His eyes, once so icy and sharp, were dull. “I see…”

“What year is it?” asked Jon, cutting through the tension. “If you’re planning on going to King’s Landing to get Uncle Brandon, then Harrenhal has already happened, has it not? And Ly-- Lyanna has already left with Rhaegar?”

Rickard’s head snapped up. “ Left ?”

“Jon,” hissed Sansa, twisting in her seat to shift a glare at her brother-cousin. Even Arya turned, in the seat between the two, to thump him on the upper arm. “Shut up!”

Jon winced at the tiny, hard hit and resisted bringing his hand up to rub at his arm.

“Left?” repeated Rickard, his voice rising in pitch sharply. “You imply that she left willingly and was not taken by the Prince?”

Jon winced. “It’s… it’s a rather delicate situation, to be fair…”

Sansa sighed, loudly.

Rickard’s ire left him, and he found himself utterly baffled by these grandchildren of his, looking from one to another. As the fire warmed them, he took a moment to survey them with a Lord’s eye, rather than the familial, that he had been previously. The fact that they had not recognized him told him that he was long gone by the time they were born and that whomever their father had been, they had been kind and loving toward them.

But now -- he saw the Valyrian steel on the oldest’s back. While curls like his were common Stark features, there was something in his face that was different and unique enough to the sisters that perhaps they weren’t as closely related as Rickard first though. But his clothes! The young man was dressed for war in the most mishmash of clothing: chainmail, armour, boiled leather arm braces, and steel greaves, the dirt and blood even the water couldn’t clean from his face and neck… whatever had happened in the future, wherever they had come from… it was not peaceful and Rickard’s heart clenched.

The eldest girl was no doubt closely related to the Tullys, which determined that she must have been Brandon and Catelyn’s -- with her long, auburn hair and Tully blue eyes; but her long face was all Stark, as was her strong chin and willowy height. She was the perfect Southron lady, with her manners and bearing, but what she wore was in contradiction to that. She, too, was dressed in Stark colours of grey and black, with her grey fur-lined cloak and the black, boiled leather armour that covered her chest and arms. Her face was thin and there were smudges under her eyes, signalling long, restless nights and worries.

But the youngest -- oh, how Rickard recognized that feral tilt to her chin, the flash of defiance in her eyes, and the snarl on her pulled-back lips. The youngest girl, Arya, had the wolf’s blood in her. She too wore leather armour, but also trousers tucked into boots, and Rickard’s sharp eyes could spot the numerous pockets and sheaths that hid numerous blades and other tricks the girl coveted. She was a warrior, and Rickard had no trouble thinking that Brandon would equip a daughter of his with good, castle-forged steel, or encourage her to be taught the blade! But -- would Ned?

But when the redhead had said that Brandon was not her father… he knew then that he would fail in King’s Landing. Of course, I would, he thought bitterly. When would Aerys honour or combat fairly? It left a sour taste in his mouth, knowing that he was dead. That Brandon was -- would be? -- dead.

Ned would step up as Lord of Winterfell. And Jon Arryn -- for all that he was a good friend to Rickard -- had filled Ned’s head with House Arryn’s words rather than their own and that the boy was more Southron than he thought. As High as Honour, ha! He would be unprepared for leading the way that Rickard had trained Brandon.

He wanted to ask: Was Ned a good father to you? What he a good, strong leader for the North? How did he handle the Boltons? Was the North prosperous, did the White Harbour bring more bounty to us? How many Wildling attacks have there been, and have the northernmost Houses struggled? ... how much have you struggled, my grandchildren?

And the struggle was apparent in these children: the eldest girl whom he knew now to be Ned and Catelyn’s. And with a shrewd eye, he could spot similar features in the younger girl’s lithe body. They were sisters, but the boy…

A knock on his solar startled Rickard from his thoughts, although none of his uninvited guests jumped.

“Lord Stark?”

Rickard stood and strode to the door, opening it the merest slit and glared out at the Maester. “What is it, Walys?”

“My Lord, are you breaking your fast with Benjen this morn? There are also many ravens for you to attend should you decide to depart…” the reedy voice on the other end of the door inquired.

“Not today, Walys,” instructed Rickard, his voice firm as he looked at the man through the crack. “I am not to be disturbed for any reason.”

“Very well, my Lord.”

Rickard shut the door firmly and latched it, turning back to the three Starks in his solar, each watching him with careful eyes.

“I cannot keep you locked up here,” he finally sighed, returning slowly to his desk but standing beside it instead of sitting. “It is best that you are announced to the household.” His eyes flicked over the two girls. “I realize you are both sisters, but your red hair is too unique for us to confidently call you a Stark.”

Something bitter was on the girl’s face before it washed away. She nodded demurely, folding her hands in her lap, her cup discarded earlier. “I understand.”

“What are your names?” Rickard finally asked. He jerked his chin at the only one he knew. “I know you are Arya. What are you called?”

“Sansa, Lord Stark,” the redhead chirped.

“Jon,” retorted the eldest, shortly.

“Jon and Arya are cousins from my wife’s side,” said Rickard, eyes firm on them. “You look Northern enough to pass as Starks from my great-uncle’s side. You, Sansa, are too unique for the North. We don’t have your looks.”

“Kissed by fire, she is,” grinned Jon, which made him look entirely younger and softened the dour look on him. 

Sansa rolled her eyes.

“My sister married into House Royce,” continued Rickard, ignoring the byplay. “You are a daughter of hers. She had three and all married South -- the Lords here will not think differently if there was a miscount.”

Sansa nodded. “I know House Royce, my Lord.”

Rickard started, momentarily. “You do?”

She did not add more to that, but it was enough that Rickard stared at her, hard, for a moment, before turning away. He stood by his solar window, overlooking the Godswood. Taking a deep breath, he wondered what to do next: his son was still in King’s Landing, a prisoner, and his daughter was missing, although by the sound of what Jon said, a willing captive. 

He had prayed for help from the gods, and his three grandchildren appeared dripping wet and dressed for war. He could read the signs, he knew what it meant. With that in mind, he clasped his hands behind his back and turned on his heel to face his family, with a grim visage.

“I -- when you emerged from the reflection pool -- I was asking for help,” he began, haltingly. He was a Lord , a Stark , and Starks did not beg. “I believe the gods delivered you to me. To help me in what to do, to ensure House Stark does not fall.”

The three shared glances, unreadable ones. Arya slit her eyes and crossed her arms, muttering, “It’s a fucking long list.”

Rickard bristled at the coarse language coming from her mouth, but the tightening of Sansa’s eyes and Jon’s frown made him pause, and slowly, he reached for his desk. “What do you mean?”

“Other than our other brother, Bran, we’re all that’s left of House Stark,” replied Sansa, her voice matter-of-fact.

“And Bran sacrificed his life for ours,” added Arya, making Jon and Sansa glance at her.

Jon’s voice was low when he asked, “What do you mean?”

“I was the last in the pool,” answered Arya, “And I saw the Night King behind him just before I sank.”

Sansa’s eyes closed and Jon turned his head away, pained.

Rickard, however, blurted out, “The Night King?” even as his hand fumbled for purchase on his desk and he slipped, all but collapsing into his chair. “Surely not. Surely! The Others and wights of the Long Night are stories.”

“I wish that were true,” sighed Jon, running a hand through his curly hair. “But sadly, they’re real. We’ve been fighting them for a year now, on and off at different locations. The Wall broke and the Night’s Watch defeated. We were… we were making a last stand at Winterfell when Bran told us it was over and we lost.”

“You think of Aerys’ war,” began Sansa, carefully, “You think of Robert’s Rebellion as we will know it, and that it is the war you should be concerned about. It is not . We fight a greater war, for all the people of Westeros. A war for the living.”

“But--” Rickard broke off, snapping his mouth shut. “Our plan -- to consolidate power amongst us so that we’d have alliances…”

“Oh?” asked Sansa, a curious lilt to her voice.

“Brandon’s betrothal to Catelyn Tully would ensure the North and the Riverlands were tied,” began Rickard, “And fostering Ned and Robert Baratheon with Jon Arryn in the Vale meant they’d be close with Jon’s heirs; even then betrothing Lyanna and Robert would bring the Stormlands and the North together.”

“So, you would have the North, the Riverlands, the Vale, and the Stormlands,” stated Sansa calmly, although there was a tinge of amusement to her voice now. “To what purpose? There are Valeman and Storm lords who are Targaryen supporters. Surely you weren’t thinking of disposing of the dragons.”

“Of course not!” snapped Rickard. “It was to consolidate power behind Rhaegar. Whent convinced his brother to host the tournament at Harrenhal so Rhaegar could suss out who was loyal to him and who was loyal to his father. We wanted to call a Great Council.”

Jon groaned, burying his head in his hands.

“And then overthrow Aerys?” finished Arya with a snort, adding her voice to Jon’s groan. “I’m sure that would’ve gone well.”

Rickard glowered. “It would--”

“Not,” interrupted Sansa coolly. “That would never have worked. Aerys is too stubborn, too insane. He would never have given up power willingly and we’d be right where we are now, on the cusp of war. Only, perhaps, with different players. And, for all the weight you wish to throw behind Rhaegar, he’s not a good choice either, as you now know.”

“You said Lya was willing!” barked Rickard, glaring hotly at the three.

Sansa and Arya turned to Jon, who squirmed under the weight of their eyes. “They were married, I know that much. But that doesn’t mean that either of them were smart …”

“Prophecies,” muttered Arya. “Fucking prophecies.”

I don’t know what is happening, thought Rickard, off-balance, and his heart thundering in his chest. He had no idea what to do - what step to next take. These three grandchildren of his were as maddening as Aerys but without the love for wildfire. 

“I know getting your son and daughter back is important,” began Sansa carefully, her voice modulated so that it was calm. “But when you do get them back -- your eyes must be north. They must be beyond the wall.”

Rickard shook his head. “It’s preposterous. Insane! Others - and wights - and the things beyond --”

“They’re all real,” finished Jon simply. “I’ve fought the Others. My friend killed one. I’ve seen Crastor sacrifice his sons and continue to marry and breed his daughters for more for the Night King’s army. I’ve seen entire villages destroyed--”

“Why would you see them?” sneered Rickard.

Jon levelled a stare at the older Stark that made him want to shrink back, his eyes icy cold. “Because I was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, my Lord, and I’ve lived among the Free Folk. I call some of them my friends and brothers, as well.”

“They’re Wildlings !”

“They’re better suited for the war to come than you,” jeered Arya with a jut to her lower lip. She turned to Jon and then Sansa. “We’re wasting our time. We can find ways to raise money in Essos and buy free companies to fight for us. I can work for the House again--”

“No!” shouted both Sansa and Jon at once, causing Rickard to blink and rear back. 

“House…?” he began, but the two older siblings began talking over one another.

“Absolutely not, Arya--”

“You shouldn’t go back there, it isn’t right!”

“They did right by me--”

“It’s not whether they did or not , Arya--”

“What is this ‘House’ you are talking about…?”

Arya scowled and crossed his arms. “It would earn us enough coin--”

“You told us before, Arya!” argued Sansa, a tinge of panic on her voice and with the widening of her blue eyes. “You lost yourself to them! You became no one! You live and breathe for them, and not for us.”

Rickard’s eyes narrowed. House - no one - Essos - his eyes widened. The House of Black and White? The Faceless Men?! His granddaughter became a Faceless Man?

“Lord Stark.” Sansa turned to Rickard, imploringly. “I understand your situation. I, too, have been a prisoner of King’s Landing. I understand your fear and concern for Brandon.”

Rickard’s eyes shut, pained. Morosely, he muttered, “My son will be executed in King’s Landing.”

There were awkward looks between the three of them.

“And my Lyanna?” He grimaced. “What do you know of her future? What does it mean for House Stark and her willingness to be with the Prince?”

Jon opened his mouth but then just as firmly, shut it, with a frustrated look. 

“I asked for help,” the older man reiterated, his voice quiet and thin. His grey eyes swept the three, a slump to him that betrayed his worries and fears. Behind him, through the glass, pale morning light filtered through thick, fluffy clouds, pushing through and breaking the overcast pallor the day began as. “I need help. And the Gods sent you to me.”

It was strange, watching the three look at one another, speaking without words but mere tilts to their heads, the widening of their eyes, a brief flutter of their eyelids or twist to their wrist and flick of their fingers. 

“The focus must be on the Long Night,” began Jon apologetically. 

Rickard nodded, his large hands gripping the edges of his seat, so hard the knuckles turned white. His entire frame was tense, shoulders and back straight. 

“But--” continued Jon, and Rickard’s eyes snapped toward him. “Our knowledge and being here can be helpful. Between myself, Sansa’s skills, and Arya’s abilities, we could… change things. Make things better for the North so that it’s in a better position going forward.”

“Yes,” gasped Rickard, ready to promise anything. The three future Stark grandchildren sighed in relief. “Yes, of course, please--”

“A promise made in front of the Heart Tree, my Lord,” concluded Jon sternly. “We will dedicate ourselves to helping House Stark, so long as House Stark and the North helps us in preparation for the Long Night to come.”

“Shall we go to the Godswood and promise now?” asked the elder Stark.

Sansa waved a hand. “We’ll begin in good faith, as family.”

“Very well,” agreed Rickard. “I realize you will help Brandon and liberate him from King’s Landing -- although I don’t know how -- but how with Lyanna?”

“They’re not together at the moment, I believe,” began Jon cautiously, “Rhaegar and Lyanna… If the timeline matches up.”

“Thank the Gods,” breathed Rickard. It’ll be easier to take her back, then.  

“Although he has left three members of the Kingsguard with her…”

No! Rickard’s grimace was deeper this time, and it showed as a pained twitch to his mouth. “So, she is to remain with him.”

“Well, actually…” began Arya with a tiny, mischievous grin, but Rickard did not hear her, lost in his thoughts as he spoke out loud.

Jon cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. “We can help with that. We can help… with all of it.”

Rickard stared, then demanded, “How?”

“Will you listen to us?” began Sansa, folding her hands in her lap. “Will you listen and trust the words and judgment of children much younger than you?”

“I’ll have to, won’t I?”

Sansa’s blue eyes pierced the older man but whatever she saw, it was what she wanted, so she nodded and began: “Ned is in the Vale. Send for him to return to Winterfell.”

Rickard nodded, slowly. “A good idea. I would much rather have my remaining children safely in Winterfell.”

“Jon will join you in travelling to King’s Landing,” continued Sansa confidently. “Even if you demand trial by combat, Aerys will choose fire as his champion. Bring a retinue with you that will travel back north with Ned, securing his place.”

“I can do that,” said Rickard. He glanced at Jon. “But - if you join me in King’s Landing--”

Jon’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

Rickard frowned.

“Arya will join you until you arrive in King’s Landing, and will then continue to Lyanna’s side,” said Sansa.

Rickard sat straight. “You know where Lya is?”

“Dorne,” replied Arya, her voice bored. She was twirling her thin rapier around, slowly grinding a hole from its sharp tip through the carpet at her feet. “I’ve never yet been to Dorne, but since I was in Essos, I’ll be used to the heat and the people. I’ll stay by her side until Sansa gives me further instruction, although I already have an idea of what she’s planning.”

Arya sent Sansa a small, wicked smile, and Sansa merely fluttered her eyelashes in return, a tiny smile on her thin lips. 

The redhead turned back to Rickard and turned her tiny smile into a full beam. Despite the warmth in the gesture, it did not fill Rickard with warm and fuzzy feelings.

“Do not worry, grandfather. I have a plan.” Her grin turned the slightest bit feral, and at that moment, Rickard saw the wolf in her - the Stark blood shining strongly through her Tully looks and Southron airs and graces.

“And my plans always work.”

[TBC...]

Chapter Text

FIRE, pt. 1

The large group left a week later after Jon, Sansa, and Arya’s arrival, consisting of Jon, Arya, Rickard, his castellan - a very, very young, and mutton-chopped Rodrik Cassel - as well as a few other familiar faces from the Stark children's future timeline. 

Before they left, however, Rickard had introduced Jon and Arya as Flint cousins from his mother’s side, and Sansa visiting her mother’s home from House Royce in the Vale. While the servants and long-time staff were suspicious, Rickard’s genial affection toward the three children was not faked, and it was enough for them.

Jon and Arya spent their time with their grandfather or the training yard, baffling the men-at-arms with Jon’s deadly, forceful practice engagements or Arya’s serpentine water dance. Sansa, on the other hand, saw the lack of a female touch in Winterfell and slipped right back into her role of Lady of Winterfell -- or, even, Queen -- which had Rickard initially looking at her in bafflement, which quickly gave way to calculating. On the other hand, the staff was delighted and Rickard found himself with far more free time than he normally had, and spent time with Jon and Arya practicing his swordwork. Just in case.

Sansa saw them off, standing on the steps just outside of Winterfell’s great hall. The look in her eyes was far too dark and feral to be called amusement, despite the lightness to her voice when she said, “Have fun in King’s Landing, Jon.”

Jon rolled his eyes in reply, already having received her hug. Arya was already bouncing in her saddle, eager to be on the road.

The group, all on horseback, thundered out of Winterfell’s main gates, although Sansa’s look lingered in Rickard’s mind. There was clearly more to the story his grandchildren had given him, and he found himself uneasily wondering if he made too hasty his vow, spilled with blood, and witnessed by the heart tree in the Godswood. 

He knew that they wanted to go North, to the Wall, to prepare for the Long Night, but--

Rickard did his best to avoid it, but he nervously bit his lower lip. Maybe I have given them something else they had been denied in the future .

He cut a glance at Jon, on one side to him. The young man was staring forward, a frown on his solemn face but his eyes were taking everything in even as thoughts washed over his face, too briefly and quickly to be read. The young man was a schemer, and there was something he was thinking of or planning.

On the young man’s other side, furthest from Rickard, rode Arya, looking for all that she was having the time of her life, hands off the reins at times, and performing tricks by guiding her horse with only her thighs and knees. Her face was split into a wide, expressive grin even as her loose hair blew behind them at the clip they had set. She looked like Lyanna.

While the uneasy feeling did not leave Rickard, he shook his head to dismiss his worries. They are Starks. They know what is coming, after all. I have nothing to fear .

The large contingent of Northerners met a confused Eddard Stark, a visibly fretting Jon Arryn, and a retinue of men from the Eyrie at the Crossroads’ Inn while it was pouring rain.

“I fucking hate this place,” muttered Arya, but loud enough to be heard by Jon and Rickard, the latter who sent her a glare.

Rickard turned back to Ned, beckoning his middle son forward. “Ned - you are to return to Winterfell immediately.”

“Father, I understand, but--” his gray eyes glanced at Jon and Arya, both who shared very similar features to his, confusion clearly writ on his face. “Who are they?”

“Kin of yours,” answered Rickard sharply, neither lying nor telling the truth. “Please, Eddard. Now is not the time. You must return to Winterfell immediately.”

Ned’s brow furrowed and he bit his lip, nodding solemnly. 

“A lady will be there, waiting for you,” continued Rickard, ignoring Ned’s widening eyes and then talking over him, “Another kin. Redheaded. Her name is Lady Sansa -- you must follow any instructions she gives you as though they are coming from me.”

Ned was completely, utterly, confused, but -- Brandon was stuck in King’s Landing. Lyanna was missing. He had seen the letter Aerys sent to Lord Arryn and knew what was at stake for the Stark family. He could be dutiful.

“Yes, father.”

Rickard nodded. “Good man.”

“Lord Stark, surely you know this is folly--” began Jon Arryn, his lips quivering the tiniest in worry. The man was of an age to Rickard, if not slightly older and already going grey at the temples where it shot through his fair blond hair.

“He’ll be fine,” interrupted Jon suddenly, moving his horse to maneuver between his grandfather and his father’s foster-father. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Jon Arryn’s face pulled down into a harsh frown as he glanced over Jon’s form, light eyes flickering back to Rickard. “Lord Stark, I am not sure--”

“It’ll be fine, Jon,” began Rickard, although he sounded tired. “Please,” he stressed further. “Please. Just… trust me.” His eyes flickered to his grandchildren. “Trust us.”

Jon Arryn sighed, but then stepped back.

Ned Stark travelled back north, toward the Neck, with the contingent of Northmen that joined Rickard south. Jon Arryn retreated to the mountainous Eyrie, and Arya gave a jaunty wave as she turned and moved her horse toward the Saltpans.

“Have fun!” she shouted, calling loudly before cantering off.

Rickard glanced at Jon. “Do I want to know?”

Jon shook his head. “You really don’t.”

Jon had been to King's Landing, once before in his previous life, with Daenerys and her court, trying to persuade Cersei to bring the Lannister armies north to help bolster Winterfell's diminished numbers so that the Night’s King wouldn’t destroy them. That hadn’t gone well, and looking around with barely concealed disgust, Jon was beginning to think that the plan was as good as King’s Landing smelled.

They - his grandfather and he, the only two from the Northern retinue that went south past the Inn - were surrounded on all sides by gold cloaked members of the City Watch, silently being escorted through the dead streets and toward the Red Keep. There was an eeriness to the city, usually so full of life, and it was enough that it made Rickard shift nervously on top of his horse.

The stables were empty save a groomsman, who took their horses with a pale face. The City Watch men slowly dwindled in number, still and silent centennials bookending Jon and Rickard, moving down empty corridors until they approached the throne room, four guards standing outside of it.

The throne room was full, though, if not silent.

“Lord Rickard Stark, Warden of the North,” announced a nervous guard, his voice cracking halfway through. He cringed, bowed to Aerys who sat shrouded in shadow on his iron throne, and then hastily backed through the open door, leaving Rickard to make his way across the marble flooring.

His boots were loud thuds as he kept a steady pace; Jon’s steps behind him were quieter, but just as firm. The weight of the eyes of the court on him kept Rickard’s back straight and his eyes forward, on the King.

Aerys himself was lounging on the throne, bits of dark splotches popping up on his thighs and arms as he shifted and the sharp points of the throne’s swords bit into his skin. His face was a shallow grey colour, his white-blond hair lank and greasy, and his cheeks hollowed. His clothes were ill-fitting and his eyes were far too large for his sunken face, but they were bright, alight with an inner fire of some kind of paranoia.

The man’s purple eyes flicked over to the figure hovering behind Rickard. “Who’s this? I asked for you to come alone. Or are you here to say you’ve replaced your eldest and heir with a bastard?”

He began laughing, which turned into loud hacks.

“This is my squire,” said Rickard, remembering Sansa’s words: Keep calm. Jon will fight for you. Just ensure that whatever challenge Aerys places before you is one that Jon will accept. He will ensure that you and Brandon walk out of King’s Landing, alive and unharmed. Trust us. Trust him .

“Your squire, mmm,” the man mocked, rolling his eyes.

Rickard’s jaw tightened. “Where is my son?”

“Standing beside you,” chortled the King, but then, seeing Rickard’s stern frown, he leaned forward and sneered, “In the dungeons, where he should be for coming to my castle, my throne, demanding for my son and heir to be brought to justice!”

“After your son took my daughter!” retorted Rickard loudly.

The crowd shifted and someone bit back a cry - or a sob of terror.

Aerys’s eyes narrowed. Then, coolly, he said, “Your whore of a daughter should be so lucky to have the attention of a dragon.”

Rickard’s hands clenched so tightly his leather gloves creaked and he could hear his teeth grind together. “Have you no honour?”

“Why do I need honour when I have a crown?” The king’s eyes drifted lazily away, peering into the shadows as though only he could spot what lingered there.

“Damnit, Aerys!” barked Rickard, swallowing words that would have him challenge the king. Sansa, he reminded himself, Remember Sansa’s plan . “The Targaryen kings of old understood honour and sacrifice. Let us determine single combat for the safe release of my son, his companions, and my squire and I when this is done.”

Aerys eyes fixated on the man with a sharp move. “So confident.”

Rickard kept quiet.

“Alas,” sighed the king, “Many of the companions who foolishly came with your son are dead. I’m afraid that bit of the bargain must be struck.”

“Dead.” Rickard exhaled sharply. “Then, I amend my challenge of combat to such: not just the safe release of all alive Northmen, my son, squire, and I included -- but also the utter removal of your line from the throne.”

This time, the crowd burst into whispers. Aerys surged to his feet in anger, hands catching on the edges of his seat and stripping the flesh on his palms as he did so. He paid no attention to the blood dribbling down his wrists, although from beside the throne, Rickard could see that one of his Kingsguard - Jaime Lannister - glanced at him once, swallowed, and then forced his eyes forward onto Rickard and Jon… although there was something vacant to him.

“You dare!” seethed the king, spitting. “You dare !”

“For the crimes you have inflicted on this kingdom! For those who have died wrongly! For those whose lives have been ruined by you and your spawn!” cried Rickard, loudly, over the building clamor in the throne room.

From somewhere, near the dark, recessed corners of the throne room, Aerys’s Hand materialized, muttering low, hurried words to the king, but the Targaryen was incensed, roughly brushing off Wisdom Rossart.

“Single combat, Stark? You want single combat on those terms?” spat Aerys. “Name your champion!”

Rickard did not turn to face his grandson but gestured toward him. “I name my squire, Jon, as champion.”

Aerys stared at the younger man, long and hard, almost uncomprehendingly. Somewhere, someone stifled a laugh.

“Him?” Aerys glanced at Stark, all bluster from his sails gone as he threw his head back and laughed. Jaime Lannister, just behind him, cringed and then hid it quickly. Still laughing, the king sputtered, “V-very well! V-very well, Stark! So be it, on those exact terms. Your safety, your squire, your son, and all other Northmen in the city -- guaranteed and the stepping down of my line should your squire win against my champion.”

Rickard’s jaw flexed and he nodded. “Yes. Those terms.”

“Shall we do this now?” the king asked, moving slowly to sit back on his throne, even as Rossart moved to his elbow and Jaime Lannister moved to the other side of the throne. 

Rickard glanced at Jon, who shrugged. He had nothing else going on, after all. Sansa’s plan made no difference now or later. He knew what was coming.

The Stark turned back to the king and nodded.

“Let’s begin this once your son is brought up from the dungeons, then, Stark.” Aerys’s eyes gleamed when he purred, “As for my champion? My champion is to be fire. ”

Rickard was nearly aside himself in a panic, although Jon could see he was hiding it well. But the man was hovering over him, even as Jon calmly removed much of his armour, letting it carelessly fall to a pile at his feet. There was some kind of perverse pleasure in watching the nearest lord -- by his sigil, a Florent -- cringe every time Jon loudly dropped a piece.

“Jon,” whispered Rickard harshly, his back to the king so Aerys could not see his wide eyes or the tense pull to his cheeks, “Jon, I know what Sansa said, but you cannot win this--”

“It’ll be fine,” reminded Jon, for what felt like the hundredth time. Honestly. Did no one trust Sansa? Besides, Jon knew what he was capable of. It was kind of insulting -- did his grandfather not trust him? 

Jon continued, “Sansa planned for this. We know what we’re doing. Don’t worry.”

“ Jon--! ” hissed Rickard, but then Brandon was brought, hauled, into the throne room. Jon’s uncle was dirty, his clothing torn and smeared with not just dirt and blood, but piss and shit with bits of straw clinging to places on his legs and back. There was a partially healed cut near his temple and a dazed look to him that Jon didn’t like, but could not rectify at the moment.

Rickard took an aborted half-step to his son, but Aerys ordered the Stark heir to be positioned well to the pyre that had been constructed in the middle of the throne room. All members of the court were to be present, to watch the historical moment, Aerys had decried, so the room was filled to the brim with bodies pressing tightly together as they tried to keep far from the pyre itself, creating a visible ring around it.

Even Rhaella, Elia, and the Princess Rheanys and Prince Aegon were present, nearer to the throne and guarded by Jaime Lannister and several City Watch guards.

“Ready, boy?” sneered Aerys, as two members of the City Watch approached.

“Nearly,” replied Jon, his voice even and dry enough that the guards stopped in their approach, hesitant. Jon finished by pulling his shirt off. He then lifted one leg and yanked his boot off, and then hopped to do the same to the other, until he was only in his trousers. He turned to his grandfather, thrusting the clothing garments into his arms. “Hold onto these for me, please.”

“Jon,” said Rickard, pained.

“I’m going to need new trousers after this,” muttered Jon, turning to the guards, and ignoring his grandfather’s bewildered face.

One guard approached with arms up, ready to tie Jon’s hands together with rope. Jon sighed and held his own out, letting the confused guards tie his hands together and then lead him to the pyre, where they pushed his back against the large stake and then tied his bound hands to a single chain protruding from the top to keep him in place.

Aerys watched him suspiciously from his place on the throne. Rossart stepped forward, a hanging lamp in one hand.

The first of the two gold cloaks stepped back, but the second lingered for a moment. 

“Are you sure you are well?” the man muttered. Jon caught his eyes, and the man gestured at his head. “You know - up there?”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Perfectly fine. Let’s get this over with.”

The gold cloak stepped back, shaking his head the tiniest as he rejoined his fellow city watch member, and Rossart stepped forward, the lamp tilted.

“Light it!” screamed Aerys, suddenly. “Light him on fire! Let me feel the wrath of a dragon!”

Jon glanced at him tiredly, and called, “Remember, you swore. Safe passage for all Northmen, and the Targaryen line ending with Rhaegar and Viserys on the throne.”

Aerys ignored him - or didn’t hear him - but nodded at Rossart, who tipped the lantern. Fire licked down, flakes falling from the ashes, and collected at Jon’s feet. Then, Rossart tossed the entire lantern in and the familiar whoosh of fire meeting oxygen erupted, swirling in bright orange and yellow around Jon.

He coughed against the smoke, leaning back and resting his head against the wooden stake. He lazily rolled his head enough to see Rickard, jaw clenched, at Brandon’s side. He was kneeling next to his eldest son, holding the young man in his arms. Jon was shocked to realize Brandon was his age -- in his mind, in the stories, he always imagined Uncle Brandon tall, strong, a mix between Benjen’s looks and Ned’s Lordly stature, with the exuberance of Robb and Arya. 

But he was little more than a scared, terrorized boy, whose eyes were wide and caught on Jon’s form.

At least it’s not wildfyre, Jon thought with the tiniest of sighs, that would not have been fun .

Smoke swirled up, beginning to stain the tall ceiling as it attempted to find exits through the open doors and the tall windows to the throne room. 

The flames licked up and around his bare feet, the heat of the flames tickling his calves and then thighs as they raced up and up and up. Had he been anyone else, Jon would’ve been screaming in agony. Spying Aerys’s eager eyes through the flickering flames, Jon indulged him a bit, mocking out a few cries. “Ooo! Oooh! Aaaahh! It hurts, it hurts.”

He grimaced when he saw Jaime Lannister’s disbelieving stare. He had always been told he was a poor liar…

There’s nothing to it, he thought, feeling the rope binding his hands disintegrate as the heat around him intensified -- although nothing more than the tiniest tickle or feeling of a warm blanket keeping him comforted on the coldest of nights. If there was one thing Mellisandre’s God was good for, was his resurrection meant he was a bit different, half-living and half-dead, with magic and powers that were unique to both his Stark and Targaryen lineage. 

Of course, Daenerys’ rebirth was far more dramatic and Jon was kind of bummed he was resurrected after a mutiny versus sacrificing a witch who killed her unborn child because that story was definitely better to tell around a campfire, but the end result was the same: the ability to walk through fire unharmed with the Targaryen magics, and a strengthened bond between him and Ghost -- when they were still in the future -- and his warging abilities.

Murmurs were beginning to be heard over the crackling of the flame. Jon had left it long enough, deciding to move things along. He didn’t want to stay in King’s Landing any longer than he had to, and it was already several hours longer than Sansa planned.

Jon opened his mouth and croaked from the flames. He cleared it and tried again, this time calling loudly over the fire, “Are we done with this yet?”

The murmurs went silent.

Jon continued, “Hello? I’m tired of this. It’s been long enough -- I’ve proven fire cannot harm me.”

More silence, but a sputter of something reached his ears. 

“Aerys? Anyone? Can I actually fight someone in single combat now? I’ve clearly defeated fire,” he requested.

When no one replied, Jon yanked at his hands, the meagre pieces of rope falling away. He carefully nudged bits of wood from around his feet and stepped through the fire, smoke curling around his form as he emerged from the pyre, untouched by flame -- with his hair but no clothes.

He glanced down, sighed, and plaintively asked, “Does anyone have some spare trousers for me?”

Mouth open, the gold cloak who asked if he was right in his head unbuckled his gold cloak and handed it to Jon, who wrapped it around his waist and up over his shoulder in a toga. It was awkward but preserved his dignity some -- not like this was the first, or going to be the last, time he was naked in front of a large crowd.

“No…”

Jon’s eyes snapped toward the king.

“No,” sputtered Aerys, eyes wide. “It’s not possible -- No! No!”

Jon stared at the man, silently. 

“ Blackfyre ,” hissed Aerys, jabbing a bony and bloody finger at him. “I name you Blackfyre! A pretender to the throne and crown!”

“I’ll have you know, my parents were married,” began Jon, affronted. “I’m not a bastard and I won’t take a bastard name that is not mine, thank you--”

“Lannister!” shrieked Aerys, rising from his throne, “Kill him! Kill the usurper!”

Jaime and Jon eyed each other warily, but the younger of the two -- how strange is that, thought Jon with a little furrow to his brow, that Jaime Lannister is now the younger of us -- and yet I know more about things than he does now. What a change!

Jon backstepped, toward his grandfather. Rickard silently held out his sword -- Longclaw -- and Jon took it, ignoring Brandon’s open mouth stare.

“I’d really rather not do this,” said Jon quietly as he moved toward Jaime.

The younger man pursed his lips, swallowing a witty retort. His face was pale, and there was something bothering him with Jon’s very presence. 

But Jon merely took his sword and stood ready, watching Jaime Lannister carefully. It wasn’t going to be a fair fight -- in any sense. Jon was older, stronger, and had years more experience than Jaime Lannister did, due to fighting at the Wall, fighting Free Folk, and then in the Long Night against wights and Others. He’d killed an Other; he fought the Night’s King, bastards, and soldiers alike. 

Now that Jon thought about it, much of his young life was dedicated to fighting something, and wasn’t that sad? His lips pursed, and Lannister blinked, something overtaking his face, barely bringing his sword up to clash against Jon’s opening salvo, and right from the beginning, he was off-foot, unsure if he was offense or defense, and Jon took advantage. 

He knew every move Jaime Lannister could and would make, and within three more flourishes and fancy footwork that was meant to distract, Jaime’s gold-hilted sword went crashing and sliding noisily into the crowd.

With his sword tip pointed at the blond’s chin, Jon muttered, “I have no desire to kill you. Yield.”

Lannister’s Adam’s apple bobbed nervously as he swallowed, looking very much like the seventeen-year-old he was. He stepped back and carefully said, “I yield,” so that Jon, Aerys, and those around them could hear.

Jon lowered the sword and loudly pronounced, “According to trial by combat, I have not only bested Aerys Targaryen’s champion once but twice . As such, I ask that he honour his vows: release Brandon Stark, and all other Northmen, to return safely to the North and to renounce his claim, and that of his children, of the throne!”

Silence.

It was terse, and heavy, and smothering in a way that the still burning pyre created a smoke-filled room. It was hard to breathe, and some people were already coughing, but no one wanted to miss Aerys’ reaction -- and it was spectacular.

The king flew into a rage: his pale, sallow face went red, spit flew from his mouth and landed on his lips and chin, and he screamed himself hoarse as he shrieked the same words over and over, “Blackfyre! Usurper! Abomination! I am king! I am the king! I am the dragon, not you! Kill him! Kill him!”

He pointed at Jaime Lannister, who looked shamefaced and away from the king; the only other member of the Kingsguard in the room, a tall man, with broad shoulders and flyaway dirty blond hair, and a very square jaw, glanced at the younger kingsguard member and sneered.

Jaime blanched, stepping back far enough to near his sword, which he picked up -- but his hands, his entire arm, was shaking.

In the meantime, Aerys continued to shriek, pointing at the gold cloaks in the room to do their duty, but they were all frozen, caught between Jon, Aerys’s instructions, and the imposing kingsguard knight that stalked toward Jon.

“Jon!” shouted Rickard, helping Brandon to his feet. Jon barely glanced at him but flicked his eyes in his relative’s direction. “Jon, be careful of the Bull!”

Bull? Oh, thought Jon, even as Gerold Hightower stepped forward, his sword ringing as he unsheathed it. There was something cold, almost vacant, in his eyes, peering at Jon from under a heavy brow.

Jon’s chin dipped and his breathing evened out, even as he said, “Ser - this is not your fight.”

“My duty is to my king,” the man replied evenly, his voice low and confident. His sword flashed against the still-burning pyre and fire.

Jon’s bare foot slid back, against the cool marble of the throne room floor, and Hightower moved forward, chest forward and making himself a larger target but utilizing his size to intimidate Jon. But for Jon, who fought giants, Hightower was nothing special.

Twisting, Jon weaved back and under the sword’s swing, bringing his own sword up to strike against and push the other man’s sword away. The two steel swords rang loudly against one another and Hightower grit his teeth. Jon continued, stepping forward and pressing his attack, disengaging his sword and bringing it around for another quick slam, toward Hightower’s side.

The man caught the swing and hacked at Jon, who blocked the incoming strikes. Hightower was a good fighter -- strong, capable -- but Jon didn’t learn to win by playing fair. He learned to win by winning at all costs.

He allowed Hightower to maneuver him, to chase him around the space people made in front of the throne and around the pyre until the flames were at his back. Jon let Hightower’s next strike send him to his knees, feigning exhaustion.

“Jon!” shouted Rickard in a panic.

“For the king,” declared Hightower, eyes cold, “Your time has ended, usurper.”

He brought his sword up with both hands on the hilt, ready to slam it down and sever Jon’s head, but Jon reached back, into the flames, where the wood had turned to ash and gathered a handful. 

Jon looked up at Hightower, smiled sadly, and said, “No. It’s just beginning.”

There was brief confusion in Hightower’s face, and Jon flung the ash up, a murky cloud of grey that hit against the man’s bare face. Hightower sputtered, eyes shut, and coughing even as he swung his sword wildly. 

Jon ducked beneath the swings and slammed into Hightower’s middle, launching the man off his feet and then slammed him bodily down to the ground, his sword pressed against this neck. Hightower’s sword was far from his reach, and a slam against the man’s head with the butt of Jon’s sword kept him from moving too much. 

The man’s dark eyes stared up at Jon, even as they watered and struggled to land on his dark form hovering above him. 

“Yield, Ser Hightower,” urged Jon. “I am tired of death, and I do not want to add yours to my already-long list.”

The kingsguard sputtered, “My duty-- To my king--”

He’s never going to stop , thought Jon. Grimly, he nodded and cleanly dragged his sword against the man’s neck, near the artery. He moved out of the way as the blood spurted and gushed out of the incision, pooling underneath Hightower’s neck and against the white of his cloak.

His eyes darkened further and his mouth went slack, and Jon reached forward to close the kingsguard’s eyes. As he did so, he said, “Rest now, Gerold Hightower. Your fight is over.”

Then, still bare except the golden toga around him, now dirtied with ash from the pyre and Hightower’s blood and stained from sweat, Jon stood, completely ignoring Jaime Lannister who had not moved forward during the fight.

Aerys’s mouth had dropped open, his sputtering dying to a mute kind of horror.

Jon was tired. He did not want to fight - he did not want to kill members of the kingsguard, those who were legends and strong warriors. They needed them to fight the Long Night. 

“I grow weary, Aerys,” said Jon instead, staring up at the man. “Renounce your claim.”

“ Never !” he hissed, stepping forward from the throne, shaking with rage. “I will never give up the throne! I am the dragon!”

Jon’s eyes narrowed.

“If I cannot have King’s Landing, then no one can! ” he screamed. His wild purple eyes landed on Rossart. “Burn them! Burn them all!” 

Wisdom Rossart nodded, as though that was a cue of his.

Confused, Jon froze for a moment, even as Rossart made to leave; but then Jaime Lannister was in his way and his sword was through the man's body, even as Rossart gurgled, blood dribbling down his chin. 

It was like everyone, all the knights, lords, and ladies in the room, realized in one collective moment what Aerys meant, and what Jaime Lannister did; what the King’s words meant. There was a swell of noise as people shrieked and cried, and Jon strode forward toward the throne even as Aerys stepped to meet him, glaring down at him from the height of the dais. Jon’s sword was ready, pointed up in defense for a blow from above if the King tried anything.

But then something happened -- the king’s foot caught in the folds of his black robes, just at the edge of the dais.

It was like the universe held its breath -- and then Aerys, the second of his name, tripped.

Time slowed, and Jon watched in disbelief. The universe was rarely so kind, and yet --

Aerys’s arms wheeled as he tried to regain his balance. He slipped off the dais, and gravity took over, sending him down toward Jon.

Jon grunted, staggering back on his feet as the weight of the king rested against him, his grandfather’s wide eyes staring at him even as he coughed and blood bubbled up in his mouth. His clawed hands struggled to rise and reached at Jon, barely scrambling against his shoulders, leaving only the faintest trail of marks against his skin.

“ Burn… them… ” the king’s voice was thin and barely a gasp. The purple Targaryen eyes faded into dull indigo.

Jon stepped back, lowering his sword arm, and stared at the body of  Aerys Targaryen, who had the misfortune to trip on his own clothing and land on Jon’s sword as he stood at the foot of the throne’s dais. His grandfather’s life’s blood, thick and darkly glistening in the firelight, dribbled down the sword toward Jon’s hilt.

Perhaps it is fate that one of my grandfathers is supposed to die here, he thought numbly, staring at the king’s body. And by saving one, I damned the other .

“Jon?”

Jon turned to face his living grandfather - his Stark grandfather - who was staring at him in shock. Brandon equally stared at him, and as Jon’s eyes swept the room, he realized he was the focus of many.

Jon let his sword fall to the floor with a loud clang. “This wasn’t the plan, I swear it!”

Rickard closed his eyes and reached his free arm forward, beckoning Jon toward him. “Jon, please,” he said, and Jon’s feet moved him toward the man, where he presented him with his shirt, boots, and other weapons. But no trousers. Despite that, Jon began to redress and finished by yanking his boots on.

Someone had told the gold cloaks to get water, and they, along with some maids, tossed buckets onto the pyre and extinguished the flames, leaving only the smell of wet wood. 

Jon moved to Brandon’s free side, gently taking his arm and pulling it over his shoulder to hoist the Stark heir up between him and Rickard. Brandon sent Jon a pained smile of thanks before they began to move. The crowd moved as the three Starks began making their way down the length of the throne room, their pace increasing the further they went from the ugly throne.

As they neared the door, a feminine voice cried, “Halt!”

Jon’s shoulders went straight, and Rickard’s grinding teeth were loud enough that Jon heard on Brandon’s other side.

They turned as one to see Queen Rhaella standing halfway down the throne room, standing alone as she stared at them. She was tall, thin, and might have been beautiful once before years of stress of living with her brother-husband took their toll on her: she was now waifish, her long white-blond hair thin and her cheekbones were painfully jutting from her face.

But there was something in her eyes - purple, the same colour as Aerys’ and the other Targaryen’s - that Jon couldn’t read, but the mulish expression on her face was one he knew well. He had seen it before in mirrors, in Daenerys.

Before Jon could do anything, Rhaella dropped painfully quickly to her knees, the sound a loud crack through the room. He winced; his heart clenching painfully at what she probably felt in doing such an action.

“Jon Blackfyre,” she stated loudly in the room so that all could hear, “As witness, I proclaim your trial by combat - thrice over - to be lawful in the eyes of the Gods. All Northmen are free to leave King’s Landing safely without fear of attack. The line of Aerys renounces all claims to the throne.”

Oh, good, thought Jon. That went according to plan.

“But I name you, Jon Blackfyre, through successful trial by combat, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!”

All goodwill fled Jon as everyone’s eyes turned to him, waiting for his response.

Eyes wide, he looked around the room and said, very clearly, “Fuck.”

{TBC}

Chapter Text

The Road to Victory

**

SAND

The problem with time travel, Arya was discovering, was that while they knew where things ended up, they weren't sure about the journey there. In the case of Lyanna and Rhaegar, for example, Jon (through Sam and Gilly) had managed to learn they were married on the Isle of Faces, in the God’s Eye. From there, they had… somehow… managed to sneak through the Riverlands into the Crownlands and then through the Reach and into Dorne without anyone being none the wiser -- despite the party consisting of the Crown Prince and his two closest Kingsguard in Arthur Dayne and Oswell Whent.

The timing was off, it was odd, and Arya could only hope that by the time Jon and Rickard got to King’s Landing, Rhaegar and Lyanna had already installed themselves in the Tower of Joy. It made sense: it was isolated, far from anywhere for information, and keeping Lyanna secret and safe would be necessary during the war, especially if she -- and here, Arya made a face -- was carrying Rhaegar’s son.

Luck was on Arya’s side when, after taking a young rapists’ face, she arrived in Dorne. Information was sparse on a few weary travelers, but with Rhaegar’s slight toward Elia Martell, Dorne and the Dornish were bristling, a powder keg ready to explode with the slightest provocation. 

A nudge here, a suggestion there -- and Arya had her information. The Kingsguard had passed through the area several months previous, and they were at the Tower of Joy, absolutely confirmed.

A scouting session later confirmed that as well, with Arya not minding the baking heat of hard, red flaking rocks and sand when she pressed her body flat against the rocky outcrop and used a Myrish spyglass to survey the less-of-a-tower and more-of-a-mini-fortress of Joy. 

Tall walls in sun-bleached red and yellows jutted up from the rocks of the elevated outpost, overlooking the valley below. There were several long, rectangular wings, with a narrow point facing the hill’s incline, and a single tower reaching above the rest. But it would be far too much for only two - maybe three - men to guard. It would be easy finding an entrance that Whent or Dayne overlooked during their patrol.

Scaling the wall took the most time and was the more dangerous aspect of her trip - especially at night when she began -, but Theon’s brags about the Ironborn and their techniques and the crumbling, dry wall had numerous natural footholds and Arya was lithe and capable enough. She pulled herself up and over the wall at the top, eyes sweeping the empty battlement. There were a few braziers lit, but they were so spaced out they were only pockets of light in the inky darkness, reminding Arya painfully of the Long Night.

She shivered.

Creeping through the Tower of Joy was reminiscent of her time in Harrenhal: whatever the Tower had been once upon a time, it was a faded glory, a ruined castle that was once grand but was now barely held together with stone and mortar. 

There were many empty rooms and Arya commandeered one for her own purposes, always careful to never leave clues to her being there, but spent the next few days watching the four people who were living in the castle.

Rhaegar and Lyanna were utterly disgusting: barely emerging from their rooms in the tower, as it was the most secured part of the castle with a single stairwell to the rooms at the top and only a few windows until the near 360-degree view of the tower’s top floor provided. When they did emerge, they were sickeningly sweet with one another, closely pressed and whispering, glowing as newlyweds do, and feeding each other tiny morsels of food on a picnic blanket at the base of a bubbling fountain in the bailey, where a tiny garden of mostly weeds but some flowers and palm trees, grew.

Arya wanted to gag.

Whent and Dayne were boring: at night, they retreated into the castle and did patrols every six hours, barely getting enough sleep in their shifts -- they looked over Arya naturally three times during their evening patrols and she wasn’t even trying to hide. During the day, neither remained inside of the castle, perching on the reddish rocks that surrounded the base of the castle, a natural stockade. They would impede anyone coming by foot or horse at the base of the hill.

Both men were exhausted, but holding up admirably when a horsed messenger cantered up on Arya’s fourth day, stopping in front of Whent and Dayne.

Both men had drawn their swords but relaxed when they saw the messenger’s colours and sword-and-falling star sigil. A rider from House Dayne, bending over to provide Arthur with a scroll and then taking off just as quickly.

He’ll kill that horse at that pace, thought Arya with a tiny sigh from where she was watching well above the men and out of sight from the tower. She did move toward the inner bailey, though, and was in a perfect spot to see Arthur hand the scroll to Rhaegar, who reluctantly withdrew from Lyanna.

He read the scroll, paled, and then crumpled it. His voice was strained when he announced, “Ser Arthur, prepare my horse.”

“What! Why?” asked Lyanna, jumping to her feet.

Rhaegar turned back to her, cupping her face. “My love, fear not. Something has occurred in King’s Landing and I ride to verify its truth. I will be back before you know it.”

Something shifted in Lyanna’s face. “Rhaegar -- what happened--” She reached up and clutched at the man’s wrists, still cupping her face. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Is it my family? Brandon? Father?”

There was a tiny grimace on Rhaegar’s face but he shook his head and pressed his lips tenderly to Lyanna’s forehead. “All will be well, Lya.”

Lya, Arya rolled her eyes. But a return to King’s Landing instead of the battlefield? Oh, dear. Jon fucked up somewhere.

Arya gave Rhaegar five days to leave the Tower of Joy and make his way through Dorne, as well as five days to let Whent and Dayne bring their guard down (as the Prince’s final instructions were “guard Lyanna with your lives” - prick ) before she made her move.

The job was simple compared to some of the things she used to do for the House: this was a snatch and grab, returning her aunt to Winterfell. The length of Westeros might work against her, but if Jon messed up in their plans - which, knowing his luck, was possible - then Arya just had to get Lyanna halfway up Westeros into the Crownlands and the Starks would do the rest. 

Getting Lyanna away from the Kingsguard was going to be the hardest part, but Arya was prepared for that. She wasn’t going to fight the men directly - she wasn’t stupid - but she knew how to incapacitate them and was going to take pleasure in utilizing her skills.

First, she had to get Whent or Dayne out of the way before she went after her aunt. Arthur Dayne had drawn the short straw in checking the perimeter of the Tower, walking from one battlement to the other. The poor bastard would be at least four hours; five, if he walked the two inner baileys and the outer by Arya’s estimation.

It was easy slipping the buckthorn into Whent’s evening meal. The men had no reason to suspect that there was anyone else at the Tower of Joy, and Lyanna spent the majority of her time mooning for the prince in their shared rooms at the top of the tower, sometimes emerging only to goad the guard on duty into sparring with her, which they always said no to.

Arya then waited in the shadows, palming the thin, hollow pipe, until Oswell Whent stumbled past her hiding spot, arms wrapped around his middle as he sweated and groaned under his breath. He had discarded his white cloak, his sword, and even his distinctive helm with bat’s wings. His dark head was bowed low as he moved, barely making it to the privy before loud noises emerged from behind the wooden door.

Grimacing, Arya sent a mental thank you to Tyrion Lannister for the idea of this plan (retelling how his father died was a past time he didn’t avoid and the Free Folk loved hearing about it - so did Tywin’s enemies), counted to ten, and then kicked the door open.

Whent’s head jerked up, eyes wide. He was squatting, pants very literally around his ankles, and no sword in sight. 

“What--”

Arya brought the pipe to her mouth and exhaled sharply, sending the dart - laced with curare - and it embedded itself in Whent’s fleshy neck. 

Shocked, the man reached up and yanked the dart out, staring at her and then it, and then back at her even as he struggled to his feet, his face flushing in anger. He almost reached his full height but ended up slumped against the wall with one hand on the dart and the other holding up his trousers. He began blinking quickly.

His mouth opened a few times. “I-- girl-- what did--”

Arya tilted her head to the side, and, given what she knew of the Kingsguard, decided to mess with his head a bit. “Valar morghulis.”

Whent’s blue eyes went wide, wider if possible, even as he slumped heavily against the wall. He tried to take a few steps toward Arya, out of the privy, but he was already sagging as the curare raced through his system. She ended up pushing him back into the privy, almost gently, and he slumped against the back wall.

“Trust me,” she continued as he struggled to remain conscious, “You’re going to want to be in here with everything still in your system.”

His mouth opened once more, barely mumbling, “what?” out, before his head sagged forward. 

With a tiny smile, Arya began to tie the man up. One down, one knight to go.

Arthur Dayne finished his watch and went straight to his bedroom to remove his cloak and armour, a terrible breach given that had he returned to the mess where Whent had been, he’d have realized something was wrong.

But - habits. 

Arya was waiting for him, knowing that he did this after each perimeter check. There was a bowl of water ready for him, and some rags that he would use to clean himself off from the dust and dry heat that lingered even at night.

Dayne moved purposefully, his strides indicating someone confident in his body’s motions. Objectively, Arya could see why so many women still spoke about him in hushed tones in the future: he was a good looking man, with the pale, silvery hair of his Targaryen ancestors, and had the purple eyes of Edric, whom Arya had known once upon a time during the Brotherhood Without Banners. 

But, as she watched from the rafters above him, there was something weary to his posture, the slump of his shoulders when he thought he was alone. Jaime Lannister often looked like him - at least, at one point - and Arya wondered if the man was having second - or third - thoughts about what he was doing.

She stifled a snort. Gods, I hope so . As far as she was concerned, Rhaegar, Lyanna, the Kingsguards involved with this stupid scheme, were all to blame for the war to come. Aerys wasn’t alone in his depravity, but Rhaegar also did nothing to stop it, refusing to challenge his father or even depose him in a blood coup - it was clear he had the support but not the guts.

Dayne dipped the rag into the bowl, having divested himself of his armour and tunic, and began wetting down his chest, neck, and arms. Arya watched clinically, noting the muscles and the silver scars against the golden hue of his skin. 

Then, Dayne paused. He stiffened.

With a frown, Arya watched as he slowly turned on his heels, eyes glancing around the room just as he moved cautiously toward his discarded sword, which leaned upright in its sheath against a table. He slowly withdrew it, the sound of steel against the leather twanging in the silent evening.

“Who’s there?” the man demanded, voice firm and low. He withdrew a dagger from his boot and held it in the other hand that was not occupied with the ghostly shining Dawn.

Arya’s eyes were wide. How did he know someone was there? Had something given her away? She fought with her own annoyance at the thought that she made a mistake, but did not move.

“I am a member of the Kingsguard and you will obey!” the man snapped, eyes darting this way and that. He continued to slowly turn in spot, peering into all corners of the room. He never looked up, though.  

From one of the corners of the room, a lizard skittered out.

Dayne threw his dagger at it, registering the movement first and the being second. The lizard screamed as it died, eyes bulging and its tongue hanging out of its mouth.

The man grimaced, stalking forward and yanking the dagger out of the lizard and wiping it on his trousers. He sighed, lowering Dawn and his shoulders slumped once more. “Just a damn lizard, Dayne. Keep it together, man. You’re better than this.”

Now that’s an idea, thought Arya, mouth stretching into a smile as she exhaled quietly, centering herself and casting her consciousness from her mind, seeking other lizards in the Tower. A few were nearby, and her mind caught one of them, sending the lizard climbing up the wall and then through one of the open windows. rocks from the window ledge were sent to the floor, and Arthur Dayne whirled to face the window, Dawn upright again.

The lizard flicked its tongue at him. 

Arthur Dayne gave an uneasy laugh.

Arya let go of the lizard and found another, this time high on the ceiling near her, and sent it creeping down the far wall.

Its shadow flickered against the few candles in the room, and Arthur Dayne spun toward it, both dagger and Dawn ready -- again -- but he paused at the lizard.

“Damn strange,” he muttered, but put Dawn on the bed and sheathed his dagger, shaking his head as he turned back to the washbasin.

Arya let the lizard go and it skittered away along with its friend by the window, but this time Dayne did not react, having gotten used to their presence and noises. With him suitably distracted, ignoring what he thought were lizards, Arya dropped from the rafters of the room on the balls of her feet, curare dart ready.

She made the tiniest noise and Dayne stiffened. She froze.

He shook his head, the silvery strands catching in the candlelight. “Just a lizard, Art, stop being such a craven.”

Arya fought back a grin and brought the pipe to her mouth, aimed, and exhaled.

The dart landed in the fleshy part of Arthur Dayne’s shoulder, deep, and the man whirled with a cry, hand already reaching for his dagger as he did so.

He managed to take a step forward and then caught sight of Arya, partially in the shadows. Anger mutated into confusion as the man stuttered, “My Queen--?”

Arya grimaced. “Really? Lyanna’s going to be queen ?”

Shock briefly flickered across his face before he frowned heavily. “You’re not Lyanna...”

He wasted no time, lunging at her with the dagger, but Arya twisted out of the way, serpentine, as Arthur began to flag. She never raised her hands in response, only to bat away at his arm and redirect the attack, even when she could have taken the dagger for herself.

Eventually, the curare worked against the man and he landed heavily on one foot, mouth working as he blinked at the tiny Lyanna Stark lookalike. Even as he collapsed onto his knees, dagger still in hand, he murmured, “Why?”

“Why?” repeated Arya, kicking at his hand and sending the dagger sailing away and skidding across the stone floor. “Because the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.”

Something clicked for Dayne. 

“Stark?” he whispered hoarsely and then fell face-forward on the floor.

“Aye,” agreed Arya, despite the man being unconscious. “I’m a Stark.”

She tied the man up as well - much better than Whent, if she was honest - and then rolled him under his bed. She left Dawn on the bed, and retrieved his dagger. She glanced between it and the bed, then shrugged, tucking it into her belt. Spoils of war, after all. How many could say that they bested Oswell Whent and Arthur Dayne?

The two Kingsguard were down from the count, and she had one last person to go after. Then, a return north.

There was no other word for it, thought Arya with a deep but silent scowl on her face. Lyanna was… mooning .

She was utterly mooning over the prince, the same way that Sansa used to moon over Joffrey, before he was an utter shite; the way she and Jeyne Poole mooned over Jory. 

This was the girl that so many of her father’s men and acquaintances said she reminded them of? This was the fierce, wolf’s blood girl? The girl who fought with swords, who dressed up as the Knight of the Laughing Tree and fought for Howland’s honour?

The same girl who was now sitting by a window, staring out of it and sighing as she awaited the return of the prince?

“I honestly expected better.”

Lyanna whirled on her knees from where she was perched, barely catching her hands against the windowsill so she wouldn’t topple forward. Her eyes were wide - the same grey that Arya had - and although they were of a similar age (although Arya was at least two years older than her, by her reckoning) and had similar coloured dark brown, nearly black, hair, and skinny, lithe bodies, it seemed that was where the resemblance ended.

“Who’re you?” the girl demanded in harsh Northern tones. Her eyes darted to the open door. “Where’s Ser Dayne and Ser Whent?” She raised her voice and shouted, “Arthur?! Oswell!?”

“They won’t be coming,” replied Arya, keeping her arms at her side as she watched her aunt stand from her perch and glower at the time traveler.

“Then who’re you and why’re you here?” the other Stark gritted out between her teeth, looking like a wolf cub baring its teeth at a bigger and meaner predator without realizing it. Her eyes looked around the room for a weapon.

Their eyes both landed on the heavy ornamental hand glass perched on a nightstand. 

“Please don’t,” began Arya. “I’ll have to hurt you.”

Lyanna’s eyes went wide and she lunged for the nightstand, just as Arya moved to block her and caught the girl’s outstretched arm in a bruising grip. Arya pulled the arm up, upsetting Lyanna’s balance despite her being taller.

With a pinch of a specific nerve, the arm was rendered useless. Lyanna sobbed, “What did you do?!” as she clutched at her arm with her good hand. 

“I just put it to sleep for a bit,” sighed Arya, leaning a hip against the very nightstand the girl had been moving toward, and incidentally, blocking her from the potential weapon. “It’ll be fine in a few hours.”

“Who are you?” the other girl cried. “Why are you here?” She paled, and dropped her voice to a whisper, “Are you - are you here to kill me?”

“Gods, no.” Arya rolled her eyes. “I’m here to bring you home.”

Lyanna blinked. “Home?”

Arya stared at her. “Home. You know - Winterfell .”

“But--” Lyanna’s mouth opened and shut. She shook her head and began to step backward, away from Arya. “No. No, I won’t go! I don’t care who paid you - if it was father or Brandon, or, or Ned! I won’t go back. You can’t make me!”

“Gods,” muttered Arya, refraining from rolling her eyes although she really wanted to. Was this what she used to sound like when asked to do something she hated? Like needlework, or her lessons with Septa Mordane? It was no wonder Sansa was so cruel toward her then. She owed her sister an apology because the Gods knew - Arya was finding Lyanna’s obstinate words frustrating.

“They didn’t pay me to get you,” the time traveler spat. “No one paid me. If I had my way, I’d leave you here.”

Lyanna jumped on that. “Do! Do leave me! Leave me with Rhaegar - we’re happy, so happy - tell my father that - I can’t marry that lout, Robert - I don’t care what Ned says, he’s terrible, he’s already got a bastard--”

“And Rhaegar’s got two trueborn children of his own, but that didn’t stop you, did it?” countered Arya coolly. She crossed her arms, idly tapping her fingers along her arm. “So what was the real reason, hmm? Why did you leave Winterfell?”

Lyanna blinked and seemed to shrink into herself. “I didn’t want to be trapped in a marriage.”

“And yet, now you’re trapped as a mistress.”

“I’m married!” shouted Lyanna, standing tall again. “Rhaegar and I married before a Heart Tree on the Isle of Faces! I’m married!”

“So it was never about being married, or married to someone with children,” mused out loud Arya. “It was about getting what you wanted.”

Lyanna flushed red. “Well, don’t you ?”

Arya blinked. “What?”

Lyanna gestured at her sharply. “You’re a Stark - don’t deny it, you can’t deny our looks. You’re older than me. Surely you must already be betrothed or married. Did you get a choice in who you’d marry?”

Arya stared at Lyanna for a few long, breathless seconds before she exhaled loudly and sharply. “You stupid, stupid selfish girl! Do you realize what you have done?”

“What I’ve done?” Lyanna looked insulted.

“Gods above,” muttered Arya, “I cannot deal with this right now.”

She moved quickly forward, toward Lyanna, who countered by quickly backing up. She edged toward a sideboard, eyes wide and she began crying, “What are you doing? Stop it! Stay away from me!”

She swept whatever she could to the floor from the board, sending vases of winter roses and crystal goblets to the floor, and threw dragon and wolf ornaments at Arya, who simply dodged the projectiles.

Lyanna soon reached the corner of the room, pressed in on both sides by the walls and Arya before her. She snarled and lashed out with her hands like claws, trying to rake them down Arya’s face. But Arya caught one hand and then the other, pushing both down and then with a savage move, headbutted Lyanna sharply in the nose.

The other girl shrieked, blood erupting from her nose and cascading down her mouth and chin. “You bitch!”

With Lyanna’s hands still in hers, Arya then yanked her forward and slammed a knee in the younger girl’s stomach. Lyanna gasped sharply, wheezing and then sinking heavily to her feet, forcing Arya to let go of her as she bowed her head.

“If you’re in there, sorry,” Lyanna heard the girl mutter before she felt a sharp jab at the back of her neck, and then, everything went black.

Arya on the other hand, stood over Lyanna, a queasy look on her face. Her eyes dragged down Lyanna’s prone body and lingered on her stomach. 

I really hope Jon isn’t in there yet, she thought, her face taking on a green hue. Oh, Gods, that’s just - don’t think about it, Arya, don’t.

Forcibly dragging her eyes from Lyanna’s middle section, Arya hefted the girl up over her shoulders and exited the room, carefully maneuvering her down the winding stairs that led up to the tower room. Once at the bottom, it was just as simple as walking through the many corridors, the baileys, and then to Whent and Dayne’s horses.

Whistling, Arya thought: Damn, I’m good.

Lyanna came to consciousness slowly, a lingering pain at the back of her neck and in her stomach. Strong smells of ale and soup overwhelmed her and for a moment, she was entirely discombobulated. Then, the rousing noises of men jeering, laughing, and mixed conversation in Southern tone and voices. Someone, somewhere, was singing Jenny of Oldstones as a jaunty tune to various calls and boos.

“Whaaaa…” Lyanna’s mouth moved slowly, sluggishly, as she blinked and pushed herself upright. 

She was in a dark, earthy inn, tucked against a wall on one side of her and her Stark kidnapper on the other side. A bowl of stew and a mug of ale was in front of her, slightly off-centered, and the girl at her side and heartily tucking into her meal and was nearly done, mopping up the stew with a bun.

Around her, men and women of various houses and levels of life were going about their business, and Lyanna picked out familiar sigils in a glance: Buckler, Errol, Horpe, Penrose…

“I wouldn’t bother.”

Lyanna jerked suddenly, inhaling as her eyes cut to her side.

The other girl was watching her beneath hooded lids. 

“What?”

“I wouldn’t bother trying to ask for help. You were unconscious when I brought you in, so I spun a tale of you being my younger sister, stolen by some rogue, fiendish Dornishman, against our father’s wishes. I had to rescue you because my brothers were too useless, fighting; I snuck in and got you out but not without you taking a blow meant for me,” the girl explained. She grinned, wolfishly. “They all thought that was rather heroic of you, by the way.”

Lyanna wanted to whimper. She had escaped from Winterfell, made her own decisions, married Rhaegar, and now some slip of a Stark she didn’t know had stolen that from her?

“Where are we?” she asked instead through her teeth.

“Stormlands.”

“ Why ?”

“Easiest route to take to head back north.”

Lyanna wanted to scream. She needed to find a way to contact Rhaegar! He had left her so suddenly, before; something about preventing war? Something about speaking with his father and stopping him from making a terrible mistake? -- whatever it was, he would come for her once he learned she was missing. She’d return to his side.

Her mirror image seemed to know what she was thinking if the irate look on her face was any indication. “Gods, you really are stupid, aren’t you?”

“I am not!” she protested loudly, hoping someone would turn to them.

No one did.

The girl scoffed and turned back to her food. She made a sharp gesture with her chin at Lyanna’s untouched bowl. “Best eat that.”

Glowering at the instructions, Lyanna slowly pulled the bowl toward her and sniffed it. She cut her eyes at the other Stark, who was grinning.

“I didn’t poison it,” she said, barely hiding her mirth.

Grumbling, Lyanna began to eat, enjoying the hearty meal compared to the cheese and crackers and delicate fruits and vegetables Rhaegar had been feeding her. 

The two were silent, the other girl had finished her meal well before Lyanna when the group nearest them - a few seats down the bench - spoke in loud whispers while the bard was forced to stop his rendition of Jenny of Oldstones.

“--Hear the news?” one man whispered, although in his drunken state it was clearly stated.

“No, what?” his friend asked, thoroughly enchanted with the idea of gossip.

“The Mad King is dead!”

Lyanna stifled a gasp and the girl next to her jerked a bit in her seat before falling back into an easy posture. Lyanna was not fooled, as she could tell the girl’s ears were turned in the group’s direction despite her casual pose and pulling of her ale from her mug.

“ How ?” one man gasped.

Lyanna wanted to know that, too.

“Heard it from some farmers,” the first man began, a bit more hushed now, if not reverent in his tone, “He tried to kill Rickard and Brandon Stark--”

Lyanna’s mouth dropped open and the girl next to her elbowed her sharply in her side.

“--trial by combat with the demand that the King, and his sons, step down from ruling. Ol’ Stark’s choice of a champion was his squire. The King laughed and laughed and said his champion was going to be fire !”

“That poor squire,” mourned one of the group.

The first man shook his head and next to Lyanna, the girl was quivering. “No, that’s the rub, eh?” the man lowered his voice. “The squire won, he’s a Blackfyre! He fought Jaime Lannister until the guard yielded, and then he killed the Bull!”

“Gods,” breathed Lyanna, eyes wide. She turned to the other girl. “Did you know about that when you took me?”

She shook her head. “No. I knew that there was a plan, but… this is so much better.”

Lyanna’s face twisted into confusion. Better? Rhaegar wouldn’t be king! He wasn’t even a prince! What did that make her? She was beginning to feel sick.

“--then Rhaella fell to her knees,” the same man continued, and the other Stark girl didn’t hide that she wasn’t listening anymore - same with half the people in the inn. Everyone was paying attention to the man. “And declared the Blackfyre king of Westeros!”

There was silence in the inn, only broken when everyone erupted into shouts and demands for clarification or questions at the poor drunken man, but it was the Stark girl next to Lyanna who she fixated on when the girl groaned and let her head fall to the tabletop.

{TBC}

Chapter Text

The Road to Victory

SNOW, pt 2

Ned knew he wasn’t at his best. He wasn’t quite in a fugue state, but it was something close ever since his foster father Jon had received the raven with the king’s seal.

First, it was the information from his father that Lyanna was missing – Robert was furious, nearly foaming at the mouth as he too, suspected Rhaegar after the incident at Harrenhal. He had stormed up and down the Eyrie, a literal manifestation of his House’s words: ours is the fury. It took Ned and Jon several hours to calm him enough to try to figure out some sort of plan.

Then, they received the second raven from his father: Brandon had gone to King’s Landing to demand Lyanna back from Rhaegar, instead of heading to Riverrun to collect his bride. That hadn’t gone well when they learned that he had been taken prisoner instead, along with his squire Ethan Glover; two young Lords from the Vale, who had been sent to Riverrun on Jon Arryn’s behest, Kyle Royce, and Jon’s heir, Elbert Arryn; and Jeffory Mallister, the heir to Seaguard.

The last missive Ned received from his father was to inform him to meet him and guards from Winterfell at the Inn at the Crossroads, and that he was continuing to King’s Landing to parlay with the King.

Ned thought it was futile; even Jon Arryn had nearly had kittens at the idea. Robert was kept under lock and key at the Eyrie, but he had already begun mobilizing his forces by calling his banners and sending daily ravens and instructions to his younger brother, Stannis.

But Ned was a dutiful son and journeyed with Jon to the Inn, where he… was thrown a bit off-balance at the sight of the two young adults at his father’s side, a place of preference and respect meant for the heir and family.

The young man was older than him, and, possibly, thought Ned, older than Brandon who had just turned twenty. He had a long face, the Stark looks, and with the grim turn to his mouth, Ned almost thought he was looking at a future vision of himself. Except – this man had the bearing of someone who knew who they were and what they were capable of and if people missed that, the wolf’s head pommel of the sword strapped to the side of his mount would rectify any mistakes.

The girl, however – Ned sucked in a breath as soon as he saw her. Older than Lyanna, who was just five-and-ten, but so similar in manner and bearing with a wild grin on her face despite the pouring rain. She didn’t care she was soaked to the bone, but unlike his sister who wore dresses and kept to the Northern style of female frippery, this woman wore tunic and trousers and had her own blade.

And father didn’t seem to mind, realized Ned, glancing between them even as Jon tried to get Rickard to turn back north instead of south to King’s Landing.

Then he and the man who looked like Ned turned south, the girl with them took off toward the Saltpans, and Ned was going north – to home.

It was a harsh journey, with his father’s men urging them and their horses to the brink and yet the journey still took a month to complete. But things didn’t improve upon arriving at Winterfell – while he was expecting Ser Rodrik and Ben to greet him, maybe even Walys, he was instead met with a tall, redheaded woman in black and grey. She stood at the head of the procession, indicating the highest rank – even above his brother.

What is going on? wondered Ned again, not for the first – or last – time.

“Lord Eddard,” began the woman with a thin smile. “Welcome back to Winterfell.”

“Ned!” grinned Ben from her side, barely three and ten, and not even coming up to the woman’s shoulders. “There’s so much you’ve missed down in the Vale!”

“I—” Ned’s grey eyes darted between the two. He knew his father said to trust this redhead, but… “My lady, my apologies but… who are you?”

Ben rolled his eyes. “Ned, this is our cousin—”

“We don’t have any Northern cousins,” interrupted Ned, blinking.

“Yes, we do, this is Sansa, from father’s sister who married into House Royce,” explained Ben with exasperation. “And you must have met Jon and Arya earlier—”

Ned was confused. “The two with father?”

His cousin, the Lady Sansa, nodded her head.

“They’re from mother’s side of the family,” explained Ben, again, seriously.

I’ve never heard of them before in my life, thought Ned with a frown. Father’s never mentioned them once.

He cut a sharp look at Sansa.

“I understand you have reservations, my Lord,” she began carefully, her voice a high chirp, “But I assure you – we mean you and yours no harm. I swear it on the Old Gods and New. I am happy to swear before the heart tree, as well.”

Ned relaxed fractionally with that. “Very well, my Lady.”

“Shall we go inside? I’m sure you want to rest from your journey,” the woman said, turning partially and gesturing for Ned to follow her.

His mouth dropped open. The gall of her! To lead him into his own home! Acting like the lady of Winterfell! What was going on?

He glanced at Ben, but his brother bounded up after the woman, trailing after her and shooting question after question as they discussed – whatever it was – and behaving utterly besotted. Ned would have no help there.

But he resolved to keep an eye on Lady Sansa, regardless.

Despite his suspicions, his cousin Sansa was more than capable of taking care of Winterfell, having fallen into the position of Lady of Winterfell with ease that made Ned almost embarrassed for Lyanna when she would return. The servants and staff all seemed to adore Sansa, who ran Winterfell with a tight fist and a welcoming smile, and somehow, she seemed to know everyone’s names, their families, and the general coming and going of everyone else.

“How long have you been here?” asked Ned, trying to keep suspicion from his voice.

“Oh, about two and a half moons now,” replied Sansa, even as her blue eyes swept the great hall, carefully picking out the men-at-arms who needed more ale, or who finished with their meals and was jauntily singing along to a song, or the few men who were too far in their ale.

That’s it? thought Ned, a frown on his face. How had she managed so quickly to win everyone over?

A seed of suspicion – of her perhaps being an agent of the Targaryen’s – planted itself in Ned’s head. He narrowed his eyes and decided right then and there, he would keep a close watch on Sansa.

He asked Benjen first, about her. He cornered Ben between the kitchens and a dark hallway, using his older age and frame to box his brother in, but it didn’t seem to intimidate Ben at all.

“She arrived with our cousins Jon and Arya, Ned, I told you this,” said his exasperated younger brother with a heavy eye roll.

“Why have we never heard of them before?” demanded Ned.

Ben shrugged. “I don’t know, perhaps father is estranged.”

Ned opened his mouth to reply, but Ben cut him off. “Just back off, Ned! Sansa’s wonderful and she’s doing a great job here. I swear, ever since you went south, you see plots and assassins in every dark shadow.”

I do not, Ned wanted to protest, but Ben squirmed his way around him and disappeared down the hallway. That avenue for information was lost to ned now, he mourned. So, he straightened his tunic, tilted his chin up and strode down the hallway in search of his next target.

Ser Rodrik Cassel was next on Ned’s list of people to go to, to learn more about Sansa Royce (Stark? Royce? Something else? Who the hells knew – it wasn’t like the girl introduced herself with a surname, nor did his father say anything). The young man was knighted for acts of valour during the War of the Ninepenny Kings, one of the few Northern men who had done so, and Ned knew he could trust the man.

“The Lady Sansa?” Rodrik’s face scrunched up in thought. “Well… she and her cousins Jon and Arya arrived together. Early morn, I reckon. Maester Walys indicated that Lord Stark was in his solar with them for some time before announcing them to the household.”

So, the cousins from different geographical places arrived at the same time? Suspicious, thought Ned, a flicker of triumph in his stomach. “Anything else?”

Rodrik was trying to grow some type of beard, but it was just whiskers for now, sparse, and yet he still scratched at his chin. “Lord Stark seemed very taken with them all. Almost immediately so; he and the man – Jon – would spend hours sparring.” Rodrik sighed happily, stars in his eyes. “That man is gifted, milord – absolutely gifted. Lord Jon has a Valyrian blade and knows how to use it—”

Ned’s brows furrowed. A Valyrian blade? Jon – from his mother’s side of the family? The Flints? How?

“—and the youngest girl, the Lady Arya, Gods above!” continued Rodrik, rapturously and completely ignoring Ned’s confusion. “That girl knows how to wield a blade as well—”

“She does?” sputtered Ned.

Rodrik realized he had gone on about the two and came back to himself. He nodded. “Aye. She has a thin blade herself, and called her technique ‘water dancing,’ though I’d not heard of such before…”

“And their cousin?” Ned grit his teeth as he bit out, “The Lady Sansa.”

Rodrik nodded slowly. “Yes, Lady Sansa. She took over the ledgers and staff almost as soon as she arrived, and my Lord Stark was more than happy to allow it once he saw the changes she had made. In fact, we even have more food and grain than before – not sure how the lady did it, mind.”

“It’s winter,” said Ned, dumbfounded. “And we’ve more in our stores? But… with what coin did she spend? What is the state of our treasury?”

“Can’t rightly say, milord,” replied Rodrik with a shrug. “Perhaps you can ask her? Or Maester Walys?”

Ned nodded, his mouth a hard line. “Aye, that I will. My thanks, Ser Rodrik.”

“Erm, aye, of course, milord,” blinked Rodrik, “Only…”

“Only?”

The man – about a decade or two older than Ned, at least – looked bashfully at the ground and cleared his throat. There was a tiny blush on his cheeks. “I didn’t get the Lady Sansa in trouble, did I?” At Ned’s look, he hurriedly added, “She’s a proper lady, milord, she rightly is – and she’s done so much good for Winterfell and Wintertown in just the few moons she’s been here—”

“At ease, Ser Rodrik,” Ned hurried to interrupt the man’s rambles. “The Lady Sansa is not in trouble.”

… yet, finished Ned mentally.

Rodrik’s look of relief made Ned’s stomach turn. “Oh, good.” The man bowed. “At your pleasure, milord,” and then left.

Ned’s eyes followed the man as he wandered away. On to Walys, next.

Ned didn’t find Walys next on his mental list of people to interrogate about the Lady Sansa. He found Sansa with Old Nan in the great hall.

Nan was seated by the fire in the hearth, her gnarled hands still somehow nimble enough as she knit something – probably for her son – with Sansa seated next to her, working on the stitching of some kind. Around them were a few ladies from the kitchens and household, some working on repairing linens and drapes; a few others were, like Sansa, working on stitching but for clothing.

The gaggle of women made Ned sweat, and he was about to turn on his heel and find Walys when Nan and Sansa both looked up at the same time and spotted him. Sansa’s face lit up, and Ned could objectively admit that she was a rare beauty with her long, auburn hair and blue eyes. Her face was long, and Ned supposed that was the Stark look in her, compared to her tall height and thin lips which were not Stark-like at all.

But with all his suspicions toward the woman, Ned was thankful he did not lust after her. That would be awkward.

 Nan cackled and drawled, “Young lord. Join us. I was telling the lady some of our stories, wondering if she had heard them in the south.”

Alarmed, Ned glanced at Sansa and back. “Nan, those really aren’t meant for Southern ears—”

“Pish-posh,” said Sansa, waving a hand. “Nan had just finished telling me about grumps and snarks. Quite amusing and wonderful stories to be told in the dead of a winter night.”

She glanced at the main doors with a tiny, rueful smile. “Well, perhaps during a winter’s afternoon,” she amended.

Ned gulped when she turned her blue eyes on him. “Surely you know some stories you can share, my Lord? I do so long to hear more.”

Nan’s eyes, dark, stared hard at him and Ned found himself sitting in a seat one of the kitchen girls vacated for him, near Sansa and Nan. “I, erm – well, it’s been some time—”

Nan sighed. “Oh, has the young lord forgotten the stories of his land? Has his time south softened him to the North?”

Ned squirmed, and muttered with eyes cast aside, “I remember some; they’re just not meant for a lady’s ear.”

“A lady’s ear?” snorted Nan, shaking her head. She reached out and patted Sansa’s knee, looking at the woman conspiringly. “This is the North, my lady, and here, there is no such thing as a story that shouldn’t be told.”

“Oh?” Sansa’s lips quirked and she glanced at Ned. “What story is this that you remember, my Lord? I think I wish to hear it.”

“Aye, which story, my lord?” echoed Nan, shrewdly. “The Nightfort? The Blood Sacrifices? The Children?” She paused and slid her eyes from Ned to Sansa. “Perhaps a story for when the white winds blow, when the snows fall a hundred feet deep and the ice wind comes howling out of the north.”

“Nan…” Ned’s voice went quiet and trailed off as she continued to speak, mesmerizing him just as easily as she did when he was a child. Opposite, Sansa equally held a thralled look on her face, although there was something sad about it.

“Let us speak of fear, and the long night, when the sun hides its face for years at a time, and little children are born and live and die all in darkness while the direwolves grow gaunt and hungry,” continued Nan, her voice thin and reedy. “When the white walkers move through the woods.”

Ned forced himself to scoff. “The Long Night is a story. There is no such thing as the white walkers.”

“Do you discount all stories as nothing more than tall tales, my Lord?”

Sansa’s voice cut through Ned directly, making him jump and look at her in surprise. “My Lady…?”

The woman was looking at him, something sad and stern at once, and Ned wasn’t sure how to read it when she spoke, a bit harshly to him. “Perhaps the Long Night is nothing more than a story. Yet, when history becomes legend, and legend becomes myth – we should not forget.” She put aside her stitching and rose, making all the other women around her and Nan look up and stop what they were doing, too.

Looking down at Ned, Sansa said, quietly, “After all, the Wall was built for a reason, was it not?”

With that final parting shot, Sansa turned and left, the kitchen and household women following her just as quickly as they gathered up their items, some even shooting Ned dirty looks for interrupting their down time.

When they had finally left, leaving him and Nan alone, he turned to her for an explanation. She only cackled and patted his hand. “Oh, my sweet child. You’re in over your head, Ned.”

He sputtered, trying to drag denials from his mouth, but Nan cackled again and dismissed him, leaving Ned to get up and wander away from the great hall in equal parts confusion and annoyance.

What just happened?

Walys and Rodrik brought Ned the news early in the morning a few days later: there had been wolf sightings in the Wolfswood, and several farmers had already come forward the other day about their livestock being decimated. Westeros and the North were still in the midst of winter’s grip despite the false spring they experienced during the Tourney at Harrenhal, and the loss of any potential meat was devastating.

As the Stark in Winterfell, it was Ned’s job to organize a hunt to cull the wolves, as much as it would pain him to do so, given his sigil.

He was organizing a company of riders and their provisions for a week, at most, Benjen included, when he spied Sansa walking toward them, the hem of her grey dress damp from the snow and two patches on the front of her dress wet circles.

Catching Ned’s eyes, Sansa laughed. “My pardon, my lord. I was praying in the Godswood this morn.”

“You pray in a Godswood?” blurted Ned, blinking at Sansa.

Sansa nodded. “It’s a peaceful place, tempered by great and terrible beauty.”

Apt, thought Ned, his mind driven to the image of the weeping face carved in his family’s heart tree.

Sansa stood curiously a few feet away, hands clasped in front of her as she tilted her head to the side, looking at the men running around, preparing leather satchels, and a few readying their horses. “Are you going somewhere?”

Benjen took that moment to pipe up. “There’s wolves in the woods! We’re going after them!”

Sansa looked askance at Ned, brows meeting. “Hunting wolves?”

“We think a pack has attacked several farms nearby,” explained a slightly abashed Ned. “We’re going to hunt it down.”

Sansa pursed her lips, nodding once decisively. “Please wait, my lord. I will join you promptly.”

“You--? Join?” Ned’s eyes bulged.

“Am I not to join, my lord?” asked Sansa, eyes hard.

Unable to find a perfectly good excuse quick enough, Sansa only waited a moment before disappearing into the castle to change; when she returned, she wore a black dress with a grey cloak. The colour contrasted severely with her pale face and her red hair, and against the grey of the cloak, Ned thought her hair was like blood on the snow.

Tongue thick, Ned unable to explain anything to the men joining him on the hunt as to why Sansa was coming along. They took their cues from him, but Sansa was good company, not complaining about the feathery flurries or the brisk wind that whipped at their hair and cloaks. She and Benjen spent most of their time talking, and Ned, overhearing, was surprised at the depth of knowledge Sansa had of the North. It was almost like she grew up loving the land from birth, instead of being born in the Vale.

It was Rodrik who spotted the wolf first: it flashed a black shadow through the bare trees ahead of time, hidden partially by the low, sweeping branches of the pine trees. There was a cry by one of the men, and the hunt was on as Ned spurred his horse forward.

They dodged through gaps between the trees, and under low-hanging branches. Sansa was neck-to-neck with Ned, something that vaguely impressed him when he wasn’t focused on the black blur ahead of them. He did twist back enough to shout at her to be careful when he managed to dodge a branch, but she did not, leaving a thin, whip-like cut across her cheek.

Then, at one point, Ned lost the black wolf. He found a clearing in the Wolfswood, and drew his foaming horse to a halt, wheeling it around as it cantered. Sansa pulled up beside him, eyes peering ahead into the thicker trees, while Benjen, Rodrik, and others burst through the gap he had made.

“Where did it go?!” gasped Rodrik, eyes wide. “And Gods above! Did you see the size of it? That’s no wolf!”

“What is it then?” asked Benjen innocently.

Ned was grim when he replied, “A direwolf.”

“South of the wall?” scoffed one of the men-at-arms. “Preposterous!”

A growl interrupted them, and Ned whirled around to see the black wolf – the black direwolf – slink out from underneath several low branches that protected it from the drifting snow. It peeled back its gum, revealing long, sharp yellow teeth as it snarled.

Ned unsheathed his sword, sliding from his horse’s back as he did so. The men behind him followed except two who slowly drew arrows, and strangely, so did Sansa, who was unarmed. “My lady, stay back—”

But Sansa caught the wolf’s eyes and it stopped snarling. Her face went slack even as she took a step forward, her boots crunching on the snow. The wolf watched her as she approached.

Ned froze when Sansa stretched a hand out—

“Lady Sansa, no! Come back, my lady!” cried Ned, breaking whatever spell the wolf was under. It barked at Sansa, once, twice, and then turned, and raced back under the branches and through the trees.

But this time, Sansa hiked up her dress and crashed after the wolf.

Rodrik swore, even as Ben cried, “Sansa! What do we do, Ned?”

“Follow her!” shouted Ned, eyes on Sansa’s snowy footprints. The girl was fast, he realized, ducking under a branch and then weaving around a fallen log as he kept his eyes out for signs she passed by. Between her tiny prints, there were four massive paw prints but no blood. The wolf was leading the woman somewhere, and Ned had to stop her before the worst happened. His father would murder him if something happened to his cousin!

Ned spotted Sansa’s bright hair first and heard her second. She stopped before a cave entrance, calling out prettily, “Oh, is this where you’re hiding…?” just as ducked into the dark maw.

“Sansa!” cried Ned, plunging in after her. He vaguely heard confirmation of the men behind him.

A few steps in he froze, eyes wide.

Sansa was on her knees, cooing softly to a pretty, sable direwolf pup. The pup itself was on its hind legs, yipping excitedly with its front paws on Sansa’s chest, tipping the girl to the cavern floor. She was crying and laughing at the same time as the pup licked at her face, anywhere it could reach.

“Lady! Oh, my precious, adorable Lady!” the redhead was crying.

At that, a pure white pup bounded from behind its mother, a large grey beast, along with a rompish, growling brown pup, each joining their littermate in covering Sansa with wolf slobber.

Ned’s mouth dropped open, and his sword dipped as his hand went limp at his side. Benjen appeared behind him, gasping loudly at the sight. He reached out and grabbed Ned’s cloak tightly, winding his hand in it as he breathed, “Gods, Ned. Are those – are those direwolf puppies?”

“Aye,” muttered Ned, counting the three that were all over Sansa; there was a grey one, similar in colour to its mother, a pure black one like its father, and another sable one that was ambling toward Benjen, sniffing at his boots.

Six direwolf puppies.

Two adult direwolves.

“Gods above,” breathed Rodrik as he ducked into the cave. His sword was trembling. “We should leave quickly and quietly my lords. Then, we can slay the beasts—”

“No!” shrieked Sansa, standing up so quickly the puppies took a tumble. The sable one she called Lady turned to the men and began yipping. She reached and scooped the puppy up in her arms, clutching it tightly.

Ned’s breath hitched and he stopped breathing. “Sansa, Sansa, please, put the direwolf down… we don’t want its parents upset…”

Sansa scowled but refused to drop the wolf. The albino and brown pup who had been playing with her huddled at her feet, sitting back on their haunches and watching Ned with careful, bright eyes that were far too intelligent for his liking.

But the parents – the direwolves – they weren’t attacking at all or moving from where the mother lounged near the back of the cave, her mate at her side. It took him several moments where his blood rushed in his ears to realize that while he and the Stark men were being watched, none of the animals made to attack them.

“How dare you?” seethed Sansa. “How dare you even consider slaying the Stark sigil?”

“I—” Ned’s mouth shut.

The wolf at Benjen’s feet whined pitifully, and Benjen, far braver than Ned, copied Sansa by reaching down and cuddling it in his arms. Then he turned his eyes on his brother and Ned was slammed with two wide, brown orbs glittering at him.

“Ned, you wouldn’t hurt him, would you?” Benjen’s lower lip quivered.

“No, he wouldn’t!” declared Sansa, beaming at Benjen. “Look – he’s chosen you! Eight wolves, one for each Stark!”

A part of Ned wanted to protest; Sansa was a Royce, or whatever house her mother married into – not a Stark – but… Benjen began excitedly talking about his pup, staring adoringly at it.

Ned sighed. Something heavy landed on his foot and he looked down to see one of the pups, the grey one, had come up to him in the meantime, and was now batting at his shin, whining at him. The pup fell back on his rear and stared up at Ned.

His lips did not twitch. They didn’t.

“I suppose we can take care of them if their sire and bitch allow us,” allowed Ned eventually, trying to ignore the grey fluff chewing on the edge of his cloak.

Sansa beamed. “I’m sure they’ll be fine with it.”

Between Sansa, Ned, and Benjen – Rodrik absolutely refused to help in any way – they stuck the puppies out into the leather satchels that once carried food (now placed elsewhere in other bags) while the black and brown adult direwolves followed at a sedate pace behind them. Despite their pace at the groups’ back, the horses were spooked, and they ended up leading the horses by foot back to Winterfell.

A distant part of Ned was wondering how sideways things had gone since those ravens from King’s Landing. Since his arrival back in Winterfell to find the strange lady interloper had taken over it with his father’s blessings. Things were strange enough; nothing else would make things stranger.

Upon their entrance to the ancient castle, Walys appeared, a nervous tick on his cheek indicating his unease. He had a scroll in his hand that he held out promptly to Sansa. “My Lady, this came for you from the capitol.”

Sansa blinked, and took the scroll; Ned saw the moment Walys realized there was a wolf pup tucked into the bag at Sansa’s side in the way the man blanched and tripped over his feet as he hurried backward.

“Oh. Oh, dear,” said Sansa, causing Ned to turn to her.

“What? Is it Father?” he urged, stepping closer to her.

Sansa looked up. “Oh, no, it’s Jon. He’s written.”

She cleared her throat and read the letter out loud for the benefit of those in the bailey: “'Dearest Sansa: If convenient, please come to King’s Landing as soon as possible. Plans didn’t go accordingly. I am now King.'”

Ned’s knees wobbled and, although he would deny it, he swooned the tiniest as blood rushed away from his head, settling somewhere low just as his stomach dropped from under him, as well.

“There’s more,” added Sansa unhelpfully, turning the scroll over. Ned spied the hurried, harried scrawl on the back, added as a post-script.  “‘If inconvenient, please come all the same. Much love, Jon.’”

{TBC…}

Chapter Text

The Road to Victory

KING

Jon remained with Rickard and Brandon long enough for Rhealla and Elia to show them to a room off the great hall of the throne room, and then promptly did an about-turn, stalking quickly away from everyone despite Rickard’s frantic calls of “Jon! Jon, please!” behind him.

He took a few lefts, a few rights, and at least two staircases in opposite directions and ended up somewhere he had never been before – although, the last time he had been in King’s Landing, he had only seen about four rooms in total and was escorted everywhere by the remains of the City Watch. He was a Stark in King’s Landing, and he had left the only protection he had.

Jon cringed.

A look around him had Jon realizing he was leaning against a smooth wall on the second floor of a covered walkway. Opposite him were curved arches along the balustrade with decorative columns between each opening. There were tiny dragons crawling down the columns, subtly proclaiming the heritage of those who inhabited the Red Keep.

He had never felt so out of place – what had Rhaella been thinking, to proclaim him of all people, King of the Seven Kingdoms? He could barely manage the Night’s Watch from killing one another and they killed him! He tried to do good things and ended up with a fire immunity –

Jon paused. Well, that wasn’t so bad, he supposed. It could’ve been a lot worse than a fire immunity; like, never returning to the living, to begin with…

“I’m not getting out of this,” he muttered, pressing a hand to his head. There was no way Rhaella was going to let him go – he was family, distant as it was to her, anyway despite Jon and Rickard knowing the truth – and he had beat Aerys’ champion three times over in front of the entire court. The Lords and Ladies of Westeros were probably already gossiping, and Pycelle had probably already sent a raven to Casterly Rock.

Jon’s head snapped back and hit the smooth, pale red stone. He groaned. Just what he needed… Tywin Lannister!

Despondently, he looked around the empty hall. Was it too late for him to fuck off and find passage to the Summer Isles? Yi Ti? Life would probably be quieter…

But –

The Long Night. The Others. The Free Folk beyond the Wall. They were coming, and no one would survive without proper guidance. Without the right people – person – leading them. As nice as it would be, to find some quiet corner of Planetos and live out the rest of his life (and didn’t I deserve it? a tiny voice cried in Jon’s mind, haven’t I done enough – given enough to these people?), running away wasn’t him.

“I’m not craven,” muttered Jon, stepping away from the wall. “I’m not.”

He looked around the nodded once to himself, tugging on his borrowed toga. The fabric of the golden cloak stretched a bit and settled a bit better over his shoulder.

Jon purposefully began retracing his steps, as best as he could until he came across the first servant he saw in several minutes. “Uh, pardon me—”

The servant turned and squeaked in alarm upon seeing him. They dropped the bundled of clothing they had in their arms and fell sharply to their knees, head bowed low as they began mumbling, “Your Grace, I didn’t see you there, I am so sorry Your Grace, please forgive me, Your Grace, I am your humble servant, Your Grace—”

“Can you breathe?” asked Jon, amused.

The servant froze. “… Your Grace?”

“That was quite the response,” replied Jon. He leaned down and helped the young woman to her feet. She trembled under his hand. He began to pick up the clothing on the ground, and the girl squeaked again.

“Your Grace, you mustn’t—” she then clamped her hands to her mouth, eyes wide.

Jon looked up from the floor, curiously. “Surely you need help?”

“Your Grace?”

“Jon, if you don’t mind,” corrected Jon with a small smile. He stood and passed the bundle, now all collected, to the maid who took the fabric automatically, despite staring at the tall Northerner with comically large eyes.

“Your Grace King Jon,” began the girl, her voice a bare whisper.

“Um, well,” Jon reached back and scratched at his neck, fighting a blush, “I suppose I’ll take that. Listen, I’m a bit lost and trying to find my—” He paused, clearing his throat. “Erm, my kin? Lord Rickard Stark and Brandon Stark?”

The girl bobbed into a curtsey and nodded frantically at the same time. “Of course, Your Grace King Jon, Your Highness.”

Jon stared at the girl and waited.

She stared back.

Finally, he asked, “So… where are they?”

She squeaked again and blurted, “Two floors down, third door on the left, Your Grace King Jon Your Highness.”

“Right, thank you…” Jon hesitated, looking down at the girl, waiting for her name. She looked at him like a rabbit caught in a wolf’s sight. He sighed, giving her a tiny, dismissive wave.

The servant bobbed another curtsey and then practically fled from him, her skirts kicking up behind her even as her shoes slapped hard on the floor. Jon waited until she disappeared down the corridor and then turned at the junction, leaving him alone.

There was still lingering doubt in Jon’s mind – why wouldn’t there be? – that surely, someone, anyone, could do a better job as a king. He wasn’t raised to be one – he was a bastard, a Commander, but… king? Rickard would know someone better; he was just a displaced traveller, keen on the Long Night, not King’s Landing…

When he stepped into the room he had fled, Rickard took three long steps and then tightly embraced him. “Gods boy, you scared the life from me – don’t do that!”

Shocked, Jon’s arms automatically rose to pat his grandfather on the back. He hadn’t realized he had scared the man badly – he was shaking.

Rickard drew back. “I’ve nearly lost one child here, don’t make it any more!”

Jon winced. “Sorry.”

He looked around the room; they were in a sitting room of some sort, a receiving room with chairs and loungers and breezy, open windows. Several doors were open, leading to bedrooms, one which was occupied by Brandon. Maester Pycelle hovered over his uncle, nodding and humming and hawing.

Jon wanted to gut the man, the spineless rat. He settled for glaring at him until Rhaella spoke up, catching his attention.

“So, you’ve returned.”

Looking like poise and grace, with her back straight and perched at the end of her chair, Rhaella looked at Jon with indigo eyes from the rim of the teacup. Elia sat kitty-corner to her on a lounge couch with Rhaenys next to her, but her cup was on the long table before them, along with a tray of pastries, tortes, cakes, and other nibbles. Rhaenys was attempting to mimic her mother and grandmother but the crumbs around her mouth and on her dress, as well as the gleam in her eyes as she looked eagerly at the cakes, spoke differently.

“Aye,” replied Jon, awkward and stiff. His eyes darted around the room.

“Are you done with your pity party?” continued Rhaella, a pale eyebrow twitching up.

Jon’s eyes snapped toward her and then narrowed on the queen. A fire burned in his stomach and he found his anger rising. He gave a tiny, shallow bow, and his tone was edging toward insolent when he said, “My apologies, Your Grace. However, I do believe you are mistaken; I cannot be king.”

Rhaella’s own eyes narrowed. Vaguely, Jon saw Rickard’s bewildered expression as he looked between the two. Even Elia looked like she was holding her breath, eyes wide.

“I decreed it, boy,” said Rhaella, slowly, carefully. “You are the king.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed further. “I abdicate.”

Rickard’s eyebrows shot upward. “Jon—”

“Abdicate?” echoed Rhaella, snorting. “To my cousins’ son? Robert Baratheon?”

Jon paused. Unlike those in the room, Jon knew what Robert Baratheon would be like as a king: loud, ruinous, a wastrel and drunk. A warmonger and a whoremonger. He would be well-liked, beloved by (most) of the kingdom, but he wouldn’t lead them to victory or make the decisions needed to survive the Long Night.

Mentally, Jon ran through the names of the others who might become king if he abdicated; Robert could not sit on the throne.

Stannis? A good man, but harsh and unyielding in his outlook. He wouldn’t win any friends and while he would do his duty to protect the realm – far better than anyone else, Jon thought – he wouldn’t unite them. He was out.

Renly? He was four. He’d be a puppet and while well-liked, easily swayed by a pretty face and honeyed words. No, he was no king.

How far would they have to trace the line? To Maekar? Further back? Sideways to a Martell?

… there really wasn’t anyone else. The thought must have appeared, easily read, on his face, because Rhaella softened her voice when she said, “You’ve won by trial by combat, thrice over!”

Jon opened his mouth to speak – although he was unsure what he would say – but Rhaella ran over him.

“The kingdom is yours, take it. No one is crying for Aerys,” she finished, with a heavy scoff. “Certainly not me.”

Jon blinked. Well, if she puts it that way… then Jon paused, alarm spreading across his face. Oh fuck. I think I killed Daenerys.

“I never wanted to be king,” he muttered, anguished. He ran a hand through his curls and swallowed thickly.

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder and he turned partially to see his grandfather peering at him, a grimace on his face. “The best men never do. And yet they’re the ones who will lead us best. And… won’t this help? With your goals?”

“Goals?” asked Rhaella, tilting her head as she gazed between the two men. Jon ignored her, ignored Elia’s curious dark eyes, fixating on his grandfather’s grey. They were lighter in colour than Jon’s, but they held compassion and paternal care that Jon had missed as the years went on and Ned Stark’s death passed further and further into the past. He missed having the guidance Ned gave him; the guidance Jeor gave as Lord Commander; hell, even Mance and Davos were father-figures of a sort. But having Rickard Stark look at him like that – it was like he could take on the world and succeed without trying.

Jon turned on his heel toward Rhaella and scowled at her. “I’ll take the damn crown. But I’m melting down the chair.”

Rhaella’s lips turned upward into a smirk. “Very well, Your Grace.” She set her cup down. “Now, what’s this about goals?”

There was much to do before a coronation, and Rhaella seemed to relish organizing it, being free from the yoke of Aerys and his reign. Jon left her to it, spending much of his time with Rickard and Brandon, who was still recuperating from his stay in the dungeons, suffering from malnourishment, torture, and the trauma involved in his arrest, as well as seeing his companions die.

Jon regretted that – he had hoped that Aerys had not killed those who travelled with Brandon, but the same thing happened: only Ethan Glover survived. Ethan was situated in one of the other rooms adjacent to the suite Brandon was in, as secure as they could make the Red Keep with only four Northmen, and only two of those on their feet. They needed more protection.

It wasn’t that Jon thought someone would try to kill him: firstly, Targaryen heritage. No one knew which side of the coin Jon’s mental stability would fall on, so most people kept out of his way. Second, Targaryen heritage: Jon was fireproof (if by luck, but no one needed to know that). Sure, someone could try to assassinate him with a blade, or poison, but he already proved himself to be death-defying, so why would someone bother? And thirdly, Jon had beat Gerold Hightower in single combat. That definitely counted for something.

But other than Hightower and Jaime, where had the other Kingsguard been? He was sure no one told Jaime Lannister anything, so Jon went to the next best source: Elia Martell.

“I’ve been meaning to speak to you,” he began, stepping cautiously into the suite. Jaime Lannister stood guard outside of Elia’s room, particularly when she was with Rhaenys and Aegon. But he had stepped aside when Jon stepped up to the royal chambers. Both Rhaella and Elia had suggested giving the royal chambers up, but Jon did not want to disrupt their lives further, and Rhaenys and Aegon needed familiarity. He wasn’t going to change that.

Elia blinked up at him from where she sat near a fire, a blanket wrapped around her legs. “Of course, Your Grace.”

She struggled to get up and curtsey, but Jon stepped into the room and shook his head. “Please, don’t. Let’s just… let us speak.”

Warily, Elia nodded.

Jon sat on the free seat opposite her with a sigh.

“What can I help you with, Your Grace?” asked the Princess cautiously.

Jon took a moment to study her: she was near his age, if not a little older, with long, thick black hair. She was skinny, with her collarbones protruding and skin stretched thinly across her shoulders. Despite the darkness of her eyes and the sickly pallor to her skin, and the slight dark bruising under her eyes, Elia Martell was a very pretty woman. Her waif-like appearance did not diminish the intelligence in her eyes nor the inner strength she bore in handling the changes to her life in King’s Landing with Rhaella’s pronouncement.

“I wanted to ask you what you are planning on doing, going forward,” began Jon slowly, watching Elia carefully. She blinked. “I want to make something clear, Princess: you are not my hostage. You are not a prisoner, nor are your children.”

Something shifted in Elia’s face, from wariness to bewilderment, to cautious hope.

“I would offer you one of these three choices,” continued Jon, leaning the tiniest bit forward. “You can stay, here in King’s Landing. You have the most experience with court life, and there’s a part of me that doesn’t want Queen Rhaella determining my life from how many courses my coronation feast should have, to what colour my small clothes are.”

Elia stifled a laugh, looking away for a moment.

Jon grinned. “Your other option is to return to Dorne. And if you have no wish to return to Sunspear or the Water Gardens, then Braavos. Or Myr. Or Qarth, or Yi Ti, or whatever else you wish.”

Elia’s eyes were glistening, but she blinked the tears away. Her hands folded delicately in her lap when she sat a bit straighter and asked, “Upon what conditions, Your Grace?”

Smart woman, thought Jon with a tight-lipped smile. “As per Lord Stark’s conditions, Rhaegar’s children will not inherit the throne. Rhaenys and Aegon may keep their titles as Princess and Prince, but of Dorne, Princess. The title dies then with them. But they are as free as you are – I will not ask for them to remain as hostages or to foster them when they are older, so long as you make these terms and conditions clear.”

The tears did fall this time, and Elia’s hands trembled when she brought them up to press against her mouth.

Jon reached forward and gently took one of her hands in his, cradling it. He made sure to look her directly in the eyes when he murmured, “You have suffered enough, Princess.”

Elia bowed her head, her body trembling. She was speaking, and it took Jon a few moments to hear the gasps. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

He gave her time to compose herself, delicately resting her hand in his so that she could take it from him at any time. The control was hers, and Jon waited until she was ready to speak again.

“I think I shall remain in King’s Landing for a bit longer, Your Grace,” she sniffled, despite the beaming smile on her face. “But then I will return to Dorne, to my brothers.”

“Of course,” replied Jon. “I welcome your presence here. And… your help?”

Elia smirked. “Of course.”

Jon breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps Elia could stand up to Rhaella and tell her that red washed him out…

“Ah, Princess, one last thing,” Jon said later before he left her suite.

Elia looked at him, curious.

“Where can I find the remaining Kingsguard? Your uncle and Barristan Selmy and Jonothor Darry?”

Jon didn’t need to go looking for them: they found him.

Embarrassingly so.

Jon had an earlier meeting with Rhaella and the High Septon regarding his coronation and its procedure, with the High Septon asking about Jon’s history with the Faith. Jon stuttered his way through it, barely remembering things he picked up from Sansa in his youth. When the Septon had asked about how religious views, Jon took grim pleasure in regaling him with how he was raised in the North, was a heathen who worshipped trees, danced naked on the full moon to honour his gods, and practised blood sacrifices to the Weirwood trees. Only two of those three were anywhere near true to Jon’s recollection of Northern worship, but Jon wasn’t going to tell the High Septon which. It left the man pale and sweating and Rhaella glowering at him when he finally escaped to Rickard’s suite.

Brandon was asleep but looking better; Ethan was walking around the suite with some help, and Rickard was spending his time corresponding with Winterfell, Jon Arryn, and Hoster Tully when he wasn’t listening to Jon’s complaints.

Seeing the man busy, Jon went to his next source of entertainment: Rhaenys and Aegon, who both took to him after he offered Elia her options. And that was where the three remaining Kingsguard found him: on his knees, with Rhaenys on his back, tight hands fisting his black hair and screaming, “Forward, wolfie!” while Aegon clapped and shrieked gleefully from Elia’s lap.

The men burst into the room, Lewyn Martell and Barristan Selmy with their swords drawn with wide, frantic eyes. Jaime was behind them, half-hidden by the door, loudly telling Jonothor Darry that everything “was fine, could they just calm down—”

Eyes wide, Jon met the two Kingsguard. Selmy was confused, his sword lowering as his eyes swept over the scene: Jon and Rhaenys playing on a rug before Elia with Aegon on her lap; the discarded dolls and building blocks that both children used; the two sets of teacups and pastries on trays.

Lewyn, on the other hand, had already sheathed his sword, fighting a smile on his face when he caught Jon’s eyes again. Jon stood, catching Rhaenys as she slid, giggling, down his back to a piggyback position instead. Her arms draped around his neck.

“Jon, wolf speak!” demanded Rhaenys, throwing her weight back and catching Jon around the neck and making him choke.

“Wolf speak?” echoed Lewyn, this time definitely not fighting a grin.

“Uncle Lew! Jon speaks wolf!” agreed Rhaenys. “Right, Jon? Speak wolf?” She then lowered her voice as much as she could to mimic his Northern burr. “Ayeeee.”

Jon looked away from Lewyn and Selmy, who had also sheathed his sword; to Jonothor who was staring at Jon; to Jaime, who was grinning, and finally to Elia who was busily stirring her tea in forceful circles and ignoring him.

“Jon,” whined Rhaenys.

Miserably, Jon did as the Princess demanded in his most deadpan voice. “Woof.”

Rhaenys responded to this with a peal of shrill laughter. Wincing at the loud noise in his ear, Jon hurriedly walked to the couch and dumped the still laughing Rhaenys on the cushions next to her mother and then turned back to the Kingsguard, tugging at his tunic, and clearing his throat.

This was not how he wanted his first impression with these men to go. “Sers—”

“So. This is the new Blackfyre king,” began Jonothor instead, interrupting him. The man stepped forward and loomed over Jon – who, despite being tall, was still several inches shorter than the knight. Annoyed, Jon stood still, eyes on the man as he circled.

There was derision in his voice when Darry asked, “Why should I serve such a man?”

“No one is asking you to,” replied Jon, trying to keep his voice even despite the flicker of anger and flames building in his chest.

“You think you’re better than any Targaryen king, boy?” continued Darry, a sneer on his voice.

“I’m infinitely better than the one that was just on the throne,” snapped Jon, eyes narrowing at the knight. “I don’t burn people alive.”

Darry stopped, keeping to Jon’s left. “No, you slay kings. I should call you kingslayer.”

Jon struggled to keep the laugh from bubbling out of his mouth and kept his eyes on Darry instead of looking at Jaime like he wanted. “I didn’t plan to kill Aerys, nor did I want to. Although I do understand if you find it hard to believe that the king tripped onto my sword.”

“And Gerold Hightower? What happened to my Commander?” demanded Darry.

Jon’s annoyance fled to regret. “He demanded satisfaction, Ser. He did not yield, despite being given the opportunity. I regret his death, deeply, but I made it clean and quick.”

Darry hummed, a thoughtful if not unbelieving noise, but leaned back.

At Jon’s right, Barristan Selmy stared at him, his face like granite. There was nothing warm in those eyes. “Why should I serve you over my King’s son? My Prince?”

“I am not stopping you.”

Selmy blinked in shock.

Seeing it, Jon continued. “If you wish to serve Rhaegar, please, go ahead. I do not want to inherit unwilling guards. Queen Rhaella proclaimed me King because I won by right of combat, thrice over. Because Aerys tried to burn me alive and I did not, Sers. Because, for the release and survival of Lord Rickard Stark and his son, Aerys was asked to step down from the throne and did not honour the vow.”

He levelled each of the men with a hard stare. “It is for those reasons I was proclaimed King. But I will not have disloyal and disgruntled Kingsguards guarding my back. So, go find Rhaegar, Ser Selmy. I have no quarrel with you should you do so. Nor do I quarrel with Rhaegar – unless he wants the throne.” He gave the men a sharp, wolfish smile. It wasn’t nice. “If he wants it, he’ll learn just how sharp my teeth are.”

“And the Queen and Princess?” asked Lewyn, speaking up for the first time.

Jon turned to face the older man. “Free to go wherever they wish. They are no hostages of mine.”

Lewyn turned to his niece for confirmation.

“’Tis true, uncle,” Elia said softly, bouncing a now cooing Aegon on her knee. “His Grace has offered me to stay, to return to Dorne, or wherever else I wish. I am no hostage and I believe him. Nor are my children to be his hostages or wards when they are older.”

There was a terse silence as the knights looked at Jon, at Elia, and then at one another. Finally, Lewyn nodded and said, “Good enough for me! I shall stay.”

“Lewyn…?” Darry stared at him.

With eyes on him, Lewyn Martell withdrew his sword and fell to a knee in front of Jon. “By the Faith, I will be to Jon—” Lewyn stopped, soundlessly trying to figure out Jon’s surname. Was he a Blackfyre? A Targaryen?

“Targaryen, if you’d like, Ser Lewyn,” answered Jon quietly. “My parents were married, and my father was a trueborn Targaryen. Though I do not have a Targaryen first name, so Jon will suffice there for now. Perhaps I’ll take a new name upon my coronation.”

Selmy’s mouth dropped open and Darry stiffened in shock.

“And if that does not please you, you can use ‘Stark’, for that was my mother’s House,” finished Jon.

Lewyn nodded, slowly, continuing his oath. “—Jon Targaryen, the first of his name, faithful and true, and love all that he loves, and shun all that he shuns, and never, by will nor by force, by word nor by work, do ought of what is loathful to him. This I so swear by the Warrior, the Father, the Mother, the Maiden, the Crone, the Smith, and the Stranger, from now and always, I am his shield and sword, from this day forth.”

Overcome, Jon rallied himself and cleared his throat. “I… my thanks, Ser Lewyn. Arise, and serve.”

Lewyn did so in a smooth move and then moved to his niece, bending to greet and tickle Aegon’s chin as the baby created a spit bubble. He deftly ignored the stunned looks on Jonothor Darry and Barristan Selmy’s faces as he did so.

Selmy seemed to be wrestling with himself, so Jon left the man to it. But Darry’s face was red. He shook his head and spat, “I will not be party to such a mockery of our order. We do not simply trade kings – the kingsguard is for life!”

He stared in disgust at Lewyn, who looked unconcerned. Barristan kept his eyes down and forward, a furrow between his brows. The man glanced at Jaime, but the youngest member of the kingsguard blushed and lowered his head, indicating where he stood.

With a sneer, Darry stalked toward the door and stopped at the threshold. “Selmy, are you coming?”

For a moment, Jon watched as Barristan the Bold wavered, looking at the door and Jonothor Darry, and then back to Lewyn Martell and Jaime Lannister. He was torn – Jon could see it.

“You don’t have to stay if you do not wish it,” he urged softly, so Barristan heard him. The older knight’s clear blue eyes caught his. “You’re a good man, Ser Barristan. If your honour dictates that you serve Rhaegar, then you should go. You do have a choice to remain here, as well, should you wish it. I would be honoured to have you be part of the kingsguard.”

“I—” Barristan glanced at Darry once more, but the other man saw something in his brother’s face and snorted.

“I see how it is,” the man huffed. “So be it. You are no brothers of mine.”

Barristan’s shoulders slumped, the tiniest, as Jonothor Darry swept out of the room with a swirl of his white cloak.

There was silence, as even Rhaenys’ giggles had realized that now wasn’t the right time for it. Jon stepped up to Selmy and put a hand on his shoulder. “Truly – you should go if this isn’t what you want. Now, later – I would understand.”

Barristan threw his shoulders back and stood straight, peering at Jon. “No, Your Grace. Ser Jon was right – the Kingsguard is for life and I believe in it. I shall stay, and give my oath now, should you take it.”

Jon’s face softened and he nodded as Barristan knelt. “Arise, Ser Barristan. I thank you for your service. And, Barristan?”

The older knight looked up at Jon.

“I would name you Lord Commander, should you want it,” finished Jon quietly. “I could think of no other better suited.”

Barristan blinked rapidly. “Your Grace. I would be honoured.”

Jon exhaled. One less thing to worry about.

Two months later, Jon thought he was finally getting a hang of ruling Westeros. Rhaella was a godsend, helping Jon handle the court and what he needed to know before his upcoming coronation. Rickard was an administrative genius, helping Jon with his ravens and proclamations, and between the Kingsguard, Elia, and, surprisingly, Brandon Stark, he was able to make connections with the small folk in King’s Landing and get a feel for the time and its culture.

It was during one of those meetings, in which Rhaella was reminding him to meet with Aerys’ small council and either re-establish or dismantle it, that Lewyn’s panicked voice and the sound of his sword and Barristan’s reached those inside the suite.

“Stay back! Remove yourselves at once!” shouted Barristan.

Those in the room look up in confusion. Voices drew closer, punctuated by… barks?

“—my father,” finished a male voice.

“So, step aside, Sers,” added Sansa’s voice.

Jon leapt to his feet, even as a wide-eyed Lewyn opened the door. “Your Grace, your sister is here…? Along with Lord Stark’s son, Eddard. And…”

He looked back, paling.

But Jon didn’t care. “Sansa! You’re here!”

Sansa was in Jon’s arms, hugging him tightly. “Of course, I am. Now, tell me everything.”

Ned was behind her, slightly dishevelled, but smoothing his tunic even as his eyes sought his father and brother, relief on his face at seeing them well.

But before Jon could speak, Jaime shouted in alarm, his own sword ringing as he unsheathed it. “Good Gods what are those beasts?!”

Beasts? thought Jon, turning. There was the sound of soft paws pattering on the flooring, and then Jon dropped to his knees as a ball of warm, white fluff was in his face, a rough tongue rasping against his cheeks with stinky breath. “Ghost!”

It was like they had never gone to the past: the connection between him and Ghost opened in their minds, and it was like everything was suddenly brighter and better. His direwolf was here!

Jon glanced up, seeing Sansa standing beside him, pleased and preening even with her sable wolf beside her, Lady observing her littermates with a calm air.

“Lady?” gapped Jon, glancing between his sister and her wolf.

Sansa nodded. “And others.”

“Others…?” Jon turned, mouth open.

Ned had a wolf on his heels, one he couldn’t seem to be rid of; it was Grey Wind – Jon knew that wolf. But there were others: Shaggydog, Nymeria – and two other, massive adult direwolves that had Rhaella paling milk-white and moving to put the giant table between her and them.

The black, wild beast that was once Rickon’s went straight to Brandon, yipping for attention and then, when the eldest Stark gave the wolf some tentative pats on his head, turned to begin chewing on the side of the chair. Brandon snorted.

“Where’s Summer?”

“Snowflake,” stressed Sansa, with an amused quirk of her lips with the renaming of Bran's old wolf, “remains in Winterfell with Benjen.”

“A-are these…” Rickard gulped. “Are these direwolves, Sansa?”

She nodded, even as the male, the father of the litter, prowled to Rickard. The wolf was giant, his eyes nearly level with the Stark. There was a silent staring contest, and then the direwolf huffed and flopped heavily onto his side, tongue lolling.

“And that one is yours,” said Sansa primly. “I suggest you name him wisely.”

“And the bitch?” asked Brandon eagerly, looking up from where Shaggydog was playfully growling and tugging at a cushion Brandon was using for a toy.

“I’d imagine your sisters since the other grey one is Nymeria and Arya’s,” said Jon with a laugh. “Gods, Sansa! Where did you find them?”

“The Wolfswood,” she replied.

Lewyn snorted, putting his sword away. “Wolves in a Wolfswood, of course.”

“Are they dangerous?” asked Barristan, eyeing them.

“Absolutely,” replied Jon, even as Sansa said, “They’re sweethearts.”

The two looked at each other and then went to address Barristan, again.

“They’re really docile,” said Jon, changing his tune.

“They’ll rip your throats out,” stated Sansa, causing her to pause and stare at Jon.

Jaime Lannister laughed. “Well, will they harm us or the King?”

“Do you plan on harming the King?” asked Brandon, looking up with narrowed eyes.

Jaime shook his head.

“Then I think we’re all fine,” replied Jon with a grin.

If the kingsguard thought that was the only upset that day, they received another a few hours later, during dinner.

Jon wanted his Stark family together, in his private rooms: Rickard, Brandon, Ned, and Sansa with Barristan inside and Jaime outside the room. They were in the middle of their meal at the table, with Ned and Sansa explaining how things were at Winterfell when from the corner of the room, Arya peeled away from the wall and made her way to a free seat next to Sansa.

Ned, in the middle of speaking, stopped and gaped at her. His eyes darted at the wall, and then Arya, and then back.

Barristan startled and sputtered, “But – what – how--?”

Arya ignored them both, as well as Jon and Sansa’s grins. She reached for a bread roll and began cutting into it. Nonchalantly, she called, “Well, aren’t you joining us?”

“Joining…?” Barristan muttered, looking at the youngest Stark in the room, only to then shout in surprise when Lyanna Stark trudged from the same dark corner, arms crossed and a very sullen look on her face.

“But—” sputtered Ned, eyes locked on Lyanna as she sat next to Brandon. “How – How did you…?”

Arya grinned, teeth sharp, at Ned, and although she addressed the table, her eyes were on Lyanna when she practically sang, “Secret tunnel.”

Barristan stiffened, eyes back on the wall. There was a secret tunnel there? Jon could see him thinking of ways to address the clear security issue that the Keep suddenly made clear.

Lyanna sitting seemed to be the signal for Brandon and Ned, though, because questions and accusations rang quick and true from their mouths, their volume increasing until there was nothing but a cacophony of noise in the room, with Arya amidst it all, calmly buttering her roll.

“Where were you?”

“Why did you leave?”

“How could you leave? Without a note?”

“There was a note – I’m not stupid!”

“But running away!! How dare you—”

“Dare I? Am I some wilting southern flower—”

“—know how worried we were? What I did for you?”

“I never asked you to! I was happy!”

“—the family honour—”

“—Robert—”

“A fucking pox on Robert Baratheon!”

The three Stark siblings rose from the table, lobbying their words like daggers at one another, grey eyes blazing like liquid mercury with flushed cheeks and pulled back lips that mimicked wolf snarls.

Their wolves though, or at least Ned and Brandon’s, only popped their heads up to watch the three with their gestures and words, and then put their heads down again, resting on their paws. Their mother, the large she-wolf, made a large, loud tooth-filled yawned and then absently closed her mouth behind Shaggydog’s neck to pull the pup to her for a clean.

Somehow, the three siblings moved from the table to the free space in the sitting area, and then toward the bedroom where Brandon was recovering; Lyanna stormed there first, slamming the door hard behind her.

“Oh, no you don’t, Lyanna Stark!” shouted Brandon, crossing the distance quickly despite the gasps he was making, throwing the door open after her and stepping into the room.

Ned quickly followed, wringing his hands behind his siblings.

At the table, Jon, Rickard, and Sansa shared incredulous looks. Arya briefly looked up at the newly closed door and sighed. “Gosh. Were we ever like that?”

“No,” said Jon, just as Sansa said, “Absolutely.”

The two eyed one another.

Sansa narrowed her eyes at her siblings, across the table from her. “Did she ever sling mud at you when you were wearing your favourite dress in front of father’s bannermen?”

Jon paused, then conceded. “Fair point.”

Arya rolled her eyes and muttered, “I hate you both.”

Jon grinned, reaching out across the table to ruffle Arya’s hair – despite their ages – and mocked her, “Aww, not feeling the sibling love, little sister?”

Rickard, who had been sitting there, mortified, that his children would act that way in front of their new king, as well as a kingsguard, slowly came back to awareness when Jon ruffled Arya’s hair. Although he had many questions – how did Arya get Lyanna? Where had his daughter been? How did she know? Where did they travel and how safe were they? – they were all immediately shoved to the back of his mind at the sight of Jon’s grin.

His eyes were wide, fixated on the young man. He hadn’t been sure, but –

The black hair. The curls. The pale face, calling him grandfather and despite him and the youngest girl looking alike – The curve of his lips, the fullness to them; the crinkle in his eyes, how dark they were, not quite grey but perhaps, a shade of indigo?

Lyanna’s smiling face looked back at him, and Rickard felt like it was a punch to his gut. The knowledge – the truth – that whatever alternate future these grandchildren of his came from: the truth was Lyanna never returned to Winterfell. That she married Rhaegar Targaryen. That they had a child – a prince – who was now on the throne, regardless.

My grandchildren, thought Rickard, eyes roving over them proudly but with concern. Jon was king now, yes – but the Long Night was approaching, and they would need all the help they could get.

And Rickard swore he’d do whatever it took.

{TBC...}

Chapter Text

The Road to Victory

DRAGONS, pt 1

Rhaegar enjoyed dressing up in dirty clothes, hiding his gleaming white-blond hair under a wig or hood, and sit in the corner of a dark pub or inn and play his harp for the public. It was his way of getting a feel for the small folk in King’s Landing, and the best place to get the goss.

It served him well when he only had Arthur at his side for years, then later Myles and Richard, and it would serve him well again now, as he snuck back into King’s Landing to discover just what Jon Connington had meant when he said his father was dead in the raven he sent to House Dayne.

Since Rhaegar was a creature of habit, he went to his usual inn and met Jon in the room above the stable, as he normally did. His friend was already there, pacing aggressively enough to wear a hole in the thin planks.

“Jon.”

The redhead whipped around, eyes wide. “My Prince!” he bowed low and with a flourish.

“Please, speak,” implored Rhaegar, striding up to him and bringing him up from his bow. “What’s this about my father’s death? Tell me the truth – please – is he truly dead?”

Jon nodded. “Truly. I was there when it happened.”

“What happened?” asked Rhaegar, and the two wandered toward a few upturned crates and barrels to sit.

Jon’s face darkened. “Those Northern heathens happened, my Prince. The eldest – Brandon – he came to King’s Landing over a moon ago, now, shouting at anyone who would look at him how you stole his sister. Called you, of all people, a kidnapper and rapist. The gall!”

Rhaegar schooled his face and did his best not to shift or squirm where he sat. He certainly did not rape Lyanna, but by definition, he had kidnapped her…

“Well, of course, your father wouldn’t hear nonsense like that, despite his feelings toward you, uh…” Jon trailed off, shooting Rhaegar a panicked look.

The prince just waved and hand and leaned forward to look at Jon intently. The redhead broke out in a tiny sweat and flushed.

He continued, “Uh, yes, well. The Northern heathen, his father Rickard Stark, arrived nearly a fortnight later, with a squire. Looked just like him – must be a bastard, we all thought when summoned to court. He had these… these outrageous claims, my Prince!”

Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed. “What claims?”

“That the king give up his claim to the throne, and you and Prince Viserys as well! To release all the Northerners in the black cells, and to return his daughter and walk away free and unmolested,” rattled off Jon promptly.

No.

Rhaegar’s breath was stolen. No. Surely his father didn’t – did not hate him that much –

Jon kept talking and Rhaegar barely heard – something of a trial by combat against fire and the squire surviving (!! There was wordless panic clawing its way up Rhaegar’s chest the more Jon spoke), of beating Ser Jaime in single combat, and killing Gerold Hightower – poor Gerold! – only to demand, by winning thrice over, his father stepping down…

… only for the man to literally step down the dais and fall on the man’s sword. Murder, Jon called it. But Rhaegar knew the truth: accident. Fortuitous. The will of the gods.

How had it gone so wrong, so quick? he wondered, only to start when Jon finished: “And your mother, the Queen, proclaimed the squire, this – this – bastard Blackfyre, Jon Snow – the king!”

She what now?

“I’m sorry, what?” Rhaegar’s blinked a few times at Jon, forgoing the need to reach up and wriggle a finger in his ear. “I must have let my thoughts consume me, my friend. Surely I heard you wrong.”

Jon’s face was sufficed with heat. “No! No, my Prince! The Queen sank to her knees and called him ‘king’!”

He stared at Jon.

Jon stared back, biting his lower lip nervously.

“Surely not,” Rhaegar finally laughed, weakly.

Jon nodded, silently.

“Mother would not – mother would never –” Rhaegar stopped himself, feeling the panic tighten around his throat. He stood abruptly from the crate, sending it scooting back and Jon hastily leapt to his feet as well, wringing his hands in front of him and looking up at Rhaegar with fear.

“My Prince,” the man whispered, “My apologies – I did not wish to hurt you – I should not have –”

“Quiet!” snapped Rhaegar.

Jon snapped his mouth shut, eyes wide.

Swallowing, Rhaegar plastered a smile on his face and summoned his patience from numerous dealings with his father and court. “My apologies, Jon. My dear friend, I am sorry for snapping at you. The news… it distresses me.”

“Of course,” whispered Jon.

Rhaegar began to pace, mimicking Jon’s movements from when he arrived. “I must learn what people are saying.” He looked up. “Are Myles and Richard here?”

“Ser Myles is,” said Jon, carefully hiding his jealousy. “But Ser Richard returned to Lonmouth.”

“Remain in the Red Keep, for now, my friend,” instructed Rhaegar. “Contact Myles. Listen and observe. I will go do the same on the streets. I must learn about this Blackfyre and what hold he has over my wife and mother.”

“My Prince…” Jon nearly whimpered, “The Dowager Queen – the Princess – even the Kingsguard—”

Pain shot across Rhaegar’s face. “No. I cannot believe it.”

Jon stared at him.

“A fortnight, Jon,” said Rhaegar quietly. “Two weeks. I shall listen on the streets and then return, and I will know what to do next to save my wife and mother from a heartless Blackfyre fiend.”

Wariness in Jon’s eyes stopped Rhaegar from saying anything else, but he nodded, and Rhaegar flipped his hood back up. He had some spying to do.

“’e’s organized food for us folk in Flea Bottom! The Good King Jon thinking about us smallfolk!” The man who cried the first words was a teary-eyed father, his busty wife holding onto two toddling babes in her arms and two others at her skirt at his side, nodding along frantically.

The man continued, clutching a bag of food, “Bless him! The Seven bless him, Good King Jon!”

*

An old man, smoking a pipe, leaned forward on a barrel at the docks, surrounded by sailors with salt-crusted hair and weather skin. “He’s a dutiful King, his Grace is, praying weekly at them trees.”

“But not the Sept?” one asked as he passed, carrying a crate of vegetables.

The old man spat. “Don’t rightly care which of them gods he prays to, long as he keeps the peace and is a good man. The Gods are the Gods.”

*

“He dotes on the Princess and Prince! Can you believe it? The new king is still so kind to the old princess and her children! Even plays with them if Ser Lewyn is to be believed! How sweet!” A lady in fine silks gushed in front of her friends, all ladies from the Keep, as they promenaded around the nicer areas around the Sept of Baelor.

“He’ll make a wonderful father one day,” sighed the other girl.

The first giggled. “He’d have to find himself a Queen. Fancy the job, Alyce?”

*

“He trains with the squires in the yard!” one young boy whispered excitedly to the others playing on the cobblestones. He shook the die in his hand and let them fly. “Teaches them well and offers them pointers and tips.”

“Claim they want to be just like King Jon when they grow up,” another boy added, nodding.

“Already pledging to his Kingsguard, eh?” an older man asked, leaning over the boys playing. “Can’t say I blame any of yeh – with a king like him, I’d do the same, too!”

*

“He’s just so handsome!” gushed one lady.

“And kind!” added a blonde.

“And eloquent!” simpered a brunette.

The first fanned herself with a hand. “Have you seen his muscles? Oh, I’m going to swoon.”

“And those eyes – Darla, I think I might die if he looks at me!” the blonde sighed, teetering on the spot. The girls all shrieked with laughter that descended into giggles.

*

“Went to read to the orphans in Flea Bottom the other week with ‘is sister, the elder Stark girl,” a man in the pub whispered.

The other man across from him gasped. “Not that wild one that ran off with Rhaegar?”

“No, no, the one kissed by fire – Princess Sansa.”

“She’s no princess, just a lady!” The second man had rolled his eyes.

 “She’s as good as, ‘is sister. And so kind and good with the people. Another Queen Alysanne, I reckon she could be.”

 There was a contemplative silence between the two for a moment, and then the second tentatively asked, “But she won’t marry him, will she? I’ve enough of dragons marrying dragons.”

 “Gods, no!” the first laughed, putting down his ale. “There’s rumours in the Keep ‘e’s looking at making ‘er a match, and ‘onouring Lord Stark’s previous ones with ‘is children.”

 “Guess Lord Baratheon’s going to get a dragon’s sloppy seconds…” the second snickered.

*

The worst was when he used the secret passages to enter the Red Keep and heard the people he grew up alongside speaking of this new Targaryen. A guard and a kitchen maid passed by, completely missing him in the dark.

“The old Queen dotes on him, have you heard?” the maid whispered, leaning forward and fluttering her eyelashes at the guard.

“No! Queen Rhaella?”

“Are there any other Queens, you dolt?”

“But how does she like the new King?” the guard asked, frowning.

“Took him under her dragon wing, so to speak. Threw all her weight behind him.”

“By the Seven! She must really have wanted the Mad King dead, then.”

They both laughed.

“And probably get her hands on a sane prince she could crown king,” laughed the maid.

“Don’t blame her with that, given how the Silver Prince went all crazy, kidnapping that Lord’s daughter,” commented the guard candidly.

The maid sniggered. “Can you imagine? Being such a disappointment that your own mother prefers a random Blackfyre over you?”

*

Gods, thought Rhaegar in annoyance, Does everyone like this Jon fellow? What else has he got going for him? Does he shit sunshine and spew unicorns?

*

“—Has a direwolf! Can you believe it?” gasped a girl on the street, running by with her friends.

“A what now?” shouted a man at a cabbage stall.

“A direwolf! A legendary beast from the North! Just like all the other Starks in the Red Keep!” one of the children screamed, running by toward the Keep, as though the man himself was going to appear and give pony rides on his pet.

“That’s their sigil, ain’t it?” the man at the stall asked, turning to the fabric stall next to him.

“Yes – and the kings of old had them at their sides, those beasts.”

The cabbage man frowned. “So, he’s a Stark and a Targaryen?”

“A double king! A king of the First Men and the New! It’s a sign from the Gods themselves!” The fabric stall owner cried in delight.

“I’ll believe when he’s got a dragon, Meryl, you’re being daft. Cease your prattling. Those dyes have gone to your head.” The cabbage man stared at the fabric stall owner in such disappointment that the fabric stall owner hunched over, and neither spoke of the new king again.

Two weeks. He spent two weeks combing King’s Landing from Flea Bottom to the Red Keep and the Maidenvault, to the Sept of Baelor, to Visenya’s Hill, and all he heard was how good, how wonderful, how princely, the new Blackfyre king-to-be was.

The people were calling him a King already and he had yet to be crowned!

Rhaegar gnashed his teeth together and drew his hood lower over his brow to hide his distinct silver hair. It seemed like he was entirely forgotten! All the work he had done for the people – the coin he gave out, the lords he courted, and the ladies he serenaded with his songs. The newest thing in King’s Landing appeared and he was yesterday’s trash.

How could it have gone so wrong?

Where did he go so wrong? Surely Elia was in his corner – there had been little talk of her, despite the clench his heart gave when he heard about the Blackfyre being around his children.

Rhaenys. Aegon. Gods, he needed them. And he needed Lyanna Stark. Those men had mentioned Baratheon – his cousin. Had something happened to Lyanna at the Tower? He needed his Visenya.

“I must return to her,” he whispered, hands shaking.

“You say somethin’ mate?” loudly belched a man ambling past him, turning to look curiously.

Rhaegar pressed his lips together and shook his head, quickly hurrying past the man. He had left his horse with Jon, and now he knew his next move: back to Dorne and his faithful Kingsguard. There was nothing he could do now or here against this Blackfyre, not with the support he had. He would return though and show them all how wrong they were.

He would.

Much to his surprise, Rhaegar spotted two familiar men in white cloaks – barely managing to hide them, too – south of the Roseroad. He drew his horse up sharply, staring at Oswell and Arthur as they cantered their horses and then drew to a stop near him.

Rhaegar’s eyes flitted between the two. “Where’s Lyanna?”

Oswell and Arthur shared a pained look. Finally, Arthur said, his face carved from granite, “She was taken.”

Rhaegar’s heart dropped near his stomach. “How? When? By whom?”

“She was spirited away a few days after you had left, my Prince,” began Arthur, something off in his tone, in the stiff way he held himself on the horse. “By a girl who looked like her.”

Oswell snorted. “Girl, ha! It was a faceless man, I’d swear it.”

“How?” Rhaegar tried hard not to wail or bring his hands up to clutch at his hair. Instead, he clenched them hard against the reins. “How could a faceless man find us and then spirit my ladylove?”

Oswell glanced at Arthur, looking to see if he’d speak. Rhaegar turned to his best friend, his closest confidante, and waited. Arthur’s eyes flickered up at Rhaegar and then away, his jaw tightening. “I don’t want to speak about it.”

“Ser Arthur!” snapped Rhaegar, frowning. Under him, his horse reacted to his growing annoyance and whinnied, digging at the ground and forcing Rhaegar to wheel his horse around. “How was she taken?”

“I don’t wish to speak of it, my Prince,” Arthur gritted out, sounding very pained.

“It really… it really wasn’t honourable,” Oswell tried to add, inching a bit closer to the two men.

Rhaegar spat out a swear, wheeling his horse around so the two Kingsguard could not see him. Thoughts furiously flew. Lyanna had only been a few days behind him! There was a good chance that his faceless man had snuck his Northern Queen of Love and Beauty right past him on the Roseroad and he didn’t even notice.

The words the two men spoke in King’s Landing took on a new meaning. His heart began to pound furiously in his chest. If he didn’t have his bride of ice – then what did it mean for him as the Prince…?

Rhaegar turned his horse to face his two most loyal men. “She is lost to me now. I cannot risk finding her in King’s Landing and taking her, not with the Blackfyre there.”

Oswell’s eyes bulged. “Blackfyre?”

Arthur’s frown deepened. “What do we do now, my Prince?”

Rhaegar’s eyes darted around, taking in the farmland on one side and the distant seat of house Merryweather, Longtable. The Kingswood was even further, but to the east, the mountains and…

“I must think on this,” announced Rhaegar grimly. “We must plan our next move carefully, sers. Let us retire to Summerhall.”

“Summerhall?” echoed Arthur carefully, even as Rhaegar nudged his horse and the two Kingsguard did the same to their steeds.

Rhaegar nodded, looking off into the distance. “Yes… there is someone there I must speak with… a certain lady who will not guide me wrong.”

TBC...

Chapter Text

The Road to Victory

WOLVES

Rhaella’s help in planning Jon’s coronation was invaluable, although Jon often wondered why the Queen was throwing herself so forcefully into Jon’s kingship. She was the one who decreed Jon as the king; she was the one who happily allowed her sons and grandchildren to be deposed; she was the one throwing her name and weight behind Jon’s legitimacy for the crown, despite not knowing his true surname or House allegiances.

Anyone with half a brain could tell that while he looked Stark, he was fireproof like the Targaryen dragons of old, from Valyria. But where did he come from? Who were his parents? Why had he been hidden for so long?

There was talk at court, from those familiar with the Targaryen family histories, of the Pact of Ice and Fire. Jon hadn’t heard it, but Arya had during her snooping: that Jon must be from Rhaenyra’s line. Was he kin to Jacaerys Velaryon and Sara Snow, given his Stark colours? Was he an unacknowledged child of Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince himself? Or perhaps he was from Aegon IV’s line – a bastard Blackfyre like Daemon? Perhaps he was from Daemon’s line – a bastard for a bastard; after all, no one found his body. He had numerous children and any of them could have borne a bastard in the North.

No one could come to an agreement, so the rumours flew hard and fast.

“It’s a good thing,” Sansa soothed when Jon went to her, days before his coronation.

“How?” he cried.

“Whichever way it comes about, the entire court is in agreement that you’re a descendant from a pure Targaryen line,” explained Sansa. “Whether it’s Rhaenyra and Daemon, or Jacaerys and Sara, or Aegon IV and his many mistresses – it shows you come from the same line that Aerys, Rhaella, and Rhaegar come from… just… distantly, potentially sideways. Since the split was around the Dance, it could even be argued that your family line had a better claim.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “I hate how people are hung up on a godsdamn throne.”

“It’s a symbol,” sighed Sansa, “Just like your ability to walk through fire. Like our direwolves. If you had a dragon—”

Jon groaned. “Let’s not, San.”

Sansa shut her mouth, but there was a gleam in her eyes that made Jon wary – was she planning on finding him a dragon egg? That would be so extra. And just like Sansa.

Damn her.

The look in his sister-cousin’s eyes was enough to keep Jon on edge for the next several days, and it fed into his nerves as he waited in an antechamber off the main hall in the Sept of Baelor, just hours before his coronation.

Rickard, Brandon, Ned, and Lyanna were not with him, as Rickard was trying to corral and keep his children from running off, especially with Brandon’s improved health meant he was taking longer and longer walks around King’s Landing. Of course, the two elder siblings were stuck to Lyanna’s side so that she wouldn’t try to escape and find Rhaegar.

Instead, Jon was joined by Arya and Sansa. Arya was lounging in a chair, legs thrown over the side as she absently tapped the flat end of a dagger against her thigh. Sansa hovered around Jon in front of a polished glass, where she was straightening his clothes and cloak buttons.

“I don’t think I can do this,” muttered Jon, sweating. “Is there a basin nearby? Gods, I think I’m going to vomit.”

Arya rolled her eyes. “It’s a bit late now to back out.”

“You’ll be fine,” said Sansa instead. She tugged on the tunic. “Think about what you’ll accomplish as the king. How you can use your power.”

Jon and Arya shared an amused look. “Of course, it’s Sansa who thinks of power.”

The redhead sniffed. “You have no appreciation for the finer manipulations in the game.”

“For shame,” joked Jon, trying to settle his stomach.

“Don’t worry,” added Arya from where she sat, “We’ll be here to make sure the power of being king doesn’t go to your head, Jon.” She sent him a toothy grin. “No succumbing to the Targaryen madness.”

“Well, now I’m worried about it,” he muttered. “Thanks.”

Sansa caught Arya’s teasing glint and asked, innocently, “Are you going to take a Targaryen name during your coronation, Jon? You never said.”

“What?” Jon sputtered, looking at Sansa and then Arya when she spoke up.

“Yes – what about Aegon, Jon?”

Jon sent Arya a dirty look. “There’s already one of those, that would be confusing.”

“Then perhaps Aemon?” asked Sansa, hiding a grin when she ducked her head to fiddle with Jon’s cuff.

Jon rolled his eyes. “I’d keep looking for the Maester at the Wall.”

“Daerion? Daemon?” prodded Arya, sitting up and swinging her legs down so her feet were on the floor.

“Do I look like a Daemon?” asked an aghast Jon, pointing at himself.

Sansa grinned. “You are technically a Blackfyre to these people…”

“Jaehaerys? Another good king?” suggested Arya. “It starts with a ‘J’, too… Easier to remember when spelling it with all those ‘ae’s. You just need to remember it’s double here.”

Jon glared. “Fuck you, Arya.”

This caused Arya to laugh loudly, rocking back in her seat. “Ooo, that’s definitely your Targaryen side coming out now, Jon! No thanks, I’m not interested in fucking my brother.”

Jon ground his teeth in annoyance, turning away from his little sister to look at his reflection in the glass.

“But really,” asked Sansa in a serious tone, her blue eyes focused on him. “Are you going to proclaim yourself as a Targaryen?”

Jon shrugged. “I still haven’t really decided… I am a Targaryen, we know that. But I’m also a Stark. And to some people out there, I’m a Blackfyre. I really don’t think my surname should matter.”

“I don’t think it does,” replied Arya loyally. “Rhaella’s already moved heaven and earth for Jon to be on the throne – Gods know she’s ready to be done with it since it brought her nothing but pain and she’s seeing this as an escape – and no one has really protested against Jon’s crowning.”

“Well…” Sansa trailed off, looking apologetically at Jon.

He groaned. “You don’t have to say it – I know –”

Eye gleaming with the interest in gossip she hadn't heard, Arya leaned forward. “Oh, do tell!”

“Jon Connington has loudly proclaimed his loyalty – his, erm, undying loyalty, that is – to Prince Rhaegar,” answered Sansa, biting her lip when her eyes glanced at Jon.

Arya frowned. “Isn’t Connington… well, there were rumours –”

“Aye,” rumbled Jon, reaching up to awkwardly rub at the bridge of his nose. “That’s the one you’re thinking of.”

“Oh.” Arya paused, and then let out an exaggerated, “Ooooooh – him!”

Nothing else further was said, despite the toothy grin and wiggling eyebrows Arya kept sending to Jon, who did his best to ignore her as Sansa resumed her fussing. A few minutes later, a Septon ducked his head into the room with a wide-eyed look and stuttered, “We’re ready, Your Grace.”

“Very well,” replied Jon. The Septon ducked back out, and Jon took the moment to turn to his sisters for one last look before everything changed.

He held out his arms and asked, “How do I look?”

Arya and Sansa exchanged a look. Then Sansa turned back to him and said, in a teary, wobbly voice, “Like Jon Snow.”

Feeling a lump in his throat, Jon cleared his throat and tried to answer, but his own voice was a bit thick. “Good.”

The coronation feast began tersely, with the court and nobles alike careful at how loud they laughed, how long their eyes lingered on Jon, sitting at the head table with Rhaella on one side and Sansa on the other.

Was this how his reign would be remembered? wondered Jon with a mental grimace. Brandon, several seats down on his right (Sansa, Arya, Rickard, then Brandon, with Lyanna and then Ned – despite the order, Lyanna needed to be bracketed to be kept track of, to the girl’s utter annoyance), must have caught something on Jon’s face when he leaned forward to speak to Ethan Glover, who had come up to the head table. Somehow, his uncle had known what was going through Jon’s mind and decided to do something about it. His chair made a loud scraping noise as he pushed it back, and it caught everyone’s attention. Once all eyes were on him, Jon witnessed his uncle in his element, the gregarious charmer that Ned briefly spoke of.

“Ladies, gentlemen, good sers, and our beautiful Princesses,” he began grandly, sweeping his nearly full goblet of wine around as he gestured to each as he spoke. He then looked at Jon, and mocked, “Oh, and our new King, I suppose. Him, too.”

There were some nervous titters, and Jon groaned loudly, making sure to exaggerate his eye roll so that it was caught by those watching.

“I know it’s not customary for the family to speak at such a momentous occasion, but I feel it only right to toast our new King,” the eldest Stark continued. Dutifully, everyone in the grand hall raised their own drinks for the toast. “Especially, as you know, I was a guest of our previous king. The accommodations have greatly improved.”

Arya, in the process of eating, choked loudly on her food.

“I would like to take the time to now speak of my cousin, who you all know now as King Jon the First,” said Brandon. He added, with a cheeky grin and wink, “Given the temperament of King Aerys, at least we know Jon’s moniker will never be ‘Jon the Worst.’”

Someone in the hall gave a startled, but loud laugh at that, and then promptly slammed their hand over their mouth to stop the loud noise.

Rickard stared at Brandon in horror.

Brandon turned to Jon. “Could you imagine, cousin? Bard’s all over would be singing: ‘Our king’s known as Jon the First / He’ll never be known as Jon the Worst / That title goes to Aerys, who’s now a ghost / A pox on that fiery king of Westeros!’”

Jon didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Beside him, Sansa was staring out at the crowd, desperately pretending Brandon didn’t exist as she daintily cut her meat into equal size morsels. On his other side, Rhaella’s mouth had curled up into a tiny smirk, but when Jon glanced at her, she quickly wiped it from her face and stared down at her plate.

“Since our good King Jon the First is such an amazing, wonderful man, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind embarrassing him with some stories of us growing up.”

The crowd seemed eager to learn more about their mysterious new king, some people already calling out support or cries of encouragement – not that Brandon needed it. Since Jon made no move to stop his uncle, Brandon seemed to also take that encouragement held his hands out to quiet the crowd.

“Yes, yes, I am sure you are all eager for these stories,” he soothed. “Like that time King Jon held off twenty Wildlings at once to rescue the fair lady Maege Mormont—”

Ned looked like he was going to be sick, and Elia, on Rhaella’s side, was watching Brandon with fascination, hanging onto his every word. Viserys, next to Elia, had a wide-eyed look to him at the head table. The six-year-old kept moving his violet eyes between Brandon’s lofty tale to Jon’s long-suffering face, as though he was wondering when Jon would leap to his feet and call for the Kingsguard to arrest Brandon or for a pyre to be built.

Of course, behind Jon, not that he could see, Lewyn and Jaime were struggling to keep straight faces. Only Barristan seemed to manage.

“—Our virginal King bravely fought off the advances of the Lyseni women in the pleasure house, for he only wished for a place to hide—”

“—The brave, daring, King Jon had merely his brains and a rock in which to fight off the mighty creatures of Sothoryos. His curious quest to Gogossos may have spelled his doom, but NAY! Our king is too smart, too strong, to be taken down by strange, otherworldly creatures—”

“—Escaped from Gogossos to Valyria, finding dragon eggs but having no wish to disturb his powerful ancestors and their final resting place—”

“—Learned the magics of our world from the shadowbinders in Asshai, barely escaping the priests and the priestesses with their terrible blood magic—”

“—Eaten by a whale in the Ibbenese Sea, only to burst through its belly, covered in blood and guts. But did he keep the spoils of his hunt? No, our king gave the whale oil and blubber to the Ibbenese for free, wishing nothing from them except passage on their ships back to Westeros…”

Brandon’s tale, over the top and beyond ludicrous, went on for the better part of an hour. By the time he was done, Jon’s face was red, and he had slouched so far down only his forehead was showing over the table’s edge. Arya was howling with laughter, tears running down her cheeks as she slapped at the tabletop, along with a good portion of the crowd, while the rest of the women were staring at Jon longingly, especially if they were unmarried.

“He’s doing you a favour,” murmured Rhaella, mirth in her voice.

“I’ll kill him,” swore Jon instead, barely moving his mouth - he clearly hoped that if he didn't move, if he was as still as a rock, people would forget he was at the head table.

Rhaella looked down at Jon, nearly on the floor under the table and hidden by the long bolts of cloth. “Really? What a shame. I had hoped he would elaborate for me further on your being born in a cabbage patch on the full moon during a snowstorm…”

“Rhaella!” whined Jon.

“Oh, get up, Jon, he’s done,” muttered Sansa, aimlessly kicking out with her slippered foot and catching Jon on the chin.

“Ow! Sansa!”

Despite that, he dutifully listened to Rhaella and Sansa and sat back properly in his seat, glancing over at Brandon who finished with a bow. He turned to Jon, a grin on his face and a warm flush, holding his goblet aloft.

“To our good King Jon, the First of his name!” cried Brandon jovially.

“To King Jon!” the crowd in the hall shouted back, toasting him.

Jon raised his goblet in return, standing to address his uncle. With a very dry look, he began, “Yes, thank you for that… highly elaborate and detailed – as well as fictitious – account of my life, Lord Brandon.” Jon paused, and for a moment, Brandon looked worried. “I do believe it was twenty-four Wildlings.”

The hall laughed, and Brandon’s face smoothed in relief, and the two shared a look. Jon then turned back to those who had seen him sworn in as the next King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.

“You’ll come to learn that I don’t make very long, flowery speeches,” he continued, “So, with that in mind: eat, drink, and enjoy!”

The crowd cheered their support and Jon sat. For a long moment, he basked in the cheerful setting, the knowledge that they had changed time, had kept people from dying, and Jon was able to save Westeros from a far greater danger.

He just needed everyone else to come aboard, now; and with that, he turned speculative eyes toward his grandfather – who knew they were from the future, who knew who they were, to some degree – and thought it’s time.

Jon called Rickard and Brandon to his private rooms in the royal wing the afternoon after the coronation feast. Rickard had some idea what it might be about but kept his face blank. Brandon was still coming off the massive hangover he had but was now walking in a straight line even if he squinted a lot and made sure to take a seat in a shadowy recess of the room, much to Jon and Sansa’s amusement.

Ned and Lyanna invited themselves along to the Stark family meeting, despite Jon’s wariness at including them in his plans; ultimately, Sansa convinced him that the more people he had backing him in different parts of Westeros, the easier it would be to unite the people.

Jon did his best to make the meeting feel informal, so he had abandoned his desk and instead met the Stark family in a room filled with lounge chaises, armchairs, and futons, to give the appearance of comfort and security over anything fastidious or formal. Despite that, Rickard gave a tiny bow upon entering, which Brandon barely managed to copy without losing his footing; Ned’s bow was deeper in respect, and Lyanna gave a tiny sketch of a curtsey that had Sansa’s mouth curl. Their direwolves followed behind – it seemed the mother direwolf had taken to Lyanna and was mothering her, physically nudging the girl, or standing between her and the door when Lyanna glanced longingly at it.

Nymeria, Lady, and Ghost all greeted their littermates and the wolves ended up a multicolour pile in a sunbeam near the balcony, with everyone watching them fondly as the father of the pups joined them while the mother sat by the door (with Lewyn on the other side).

“Now that we’re all here,” began Jon, “We can discuss a serious issue that the North will be facing.”

Rickard and Ned sat up straight at that, but the younger was the one who spoke. “What kind of issue? Have you heard of the Wildlings planning a massive attack?”

“It’s related.” Jon and Sansa shared a look while Arya remained where she was, near Brandon in the shadows of the room. Jon turned back to Rickard and Ned, on the same couch with Lyanna between them. With a solemn look, Jon said, “Winter is Coming, and we Starks know what that means.”

Brandon scoffed from where he was, slouched in his chair. “Winter is always coming.”

Jon stared hard at him. “Not this kind of winter.”

Slowly, Brandon flushed and eventually darted his eyes away.

“You’re… japing. Aren’t you?” asked Ned, eyes wide and face pale. “They’re not – the Others aren’t – they’re not real!”

Sansa shook her head. “It’s all true. They’re real. And slowly amassing their army of the undead, one free folk at a time, with each village they wipe out and then they move on to the next. Slowly, relentlessly.”

The Stark children turned as one to look at their father, but Rickard sighed and looked down, in confirmation. The lines on his face had deepened, and the grim look on his face lengthened his face. With the stress he experienced the last few months, Rickard Stark looked like he had aged decades; no longer a man of forty-seven. Even his dark hair had far more silver in it.

“They speak the truth, children. Winter is Coming, and we…” Rickard sighed again, mouth pulled tight. “We must prepare.”

For once, Lyanna was a wide-eyed girl thinking of something other than herself. “How?” she whispered, reaching out a hand to tightly clasp onto her father’s. Rickard calmly placed his other hand on top of theirs, holding tight to his daughter.

“Start planting more crops, for one,” began Sansa, who had run the numbers in Jon’s absence in their future and ran Winterfell. “Trade more with places that have longer summers and longer crop yields. Increase non-perishable storage. Make a deal with Dragonstone for dragonglass—”

“I’ve already spoken to Rhaella about it,” interrupted Jon calmly. “She’s agreed to the trade.”

“Oh.” Sansa paused and blinked. “Good.”

“The North is different to everyone else,” said Brandon heavily, leaning forward in his chair and holding his head in his hands. “Our bannermen will believe, or, even if they don’t, they’ll go along with it. But the Southerners?”

“I know,” agreed Jon. He looked very serious, kingly. “Which is why we need to convince the other kingdoms that we speak the truth of the matter.”

“How would you do that?” asked Ned.

Jon and Rickard shared a glance. The eldest Stark in the room cleared his throat uncomfortably, and as everyone looked at him, he said, “With what I had been planning. Marriage alliances.”

“But…! Marriage?” cried Lyanna, ripping her hand from her father’s. She stared at him, betrayed.

“Steffon Baratheon and Hoster Tully and I had been planning to ally our houses in marriage because with three Great Houses, plus Ned and Robert’s fostering in the Vale, it meant four of the seven kingdoms would have been one power bloc,” explained Rickard, and for the first time, all his children with him stared at him, as they had never seen their father before. “It was meant to help consolidate power behind Rhaegar when he, eventually, would call for a Great Council to vote Aerys off the throne.”

“Well, that turned out well!” spat Brandon. He waved a hand at Jon. “All that for nothing since our new king managed just fine without a marriage alliance!”

“Oh, that’s cute if you think Jon is getting out from a political marriage,” laughed Sansa. Jon made a face. “We’re bringing this up because we need to go through with those original terms. The more family that is married into the other kingdoms means the Starks have more control and can create a solid support base.”

“With no proof!”

Jon shook his head. “I can get the proof. I know where to find wights and who to speak to, to do that.”

Sansa and Arya shot Jon dirty looks. “No running off north of the wall again, Jon,” admonished Sansa, even going so far as to wag a finger at him. “You can leave it to Arya. She’ll contact the Night’s Watch and find Tormund.”

“Who’s Tormund?” whispered Lyanna to Ned.

“So, despite our cousin on the throne, I’m still going to have to marry that fish?” Brandon’s teeth were grinding.

Sansa and Arya shot the young man dirty looks. Jon, rightfully sensing things could go wrong, fast, interrupted. “Yes. Just like Lyanna will still marry Robert – if he still agrees, of course. She did run away with a married man.”

Lyanna sneered. “I am already married; I can’t marry someone else.”

“We can easily say you were married under duress.” There was something hard in Sansa’s voice when she spoke, quietly and confidently. It drew everyone’s attention to her as she stared at Lyanna. “We can also denounce the marriage because Rhaegar was already married, in the eyes of the Seven, and the High Septon hasn’t agreed to reinstate polygamy for the Targaryens.”

Lyanna’s thick swallow was audible in the quiet of the room.

“There are ways around your stupidity, Lyanna,” finished Sansa. “And if none of those work, I plan on throwing coin at enough people until it does.”

The only noise in the room was the ambient sounds from beyond, barely breaching the coziness of the inner royal apartments in the Red Keep: some distant shouts or clangs of armour, the background hum of a market crowd, the noises of servants moving around.

“Ignoring that you have issues against Robert Baratheon at this moment,” continued Arya blithely, “You’re not the only one getting married for the greater good of Westeros.”

While Lyanna remained scowling, and Brandon had turned a sickly green, Jon turned to Sansa, who merely looked resigned.

“San—”

“I know. I knew this was coming.” She sighed, bracing herself. “Who were you thinking?”

Jon swallowed. “Elia and I were talking – we both think Oberyn Martell…” he rushed to add: “But not for a year or so, so you can get to know one another.”

“Very well.”

“And Arya?” asked Rickard, carefully.

Jon and Arya shared a glance, and Jon knew he would have to say something so Sansa didn’t think he was playing favourites with his siblings. “We’ve already spoken. Arya’s going to be going on a long-term mission for me. Her… skillset… allows for her to travel, unhindered.”

“I have my eye on someone,” said Arya simply. “We’ll see if it works out.”

Jon cringed, not wanting to think about that.

“Benjen?” asked Brandon, bitterly.

“I believe he’s interested in joining the Night’s Watch?” asked Jon carefully, looking at the Stark siblings.

Rickard’s mouth turned into a frown. “If he is, he has not informed me.”

“Well, he can do that,” offered Jon, “Or he can marry into a house. He has a few more options than the rest of us.”

“And… and me?”

Everyone turned to the quiet, trembling voice. Ned sat, spine straight and still despite the pale quality to his face and the way he was breathing a bit quicker.

Jon’s eyes narrowed on his father. This was trickier: Jon, Sansa, and Arya had discussed Ned’s position numerous times and had failed to come up with a solution. It stemmed from the idea of whether there were any truths to the rumours of him and Ashara Dayne: if there were, marrying Ned into the Dayne house would mean that his concept of honour and family, especially toward the new King’s Stark heritage, would translate to him telling them if Arthur was making any moves with Rhaegar.

If the Ashara/Ned rumours were just that and in truth it was Brandon – well, the Reach needed Stark representation and he could marry into a house there. Janna Tyrell was a possibility, Sansa suggested; or Alysanne or Lynesse Hightower. Both families were already tied together through Mace Tyrell and Alerie Hightower, so it would bring the Reach into the Stark fold, easily (one just had to keep their eyes out for Olenna Tyrell).

The Stark children were all bitter and silent – despite Jon not answering Ned’s question – and Rickard was going to go along with whatever they suggested. But Jon, and Sansa and Arya, knew that they needed alliances, ties to all the other kingdoms to unite Westeros against the Others to beat back the Long Night.

“Just how do you know all this anyway?” grumbled Brandon. His eyes were lingering suspiciously on Jon. Unlike Ned, he hadn’t questioned the appearance of three new cousins, in the story that Rickard had concocted, and in the wake of Jon saving his life… but it was clear he was beginning to suspect something was up.

Jon looked around the room, a little bit lost in his expression as he tried to beat back the images of his life as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, the mutiny, the Great Ranging, and the horror-show that was Hardhome.

“I have seen it. I have lived it.”

The words were pulled from Jon. Brandon, chastised, lowered his eyes.

“So… that’s it then?” asked Ned, looking around the room after it fell into silence.

“Aye,” sighed Rickard. “Plans continue and now we have the King’s knowledge of what our true enemy is, and how we can prepare to fight them.”

Lyanna and Brandon still looked skeptical, but both seemed more pressed with their upcoming marriages than potentially mythical Others and the undead.

“As my family, I wanted to give you advanced notice,” stressed Jon, looking at them all to hold their eyes for a moment. “But from here on out, everything I do – it’s for the people of Westeros. I only wish to fight for the living, to give us all a chance. And for that, I need all of you.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” answered Ned immediately, and Rickard made his own noise of agreement. Lyanna and Brandon mumbled, but it was there.

Jon took it as it was – he knew those two would be the largest pains, but… they’d learn. Eventually… everyone would learn what they were up against, and either join and fight – or not, and would die. There were no other options, not if they wanted to win. And Jon wouldn’t let Bran’s sacrifice be in vain.

And if it was? Well, he’d find Bloodraven and beg him to send him back – or train him enough to send him back – and he’d do it all over again, until he got it right.

TBC...

Chapter Text

The Road to Victory

MAGIC

The days following Jon’s coronation ran together for the time-travelling Starks. Rhaella was officially stepping down now that there was a new Targaryen on the throne but continued to help Jon and Rickard in building Jon’s small council. Sansa participated, using the skills and knowledge she gained by watching Cersei and Littlefinger – utilizing it all to help Jon’s reign.

As much as Jon disliked him, Pycelle remained on the Small Council as their Grandmaester; at least the majority of those around him knew how to handle him and his loyalties. However, Sansa knew that Jon wanted him replaced.

Barristan Selmy was the Lord Commander of a diminished Kingsguard, with only Lewyn Martell and Jaime Lannister – although Jaime had still not officially given Jon his vows. When Sansa prompted Jon about this, all he had said was, “I have plans for him, and I need a contingency of him not being in the Kingsguard if I need to deal with Tywin.” Sansa, therefore, changed her plans accordingly.

Varys thought he was still the Master of Whisperers, but Arya was shadowing the man and ensuring he wasn’t continuing his plans with Illyrio Mopatis; apparently, one whisper from Arya to the man about his friend in Pentos and an aside from Jon about Varys’ youth and a certain wizard was enough to shake the Spider’s confidence. However, Jon kept Arya as his personal Whisperer, and with her abilities, Arya was more than capable of ensuring that nothing untoward came Jon’s way.

Two surprises that remained from Aerys’ Small Council were his Hand and the Master of Ships. Rossart had taken on some of the Hand duties for Aerys, but also because the previous Targaryen king had imprisoned Qarlton Chelsted. The man had overheard Aerys’ and Rossart’s plans for wildfire in King’s Landing and protested – had Rickard not shown up when he did to challenge Aerys, Chelsted would’ve been on the pyre soon enough. The man was shaken from his experiences and his stay in the dungeons, but seemed desirable to help Jon – if not, twitchy whenever the young King looked his way.  

The other surprise was the Master of Ships. In their other life, Sansa was sure the Velaryon family wasn’t as connected to the crown – either under Robert Baratheon or Joffrey or even Cersei – so Sansa hadn’t quite figured out what happened to Lucerys Velaryon. He probably died during the Rebellion, likely trying to smuggle Rhaella out of Dragonstone; whatever happened, the man seemed curious enough about Jon to participate and seemed to respect Rhaella’s decisions, so he remained on the Council – for now.

The Master of Laws was also required, the seat being vacant. Jon wanted some just and level-headed, but also someone with the ability to conduct mental gymnastics and was culturally sensitive to the various kingdoms and their individual hang-ups (trying to explain a law that was suitable for Dorne and the Riverlands without managing to insult the Vale wasn’t as easy as people thought). Jon was leaning on having a Northman take the role – potentially Jeor Mormont – so that he had representation from almost all the kingdoms on the Council. If not him, Jon Arryn was a good choice. They had time, so it wasn’t urgent.

They were missing a Master of Coins, but it seemed that Jon had some idea about that; in the meantime, Sansa was unofficially the Master of Coins, sharing the role with Rickard Stark. Rhaella had a seat at the table to help with the transition of power, and Jon welcomed Elia when she wished it (which was rare to never).

Jon was also considering adding more seats, such as Trade, Military, and, given his dubious religious upbringing, a seat for the High Septon, but he felt that might be contentious and problematic – as problematic as Cersei’s previously stupid decision to reinstate the Faith Militant. Again, a shelved idea, but one to bring up for debate later.

As it was, Jon and his Small Council were diligently working through the Aerys administrations’ previous laws and Iron Bank statements, looking for any issues or items that required clarification and Jon’s new stamp of approval going forward. He wanted to make changes to King’s Landing – particularly, the gods-awful stench from the poor sewage system – and was going to need a ridiculous amount of money to make those infrastructure changes to a city that only grew haphazardly outward instead of cleverly.

“What is the process involved for repelling laws?” asked Jon tiredly, hanging his head and holding it tightly, digging his fingers around his curls. He exhaled heavily, thinking of the legacy Aerys left in his more grotesque laws of burning people for the tiniest infractions.

“Short answer: you proclaim it,” Chelsted replied, his cheek’s nervous tick going as he looked at Jon and then away quickly. “Long answer: you propose the amendment, the Small Council debates its validity, we vote; if the vote passes, then it’s changed. If the vote doesn’t pass, then we debate some more until there is a consensus, which… could actually take a long time. Or the amendment is shelved.”

Jon let his head fall to the table and groaned. “Would it be terrible if I just wanted all of Aerys’ laws repelled?”

Rickard cleared his throat. “Not all of his laws were terrible, Jon.” He paused, remembering himself. “Erm. Your Grace.”

Grandmaester Pycelle nodded. “In his early days, he was a fair ruler. At least, for a few years.”

“Duskendale, Summerhall, they changed him,” added Barristan, a quiet authority given how he had been there for most of it.

Jon rolled back until he was sitting properly again. “Aye. Perhaps we should categorize the laws instead and then break them down? I know I want all trials and executions put on hold until we can properly review the charges.”

“An excellent and just idea, Your Grace,” agreed Velaryon, nodding sagely. His purple eyes were similar to the Targaryen heritage he shared but less purple and more blue; even his hair was more blond than white, and those differences were enough that Jon didn’t flinch any time he looked at the Master of Ships.

“Right,” sighed Jon, looking at the stack Pycelle and his grandfather had between them. “Let’s get started—”

A knock on the Small Council chamber doors had Jon pause, jerking his head around to face the door as a servant poked their head in.

“Pardon Your Grace,” the young man said, “But Prince Oberyn has arrived, and he has brought a – a man that he wishes you to meet before he goes to his sister.”

A welcome distraction! I’ll take it! thought Jon eagerly. He sat straight in his chair and looked around the Small Council, catching everyone’s eyes. “My pardons, my Lords, sister,” he finished, glancing at Sansa, “But I wished to speak to Prince Oberyn as soon as he arrived from Dorne. Shall we reconvene tomorrow?”

Velaryon, Chelsted, Pycelle, and Varys all agreed easily enough; his grandfather was happy to wander off to find Brandon and Ned, and by extension, Lyanna; neither Rhaella nor Elia had joined him that day (lucky them, considering the Small Council’s agenda for the day) and Arya was off in King’s Landing being Arya-the-Faceless-Wonder.

Barristan remained in the room, and the servant ushered in Oberyn and his guest with Lewyn Martell behind him. When Ser Lewyn went to leave, Jon waved his hand and instructed, “Come join us, Ser – I’m certain you haven’t seen your nephew in some time, and you can both visit Elia once we’ve had our introductions.”

Surprise, and pleasure, flashed across Lewyn’s face – shared by Oberyn himself, briefly – and he nodded. Although he remained standing, Jon gestured to Oberyn to take a seat. The other man did so, and the same servant who spoke earlier rushed in with bread and salt, as well as a carafe of wine.

Jon presented the plate – a look of further surprise on Oberyn’s face – and offered, “Wine, Prince Oberyn? As for guest rights – I realize that as a King, I have no need to do this, but I was raised in the North and it is considered an important step in greeting your guests. I won’t deviate from that.”

Something flashed in Oberyn’s dark eyes, so like Elia’s, but he nodded, took the bread and salt offer, and then leaned back in his seat with the casual confidence of a man ready to spring up at a moment’s notice even as he swirled the dark Dornish red wine around in his goblet.

The man with him ate off the same plate, looking at Jon curiously as he waited for an introduction.

“My sister is well?” asked Oberyn abruptly.

“Aye, as far as I know for today,” answered Jon. “Probably has Ser Jaime as a babysitter for Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon.”

Oberyn’s eyes narrowed. “They are no longer royalty.”

“They certainly are in Dorne’s eyes, and I am not one to change that,” retorted Jon quickly. I see how this is going – you’re trying to push me to see when I snap.

“But they are hostages,” spat Oberyn.

Jon shook his head. “Not at all. Elia and I discussed her return to Dorne extensively, and both decided her having a full escort home would make her feel safer.”

Oberyn stared incomprehensibly at Jon, before slowly turning to face Lewyn, who nodded, once. Oberyn turned back to Jon, blinking. “She’s – the children – they’re not…?”

Jon leaned forward in his seat, across the table toward Oberyn, and said, gently, “I’m not that kind of man, Prince Oberyn. Princess Elia has been a wonderful, kind friend who has helped me understand the royal court. While I would love for her to remain to help me, I know the pain of being separated from my sister.”

He glanced at Sansa, sitting near him, quietly observing. She caught his eyes, flashing him a tight, but affectionate smile. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch her, ensure that she was there and safe. Oberyn’s sharp eyes did not miss the interaction.

“I would much rather Princess Elia be happy than helpful. And that means Dorne for her,” finished Jon firmly when he faced Oberyn again.

The Dornish prince exhaled loudly, sitting back in his seat as he stared at Jon. “I do not understand you,” he muttered, “But I think that I like you.”

“Erm. Thank you?” Jon wondered how long that was going to last before Elia told him he was also summoned to King’s Landing to meet Sansa and potentially marry her for an alliance. Jon deliberately did not look at Sansa this time.

Oberyn turned to the man he brought with him. “Your Grace, may I present Maester Marwyn, from the Citadel? He expressed interest in joining me and perhaps speaking to Your Grace. We’ve all heard… tales…” He finished with a rather expressive eyebrow wriggle and lecherous grin.

Jon grimaced. “Oh, Gods, please tell me you don’t mean the one with the harem of women from the Summer Isles. Brandon was far too invested in these stories he’s spun.”

Intrigued, Oberyn went, “Oh? No, that is a new one.”

“Fuck – no,” panicked Jon, eyes wide, “I didn’t mean to – it doesn’t exist – I swear –”

Sansa sighed, loudly, as if disappointed in him, and Barristan chuckled. “I think you dug yourself that one, Your Grace.”

Jon groaned loudly.

“The Prince meant surviving the fire, Your Grace,” interrupted Marwyn quietly, despite having the voice of a bullfrog: loud, deep, and rough. “At the Citadel, I studied the higher magics – I’ve always been fascinated by them.”

“Oh,” replied Jon. “Well, aye. I’d prefer to erm… not become an object of study… I’m sure you understand…?”

Marwyn suppressed a grin by pursing his lips together. “I had not wished to imply that, Your Grace. I merely hope to speak to you about the experience for my own records. The Targaryen family has access to some rather strange magical sets: Dragonriders, predominantly, but Daenys the Dreamer had prophetic visions, and there were a few contested and partial records that survived Valyria that they had some fire immunity, especially for those working with dragons.”

“It’s really nothing special,” sighed Jon. “It honestly feels like a warm tickling when it happens and didn’t happen most of my life until… circumstances changed.”

“Oh?”

Jon paused, wondering if admitting he died and was resurrected was something that he wanted people to know. Perhaps not yet.

“Another time,” he said instead with a smile. “You are welcome to King’s Landing, Maester Marwyn. We will find you somewhere to stay and you are welcome to the Royal Library, as well as pestering Grandmaester Pycelle.”

Lewyn coughed into his hand to hide a laugh.

“Sansa?” asked Jon, facing her.

She quirked a red eyebrow. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“Could you please kindly show Maester Marwyn to a room and then Prince Oberyn and Ser Lewyn to Princess Elia?”

Sending Jon a look that very specifically said I know what you’re doing, brother, Sansa refrained from speaking and stood from her seat at the table with the most perfect curtsey. “Of course, Your Grace.”

The two men stood and joined Lewyn and Sansa, who led them from the room and already engaging the men in conversation. At the door, Oberyn turned back to Jon, gave a tiny, mocking bow of his head, and then glanced at Sansa with a slightly appreciative grin.

Jon wanted to groan – or grind his teeth together, he wasn’t sure – but waited until he could not hear their voices before turning to Barristan. “Do you think he knows?”

Ser Barristan Selmy peered at Jon curiously. “Who knows what, Your Grace?”

Jon made a sharp gesture at the door. “Prince Oberyn. About Sansa.”

Barristan looked between the empty doorway and then back to Jon, a wry look on his face. “Undoubtedly, Your Grace.”

He gave in to the urge to groan. Ruling was hard.

Jon emulated what he knew from his father in his ruling of King’s Landing. Ned would often have a lord or lady, or household member, sit with him at the high table so that he could better understand his people or their issues. It was effective and it made people feel important and heard – it was also a reason why Ned Stark had managed the large expanse of the North as well as he had during his lifetime.

For an entire continent, Jon had to balance far more people. Without a queen, there was no queen’s court; his own king’s court was limited to family at the moment, and his kingsguard, which didn’t help the lords and ladies feel included. This was the first step in fixing that, as king.

Midday meals were affairs for Jon’s court, taking place in a long, sun-soaked room with shuttered doors thrown wide open to let in a warm breeze, driving out of the stuffiness of the throne room. As such, despite Jon sitting at a high table overlooking those feasting, others were moving from seat to seat, or standing by a buffet table, or lounging in chairs in the sun on a balcony patio. Everything was finger foods and light fare, with extras going first to the servants and staff of the castle and then anything remaining to be given out by the Septons to Flea Bottom – something both he and Sansa, with Elia and Rhaella’s strong support, had suggested.

For his first guest to join him at his table, Jon invited Marwyn. Oberyn remained with Elia, Lewyn, and his niece and nephew in their rooms; Arya had disappeared into the bowels of King’s Landing, as she often did, and his Stark family members were scattered throughout the room with Sansa at Lyanna’s elbow, deftly steering the conversation around her supposed ‘kidnapping.’

“Your Grace,” greeted Marwyn with a low dip of his chin.

“Maester Marwyn,” replied Jon, just as evenly. He perused the offerings laid out before him and settled on a devilled egg.

At his side, Ghost silently whined, paws batting at his thigh as he licked his chops and his red eyes darted between Jon’s hand and the plates on the table. Jon laughed, “Oh, alright,” and plucked a few deli meats from the table and dropped them into Ghost’s waiting mouth.

“Extraordinary,” breathed Marwyn. The man did not eat but had a goblet with him and sipped it as he stared at Ghost.

“That he is,” said Jon fondly, reaching down to ruffle the fur between Ghost’s ears. The direwolf panted happily, tongue lolling out.

“Well, yes, he is,” agreed Marwyn, “but I also meant your connection. He is mute, is he not?”

Jon glanced at the maester. “He is.”

“So, he cannot whine, or bark, to communicate?”

Jon nodded.

“Like I said: extraordinary,” repeated Marwyn, blinking at Ghost, who tilted his head as he peered back at the human. “To know what he needs or wants without verbal cues…”

“His body language helps,” offered Jon carefully. He did agree to answer Marwyn’s questions, but he didn’t want to give too much away.

“Is it different with the other wolves?” asked Marwyn, kneeling carefully before Ghost and tentatively reaching out to pet and move the giant puppy. Ghost allowed it, sitting patiently, although his red eyes kept flicking back to Jon and his hand, waiting for food.

“Other wolves?”

He looked up at Jon. “The Lady Sansa and Lady Arya, as well as your Stark cousins.”

Carefully, Jon said, “The bond between wolf and human is unique to each. What Ghost and I do is different to my sister’s or my cousin’s – but I would not go asking them to see their wolves.”

Marwyn nodded. “I understand, Your Grace.”

“What made you study magic, Marwyn?” asked Jon instead, hoping to change the subject.

“I have travelled far and wide, Your Grace, and the mysterious has always called to me,” the man explained happily, finally standing and taking a sip of his drink. “The unexplained, trying to be made explainable; the unknown, being brought into the light. I merely wish to know it all and have others share in such knowledge.”

Jon made a noise of interest.

“Many others at the Citadel think I am a heretic, though,” sighed Marwyn.

“Because of your interest in magic?” asked Jon.

The maester nodded. “They think it impure, and a folly to show interest in. It is not science to them – quantifiable.”

“Magic is just another form of science, one we don’t understand yet,” said Jon with a shrug. “Just because we don’t know what it is, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist or isn’t valid.”

Marwyn’s face lit up. “Quite true!”

Jon reached for another devilled egg, taking a tiny bite of it as Marwyn finally looked over the buffet, choosing a few meat tarts for himself. As he was selecting them, he continued to speak.

“In fact, I was close to giving up on magic and following my brothers,” admitted the man absently.

“Oh? What changed?” Jon reached for a meat tart himself.

“Well, a few moons ago, the glass candles at the Citadel lit up,” explained Marwyn.

Jon froze, eyes darting over to the man. “A few moons ago?”

Marwyn hummed. “Yes, about six? The night of the harvest moon.”

The meat tart dropped from Jon’s hand to the floor, eagerly snatched up by Ghost.

Six moons. The harvest moon. That’s when we – at Winterfell – Jon’s eyes dropped and saw that Ghost had eaten his lunch and was now staring at his hand. His tongue emerged and licked at his teeth.

Jon blinked. “Damnit, Ghost!”

They were walking the gardens, arm in arm, their uncle ahead of them with Rhaenys running around him in circles. Elia kept a keen eye on the children, aware that barely a year previous, King’s Landing had been a prison for her. At his side, Obara, sullen-eyed and ten, trailed silently behind her father and aunt while seven-year-old Nymeria kept darting forward, to point something out to her great-uncle, and then bounding back to her father, slipping her hand in his.

“I am glad you are here, brother dear,” murmured Elia, her grip tightening just so on his arm.

He covered her hand with his for a moment. “I am glad you are all safe. Doran will be pleased to hear, too.”

“Now, yes,” agreed Elia, eyes darting off to a grassy patch, where Sansa had spread a blanket, her sister Arya lying on her back. Sansa’s direwolf pup was playfully growling and tugging at a toy, yanking the slim woman forward while Arya’s was belly-up beside her mistress, tongue hanging out as she sunned herself.

Sansa’s laugh rang across the gardens, drawing Oberyn’s eyes.

Elia glanced at him again and said, “You know, Lady Sansa and I have much in common.”

“You? Oh?”

“She was held hostage, once,” admitted Elia, brows furrowed as they strolled along the gravel path, around the grassy patch. “Yet, unlike myself, she did not have a kind king come to right past wrongs.”

Oberyn’s own thick brows furrowed as he stared at Sansa. Then, he pointedly looked away. “I know what you’re doing.”

“I?” teased Elia.

Oberyn glared at his older sister. “I am in no need of a—”

Obara shrieked, causing all adults to immediately turn toward her. Oberyn’s heart was in his throat as he saw his daughter kneeling in the grass, her arms around Lady Sansa’s direwolf, while it licked her from chin to forehead.

“Wolfie!” shrieked Rhaenys, abandoning Lewyn, running toward the direwolf. Not wanting to be left out, Nymeria dashed forward as well.

Oberyn and Elia drew up beside Lewyn, who sighed in mock exasperation. “I’ve been abandoned. I am unloved. I am forgotten.”

“I think we all have,” muttered Oberyn, eyeing the wolf as it transferred its slobby attention to Rhaenys and then Nymeria, drenching his daughters and niece in dog drool. His nose already crinkled, thinking of the smell. “Is that safe?”

“It’s fine,” answered Lady Sansa instead of Lewyn, who bowed at her approach. “Lady won’t hurt them.”

“Lady?” echoed Oberyn, stepping forward. Elia’s hand fell from his arm. “You’ve named that fearsome beast ‘Lady’?!”

Sansa scowled. “Lady’s a wonderful companion, and terribly good with children. She wouldn’t even bare a single fang at them! She’s played ‘horsey’ numerous times with Princess Rhaenys without any issue. You should be thanking me for having Lady be your niece’s babysitter and playmate. The Keep can get lonely, you know!”

“I think the king also thanks Lady,” muttered Lewyn, behind Oberyn, causing Elia to hastily cough away her snickers, thinking how often Jon had been roped into playing with Rhaenys in those early days when Rhaella was still pulling most of the strings to ensure Jon’s rule over her two sons’. Oberyn, however, did not turn to demand what that meant, instead glowering at the redhead.

“That is a wolf, my lady—”

“Direwolf, my Prince, surely you’re not blind—”

“—and its teeth are already longer than my fingers—”

“—then it’s best you keep your paws from her mouth—”

“—and yet you deem your beast safe around my daughters when one bite could snap their necks—”

“Lady would never!” Sansa finished with a gasp of horror. “She’s a gentle pup!”

Sansa punctuated her end argument by throwing a hand toward her direwolf, forcing both her and Oberyn to turn and look at her wolf, lying on her belly with her head in Rhaenys’ lap, with the princess combing out her fur with her uncoordinated fingers; Nymeria was gleefully making a daisy chain crown for the wolf, and Obara brought armfuls of plucked flowers to girl to make another crown.

“I—” All wind left Oberyn. He instead cleared his throat and pulled at his Martell orange tunic, clenching his jaw. “Well. Anyway.”

He paused and then glanced at Sansa from the corner of his eyes, noticing the two enticing spots of colour on her fair skin and the angry purse to her lips. “Your Lady will not harm them, truly?”

Her blue eyes were as icy as her voice when she glanced at him. “Truly.”

“Nym on the other hand,” teased the dark-haired sister that looked eerily like Lyanna Stark as she strode up the four, yawning from her nap, “Now, she’ll bite and enjoy it.”

His Nymeria jerked her head up and asked, “Me?”

“No sweetling,” grinned Arya, catlike eyes looking from the young girl to the grass. “But if your name is ‘Nymeria’, things are going to become confusing quickly.”

“Why?” asked Oberyn, drawing the word out suspiciously and narrowing his eyes.

“Nymeria!” called the younger sister to the king, accompanying the call with a sharp whistle.

On the grass, the remaining wolf rolled from its back to its belly and perked up, ears straight before loping quickly toward the adults and passing by the three girls and Lady with shrieks of laughter from them. The wolf came to a stop next to Arya’s thigh, barely having to look up at her given Arya’s diminutive size. She was panting happily, and her long, fluffy tail was wagging back and forth, kicking up dirt.

 The girls had wandered over with Lady behind them, huffing in displeasure at no longer being pampered.

“Nymeria,” began Arya, although who knew which she was actually addressing initially, “Meet Nymeria.”

Oberyn’s youngest daughter’s mouth dropped open, and her eyes went round as she looked between Arya and her direwolf. Nymeria the direwolf gave a tiny yip, and Nymeria the girl’s eyes lit up.

“You named her after a Rhoynish princess?” gasped Nymeria in pleasure, glancing only once at her father for permission to run her hand down Nymeria’s soft fur. The direwolf panted happily and Lady grumbled at her sister’s side, although a sharp glance from Sansa stopped any further noises.

“And warrior,” added Arya pleasantly, rocking on her heels a bit.

“That was the part that appealed to Arya,” said Sansa wryly to Elia, Oberyn, and Lewyn. “She saw something of herself or who she wanted to be in Princess Nymeria.”

Without further prompting, Arya withdrew a dagger and began a series of spins and flicks that looked impressive, but Sansa knew from Arya’s rants and ramblings were easy. Nymeria and Obara’s eyes went wide (or, wider, for Nymeria), and both girls gasped in pleasure when Arya finished with a flourish and a bow.

“Teach me teach me teach me!” babbled Nymeria, wandering closer to Arya once she stopped the dagger games.

Arya glanced at Oberyn. “If your father allows it.”

Oberyn peered at the smaller woman and dipped his chin. “I would never stop my daughters from learning.”

“And me, too?” asked Obara, piping up suddenly.

“If you’d like,” responded Arya with a grin. “My father allowed me to learn the Braavosi water dance. I can teach it to you, too, while you’re here.”

“Do you use daggers or water dance, Lady Sansa?” there was something challenging in Oberyn’s voice when he asked.

Sansa shook her head. “No… I have a… history, we shall call it, with knives, so I do not particularly like them.”

Arya chortled. “San’s weapons aren’t steel, but just as dangerous.”

Sansa fluttered her eyelashes toward her sister in thanks, a coy smile on her lips while Oberyn looked between the two sisters curiously.

“So, you do not mind girls learning to fight?” continued Oberyn.

“No…?” Sansa pursed her lips and tilted her head as she looked between Oberyn, his sister, and uncle. “Women learning to defend themselves is important.”

Elia nodded empathically.

Oberyn’s eyes narrowed. “All women, my Lady? Or just bastards?”

“’Ryn!” gasped Elia, a hand coming out to clutch at his arm. “You’re being rude to the king’s sister!”

“I thought they were cousins,” replied Oberyn mildly, his dark eyes still on Sansa.

“Same difference,” shrugged Arya, turning away and bringing Obara, Nymeria, and Rhaenys with her, her direwolf Nymeria trotting behind as they moved toward the grass and away from people.       

Sansa stared at Oberyn. “Are you trying to pick a fight with me, Prince Oberyn?”

“No…” he let the word drawl, trying to look innocent.

“Mmhmm,” she replied, narrowing her eyes on him. Sansa then wrenched her gaze from the tall Prince to his sister and uncle, giving them a curtsey. “I have other duties to attend to, Princess, Ser. My apologies, but I must take my leave now.”

“Goodbye, Lady Sansa,” murmured Elia with a tiny wriggle of her fingers; Lewyn bowed.

The three adults watched as she and Lady returned to the Red Keep, her skirts swishing about her legs. Once she was out of hearing range, Elia turned to Oberyn and smacked him, hard, on his arm.

“Ow, Lia!”

“Oh, shut it, you,” hissed Elia. “You know what you were doing!”

Oberyn reached up to rub at the spot, glowering. “I was just—”

“You were just baiting her! ‘Ryn!” Elia practically wailed his name. “Just be nice, will you? She’s not your enemy.”

“You want me to marry her,” protested Oberyn with a scowl. “I believe that makes her my enemy.”

Elia sighed and Lewyn chuckled. “You should give Lady Sansa a chance, nephew.”

Oberyn snorted. “The day it snows in Dorne, I’ll give her a chance.”

“Just… try, ‘Ryn,” pleaded Elia. “Honestly, we’re very alike and you like me?”

“You’re my sister, of course, I like you—”

“Sansa is sweet and kind,” continued Elia, talking over him. “And she… she understands me and what happened to me here when Aerys was king. Not many people do.” She cast her eyes down and both Oberyn and Lewyn crowded closer in concern.

Oberyn finally sighed, shoulders falling. “I’ll… I will try, Lia. But only try.”

“Oh, Oberyn!” pleased, Elia threw her arms around his shoulders and hugged him, leaving Oberyn standing there, a forlorn expression on his face.

A few weeks later, on a very nondescript day, Marwyn accosted Jon.

Well – he didn’t so much accost as cough to announce his presence after requesting a formal meeting and met Jon on his way to the throne room to hear petitions that morning. But, in retrospect of what happened, Jon would forever state that the maester had accosted him, godsdamnit, and he was sticking to that story.

Marwyn began, after his cough, with: “Erm, your grace? Do you have a moment in which I can bother you for your time?”

Jon shared a look with Lewyn and Barristan, who were with him. Both were equally confused – Marwyn had remained out of the way since that one lunch they had, respecting Jon’s request about not turning him into a specimen for the man to study and had even taken the time to get to know Ghost without being pushy – so having the man come up for a request was strange.

Stranger still, first thing in the morning…

Hesitantly, Jon hedged, “Aye…”

Marwyn’s shoulders fell in relief, and he sighed, eyes partially closed. Jon felt dread begin to creep up his spine and a sour taste grow in his mouth.

“I need you to come to the Godswood,” said Marwyn, apologetically. Jon stared, and Marwyn prompted, in a quiet voice, “please. Your Grace - I would not ask if this were not important.”

Jon’s teeth ground together, and for a moment, he was transported to another place and time and found himself absently wondering when did I turn into Stannis Baratheon? But then Marwyn interrupted his thoughts, one last time.

“There’s something I think you need to see…” The man gulped and added, “And you might wish to ask for your sisters to join us.”

Jon stared a bit longer and then gave a long-suffering sigh. He turned to Lewyn, who caught what Jon was non-verbally asking and gave a tiny bow before taking off down the corridor.

“Lead the way, Marwyn,” muttered Jon, with Barristan falling into step just at his elbow, so close that he could feel the man’s cloak snap at his calf when they turned a corner.

Sansa appeared with Elia, Oberyn, and Jaime trailing behind; Arya was leaning, arms crossed, against a column by an overhanging roof that led to the gardens, and beyond that, the Godswood in King’s Landing.

“What’s this you needed us for?” asked Arya, pitching her voice to carry to the group as they converged and merged. “Ser Lewyn was saying something about Marwyn and the Godswood.”

“He says it’s urgent,” muttered Jon when he approached his little sister.

Arya’s grey eyes skipped to the maester, who nodded, and beckoned the group to follow him.

With a long-suffering sigh, Jon followed first, with Barristan and Lewyn taking up point behind him. As they walked, following first a gravel path and then moving to grass, he could hear the comments from those walking behind and their thoughts.

“Isn’t the Godswoods where you Northerners pray?” asked Oberyn, walking with Sansa’s hand delicately placed on his arm. The two still seemed uncomfortable around one another, but they were talking and sometimes even seeking one another out; Arya had informed Jon that she was teaching Oberyn’s daughters and Rhaenys to throw daggers, which meant Oberyn had more time to spend to get to know Sansa, and Elia and Lewyn (along with an unimpressed Jaime) conspired to keep him from the brothels and busy waiting on his sister’s demands, which often coincided with things Sansa also needed or where she would just happen to be. Jon never knew matchmaking was such a brilliant skill for Arya and Elia to possess, but he was grateful they had yet to turn their attention on him. Poor Sansa.

“It’s like our version of a Sept, yes,” answered Sansa.

“Then why would we need to see it so urgently?”

“I’m not certain–”

Arya interrupted Sansa’s explanation. “It’s not like it’s a true Godswood, anyway.”

“What makes something a true Godswood, Lady Arya?” asked Elia, curiously.

“A weirwood tree, for one,” answered Sansa for her sister. “With a face carved in it, by the Children of the Forest.”

“But they don’t exist anymore if they ever did,” countered Jaime with a mildly arrogant tone.

Arya and Sansa shared a look.

The group entered the Godswood, a manicured garden with bright flowers, bees buzzing as they flitted from one to another; trimmed bushes, and even a few stone benches placed around the large square of land. However, Marwyn led them from the garden, closer to the back where things became a bit more overgrown.

“What’s back there usually?” muttered Barristan to Lewyn, who frowned.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been that far back in the gardens,” the other man replied, glancing at Elia. “Did Queen Rhaella or even Rhaegar ever mention this…?”

Elia shook her head, frowning.

“It’s this way, please,” urged Marwyn, glancing back. “I know – but please. I swear to the Father that this is important.”

Jon followed first, a stomp to his boots, although he was careful and delicate in holding back branches and plucking offending leaves from Arya when they pushed past a tall hedge, stepping into a dark clearing smelling of rotten leaves. All sound muted immediately as they stepped across the hedge barrier, and Sansa gasped.

Under his breath, Barristan swore. “By the Gods…!”

“The Old Gods,” corrected Arya breathlessly, eyes wide, staring up at the fully grown weirwood tree.

But Jon was staring hard not just at the tree, but at the grotesque face, elongated and stretched with a mouth in an open scream as the red sap dribbled down its closed eyes and from the mouth like drool.

“This… this wasn’t here—” sputtered Elia, eyes darting all over the strange space. “The garden was – but I was sure – there was no tree—”

“It is magic!” proclaimed Marwyn, eyes feverishly bright as he turned back to the large group that followed, spreading his arms wide. “Magic is returning to Westeros!”

Everyone stared at the man in silence.

Then, a loud caw interrupted them, and they all looked up at the branches between pointy red leaves at the raven perched just above the group, its beady eyes focused on Jon, Arya, and Sansa.

“Fuck,” said Jon, clenching his jaw.

“Ugh,” added Arya, wrinkling her nose. “Him.”

Sansa didn’t speak but tightened her grip on Oberyn’s arm, causing him to glance at her in concern.

“Caw!” the raven croaked, again.

“No,” replied Jon, fiercely. “And fuck you, too, while we’re at it, Rivers!”

Affronted, the raven ruffled its feather and gave an annoyed croak.

“Oh, you don’t get to take the moral high ground!” snapped back Jon, pointing a finger at the bird. When the raven made a shrill noise, Jon let loose a barrage of insults.

Concerned, Elia slid over to Sansa and murmured, “Sansa, dear, is the king… alright? Does he often shout abuses at birds?”

“Only that one,” replied Sansa grimly.

Arya, not helping the situation, was snickering, and badly hiding it behind her hands. Realizing she would get no help from her, Sansa called, “Jon, you’re certainly not helping yourself in establishing that you don’t have the Targaryen madness.”

Jon spun, hair dishevelled and eyes wide. “But San – it’s him!”

“I know, Jon, but—”

“But it’s fucking Rivers! After what he did to Bran—”

“Bran’s not here anymore, Jon—”

“Because he’s dead!”

The words Jon shouted echoed in the following silence. Jon and Sansa were staring at one another, and Arya’s snickers had abruptly stopped at the cry. Feeling like they were intruding – albeit confusingly – Elia, Oberyn, Marwyn and the kingsguard tried to slip back to give the siblings some privacy but they were all still uncomfortable voyeurs to the scene.

Jon’s chest heaved and he shot a final, loathful glare at the raven, who puffed its chest up in response. “And as far as I’m concerned, he killed him.”

“Bran would say he taught him to fly,” argued Sansa gently. “And without him – both of them,” she stressed, seeing Jon’s mouth open to argue more, “we wouldn’t be here. We wouldn’t have the opportunity to help people.”

“I don’t like it either, Jon,” added Arya quietly, stepping forward. “But it’s… it’s done now. Holding onto this won’t help us move forward.”

“I hate him,” declared Jon, although there was something broken in his voice. “I hate him – I hate him and what he did – to – to Bran, and what he failed to do when he hid away north of the wall—”

“I know, Jon,” Sansa shushed him, stepping a bit closer until the siblings were all within reaching range, and Sansa and Arya were pulled toward Jon in a tight hug as his shoulders heaved and he tried his best to keep his emotions contained.

The raven hopped from its branch to another, lower one on the weirwood tree, getting a better view to see the three Stark siblings. It meant hopping closer to Marwyn, who frowned up at it.

“I don’t know who you are,” the man said to the raven, who heard him and cocked its head in such a way that its beady eyes focused on the maester, “but you just angered a Targaryen and our king. If you can understand – which I think you can – then you should know what that means.”

The raven gave a low gurgle, drawing back from looking at Marwyn to peer at the Starks. Then, after a minute, it flapped its wing and flew up and out of the overgrown Godswood.

TBC…

Chapter Text

The Road to Victory

DRAGONS, pt 2

The guards let Rhaegar through, which he took as a good sign. There might be a Blackfyre usurper on the throne, but people were still in awe of him and knew who the true king was!

Arthur, Oswell, and Jonothor all stood behind him, their white cloaks snapping with the sharp moves they made, their armour gleaming and polished. They were a sight to be seen, for sure, and if Jon’s intel was correct, the Blackfyre usurper was going to be in the middle of petitions, in the throne room. Rhaegar would have an audience when he finally revealed the impostor for who and what he was – he was going to take back his rightful place as king, take back Lyanna, explain it all to Elia, and free her, his children, and his mother from the Blackfyre’s treachery.

One of the guards at the throne room doors goggled at the group as they approached, blinking, and nudging at his fellow guard with his elbow.

“What?” the other guard moaned, turning away from where he was peeking at the latest petition inside through a crack in the door. His fellow guard was still staring, and the man turned, only to squawk in surprise. “Prince Rhaegar?”

Rhaegar nodded, regally. “Please, open the doors. I am ready.”

The two guards shared a look before the first shrugged. “Alright…”

They each pulled a door open and Rhaegar strode through with his kingsguard at his back, and almost missed the second guard muttering, “It’s your funeral…”

What did he mean? thought Rhaegar with a mental frown. He immediately shook it off. No matter. I am here, I am ready –

“MY LORDS, MY LADIES, I HAVE RETURNED!” announced Rhaegar, his voicing pitching and echoing nicely in the cavernous chamber.

Everyone in the throne room turned to look at Rhaegar as he walked in, and he basked in the glow of their eyes. Lords, ladies, knights, smallfolk, and servants all stood ranged around the throne room, some in chairs and others standing near the edges. A herald stood closer to Rhaegar and the doors, to announce any petitioners and to keep the line, blinking in shock as Rhaegar chose to announce himself instead. He normally didn’t do flash – preferring his undercover persona and subtle whispers, but this time, even wanted everyone to see him, their prince, return triumphant.

At the other end of the entrance, the Blackfyre sat on a chair that was not the iron throne – in fact, that throne sat unoccupied to the side, completely dusty and unused – sitting upright and solemn-faced as he nodded along to the group of men standing in front of him. The petitioners all turned to face Rhaegar as well, scowls on their faces.

Ah-ha! The usurper is not handling petitions well. I have come at the right time, thought Rhaegar as a pleased shiver went through him. He strode forward, his steps echoing as he continued, loudly, “I HAVE COME HERE TO SEEK JUSTICE AS THE WRONGED PARTY, EAGER TO RETURN TO MY PROPER POSITION AS THE RULING TARGARYEN—”

“Yes, yes, alright, take your place at the end of the line, Lord Rhaegar,” interrupted the Blackfyre with an absent wave of his hand, completely dismissing Rhaegar. “But there’s a proper order to this, so you’ll need to go last.”

He then turned back to the men in front of him, one who nodded and began speaking again.

“—FOR I HAVE BEEN – burdened… with… glorious purpose…” Rhaegar trailed off. He looked around the throne room in confusion, but the court had mostly turned back to watch the other men and the usurper; the ones who still had their eyes on him were whispering behind their hands or fans, and some even smirked outright.

“I – what?” Rhaegar stopped striding forward and turned to look at Arthur. “Did that just–? What happened?”

Oswell was staring at the usurper; Jonothor was glaring, and Arthur was just as confused. “I am… not sure, my Prince.”

“My Prince!”

Rhaegar turned, nearly gasping in relief as Jon Connington broke from the edges of the crowd, hurrying toward them and wringing his freckled hands. There was practically an aura of nervous energy around Connington when he approached.  On his heels was Ser Myles Mooton, Rhaegar’s squire, a gangly teenager of eight-and-ten, and still pimply. His eyes were wide as he took in the sight of his prince and kingsguard.

“Jon,” greeted Rhaegar, “What’s going on?”

“It’s the king – uh, usurper,” the man hastily corrected, seeing Rhaegar’s heavy frown. “He’s hosting his petitions.”

“Yes, I can see that,” dripped dryly from Rhaegar’s mouth. “But why am I being forced to wait?”

Connington twitched. “It’s his policy, my Prince. He hears petitions every fortnight from midday to evening bell, on the seventh day of the week. He has rules about who can petition when, and uh – well, the small folk were here before you.”

Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed. “I see. Well. I cannot fault the usurper for that, I suppose. Very well, I shall wait.”

“But, my Prince, there’s something you should know–”

Rhaegar ignored Jon's sputtering, eyes intently focused on the Blackfyre and the petitioners at the front of the room. He didn’t have to wait long, as the group of men finished their petition and the king made his judgement, something they all ended up agreeing with, with much handshaking and bowing to the king as they backed away and left with a scribe to write down their information. Then, it was just the two men – one light-haired and the other dark – as they stared at each other from opposite ends of the throne room. The man stood from his chair and walked down the dais, stopping a few meters from him when Lewyn and Barristan made cautionary noises.

“I honestly didn’t think I’d ever meet you,” the Blackfyre said, sounding amused.

Affronted, Rhaegar frowned. “Did you think I would not come and fight for my birthright?”

“We’ve never met properly, have we?” the man continued with a strange smile on his face. He extended his arm, hand out. “I’m Jon.”

Rhaegar blinked. Was he—? Is he—? Introducing himself to me?

When the silence stretched on, Jon let his arm fall, and the strange smile on his face turned a bit bitter. “To the point, then, my Lord? What is your petition?”

Finding his feet, Rhaegar nodded. “Yes! My petition.” He scowled. “I am the rightful heir to the throne—”

“Your father gave it up when he accepted the deal given,” replied Jon, bored. “And I won against his champion. Three times. Three.”

Wrong-footed, Rhaegar paused. He opened his mouth, “You are not a Targaryen—”

“My father was, and my parents were married, therefore I am,” answered Jon, sounding even more bored now. “I just don’t proclaim it to all and sundry.”

A flush began to creep up Rhaegar’s neck. “You are holding my family hostage! I want them to go free!”

“I’m sorry, what?” Jon stared at Rhaegar.

“My mother, the Queen! And my wife, and children,” clarified Rhaegar, not like people didn’t know who he was talking about. “They go free.”

Jon turned to look at someone near him – a redhead who was staring just as perplexed at Rhaegar as the King had been, and a dark-haired, scowling woman.

Rhaegar’s heart leapt. Lyanna!

But then he realized that the fierce-looking Stark was not Rickard’s daughter, but someone who looked eerily like her; Lyanna was actually a few paces behind the redhead and lookalike, bookended by her two older brothers with her father standing behind her. She was staring at him, with wide, hopeful eyes and her mouth open in shock and awe. There were stars in her eyes and Rhaegar puffed his chest a bit.

The redhead shrugged. “I’m just as lost as you are.”

Jon turned back to Rhaegar. “My apologies, but I am awfully confused. Why do you think I’m holding your family hostage?”

“…because you are?” the answer came out more of a question than a firm statement, and Rhaegar winced. Behind him, Jon Connington emitted a low-pitched whine.

Jon frowned, turning again toward the redhead. She stepped out of the way, dragging the Lyanna lookalike with her, revealing the Starks and standing beside them, his mother with Viserys next to her, and Elia, Rhaenys, and Oberyn scowling at him at his sister’s elbow.

“Mother?” Rhaegar held out a hand toward her.

Rhaella raised a single, thin eyebrow in response.

“Rhaella?” asked Jon, drawing her attention. “Perhaps you could clarify for your son. Are you my hostage?”

Rhaella kept her eyes on Rhaegar even as she answered. “No, Your Grace. Neither Viserys nor I are hostages. In fact, we have plans to retire to Dragonstone with our retainers in a few moon’s turn.”

Rhaegar swallowed thickly, eyes turning to Elia. “Ellie, it’s fine, it’s safe, we can go—”

His wife scowled something fierce and crossed her arms. “Go? Go where? I’m returning to Dorne, myself, Rhaegar.”

“With – with—” his eyes dropped to Rhaenys, who stared up at her father and then stepped back to hide behind Elia’s skirt. His heart felt like it was being squeezed, beating furiously in his chest as it tried to compensate.

“Yes,” snapped Elia waspishly. “With my children. Mine. For they are certainly not yours after you abandoned us to chase after that—”

Jon cleared his throat, quickly cutting Elia off although she descended into Rhoynish mutters that he was sure was not complimentary toward Lyanna. “I’m afraid your information was wrong, Rhaegar. As you heard, I don’t have anyone here as a hostage.”

Rhaegar swung his gaze toward Jon Connington, who paled so much his freckles stood out in sharp relief on his cheeks. “My Prince, I tried to – that is, I wanted to—”

“But…” Rhaegar trailed off, something small in his voice as Connington’s eyes dropped to the floor. Around him, lords and ladies and knights and retainers watched eagerly. Once, these were his subjects, some even his friends. But now they refused to meet his eyes or shifted awkwardly in place as the silence drew out uncomfortably long.

Behind Jon, a few paces away, Lewyn and Barristan stood with their hands loose but resting on the hilts of their swords. Jaime Lannister stood further apart, closer to his father – Gods, Tywin is here, look at that arrogant smirk! – and to his sister and dwarf brother, but still dressed in the white cloak Arthur had given him when he was named to the kingsguard not even yet two years’ past.

“But – Ser Lewyn? Ser Barristan? How could you…?” Rhaegar trailed off, hurt. Neither replied, but Lewyn’s eyes skittered toward his niece, and Rhaegar knew he had lost the man the second he crowned Lyanna at Harrenhal. Jaime – well, he was young, and a Lannister. And the Blackfyre, Jon, was charming. But… Barristan? A man who stood for honour and duty?

But is not their duty to the king? he wondered, only to wince when another thought slid to the forefront and insidiously hissed in his ear: Did you not already break the kingsguard and shift their loyalty and force them to choose between you and your father?

“Listen, I can see this is upsetting you,” began Jon, carefully, hands out in a placating gesture. “Why don’t we take this to a receiving room, and you can speak with your mother about this—”

Something in the Blackfyre’s voice – the projected calm, the need to patronize – galled at Rhaegar and he threw his shoulders back, along with an arm as he gestured between himself, Elia, his mother and Viserys, hoping to reach them. One last appeal.

“Gods, Ellie – please – don’t you see!? Mother?!” pleaded Rhaegar. “We are Targaryens! We are the prophecy come again!” he paused, then added, “Erm… not how I thought… I mean, there were supposed to be two sisters and one brother, but—"

“What.” There was no question in Jon’s blank, hard stare. At his side, the redhead and Lyanna lookalike both presented him with matching scowls.

“The prophecy?” Rhaegar repeated, eyes wide and heart racing. Words spewed from him, quicker and quicker as he tried to get everyone to just understand, to just realize why this was important – why he was important –

“The dragons must have three heads; that’s why our sigil is what it is – the three-headed dragon, and the prophecy needs three, like Aegon and Visenya and Rhaenys… Elia, she, that is, she couldn’t… there wouldn’t be another child, not safely, and I needed another. Another woman. For my Visenya—for the prophec—”

“That was why you ran off?” gasped Elia, reeling back in shock and hurt.

“I was a fucking broodmare?!” screeched Lyanna at the same time, her eager anticipation and awe of Rhaegar bleeding quickly away at the revelation.

Startled, Rhaegar turned to both women, who stood near one another. Desperation began to bleed into his voice. “Ellie! Lyanna, my sweet winter rose, it was meant to be! Surely you understand! Three heads! The dragon must have three heads!”           

Elia’s face twisted into something unfamiliar, and Oberyn drew her to his side, murmuring against her temple, glaring hotly at him all the while. With a gasp and shudder, Elia begged, “I can’t – I can’t be here—take me to my rooms, ‘Ryn, please.”

Elia turned her back on Rhaegar, Rhaenys clutching at her hand as they turned to leave; Oberyn had only paused long enough to glance at Jon, who, with concern on his face, nodded back.

“Elia! Ellie, wait!”

Distraught, Rhaegar turned to Lyanna, but there was nothing kind in the young girl’s face as she snorted at him, tossing her head and her long, thick hair back over her shoulder in a deliberate flounce. Brandon and Ned, her protectors on either side, were both looking darkly at him with their chins dipped low and their eyes hooded. For once, Rhaegar could see how so many in the south considered the northerners savages with the wild looks on the Stark boys’ faces.

“Lya—” but she too turned from him; not leaving or presenting her back, but moving her eyes to avoid his and staring at the floor.

Rhaegar cast his gaze around the room, searching for anyone, someone. Mace Tyrell and his mother, the Queen of Thorns, were both staring at him, unabashed, although with various degrees of deviousness in their eyes, perhaps matched only by Mace’s two teenaged sons; the Hightowers turned from him; Jon Arryn’s face was cut from granite and disappointment; his cousin Robert looked gleeful and other familiar faces turned from his.

“Please,” whispered Rhaegar, his voice carrying in the silent throne room. When no one spoke up, he tried a different direction.

“There are three of us now,” he continued, finally looking at Jon, who met his eyes with pity. “Please. Me; you, Jon; and Viserys… we could be Aegon the Conqueror come again and save the realm, it’s coming, the darkness—”

Something flickered on Jon’s face, a frown pulling at his mouth.

Nearby, Rhaella muttered, “Rhaegar, stop speaking you foolish boy, that’s enough.”

“I –” Rhaegar’s nose tickled, and his eyes burned and gods he was four-and-twenty, not some green boy, he wasn’t going to cry, he wasn’t— blinking furiously, Rhaegar inhaled sharply. His heart felt like it was going to burst from his chest, and something churned, heavy, and sharp, in his stomach. But each look, smirk, whisper, cut through the room like a hot, sharp knife. Each cut whittled away at him, and something broke, shattered into a thousand shards of glittering shrapnel, each piece falling and making him bleed a little bit more until nothing was left. His hands were numb, and there was a bit of darkness stretching across his vision when Rhaegar drew himself up, his face hardening. “I demand trial by combat!”

Jon groaned. “Gods, not again…”

Glaring and through gritted teeth, Rhaegar spat, “Trial. By. Combat!”

“Really?” sighed Jon. He stared hard at Rhaegar and then said, “No.”

Rhaegar sputtered. “What?”

The people in the throne room collectively inhaled.

“No, I won’t fight you,” repeated Jon, his voice hard. “I have won this throne thrice over. I have demonstrated that I cannot be burnt by fire. I am more Targaryen than you, and I never even wanted to own the Targaryen name. No. There will be no fight, Rhaegar. It’s over. It’s done. Go to Dragonstone, live your life – a new one.”

Jon turned, presenting his back to the once-prince, and began walking away, back to the seat he was using for petitions. He passed between Lewyn and Barristan, and the two made to follow him back to the dais.

“What – how – how dare you,” sputtered Rhaegar, his voice rising shrilly. “I am the promised prince! I am to bring peace back to Westeros; I am to bring the light in the darkness! If the three-headed dragon cannot be found here, then I will make it so!”

With that spat out to the throne room, Rhaegar withdrew his sword from its sheath and pointed it at Jon’s back. “Fight me, Blackfyre! Fight me, godsdamnit!”

Jon paused, turning his head enough to hear Rhaegar speak but not to glance over his shoulder. Lewyn and Barristan both drew their own swords, a physical shield between Jon and Rhaegar.

“My Prince, don’t do this,” Arthur cautioned lowly, while Oswell muttered to Rhaegar, “This is folly and in the throne room of the Red Keep! My Prince, please!”

But Rhaegar didn’t hear a word they said, staring hatefully at Jon’s back.

Lewyn and Barristan were speaking to the Blackfyre – to Jon – as well, their voices so low that Rhaegar could not hear. But the rigid form of Jon’s back told him that he disliked the words, so it was no surprise that the usurper whirled around, grey eyes flinty, and announced, “I will fight you.”

At last! thought Rhaegar, biting back the smile on his face. He withdrew his sword.

Jon looked around with a furrow on his brows. “Here? Now?”

Rhaegar raised his pale eyebrows. “Scared, Your Grace?”

“Very well,” sighed Jon instead. There were some more mutters between him, Barristan, and Lewyn, and finally, Jaime Lannister strode forward and offered the king his sword. The dark-haired man nodded in thanks and turned to face Rhaegar, thoughtfully hefting the weight of the sword from hand to hand as he took the measure of the younger man’s blade.

He stood side faced, sword tip pointed down, staring at Rhaegar. “When you’re ready, Rhaegar.”

Rhaegar narrowed his eyes, desperately pulling up all of Arthur’s instructions, of Barristan’s and Gerold’s words of encouragement. He was always more of a lover than a fighter though – probably what got him into this mess, to begin with, he painfully admitted to himself as an aside – and for all he knew, Jon Blackfyre was a skilled warrior if he was able to kill Gerold Hightower.

I must be decisive. I must make the first move if I want this, thought Rhaegar, and with a cry, threw himself forward, his sword swinging parallel to the floor and toward Jon’s chest.

Jon took a step to the side and brought his own sword up, ably deflecting the steel. The two swords made a terribly loud clanging noise that echoed through the throne room, and people gasped.

Rhaegar frowned and rotated his wrists, bringing the sword down low and then up – Jon blocked it again, stepping back and to the side. There was a look on Jon’s face as he fought Rhaegar: solemn, still, with his eyes fixated on the prince. Panting, Rhaegar let out a cry and then swung his sword again: parry, riposte, parry, strike, counter – the swords rang as they hit, moving faster and faster and glinting off the afternoon light that streamed into the room and off the many candelabras at the edges of the crowds.

Each move Rhaegar made was perfect – he had the best instructors, of course – but several minutes in and he was panting, sweating heavily, and glaring at Jon, who looked unruffled and clean, still evenly watching him.

The two broke and Rhaegar gasped, “Why aren’t you fighting me?!”

Jon snorted. “I’m letting you do all the work, here.” He eyed Rhaegar, pityingly. “Aren’t you getting tired, Rhaegar?”

Enraged, Rhaegar let out a roar – a dragon’s roar – and launched forward, swinging his blade without care, or thought, back and forth, up and under. In any direction he could as he chased Jon across the space made in the middle of the throne room. Each strike, each hit vibrated his arms with the ferocity of his blows, and yet Jon would only let him chase the usurper around the room. Whenever they were too close to the crowd, Jon would engage, briefly shoving Rhaegar back or turning on his heel so that they were facing a new direction, but he rarely made any moves against him, remaining on the defence.

“Fight me!” panted Rhaegar, his blade hanging low and he, partially hunched. “Fight me, damn it!”

Something in Jon shifted, and Rhaegar blinked as the man barely changed his posture but everything about him suddenly screamed predator. Then, Jon attacked.

The first blow came from above and Rhaegar barely had time to block the downward strike; his arms ached, and the force of the hit made Rhaegar trip backward, blinking in shock.

The second attack came from the side, Jon alternating from the right and left, forcing Rhaegar to block, stumble backward or away, or if he were lucky, parry the attack. But his arms were hurting now, wrists tired from his tight grip on the hilt.

The worst part was that Jon’s expression never changed. His eyes remained the colour of Valyrian steel, dark and foreboding, unerringly focused on Rhaegar’s face. With each attack Rhaegar scrambled to avoid, the more unnerved he felt. He tried to get his bearing back, back into form like Arthur and Gerold taught him, but was so off-centre that the latest hit he took had him bend his knees, one touching the stone floor as he used his upper body weight to push back against the downward strike Jon made. But then Jon swung up from his hip, his sword slicing past Rhaegar’s tired defence, and the tip of his borrowed blade caught his face.

Searing pain, bright and hot, stretched from his cheek to his forehead and Rhaegar cried out as his vision went red with blood and dark as he shut his eye, his body trying to protect him.

Jon could have pressed the attack – he was well within his right – but he lowered his sword and stepped back and then Arthur was there, hands at his shoulders and pulling him back; Jonothor was trying to pull Rhaegar’s hand from his eye to assess the damage.

Blearily, through his good eye, Rhaegar watched Arthur spin toward the new king and begin to raise his sword – but Jon shook his head, eyes darting toward Rhaegar. In pain, and ashamed, Rhaegar lowered his gaze. Between his harsh pants and the blood pounding in his head, the throne room was silent; he was able to hear Jon’s voice as clearly as if he were speaking directly into his ears.

“You had the opportunity to live your life – to become something else – and you threw it away,” said Jon, his voice low and carefully modulated to hide any emotion. Rhaegar kept his head down, so he would not have to meet Jon’s icy stare. “I will not kill you, for your mother and brother’s sake. For your children’s. You are not the promised prince, Rhaegar Targaryen. You are not Azor Ahai—”

He snapped his head up at the familiar title, mouth dropping open as he stared at Jon, who had pressed his lips tightly together.

“And you never will be,” the new king spat, turning his back, and walking away from him, from Arthur and Jonothor, from the fight he won – again. A fourth time. What songs would they sing of Good King Jon now? wondered Rhaegar.

“Come, my Prince,” murmured Arthur, slinging one around his back, helping him stand. “We must leave.”

Jonothor was glaring at anyone and everything, his hand tight on his hilt as he took the lead, moving back to where Oswell stood nearer to the doors. As they drew even, Arthur nodded at Whent and said, “Protect our backs.”

“I –” Oswell’s mouth worked, and he finally croaked, “I… I cannot go… not like – not after…”

Arthur stared at Oswell, something hard settling on his face. Rhaegar, still in pain, grit his teeth and spat, “traitor.”

Oswell reeled back, hanging his head, but remained unmoving. He stood with his hands hanging by his side. Jon Connington's eyes darted between Rhaegar and the usur—the king, wringing his own hands but he stepped forward and made to do what Whent would not: guard Rhaegar's back. Myles made to step forward, but Rhaegar shook his head. Someone had to stay behind and pass them information, and Myles, although a man grown, was young. He should stay.

“Come,” muttered Jonothor, glaring around the room. “It’s not safe here.”

Where will it be safe, now? thought Rhaegar. There was nowhere, nothing left for him. How would the three-headed dragon, Azor Ahai, save Westeros now?

Later that evening, Arya and Sansa found Jon on a flat battlement, overlooking King’s Landing, and peering out toward the sea and the harbour far below them. There were only a few ships docked, as most had taken the tide out when they could and set off on their shipping lanes to the north, the south, the west coast, and the Free Cities.

One of those ships held Rhaegar, who smuggled abroad one captained by a loyal retainer. Varys was already utilizing his little birds to figure out who the captain was – and whether he was attached to an ennobled house or not. Jon would then have to decide how to handle the situation and the man's loyalty.

Behind him, Jon could hear Sansa step forward, although he knew Arya was with her – her steps were just silent.

“Was that wise, letting them go?” asked Arya, and Jon’s lips twitched into a tiny smile, however brief it was.

“Where else was he going to get support?” asked Jon in response, turning partially to see his siblings. “The only place he would be able to go was the Free Cities. He wasn’t going to retreat to Dragonstone to lick his wounds.”

“Are you not worried about another beggar king?” asked Sansa, something trembling in her voice.

Jon scoffed. “He’s no Viserys.”

Sansa scowled. “He can be just as dangerous.”

“He’s alone.”

“He has two kingsguard with him,” retorted Sansa, but her voice was quiet. “Jon. Don’t be stupid. You have support here, yes, and Rhaella has backed you along with most of the Lord Paramounts, but your reign is so new that it’s still unstable. You can’t let Rhaegar go. He’s a future liability.”

“He thinks he’s Azor Ahai,” countered Jon quietly. “He’s not – but he’ll have a part to play in the war to come.”

Arya let out an angry hiss between her teeth. “You’re willing to let him live because of that? He wasn’t needed in the other past—”

“We don’t know that Arya!” Jon whirled to stare at his siblings. “We lost, remember? What if he is needed? What if Arthur Dayne and Jonothor Darry are needed, too?”

“Are we basing the future and the Long Night on ‘what ifs’ now, Jon?” asked Sansa quietly.

“What else do we have but ‘what ifs’, San?” murmured Jon.

The three fell silent.

“He’s still dangerous on his own,” muttered Arya, crossing her arms.

Jon stifled a laugh. “Well, it’s a good thing I’ve got two intelligent ladies at my side; one who plays the game better than anyone else and another who has a wonderful spy network.”

“Flatterer,” muttered Arya, but there were two spots of high colour on her cheeks and Sansa merely preened.

Jon turned away from his sisters and looked back at the sea, now a churning dark black. There were hints and teases of pale green foam, and there was a rippled reflection of the moon on the Blackwater Bay. Jon’s hands gripped the edge of the stone of the battlement tightly, the knuckles turning white. For all that he spoke about, ‘what ifs’ and the wars to come – the Long Night, especially – Rhaegar was dangerous on his own. But, not necessarily for the reasons Sansa and Arya held about the man. Just how had he learned about Azor Ahai? What prophecy did he refer to when the dragon had three heads? Was it the same in their previous life? Where did he learn this? Jon needed to know – because to him, it felt like… not like destiny, but rather… contrived. The same what that Bran and the Three-Eyed Raven felt: created, for a specific purpose that someone set Rhaegar on to complete.

It made Jon uneasy.

He swallowed thickly, and with a strangled voice, he said: “Besides, Rhaegar knew about the prophecy. He knows about the Long Night. I must know what he knows.”

His grey eyes tripped over to Arya, mostly hidden in the dark, but he caught the familiar eyes with his meaningful look. She gave him a slow nod of acknowledgement, and Jon knew his message was received, even as Sansa looked between the two in concern.

He had to know what Rhaegar knew. Because if he did, then maybe – just maybe – he would know what was needed to win this time around, too.

TBC…

Chapter Text

The Road to Victory

PACK

“I’m sorry, what?” asked Jon, looking between Sansa and Oberyn with wide eyes.

Sansa tilted her head and repeated what she had said. “We want to get married. Soon. And we need your blessing if we’re going to get married in the Sept.”

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose. “Aye, that’s what I thought I heard.” He exhaled heavily through his nose, this time narrowing his eyes at Oberyn. “Is there a reason why you want to get married so soon, in comparison to the years we had agreed upon?”

Sansa and Oberyn shared a look – Gods, thought Jon, they were already communicating like they had been married for years! – before turning back to the king. Elia, on Jon’s other side, stifled a laugh at Oberyn when he clenched his jaw, as though bracing himself for a fight.

“Elia and Oberyn will be returning to Dorne shortly, Jon,” said Sansa instead, drawing Jon’s eyes back to her. “It makes no sense that I remain here. We’ve done what was needed to establish your council and seat, and things are running smoothly with gra—Lord Rickard and Lady Rhaella’s touch. You don’t need me.”

Jon frowned, standing from his chair in his private sitting room. “Sansa,” he murmured, reaching out and taking her hands in his. “You’re my sister. I will always need you in my life.”

Sansa gave Jon a wobbly smile in return.

He sighed. “Well… if this is something you both want, I’ll speak to Rhaella. She can speak to the High Septon.” He muttered, “It’s not like he’ll see me…”

Sansa gave a squeak of joy, flinging her arms around Jon’s neck in a tight hug that sent him off balance. He struggled against the deadweight of Sansa against him for a moment, and then hugged her back tightly.

Oberyn and Elia were having their own sibling moment, foreheads pressed against one another, their eyes closed with soft murmurs moving between them. When they drew apart, Elia grinned at Jon and cheekily stated, “Welcome to the family, Your Grace.”

“I’m honoured,” replied Jon, truthfully, and Elia’s grin turned into a genuine smile.

Oberyn agreed to a dual wedding ceremony, utterly smitten with Sansa, and happily going along with her request; they would marry at midday at the Sept of Baelor, enjoy a reception feast following it, and then when the sun went down, carefully chosen family and friends would leave the feast and travel to the Godswood between the Red Keep and the Maidenvault. When the sun disappeared, dipping below the horizon, Sansa and Oberyn would say their vows before the heart tree, and then sneak off while the rest of the guests returned to the feast.

The direwolves had not been allowed in the Sept, but they had been present at the feast and at the Godswood wedding, sending a howl up to the heavens after Oberyn had cloaked Sansa in the bright orange of the Martell’s for a second time.

Although there was the heavy spectre of their father, of Catelyn, Robb, Rickon, and Bran hanging amongst the time-travelling Starks, there was an opposite happiness in the teary shine to Rickard Stark’s eyes and the way his smile deepened the wrinkles around his eyes; Brandon’s cheers were exuberant, and of the two Stark sisters, Lyanna seemed to gravitate more to Sansa and appeared genuinely pleased for the marriage. Ned remained his solemn self, but he clapped and smiled at his Stark cousin’s cloaking and the way she honoured both faiths.

Elia represented the Martell’s, along with Oberyn’s children – but only Nymeria wore a dress; Obara had taken to wearing the same design and style as Arya, much to everyone’s amusement. As it was, Elia was happy to have Sansa in the family. The two had spent much time together, and even without directly referencing it, Sansa – who had once been a hostage in King’s Landing – knew Elia’s fears and terrors better than most.

However, both Sansa and Oberyn slipped away from their family with only Lady following them quietly. They could hear the distant instruments and voices of their wedding feast continuing without them, but it was a muted noise against the crickets and soft clank of armour from the patrolling City Guard.

Both had rooms in the royal apartments and decided to share Oberyn’s for their wedding night, although they hadn’t discussed things much past that. Lady settled herself in front of the main door, laying her head down on her paws and yawning while Oberyn guided Sansa through a door off to the side of the room, which led to his bed chambers.

He made toward a decanter of wine and began pouring it into two cups. He had his back to Sansa, concentrating on what he was doing and giving her time to prepare herself. “To fortify yourself, my lady?”

“You’re handsome enough and I’d rather like to remember my wedding night,” commented Sansa dryly.

The sound of clothing being removed, of ribbon rasping against metal, made Oberyn’s heart race and he grinned, cups in hands, as he turned. His grin slipped from his face and his grip tightened on the cups as he stared at his new wife.

Sansa had removed the laces from the eyelets of her dress, cloak discarded. Absently, she gathered her long hair in one hand and drew it over her shoulder, presenting her back to him. The back of the dress gapped open, and although she wore a shift underneath, it had a low back and displayed a range of crisscrossing silvery-white scars.

Unbidden, Oberyn placed the cups down and his hand was drawn to her back, tracing over the scars with a trembling touch. Sansa inhaled sharply. Her heavy dress fell to the floor in a soft whisper, leaving her in her shift.

His voice was low and gravelly when he muttered, “Who must I kill, my lady? A single name from you and he will be dead before sunrise, I swear.”

Sansa turned her head enough to peer at Oberyn over her shoulder. Her eyes locked on his – dark, stormy – and her lips curled into the tiniest of smirks. “He’s already dead.”

Oberyn’s brows furrowed, and his finger traced lower, catching on the remnants of bite marks, burns, and discoloured flesh. “Is there no one else I can take my anger out on? Surely, accomplices?”

Sansa shook her head, turning. Oberyn’s hand dropped from her back to her hip, and she stepped closer to him. There was a coy smile on her lips. She fiddled with the laces of his tunic, peering up at him from under her lashes. “Would you like to hear how he died?”

“Did he suffer?” murmured Oberyn, eyes focused intensely on Sansa as his other hand came to rest on her opposite hip. His thumb stroked, and she felt his heat through her thin undergarments.

“Oh, absolutely,” breathed Sansa.

“Was it quick or drawn out, my sweet?” murmured Oberyn, tilting his head down and grazing his lips against the shell of her ear.

Repressing a shiver, Sansa tilted her own head and whispered, “Painfully long and then dreadfully quick.”

Oberyn drew back long enough to peer in her eyes and say, “I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”

Sansa, in turn, chased after him, and his lips, dragging hers across a stubbly cheek and up to his own ear where she gently took his lobe between her teeth, nibbled and soothed it with her tongue. A hand slid up and around his neck, clutching at his thick hair.

“I fed him to his own dogs. I watched as he was slowly ripped apart and eaten by the very creatures that he used to terrorize others with,” she said, her breath hot against Oberyn. He shuddered and his hands clenched tight against her hips. “I would do it again, and again, and in my dreams, I take pleasure in it.”

Oberyn huffed a laugh against her lips. “Not quite as elegant as poison or for the wife of the Viper of Dorne.”

“I am a wolf,” replied Sansa, fluttering her eyelashes at him. “I was a wolf when this happened, despite the name I was forced to take.”

He grinned. “And yet, now you are both.”

“Both,” agreed Sansa, and Oberyn maneuvered her across the room to his bed, guiding her up and on it with ease and a heavy, heady look in his eyes.

As his hand dragged up her leg and thigh, Oberyn smiled at his new wife. “I had wondered why my sister wanted us to be matched.”

“But now?” gasped Sansa, arching her back as his hand went under her shift.

His grin was wicked. “I understand completely.”

Sansa offered an equally sharp grin and looped her arms around him, drawing him down to her. They didn’t speak much, after that.

Elia, her children, Oberyn, his children, and Sansa planned to leave for Dorne almost immediately following the wedding, so Jon was up early to see them off at the docks. He was torn between righteous brotherly anger at the besotted look on Oberyn’s face whenever he glanced at Sansa, and elated happiness for his sister at the equally soppy looks she sent him, indicating she might finally have a happy marriage.

Arya appeared from somewhere, smelling a bit like a pub and shit when she did, but Sansa ignored the smell and hugged her tightly, the two Stark girls muttering to one another as they embraced.

Elia had already said her goodbyes to Jon, after he finished prying Rhaenys off his leg, wailing about losing her wolf with huge tears rolling down her apple cheeks and a red face even as she was handed off to a wincing Dornish guard to take aboard their ship. Elia looked rather smug and amused at Jon’s discomfort, instead focusing on a curious Aegon as she walked up the plank to the deck. Obara and Nymeria followed her; Obara looked rather despondent and cast longing eyes back at Arya – and most likely, her sword, for more lessons.

Eventually, Jon’s new goodbrother lingered at his side. In this new time, there was only a year between them, and it struck Jon strange at how much he, Sansa, and Arya had already changed in the year they’d been in the past. He could only hope that this Oberyn would not meet the same fate as the man in their previous life.

Oberyn grimaced and glanced at Jon.

“What?” asked the king.

Oberyn’s grimace deepened, and he fidgeted. “Her scars…”

Jon’s mouth dropped into a heavy scowl and his hands clenched at his sides at the reminder. Oberyn was watching him carefully.

“Sansa said the man who did that to her is dead?” the Dornishman confirmed, tentatively.

Jon nodded, gritting his teeth. “They all are.”

Oberyn froze. “All?” His eyes flashed at Sansa, drawing back from her hug with Arya. Something ugly passed over his face for a moment. “Pity. To introduce them to my spear or poisons would’ve been a pleasure.”

Jon snorted. “I understand. I too wish I could’ve done more – they took much from us.”

“Oh?” the query was light-hearted, but the edge to Oberyn’s face made Jon sure the man was fishing for information that he could use later.

Do I give him something and mess with this time some more? wondered Jon, with a bit of dark amusement settling low in his stomach. He glanced at Oberyn and eventually said, “One killed our little brother in front of us, when I tried to rescue him.”

Oberyn frowned. “I thought you and Sansa were cousins, Your Grace?”

Jon waved his hand. “Same difference. Despite that, he hurt Sansa the most. As much as I would’ve liked to kill him, vengeance was hers to have.” He paused, eyeing Oberyn. “She told you how?”

Immediately, the dark look fled Oberyn’s face and goofy, lopsided grin appeared. His eyes turned up at the corners and the darkness that was in his eyes was banished. “Oh, yes.”

Gross, thought Jon, mentally gagging. He rolled his eyes, ignoring the man as Sansa sashayed over to them. Immediately, Oberyn drew her into his side, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“Ready to go, sweetling?” murmured Oberyn, looking down at Sansa with tenderness.

She peered up at her new husband, an equally sweet look on her face that Jon hadn’t seen in years – or, decades if one was technical – and for a brief moment, Jon’s heart clenched and ached. Then, it passed.

Sansa turned to Jon, stepping forward into his arms for a hug. Against her red hair, Jon breathed, “Be careful, be safe. Enjoy yourself. Never forget who you are: you are the queen in the north… my sister.”

They drew back the tiniest amount, enough that Jon could see Oberyn watching them fondly – or rather, Sansa fondly – even as Jon brought his hands up to frame Sansa’s cheeks, cupping her face. Jon drew back and tenderly pressed a kiss to her forehead.

Sansa caught his wrists with her own tiny hands. “I will not forget. You will write?”

“Often,” replied Jon with a grin. It was a bit of a struggle – he hadn’t been apart from Sansa for a lengthy amount of time since Dragonstone, and after everything they had experienced, he was loathed to let her leave his sight, even if they all knew they needed Jon’s reign to have secure alliances. “So often you will dread my ravens.”

“Never!” laughed Sansa, although it was wet. “Remember, the lone wolf dies—”

“—But the pack survives,” he finished for her. They shared a smile. “And we shall. Because the north remembers; winter is coming.”

Then she was out of his arms and then out of his reach, Oberyn gently leading her to their ship, Lady trotting obediently behind them, and scaring the living daylight out of an unsuspecting sailor who had to give a double look at the large direwolf, only to step on air and fall into the murky waters of Blackwater Bay.

From the distance, Jon saw Obara, Oberyn, and little Nymeria laughing at the man’s plight even as his fellow sailors tried to drag him out of the water. Sansa stood still at the rail, hand lifted in farewell as the ship cast off and began to manoeuvre away from the piers of Blackwater Bay.

Jon remained there, watching until the ship bound for Dorne became nothing more than a speck on the horizon.

Brandon was the next to be married, sallow-faced as a man facing the gallows instead of a bride at the end of his journey. Rickard left with Brandon, Ned, Lyanna, their direwolves (Bleddyn, Smudge, Blizzard, and Mari, respectively), Ethan Glover, and Arya to represent the crown; Jon remained in King’s Landing finishing up things with his Small Council and helping Rhaella with her preparation to return to Dragonstone, which was, theoretically, Sansa’s, until Jon married and had a male heir (although Sansa hadn’t cared much for the seat, Rhaella stopped pestering, and Viserys remained content as Lord of Dragonstone and no one would say differently).

It took them some time to reach the Riverlands, nearly a moon’s turn, and by the time Jon received Arya’s “we’ve arrived” letter, Brandon Stark was married to Catelyn Tully and the Starks were heading back to Winterfell; Rickard and Arya separated from the Starks at Darry to head south and return to King’s Landing.

It was the first time that Rickard was with Jon and Arya without his children around, and they were able to speak freely, to some degree, without them. So, upon their return, they had a family dinner (where the kingsguard was kindly dismissed for the night, although Jon was sure Barristan was still outside the door).

Once the food was consumed, Rickard looked down into his drink and asked, heavily, “How bad was it – the… well, them?”

Jon and Arya shared a look, and he finally said, “Every single Wildling north of the wall. For centuries. When we made our last stand – well, there were probably over a hundred thousand. It was hard to estimate.”

The wine sloshed over the rim as Rickard jerked. “A hundred thousand?”

“More,” corrected Arya gently. And Jon added, “There was probably ten thousand or more at Hardhome alone when he rose the dead there – and they were the survivors from elsewhere.”

“Gods,” breathed Rickard, setting down his wine. His hands were shaking. “To think – all those stories are true…”

“Nightmares,” replied Jon grimly. “And without dragonglass and Valyrian steel, the wights overwhelm anyone fighting them and the walkers themselves are near impossible to kill without great skill or great luck.”

“Rhaella said she’ll send the dragonglass,” pointed out Arya. “So, we can start a mining operation there and figuring out how to arm the men at the wall—” she broke off and then looked at Jon. “That is the plan, isn’t it?”

Jon nodded. “I need money for that, though – a lot of it. We’re going to increase trade and shipping and I’m going to fix King’s Landing up under the guise of redoing the sewage to find the wildfire. Then, I’m going to start supplying food and material to the wall to bolster their numbers and perhaps repair some of the other towers.”

“You’re going to help them kill our friends.” Arya’s mouth was a thin line. “People like Ygritte, Tormund, Mance.”

“Mance is barely a member of the watch at the wall right now,” argued Jon, but there was something resigned in his voice. “But yes… I might change too much and kill them.”

“Who are these people?” asked Rickard carefully, looking between his grandchildren.

“Mance Raydar was the last King Beyond the Wall, and a Night’s Watch deserter,” explained Jon heavily. “A good man though, as he recognized well before anyone the dangers that were moving and tried to band together the Free Folk to survive and make their way south of the wall.”

Rickard pulled his mouth down in a frown at the idea of the deserter, but a part of him recognized the dire straits that the man had been in later. “And Ygritte?”

Jon’s entire body slumped in his seat. “A woman… that I met on a ranging. I infiltrated the Free Folk to learn Mance’s plans. We, well… I loved her.”

“Oh.” Richard’s heart went out to the young man, seeing the despair in his eyes. She had died then – either turned into a wight, or some other way.

“Tormund ended up being one of Jon’s closest friends and a fighter during the Long Night,” explained Arya, drawing Rickard’s attention toward her and off Jon. “Huge man, they called him Tormund Giantsbane. Good man, too.”

Rickard nodded in understanding. “Then we will have to make sure that the Wall also understands what is to come, to prepare.”

Jon snorted. “They never gave a shit before, but sure, we can try.”

“Make it a condition of the goods,” suggested Rickard carefully, observing Jon’s defeated posture. “Or at least a strong suggestion to keep their eyes open.”

Jon shrugged, and the conversation was closed, leaving Rickard and Arya in silence, both trying to figure out what to say to chase the sombre mood from the room.

“We’ve got two decades, Jon,” said Arya, finally, quietly. “We can do a lot in that time.”

“The Wall and King’s Landing is a good start,” agreed Rickard, nodding along. “And so is the trade and shipping ideas. With the marriages of the Starks in the other houses, we can create stability across Westeros, too.” He gave a wry grin to the man. “In fact, I think you managed better than I with the plan to unite the kingdoms through marriage.”

“That’s because there are more of us now,” answered Jon with an eye roll.

“There were five of us originally,” pointed out Arya, using her fork to emphasize her point when she stabbed it in Jon’s direction, a piece of meat hanging off it. “Six, with you included. That’s one fewer than what we have now. It was entirely doable back then, as well.”

“Father would never have gone for it.”

“Mother would’ve been ecstatic.”

Jon choked back a cough. “Anything that made Lady Catelyn’s children marry into a great house and that kept me away from everyone else would’ve sent her in raptures.”

Rickard frowned. “Was Brandon’s bride really… that focused on southern alliances?”

Arya and Jon shared a look, and Jon carefully began to answer, “You did lay the groundwork for Southern policy in the North—”

“She hated Jon and let him know,” interrupted Arya. “Mother never forgave father for the slight of having a bastard remain in Winterfell – that we all understood Jon to be as, anyway, when growing up – and since Father never fostered Jon elsewhere, she took it out on him. She saw him as a threat to our older brother's rule.”

“It was neglect, nothing else,” argued Jon.

“It was enough, and it should never have happened,” snapped back Arya, a glower on her face. “How often were we told about the lone wolf? How often were we told to stick together? And yet, you were excluded.”

While the siblings debated the how’s and why’s in how Catelyn Tully treated Jon when they were children, Rickard found himself wondering what it meant with Brandon and his new bride, in comparison to Ned as the bridegroom. Ned was quieter, less stubborn, or willing to push back – Brandon, on the other hand, had the wolf’s blood: he was loud, brash, stubborn, and determined to take his own path in all things. Catelyn might not find a receptive husband or one that would bow to her demands.

Had he made a mistake? Rickard cringed. There was a good chance Brandon already had a bastard somewhere in the north – most likely the Rills or Barrowlands, since he spent so much time with Barbrey Ryswell and Willem Dustin – and if he didn’t have one now, there was a good chance he would in the future.

He was going to have to step in with his son and the new Lady Stark sooner than he had expected, he thought with a grimace, casting his grey eyes between Jon and Arya, who were now bickering good-naturedly about something else. He had wanted to stay longer, to help Jon, but… that wasn’t looking like an option.

Leaning back, Rickard decided he wouldn’t tell Jon of his decision to return north as soon as possible. Not tonight, anyway.

He told Jon when Rhaella was preparing to leave, having asked the previous Queen if he could join her on her ship to Dragonstone and then board another ship to White Harbour. Jon was blindsided but gave his blessing regardless of his personal feelings.

“It’s better this way,” said Rhaella, who asked Jon to not see her and Viserys off. Instead, they were saying their goodbye in the Red Keep, in a high-walled bailey. Her pale hair glowed under the spring sun, and the bags that had been under her tired eyes were now gone, giving Rhaella a tiny bounce in her step. She didn’t seem sad to be leaving, and Jon couldn’t blame her.

“There are things that need fixing,” she continued, her tone even. “At Dragonstone, and here, too. But that’s now your responsibility.”

“I’m sorry it came to this,” said Jon, although he wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for.

Rhaella’s thin lips quirked up into an approximation of a smile. “I made you king, Your Grace. I should be apologizing for the headaches to come.” Her smile faltered. “Besides… between Aerys and Rhaegar… they both were touched, in different ways. The Targaryen curse continues.” Her eyes cut toward him. “Hopefully it will break with you.”

“Me too,” muttered Jon, as Viserys plodded toward them, dragging his heels. Jon cleared his throat and spoke louder so that Viserys was included when he said, “You are both welcome to King’s Landing whenever you desire. The gates are not closed to you.”

“I think I’ve had enough, Your Grace, but I appreciate the offer.” Rhaella curtseyed and Viserys, stunned, beamed at Jon. 

“I can come back?” asked the seven-year-old Viserys, tilting his chin back to stare up at Jon in awe. “I’m not exiled?”

“Of course, you’re not,” said Jon. “And you may return to King’s Landing whenever you wish.”

The awe on his face was nearly transcendent. “Then I shall return in a few years and squire for you, Your Grace!”

“Erm—” Jon glanced at Rhaella, who smirked and then turned to address her son.

“Come along, Viserys, our boat will be leaving shortly,” she instructed.

Viserys nodded, but turned back to Jon, waiting for his response.

With a nearly inaudible sigh, Jon plastered a smile on his face. “I’ll see you in a few years, then, my Lord.”

Viserys whooped under his breath. They said their goodbyes, Viserys bravely patting Ghost on the head as he did so, and soon, they were gone.

Jon turned and wandered through the Red Keep. He had a Small Council meeting later that afternoon, after the midday meal, but for now, he wanted some time to think of everything that had happened – and what was yet to come.

Lewyn was his guard for the day, and silently trailed him but Jon never felt smothered, and when Jon reached a familiar tower, he asked the man to stay at the bottom while he looked out at King’s Landing. Ghost’s nails clacked on the circular stone steps as he rose, floor by floor until he reached the top and stepped out at the top of the flat turret.

Arya and Nymeria shortly appeared, somehow knowing what Jon needed. Both silently stare out toward King’s Landing.

“It’s so quiet,” murmured Jon. “It hasn’t been this quiet for some time.”

“It’ll be worse when I’m gone… are you sure you want me to go and—?”

“Yes, you’ll need to.” Jon sighed. “And you’re the only one I trust with this.”

Arya turned, leaning her back against the highest part of the wall, resting her elbows on the stone. She was peering up at him, a serious look on her face. “You’ll be fine on your own, Jon. You know that, right?”

Jon ripped his eyes from the sprawling mass that was King’s Landing. He smiled at Arya, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. Arya was astonished to see crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, and had a stray thought of when did Jon get so old?

“Aye, but… the lone wolf—”

“You’re not alone,” she interrupted sharply. “We’re all here. Just… a bit further than before. But Sansa and I are here to help you. Grandfather will help, and so will Brandon and Ned and Benjen and even that idiot, Lyanna, who I can finally move from ‘waste-of-space idiot’ to ‘that exasperated tart.’ They know what is coming, and what’s at stake. It won’t be like last time.”

Jon sighed, turning back to the city. “I hope so, Arya. I really, really hope so.”

Your Grace Jon,

I am writing to inform you that I have safely returned to Winterfell with Bleddyn – who is very happy to no longer be on board a ship – and that the Starks are doing well.

Brandon seems to be faring well as Lord of Winterfell in my stead to the point where I am hoping to make his appointment permanent, with your blessing, of course. He understands the North well and represents it when he meets with the other Lords. I was concerned upon hearing of your past, giving Brandon’s bride. She’s a sweet thing, eager to please. Sometimes too eager, I fear, and it causes some friction between her and Brandon – mostly miscommunications. She clings to her Southern beliefs and lessons as I believe she is still adjusting to Northern life. Hopefully, that will change soon.

Ned seems listless, constantly asking to return to the Eyrie and Jon Arryn. However, he is my son and not Jon’s, and I wish to keep him in the North and as Brandon’s man-at-arms for some time so that he may better appreciate what he missed being fostered elsewhere. Not for too long, though – he has informed me where his heart lies, and I do believe that you will be receptive to his potential future bride. I will write again once I receive a positive response from the bride’s family.

Lyanna… whatever Sansa said when they were together in King’s Landing has helped the girl. She seems a little more conscientious of her actions, a little more mindful of those around her. Softer around the edges without losing the wolfsblood, I think. Lord Baratheon remains firm in their betrothal, so that will still happen. However, I have taken Sansa’s advice (she wrote me a sennight past) and Lyanna will not marry until she’s eight-and-ten. With the new year past, that is only two more years, but perhaps enough for her to grow some more into the woman I know she will be. I will ask Lord Baratheon to perhaps visit and spend some time with her as well so that they get to know each other better.

Benjen has not spoken of the Night’s Watch, you will be interested to learn. I am not sure where this notion came from for you previously but instead seems eager to avoiding insert himself into his sibling’s lives. I believe he had something to do with Lyanna’s… disappearance… and feels guilty over what might have been, though he speaks not of it. He tends to jump to the worst thoughts first before anything else. I am hoping that Brandon – as the most gregarious of my children – will break him of that habit, and perhaps draw more of his personality out. I fear he felt neglected as the youngest son since my wife’s death. I hope to make him a match as well, with someone free-spirited, to draw him out of his shell. Have you any suggestions from your experience at court, Your Grace?

Lastly, the direwolves are settling in well. The people of Winterfell and Wintertown are ecstatic at the sight of our sigil bonded with the Starks, calling it a blessing from the Gods. Thank you, Jon. And thank Sansa and Arya from me as well. Ah – and speaking of the wolves… Bleddyn and Mari (Lyanna’s wolf), seemed to think Winterfell is too quiet, as they are now expecting another litter of direwolves pups in a few moon's turns. Perhaps this is a sign from the Gods themselves about what is to come? Should I expect to hear that you are to marry soon? That Sansa, or Catelyn, are expecting?

As a final parting – even though I am no longer in King’s Landing to help advise you: please know that I am only a raven away. If you need me, I will be on the next ship out at White Harbour. You are family, Jon – and together the pack is stronger. For we are a pack, always, no matter what kind of distance there is between us.

Yours faithfully,

Rickard Stark

Warden of the North, Lord of Winterfell

TBC…

Chapter Text

The Road to Victory

TO VICTORY

Jon had never met Tywin Lannister in their past life. Arya had, as had Sansa, and both had very interesting observations to share.

“He’s cunning and conniving and rules his family with an iron fist,” said Sansa.

“He’s resourceful. Has a blind spot for his family, though. Loves them despite things he considers faults, but I think that has more to do with raising the Lannister name,” explained Arya. “He sees the Lannister family as a whole, rather than an individual. So, when one fucks up, it fucks them all up and he can’t have that.”

Sansa hummed thoughtfully and agreed. “Probably why he pushed Tyrion so hard, to be honest…”

Arya nodded. “But he can also be very narrowminded. And he’ll only see what he wants to see – there was more than enough proof about Cersei and Jaime in our past—”

Sansa snorted. “Tyrion told me that he thought their own mother knew before her death, due to things he gleaned from Genna and Kevan, and she tried to separate them; let’s not even mention the number of servants who went missing—”

“But it would deviate from the Lannister family image he created after Castamere, so Tywin dismissed it from his mind,” finished Arya, blithely ignoring Sansa’s muttering.

So, Jon had learned that Tywin preferred controlling the Lannister family name over individuals, probably knew what Jaime and Cersei had gotten up to or was wilfully avoiding any proof to claim ignorance. He was devious, canny, able to consider his enemies, allies, and those in between and plan and execute his goals with a precision that rivalled most. He was also cruel and unafraid of killing if necessary but preferred to keep his hands clean while throwing others to the wolves.

So to speak, anyway.

For this wolf, Jon realized that he needed Tywin. He needed him as a friend, or at least if he considered the man an enemy, close enough to keep an eye on him. This was a man Aerys had shunted aside for perceived slights and jealousies, and Jon could not afford to do the same, whatever his personal feelings were toward the man (and they were something to behold: there was a burning rage and deep desire to run Tywin through with his sword or dismember him or cut his hamstrings and let Ghost go after him – all in response for the Red Wedding and the other slights the Lannisters had done to his family during the war—).

Tywin had journeyed to King’s Landing with Cersei, Tyrion, and several of his other family members (Kevan and his brood; Genna minus her Frey husband but with her children; and Gerion while Tygett held Casterly Rock in his name) soon after Jon had formally won against Aerys several times and had been in the Red Keep for Jon’s coronation. He had tried to schedule a private moment with Jon several times, but (fortunately? unfortunately?) Rhaella had kept Jon busy so he had been unable to meet many of the Lords and Ladies who journeyed to King’s Landing beyond taking their oaths of fealty after the coronation.

Jon could no longer put it off, and asked Sansa for help before she left with Oberyn and Elia.

“Sometimes, politics isn’t politics,” she explained, holding up a red tunic and then a Stark grey one. “Sometimes, politics is impression. Sometimes, impression is perceived as power.”

As her last act, Sansa had set the scene for him to meet with Tywin – the first of the Lord Paramounts other than his grandfather – and then wished him luck. Chelsted, as his Hand, was sent to act as an intermediary, and Tywin responded back that he would be happy to meet at Jon’s convenience (a lie, but Jon figured).

A meeting was set for the next morning, early enough that most would still be asleep, but not too early that it would appear rude. Jon would already be awake, regardless; he spent many of his mornings at dawn with Barristan and Lewyn in the training courtyards and then went to the Small Council following a quick bath, to begin with laws and amendments, or a census of those in the Keep, or what trades deals the crown had. That was put aside for the day to meet with Tywin.

Tywin appeared exactly as the Sept’s bells rang for eight and was announced directly by Barristan, who opened the door for the keen-eyed man. Tywin stepped through and then, Jon was pleased to see, paused – even if it was only for a moment. The man’s green eyes darted all over the room, taking in everything in a glance: Jon’s black tunic and trousers, devoid of any family alliances and marking him more a member of the Night’s Watch than anything; Ghost, all white, lounging in a sunspot by the balcony; the informal sitting room, with a breakfast spread on a sideboard; and despite the mild spring air, a fire blazed in the hearth.

“Lord Lannister, welcome,” greeted Jon with a friendly smile on his face. “Have you yet broken your fast?”

“I have, Your Grace,” replied Tywin, stepping further into the room.

“Would you mind if I ate? I have yet to, this morning, and I’ve been up since the fifth bell.”

Tywin inclined his head and took a seat in one of the chairs Jon offered, watching him as he carefully selected a few items that were mostly bite-sized or only required a fork’s tines to pierce. His hands would not be greasy or dirty when dealing with Tywin. There was a kettle hanging on a hook over the fire, boiling water for tea, and Jon took delight in Tywin’s minute widening of his eyes when he reached directly into the fire and withdrew the kettle, pouring the hot water into his cup. The hot kettle did not burn his hand.

Give him a reminder of who you are, Sansa had said. Show him you’re a Targaryen, despite looking like a Stark. Remind him who he’s meeting with.

“I apologize for the delay of receiving you, Lord Lannister,” began Jon, settling his plate of food and tea at a side table, getting comfortable in his own chair. “I’ve been reviewing the previous king’s outstanding issues and trying to purge those before establishing new laws, in case there was precedence or conflict.”

“I understand,” replied Tywin. “And certainly, an understandable decision in reviewing Aerys’ more… distasteful decisions.”

Jon grinned. “You are much more polite and diplomatic than I was, Lord Lannister. I think I called his previous laws a disgusting collection of fuckery.” He absently stirred his tea. “I am told you wished to speak to me for some time, now?”

Tywin inclined his head. “I am under the impression that Lord Chelsted is your Hand.”

“He is.”

“A rather new appointment, was it?”

“Well, not mine,” began Jon, slowly, as if he were forced to think or consider what Tywin was saying – right now, the Lion of the West was being very transparent in what he was getting at. “He had been Aerys’ Hand, briefly, but spoke out against the man burning King’s Landing. Was imprisoned for it, and I’m sure he’d have been killed if I hadn’t appeared when I did. He’s the only Hand we had, um, on hand.”

Tywin’s face was stony. Jon internally sighed. No humour, this one.

“To be fair, he’s…” Jon shrugged. “Well, he’s a twitchy little fellow. Not that I can blame him, but his stay in the dungeons certainly didn’t help and he has a hard time looking me in the eye.”

“Oh?” Tywin leaned forward the tiniest amount. “Will he remain in his position long, then, do you think? Or will he take his leave to recover away from King’s Landing?”

“Oh, that man deserves a trip to a Lyseni pleasure house or a permanent residence there,” laughed Jon.

Triumph was in Tywin’s eyes. “Have you someone else in mind, then, Your Grace? For the Hand’s position?”

“I have a few,” hedged Jon carefully. “In fact, Lord Lannister, I was hoping you’d join the Small Council.”

Tywin leaned back in his seat. “Of course, Your Grace. It would be an honour.”

Keep him on his toes. Keep him off balance. A Tywin Lannister who can’t anticipate or plan what’s to come is the best to control because he’ll take longer to respond, Sansa’s voice nattered at Jon’s psyche. The longer he takes to respond, the more time you have to create an appropriate response.

“I was hoping you’d be my Master of Coin, Lord Lannister,” enthused Jon, widening his eyes and leaning forward eagerly. “After all, the legendary Lannister gold must be quite something to manage! If there is anyone better suited for understanding and helping King’s Landing and my new regime manage its coins, it would be someone who understands the burdens of it.”

Disappointment and ire flashed in Tywin’s cold eyes – too quick for Jon to see if he wasn’t looking for it. The man gnashed his teeth together for a moment, a frown pulling at his lips before he corrected his expression. “Master of Coin, Your Grace?”

Jon nodded. “I have a vacancy for it.”

Inwardly, Jon was squirming with pleasure at the man’s confusion and annoyance. Reel Lannister in with talk about the position he wanted most – the Hand of the King – then tell him it’s not available and offer something else on the Small Council as recompense – and then make him feel important so that he has to take it.

“You see, my Lord, I need a representative to go to Braavos. And who better by the Great Lion, himself?” asked Jon, overtly playing up his enthusiasm for the man despite the churning dislike in his belly. And Sansa had previously said he couldn't play the game when he had gone to Dragonstone! “Your reputation precedes you even in the Free Cities, my Lord, and a man who understands coin, understands the art of the deal, well – how could I possibly pass that up?”

“I fail to see why I am needed for Braavos beyond these purported skills my reputation states I have,” groused Tywin, although his mannerisms were still polite and respectful.

Jon eyed the man and let some of the game drop from him. “I need money, Lord Lannister. And for that to happen, I need a competitive and lower interest rate with the Iron Bank than what Aerys had negotiated with the last representative.”

Something in Tywin’s expression change, as though he had realized Jon had played him. The man’s jaw worked, the muscles shifting, and he ground out, “What for, Your Grace?”

Jon settled back in his seat. “For many reasons, but the first and foremost is people. I need men—”

“Are you planning a war, Your Grace?” interrupted Tywin with poor manners, a drawl to his voice as though he thought the new king was an idiot.

“Not yet,” replied Jon evenly, “But one will happen, and I want to be prepared with enough men and steel. And for that, I want the Company of the Rose.”

Tywin hesitated. “The – Company of the Rose, your Grace?”

Oh, look, I confused him again. He thought I was going to ask for the Golden Company, I’m sure, given the rumours of my Blackfyre heritage, thought Jon gleefully. “I need you to purchase the Company outright and return them to the North. If you get an opportunity to speak to the commander of the Golden Company, I certainly wouldn’t be opposed to it. I’d love to know what their upcoming plans or contracts are.”

Tywin narrowed his eyes.

Blithely, Jon continued, putting on the air of a distracted, absent-minded king as he picked at his breakfast, not looking at the Lannister. “I’m hoping that your brother Gerion would be amendable of leading the expedition, given his experience. Furthermore, your son Jaime could go with you – it’s been so long since you last saw him, has it not? You could use the year or so to reacquaint yourselves. My sister – that is, my younger, as Sansa is in Dorne – Arya will join to ensure my wishes and orders are executed properly.”

Tywin stared at Jon, and he looked up from his rolled pastry. “What do you think, my Lord? After a year or so in the Free City, you return to King’s Landing, in which during that time, Lord Chelsted is convinced to peacefully retire and – oh, look, there’s a free spot open on the Small Council again.”

“You are trying to bribe me,” said Tywin eventually, staring at Jon like he was the strangest creature he had ever seen.

“It’s only a bribe if one party feels like they’re under duress to take what is offered,” replied Jon smartly, “Otherwise it’s a pleasurable agreement between two men who are both getting what they want out of the arrangement.”

“A negotiation?” queried Tywin carefully.

Jon inclined his head. “Should you wish.”

Craftily, Tywin steepled his hands before his face as he surveyed the new king with new eyes. “I feel as though you are getting much from this – I do your bidding in Braavos as your Master of Coins, I bring the Company of the Rose to the North, I miss out on at least a year of my home and people—”

“You’re getting two Small Council positions, including one that is the second most powerful position on the continent,” retorted Jon sharply, “And your son has not yet sworn any oaths to me.”

Tywin froze. “Jaime is not on the kingsguard?”

“He thinks he still is and continues to perform his duties – but neither Ser Barristan nor I have outright told him to swear his oaths to me or reminded him that he has yet to do so,” answered Jon. “Take him and my sister along and when he returns to Westeros, he can take up the role of your heir. He’d be formally released from the kingsguard even though the rest of us already know his duty is done.”

That seemed to break Tywin’s mind, so Jon leaned forward even further, across the space between the two men and caught Tywin’s green eyes, holding them as he spoke fervently, “Let me explain something to you: I’m going to need more money, Lord Tywin. I will create a legacy that will eclipse that of our Age of Heroes and mark our names down in history in ways no one else has.”

Something in what Jon resonated with Tywin as he stirred himself.

“Marry my daughter and I’ll leave at dawn tomorrow,” retorted Tywin.

Jon narrowed his eyes. “Now you’re getting the better deal and I am the King, Lord Lannister.”

The two eyed one another a bit longer, Tywin not wishing to budge.

“I’ll formally return Jaime to you as heir and marry Cersei, but you leave on this mission the morning following the wedding,” offered Jon instead, his voice hard, “And there will be no promise that the Hand’s position will be available when you return.”

Tywin’s teeth ground together. Two offers: Jaime and the Hand’s position upon returning to Westeros; or Jaime as his heir and Cersei as the queen, but no Hand position after negotiating with the Iron Bank and two sellsword companies.

What do you want more, Tywin? wondered Jon, watching as the man thought on the two offers. Do you desire the power as Hand, or do you want that Lannister legacy you’ve so cultivated on the throne to rule through your grandchildren?

“I accept, Your Grace,” the man finally said, just as the Sept’s bells tolled half-ten. They had been speaking for longer than Jon thought. “Jaime is my heir, Cersei your queen, and I will represent the crown as Master of Coins in Braavos.”

It was a hollow victory – he, Sansa, and Arya knew it could come down to this, so they figured out ahead of time what they would budge on and what they wouldn’t – but it was a victory, nonetheless. Tywin had admitted that he preferred operating through others to achieve his goal than himself, and he was more interested in that Lannister name than anything else.

“Very well, Lord Lannister,” agreed Jon, standing from his seat.

Tywin copied him, a gleam in his eyes. They shook on it, and then Tywin, his facial features as sharp and dangerous as his family’s sigil, all but purred, “Shall we discuss the wedding arrangements and how soon you can take Cersei to wife?”

When Jon imagined his wedding, he always thought it would be on a cold, crisp winter’s evening, with his family around him in support while he met his bride at the heart tree in the Godswood at Winterfell, saying the ancient words of his ancestors.

Instead, he said his vows in the Sept of Baelor, in front of thousands.

It wasn’t terrible – he was used to the Sept now, after his own coronation, but it didn’t feel… right. It felt like a pair of trousers that fit you, but ill, pinching or tucking when you least expect it. But still serviceable and could be worn.

The feast afterward was boisterous and festive, with Targaryen colours of black and red edged with Stark grey and silver, alongside the Lannister red and gold of his new bride. A young, seventeen-year-old Cersei was just – if not more – beautiful than her older self that Jon had seen those years ago at Winterfell, and later, at King’s Landing despite the trials she experienced. Of course, knowing some of her personality already was enough to make Jon squirm, except now he was married to the young woman.

He still wanted to say his vows before a heart tree, like Sansa and Oberyn had – at the one in King’s Landing garden, growing freakishly tall and strong – but would wait until Cersei was a bit more settled.

He also knew he was no Silver Prince, and that Cersei was put out at missing the chance to marry the beautiful Rhaegar Targaryen. However, he had caught her sneaking him glances throughout their feast… so maybe he still had a chance against his father in the looks department.

As the night wore on, Cersei began to fidget. Jon leaned over, capturing one of her hands in his and placed his mouth near her ear. “Don’t worry, I’ve made sure there’s no bedding ceremony. I wouldn’t want you to experience that humiliation.”

Cersei sent Jon a startled look that quickly morphed into relief. Upon realizing what she had given away, she stiffened and placed a haughty mask back on. “I wasn’t thinking of it, Your Grace.”

Jon snorted. “Of course not.”

She glared at him, and Jon turned away to hide his smile, picking up his drink to sip at it. He didn’t let go of her hand. Later, he tugged on it, causing her to turn to him. “Everyone is well into their cups – let’s get out of here.”

A bit wide-eyed, Cersei glanced around the massive hall and saw Jon spoke the truth: almost everyone was enjoying themselves, either by dancing, drinking, or, like her father, making contacts that had deteriorated when Aerys had been king. She glanced at Jaime and saw him next to Lewyn Martell and Addam Marbrand, speaking to them. He must have felt her eyes on him because he glanced at her, caught her eyes, and smiled.

“Very well, Your Grace.” Cersei stood, smoothing her golden dress as she did so.

Jon leaned over to whisper to Arya, on his other side. She nodded, a quick dart of grey eyes at him and Cersei, and then returned to face the crowd. Jon turned to his bride and held a hand for her to take. “Shall we?”

The two were quiet, walking to the royal apartments and Jon’s rooms. Ser Barristan, and two new, recently appointed members of the Kingsguard, Ser Hector Oakheart and Ser Tanius “Silveraxe” Fell, followed a distance behind.

Jon’s rooms were spacious, with his apartments joining the Queen’s with a sitting room between them. He let Cersei dictate which room they would go to, and she boldly walked into Jon’s despite the tiny quiver to her lips.

Eyeing her, Jon kept his distance. “We don’t have to do anything—”

But the blonde pounced, draping her body heavily against his chest and kissing him, her hands clutching at the curls at his nape. Jon made a muffled noise of surprise, hands extended and out, unsure if they should touch the young woman or not. When he finally drew back enough, he muttered, “Are you sure?” against her lips, skimming them as his mouth formed the words.

“Kiss me,” Cersei demanded instead, her green eyes blazing and dark.

Carefully, Jon did so, his hands resting on her waist and not travelling. Consent was good, he remembered, and he let Cersei dictate the terms of the evening; she undressed him first before herself; she pushed him toward the bed; she slid over his body. Jon knew she was no virgin – he was a bit amused to see how she was going to play that off, later – and he certainly wasn’t (given the adventurous and strong personalities his two previous lovers were), but she needed to believe that he thought she was.

By the time both were sweat-slicked, sore, and sated, with Cersei resting her golden head on his chest and absently running her hand over his well-formed muscles, Jon found himself thinking, this might actually work, with a pleased, tired smile on his face. He fell asleep to that thought and the soft breaths Cersei made as she slept.

Jon was already up and tugging on his boots when Cersei stirred in the bed, hair very mussed and bleary-eyed. “What time is it?”

“Two bells past dawn. It’s early still if you wish to sleep more,” answered Jon, leaning down to finish tugging his boots.

Cersei crawled across the bed, sheets falling until she pressed her naked front against Jon’s clothed back, winding her arms around his chest. Her breath was hot in his ear when she whispered, “Don’t go. It’s too early for work.”

Jon chuckled, bringing a hand up to twine his fingers with hers. “For everyone else, I suppose that’s true – but not for the king. I rule at the leisure of my people.”

“You’re the king – you make the rules,” she protested, biting down on his earlobe. He shivered.

“Mmm… and yet, unfortunately, this meeting was scheduled weeks ago.”

Cersei sighed, frustrated, and let go, flopping down on the bed behind him. “Fine.” She paused, eyeing Jon as he turned on the edge of the bed to face her, eyes tracing her form. “Then at least tell me if my brother is on duty or not, this morning. I will go spend time with him or my father.”

Jon paused.

Cersei narrowed her eyes and set up, drawing the sheets to cover her. “What? What is it you’re not telling me?”

“Your brother and father are no longer in King’s Landing,” answered Jon, his face carefully blank but still somewhat hard. It was as though he was waiting for her to argue.

“Why not?” Cersei bit out.

“They left with my sister at dawn,” replied Jon carefully, watching her, “on a mission that I gave them several weeks ago.”

Cersei was silent for a moment, but Jon could see ire growing in her green eyes. “Why was I not told of this?”

“At the time, it didn’t concern you as you were not yet Queen,” answered Jon. He glanced at her and then away, using her own words against her. “I’m the king – and I make the rules that tell people where to go and when.”

“And where did they go?” drawled Cersei, eyes narrowed and fixated on Jon.

“Braavos, at the moment,” he replied, standing from the bed, and presenting his back to her. “I asked your father to meet with the Iron Bank on my behalf. He knows money and how to manage it. Jaime and your uncle Gerion – since it is his ship – joined him, along with my sister to ensure my interests were being carried out.”

Cersei was torn between pleased at the king recognizing her father and family’s worth, and angry at Jaime being sent away. Jon could see it on her face, the push-and-pull nature of her thoughts.

“They are my family,” spat Cersei, eventually, her green eyes narrowed on Jon. “You should have told me!”

Jon raised his eyebrows at her audacity and stared down at her until she began to slowly wilt.

“I had other reasons to send your brother away,” revealed Jon quietly, watching as Cersei’s face changed from angry, to curious, to fear and panic, only to settle on blank indifference.

“Oh, do you?”

Jon’s eyes narrowed, annoyance rolling in his stomach. “I may have taken up the Targaryen crown, but I certainly don’t condone incest.”

Cersei blinked, with her only tell being that her eyes widened the tiniest amount and her nostrils flared.

“You think I don’t know everything about you?” Jon rolled his eyes and moved around his bed chambers, collecting a belt, stylus and parchment for his notes, and a few other items as he spoke. “You think I didn’t agree to marry you without knowing everything?”

“I don’t know what you’re speaking about—”

“You and your brother,” began Jon, in a conversational tone as he began listing things, keeping an eye on her face as he spoke. “What did my source tell me? Oh yes. You came into the world together and are both of one person in two bodies.”

The familiar words made Cersei pale to a milky white as she stared at Jon in shock.

“How old were you, Cersei?” badgered Jon, looming over her from the end of the bed as she clutched at the sheets. “When you started thinking about touching him? Kissing him? Was it when the servants caught you? Or your mother, and she separated you and Jaime into individual rooms for your deviant behaviour?”

“You—” Cersei sputtered through bloodless lips. “But you’re a Targaryen! Why is it fine for you but not us?”

Jon scoffed. “I may be a Targaryen, wife, but I certainly don’t condone that behaviour. What has inbreeding done for the dragons but bring madness and chaos? What do you think your relationship with your brother would bring about?”

“Jaime is a part of me, anything that came from us would be perfect—”

“A perfect monster,” spat Jon, drawing on his memories of Joffrey in Winterfell and then all he heard at the Wall after his actions after his father’s beheading for his voice to ring with unwavering truth. “Spoilt, cruel, arrogant. All your worst features in one pretty, blond body.”

Cersei struggled with the sheets, tangled in them as she tried to hold her ground in the bed while crawling forward on her knees to argue. A flush spread from her cheeks down her collarbone and then disappeared under the sheet. “You don’t know that—”

“I think I know very well what madness looks like,” replied Jon softly, dangerously.

The two stared at each other.

Eventually, Jon continued, “I sent Jaime away from you so that you could avoid temptation. So that he could learn to survive without you. Your co-dependency was dangerous at best, and ruinous at worst. As Queen, you are to be above all suspicion.”

“And yet you could go and fuck any whore you want and be patted on the back and toasted with an ale,” bitterly said Cersei, a downturn scowl on her face. “Where is the fairness in that?”

“There isn’t,” agreed Jon. “But I have also never laid with a whore. I never wanted to, and I never have, and I certainly don’t plan on starting when I have a wife in my bed.”

Cersei’s eyes narrowed. “So, you plan to rape me, under a guise of marital rights.”

“I won’t touch you unless you want me to,” corrected Jon.

“How can I trust your words?” Cersei finally asked, after a lengthy pause. “I do not know you.”

“I suppose you’ll just have to get to know me, then,” replied Jon, rolling his eyes. “I was raised Northern, Cersei. We tend to say our thoughts and be rather straightforward, even to our detriment.”

Cersei snorted inelegantly, playing with a thread on the sheets she still had tucked under her armpits. “Where do we go from here?”

Jon pursed his lips. “Wherever you want. I want a Queen who can stand by my side, justly and fairly. That means no more murder—”

“I beg your pardon! How dare you!” Furious, Cersei rose on her knees, her nostrils flaring.

Jon continued as though not interrupted by her fury, “Like that of Melara Hetherspoon or the many servants who angered you in Casterly Rock—”

The colour drained from Cersei’s face again, and she swayed, falling back on the bed heavily, mouth dropping open.

“And certainly, I expect my wife to be grounded in reality and not the inane prophecies that a woods witch by the name of Maggy the Frog sprouts for unsuspecting travellers and fools alike,” finished Jon with derision in his voice. “No more bullshit about the valonqar – for all that you seem to hate your youngest brother, you seem to forget that Jaime is a younger brother, as well.”

Thank you, Arya and past Tyrion, thought Jon, viciously, almost glaring at Cersei as he laid out every one of her faults between them. The accusations – the truths – hung in the air, heavy and poignant reveals that could ruin not just Cersei’s life, but her family’s, if the king so wished.

Cersei’s mouth opened and shut, a tiny whine coming from her. She was staring at him, terrified. Jon was reminded, at that moment, that he had just spewed information that could get at a seventeen-year-old girl killed and he was twenty-four and knew better. A tiny rush of sympathy clenched around his heart and warred with practicality to keep hold of his new wife with an iron fist. His shoulders slumped and he ran a hand through his curls. “Do you even want to be Queen, Cersei? Did you want to be here or are you only here because your father told you to marry me?”

“I—” her mouth opened and shut, and she struggled to find her words.

“Is it power? Do you enjoy dominating others to make yourself feel better because you had no agency in your life, growing up under your father’s rule?” Jon paused. “Or is it all about Jaime? Is the desire of being with him, of conducting a secret relationship behind everyone’s backs, made you feel good?”

He waited for her to speak, but she didn’t, and he continued, “I want a real marriage, Cersei. I’ll only marry the once and I won’t stray from you. I don’t like the idea of laying with another, and I want a family.”

When she still didn’t say anything, Jon nodded and turned to leave the room. “Think about it. I’m off to a Small Council meeting… if you’d like… you can join me. I’d like you to be there.”

“A council meeting?” Cersei’s voice was small when she finally found it.

Jon stopped at the door to their adjoined sitting room. He peered at her from over his shoulder. “Aye…”

“I – just –” Cersei threw the covers off the bed, running around the bed chambers naked as she found her shift. “Wait. Please… wait. I’ll… I want to join you. I’ll get dressed, quickly.”

And she did: twenty minutes later, Jon and Cersei were walking together to the throne room and the meeting room off its main chamber, Ghost trailing them. Neither spoke nor touched one another – the morning confessions leaving them a bit raw – but there was a tentative hope on Jon’s face.

“Apologies for the delay,” announced Jon as he strode into the room, Cersei on his heels. He went straight for his normal chair – and with Sansa and Oberyn gone, her usual seat at his right side was vacant. He instead guided Cersei to it, pulling the chair out for her and then tucking her in when she primly sat, taking in the others in the room who stared back at her in shock and dismay.

“Your Grace,” began Pycelle, eyeing Tywin’s daughter. “The Small Council is no place for a lady.”

“The governance of the country is too much for a woman to handle, Your Grace,” added Chelsted, a grimace on his face.

Varys and Velaryon kept quiet, watching, even as Barristan took his position and seat at the table as well.

Jon sat, staring hard at the Grandmaester and his Hand. His eyes then travelled to the others in the room, ensuring he looked them all in the eyes for a few hard moments to convey his displeasure before he spoke. “She is my queen and is my equal. We rule together. And if we don’t understand something, explain it and we will learn together. Because that’s what we do here: present a united front.”

Pycelle sputtered, but Chelsted nodded and looked at the tabletop. Jon ignored the nervous twitch that came after Jon met his eyes. They would need to work on that, he thought.

“What is the first item on the agenda today?” asked Jon, clearing his throat, and turning to Chelsted.

“An update on the current finances of the crown,” the Hand began, in a slightly chastised voice.

As he spoke, Cersei’s green eyes constantly flickering toward Jon, despite him listening and nodding as his council provided information on Westeros. She swallowed, trying very hard not to squirm in her seat. He had asked her what she wanted – and something Cersei always wanted was power. As queen, she would have that… but as a woman, she was going to be side-lined from any law-making.

Except… her husband didn’t want that – he wanted her at his side. Making laws, learning about ruling their country, together. It didn’t matter to him that she was a woman. He was going to give her everything she wanted – power, authority, control – without demanding her body as was his right as king for payment or belittling her and her idea because she was a woman and therefore, lesser, in the eyes of Westerosi society. All he wanted in return was her loyalty. No Jaime in her bed; no prophecies from Maggy. No more terrorizing the servants, despite her right to do so; no more letting fear - hers, both internally and externally - rule her.

I can do that, the words flittered across her mind before she truly thought them. She had made her decision. With that, she settled back in her seat, relaxing, turning her mind to the other men in the room and the issues at hand.

But her left hand crept across her lap, over the arm of the chair, and sought Jon’s right hand, resting on his lap. Underneath the table, known only to the two of them, she curled her hand around his and squeezed. In return, Jon flipped her hand, so they were palm-to-palm and then laced their fingers together in a strong, warm grip.

And from the corner of her eye, as they both sat in profile to one another, she saw him smile.

Rhaegar stood on the short, grassy knoll of the Pentoshi manse, a high courtyard garden that looked westward and across the Narrow Sea toward Westeros. The horizon was a stormy grey, with low-lying puffy clouds. The smell of salt and something else hung on the air, and with the dark rolling clouds coming toward them from the horizon, there was a good chance a storm was rolling in.

He had been standing there for some time, eyes unseeing as they stared out toward the land of his birth. Arthur watched him for some time from under the awning of their new residence, before deciding to risk interrupting Rhaegar’s brooding. Jonothor remained behind with one hand on the hilt of his sword, a silent sentinel, partially hidden from view. Connington had worked himself up into such a fret about Rhaegar that he had barricaded himself in his rooms.

He walked up behind his prince, his steps carefully placed so Rhaegar could hear him, but the prince did not move. At this angle, Arthur could see Rhaegar’s profile: a strong, aquiline nose, a lean face due to stress, and a slight furrow of his pale eyebrows. His long Targaryen ash-white hair was billowing out behind him as the ocean breeze kicked up, but what stood out was the leather eyepatch covering his violet eye and the thin gauze over the cut that Jon Targaryen had left. Rhaegar had been lucky: the cut, while long (running from his eyebrow and bisecting it, across his eye, and to just under his prominent cheekbone), had not been deep. The other man was aiming to warn – not maim.

Yet, Rhaegar seemed oblivious to his barely healed cut. He was running a long forefinger down the gauze, pressing into his cheek as he did so. Blood welled up underneath the gauze, staining a red line to the fresh cloth. There was a habitual motion to it like it was something Rhaegar had done often since receiving the cut while he thought.

“My Prince?”

He did not move, continuing to stare out across the Narrow Sea, but his mouth was moving, the tiniest of breaths escaping him. He was muttering under his breath, and Arthur could not hear it.

“… Rhaegar?”

His hand stopped its motion and fell to his side in a clenched fist. He turned his head to face Arthur and it took everything Arthur had to not step back in shock from the fire in the one violet eye trained on him.

“He took it from me, Arthur,” growled Rhaegar. “He took it from me!”

Arthur swallowed. “Who, my Prince?”

“The Blackfyre, Jon,” hissed Rhaegar, eye turning back to the Narrow Sea. The hand at his side, clenched tightly, turned white from the strain against the skin and bone. “He’s turned them all against me – stole my destiny!”

“Your destiny?” echoed Arthur carefully.

A wordless snarl escaped from Rhaegar’s mouth. “He knows! He knows what is coming!”

Arthur was terribly confused. “What’s coming, Rhaegar?”

The clenched hand at his side flew back to his cut and Rhaegar pressed down, hard, against his cheek. Fresh blood welled up and oozed out from the size of the gauze, dripping down his cheekbone, in imitation of a tear. “I will show them. I will show them all, Arthur.”

Arthur’s mouth opened but nothing emerged. This was not the Prince he knew – sure, he was brooding and was obsessed with some nonsense prophecy he had found, leading to Lyanna Stark – but… was this the tipping point? Was this where Rhaegar fell into Targaryen madness like so many of his ancestors?

Had he chosen the wrong liege to follow?

Rhaegar was muttering now, his glare fixated on the distant shores of Westeros, on the distant future when he was no longer in exile.

“I will show them. I will one day return. This is the road I will take – that I am the dragon, I am the Promised Prince…”

Arthur was nothing but a silent witness as Rhaegar’s violet eye gleamed and his mouth curled as he made promises to the air. The heaviness of Rhaegar’s next words settled on Arthur’s shoulders, the weight of them more than a promise – a vow, a declaration, a war cry – and despite the warm air, he shivered.

“I will become Azor Ahai.”

TBC… in Part 2: In Every Dark Hour