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Chapter Text

The moon was partially hidden by fast-moving clouds, casting eerie shadows across the slick deck. The crew was silent, waiting. Treven walked slowly to the portside rail and looked over it, careful to keep from bumping into the rail. He swallowed hard; for once he was glad no one had eaten in days. Even in the dim light he could see an oily slick on the slow waves, and debris floating in the water. There was a chest from the starboard cargo hold, hull musta been breached. Over here was the cook’s soup pot, floating and ready to be used. And there, right close, was what was left of the cook. At least he assumed it was the cook, the head and half his chest was gone, but the white apron, now pinkish green in the moonlight, well, no one else wore an apron like that.

Maybe that was a piece of hull that was floating there, seemed to be coming closer, against the waves. Suddenly a hand reached for the edge of the raft, a gasping, splashing followed… then silence.

Cap’n and the new First Mate was discussing the cargo boats, whether to use them as lifeboats or decoys. Either way, Treven knew he was not likely to see another sunri…

A flash of gray and white blurred his vision, a heavy weight landing on his chest as he startled and tossed the book to the side of the bed.

“Stark, are you trying to drive me mad?”

The large cat loosened its jaws, laying the dead mouse on his chest before beginning to paw at it, whether to share the meal or as an invitation to play Jon wasn’t sure.

“I know I'm supposed to think of this as a gift, but I'm just not that hungry.”

Jon picked the book back up. He’d lost his place, opened to,

“Cap’n, what do we do! We’re too far from shore to swim! And we are sinking fast!”

The captain opened his mouth to answer when the long slimy green arm of the giant kraken reached over the side of the ship and wrapped its suckered tentacle around the stunned captain’s legs.

He flipped through the rest of the book, looking for pictures. It was a terrible story, the pages half-faded, the other half sweat- and salt-smudged, a tale about one sailor after another being torn limb from limb, very slowly and descriptively, by a giant magic kraken. That was it, so far, and he was almost finished, though he had intended to stretch it out to fill his days until being delivered in chains to his exile.

He put the book to the side, stretched out on the captain’s bunk, and thought to try to sleep, again. For how many days and nights had sleep evaded him? The overly-salted fish stew and the persistent rocking of the ship hadn’t helped, but when he did succumb, the nightmares tormented him as the army of the dead, even death itself, never had.

They had put him in the captain’s quarters, could it be locked from the outside? He had tried the door once, and found it was unlocked as it opened under his hand, startling the black-cloaked brother standing guard on the other side.

His gaolers had been quite courteous, kind, even, bringing him extra blankets as the temperature dropped and sharing crusted bread for his roiled stomach even as they kept a close eye on him at all times. They had kept him below deck, kept him in these quarters, comfortable as they were, even as the rolling of the sea emptied his stomach. His guards had spoken little, either to him or to each other, though Jon had seen them engaged in a long conversation with the captain just this morning.

Captain Tollher. A seemingly able captain, from what he could tell. Jovial, smiling. Vaguely familiar, though he couldn’t remember from where. Kept calling him, “Your Grace.” Agreed to stop, to call him Jon, or even Lord Commander, but the next time they encountered each other it was still Your Grace. It was infuriating, to hear that phrase, he’d kept the bitterness and anger just barely under control. More than once he’d nearly lost his temper, then had apologized to the captain, garnering a strange look on his face. Jon wondered where he’d last seen that expression, then remembered and swallowed hard. Castle Black, right after… he didn’t want to think about that, didn’t want to think about anything. He opened the book again, back to krakens and sea monsters and agonizing death at sea. One could hope…

But the captain had helped to pass the time, to keep him distracted from his still-healing wounds, his situation, his life.

Full circle. Exile. Forgotten.

They had dined together every night in these very quarters, the captain’s quarters, ever since Jon had boarded in King’s Landing. He felt the most normal then, normal for him, listening to the captain’s stories of his life at sea. Eventually though he would veer off into the current goings on, and Jon’s mood would take a turn. He’d heard enough of strange happenings in the North, of storms and floods, earthquakes, whispers of magic and long-forgotten creatures. He wondered what truly awaited him at Castle Black. Tormund? Ghost? Could he find a way to fit in there, find some purpose, meaning. Jon chuffed to himself. It didn’t matter, his life had never been his own. He would find out soon enough what emptiness awaited him.

The captain had told of the rumors of the people, in the south, the north, even the far north, that no one was moving, no one was filling the empty places. “It seems like everyone is waiting, Your Grace.”

Jon had given up correcting him by then. “Waiting, Captain? Waiting for what?”

The captain had paused, put his mug aside.

“For the North, peace or war in the north will tell the tale of Westeros, My King.”

Jon had stifled a groan. He had begun to look forward to his exile, at least he would never have to hear those words again.

Then last night the captain had finally asked Jon about the dragons, about the army of the dead, eventually even the wildlings, the mutiny at Castle Black, everything. Had seemed to want to ask him more, probably the rumors of King’s Landing, his treachery, his exile, but instead sought details of those other events. Jon considered waving him off for dinner that night; they were running out of topics he could imagine sitting through and he didn’t want to lose his temper again, he didn’t know if he’d be able to contain it any longer.

Yet the captain had been considerate. Every night after dinner, after their lengthy conversations, the captain had taken his heavy log book, embraced it to his chest, and left the cabin with his ink and quill. Jon felt guilty for displacing him, had encouraged him to stay, it was his cabin after all, he wouldn’t bother him while he kept his log. But the captain had smiled and bowed his head and left Jon to his darkening mood, the door closing solidly behind him.

“Ask me again in 10 years…”

He had realized the truth of it, then. They had all been waiting for her to fail. Had used him to hasten it. They cared nothing for the people, only the power. They let her take the fall, let him end her, then they could swoop in and take the prize. They had held a Great Council, so he was told, though how great could it have been, only a handful of the lords of the realm, and Tyrion, a murderer, a traitor, a prisoner controlling the conversation. Choosing a boy who could not be lord to be their new King.

Was there a plan behind it all along?

No matter now.

So he would let them win, let the people serve a broken king. He was emptied now, in body and mind. And future.

They had won, and they wanted him to applaud them for it. Tell them it was the right thing. No matter what it cost him. They had changed, somewhere in all that they had gone through. He had missed it, missed their change, had thought they would be true. They had been Starks. Before. They were strangers to him now. So there on the causeway, there they had waited, in some grand gesture, to see him off to his punishment. To finally rid the Starks of their embarrassment once and for all. He had paused to look them over before approaching. They had played their parts, false appeasement of his sacrifice; as he approached he was tempted to throw them back onto the rocks below. But the guards were too close, and he was unarmed. Instead he locked his eyes on the waiting boat and walked past House Stark. He had promised to himself he would never look back.

And now? The anger churned in his empty stomach as the ship dipped into a long swale, tossing him onto the deck, his leg almost buckling under his awkward weight. He steadied himself and made his way along the curved wall of his quarters.

The coastal wind had picked up considerably, the ship rocking from side to side as he stared out the porthole, counting the ships bearing Essosi and Northern sails, absently wondering where they were heading, what they carried.

Anything to avoid thinking, remembering, feeling.

The last time he had passed this coast was with her.

Smiling, laughing, loving.

He had felt – young, and hopeful, more alive since his return from the dead. They had talked about everything, so much in common, so much to learn from each other. Her dainty fingers entwined in his, her lips on his, smiling with each kiss. The smell of her, her laugh. Then, later - the fear, the disappointment, the cold anger. Finally the surprise, the shock in her eyes. His heart pounded against his ribs.

“Ask me again in ten years…”

He would no doubt be mad by then.

He wondered, had she ever cared about him, wanted him? Or was her seeming affection nothing more than a way to control him?

Jon took a deep breath. Yes, she did, she loved him. He wanted to believe, needed to believe, but what does a bastard know about love? It might be easier to live with what he’d done if he could convince himself she’d felt nothing for him, had merely used him, was threatened by him…

That part was true, he’d seen it in her eyes… but in the end she was not who he thought she was.

An errant wave rushed against the hull, and he felt cold pellets of sea water sting his face through the open porthole.

It wasn’t exactly a storm, he didn’t think so at least, just the normal fierce winds of the Northern coast. He could hear the distant sea birds cawing over schools of cod and salmon, insistent and unending, the perpetual fight for survival. He knew that feeling, the futility of the sun rising, the moon setting. Damned survival in between. Just another day. He closed the porthole and pushed himself off the wall, absently wondering if they would have fish stew again for dinner as he knelt and sorted through the few personal belongings in his trunk for seemingly the hundredth time, each time deliberately avoiding the empty dagger sheath. His guards had kept Longclaw. For now.

He stood and looked around the cabin. A more hospitable cell.

They must be passing Widow’s Watch. Making good time, then. If anything in his life could be called good. This would no doubt be the highlight for the remainder of the gods forsaken curse some would call a life. He had stopped wondering why he had been brought back from the darkness. The empty, painless non-existence, the peace. His continued existence had brought benefit to no one. No wonder they had all abandoned him in the end.

Sansa would have rallied the North, once the Vale had openly backed her. The Free Folk wouldn’t have fought for her, but she wouldn’t have needed them. She would have taken back Winterfell with ease, perhaps even bartered Rickon’s life in exchange for Ramsay’s quick death. She was… Baelish, Sansa… he shook his head to clear the guilt and shame of the vengeance he took on her in his dreams. The Old Gods, not that he believed in them any longer, they frowned on kinslaying, even when deserved. She had broken her oath at the godswood, and had been rewarded for it.

Sansa the Unworthy. Everything she ever wanted.

His leg ached and he lay again on the bed, then considered another attempt at reading that awful story, anything to divert his heart from the anger and hurt. But he could barely concentrate, closing his eyes against the sun’s glare off the water, endlessly shifting to settle his aching shoulder, waiting for the gray and white ship’s cat to return.

Arya had killed the Night King. He had sounded the alarm, yes, but anyone could have done that. Would have done that, eventually. Or maybe it would have never been necessary; the only way the dead had made it past the Wall was because of the death of Dany’s dragon, and his own foolish agreement to that foolish plan of capturing a wight to convince a foolish selfish golden queen of something she turned her back on anyway.

But… And…

If only…

At times he relished torturing himself, breaking his heart over and over again, darkening his mind, he deserved the pain after all... if he hadn't been brought back, she… Daenerys would be sitting on her throne, even now, and the world would be at peace. Dragon peace, but peace nonetheless.

Jon braced himself and grabbed the frame of the bed as he gasped, the pain ran to his brain, as another wave heaved the tested vessel, not side to side this time, but at an odd angle. They were turning somewhat, west, away from the late morning sun, and he considered trying to place their likely position in his head but decided against it. It didn’t matter. They would arrive when they arrived, and he was enjoying wallowing in his pain too much to interrupt it with rational thought.

An easy victory, a peaceful reign.

Perhaps not.

Tyrion was already failing her and she had lost crucial allies even before they had crossed paths. Her rule in Dragon’s Bay had been tenuous at best. Perhaps she never should have left. But he didn’t want to think that way, that perhaps her victory and rule would not have been splendid and deserved. He didn’t want to give himself an escape from his self-loathing.

They must have been passing another ship, he could hear shouts and the creaking rub of wood against wood. He was tempted to get up and see, anything to break the monotony, but the cat hadn’t returned to him yet, gifted or empty handed, and that had somehow become important.

There was controlled shouting above and the stomping of running feet. He had become used to it, they had stopped at several ports in their journey up the coast; he could ignore just about anything now, a skill he planned on making good use of for the days and decades to come.

He could still see her, feel her, hear her in his dreams, and everything was as it should be. Most nights seeing her smile was worth the pain of waking from his dreams, of remembering she was gone by his own hand.

Jon placed his good hand beneath his head as he leaned back against the pillows, an occasional shadow of a seabird flitting across the small pool of light piercing through the porthole. He should enjoy it, he would likely never be this comfortable, this warm ever again.

When had she become so brutal, so blind to her own actions? Perhaps… he had seen glimpses, had questioned her on some of the stories she told in those quiet moments, holding her, but she had always had a counter, at the time a reason he could accept. Perhaps, yes, perhaps he was naive, and smitten, and beguiled. And didn’t see the fear and cold loneliness, the self-righteousness and rage that would drive her at the end. Perhaps … if he had seen, before, could he have made a difference?

He would never know.

He didn’t want to know.

He had loved her, loved her still. Would always love her with everything he had.

But he could not give her what she had demanded.

Blind loyalty. Absolute submission. Unquestioning obedience.

He had tried to understand, what was the right thing to do, but he never had time to think, to adjust, to make sense of it all - if they had just had time - but she had used his love for her against him, to get her way, and eventually he would have become bitter and angry, just as he always had as a bastard.

He had bent the knee, and was no longer to be respected or listened to, no longer her equal. Conquered. Plaything.

He laughed to himself. Arya was No One. That’s what she’d wanted from him. That he would become no one too… merely a reflection of her, of her greatness, of her dominion and power, of her name. Nothing left of… whatever he was…

But Tormund was right. He was of the North, the True North, and in the end he could not kneel. Not to what she had become.

The thought surprised him.

They had both changed, and the ink was dry.

Jon shut his eyes against the ever-present memory of her body falling in his arms, the shock on her face, the stunted breath, the glazing eyes.

The overwhelming despair that had engulfed him.

He had felt Drogon’s pain, the questioning, the disbelief. The blind rage and grief. Had waited for the end that never came.

The Iron Throne. Gone. Good.

She never sat in it. No one else would either.

Then Drogon in his grief took her body. He wondered if he knew she was dead. He wondered where he had taken her.

He took a deep breath and tried to smile.

In his dreams, her son had taken her to an island with warm sandy beaches and a little cottage with a red door and lemon trees, lots of lemon trees.

But in his dreams she was alone. Had she wanted that too?

No, she’d wanted children. In his dreams, he could give them to her. The sound of rushing water echoed as he remembered her voice.

"A thousand years…"

Or ten.

There was a creaking board outside the door and he readied himself for a knock that never came. Changing of the guard.

It was easier back in that cold dark cell, such as it was.

He had stood there, had watched Drogon fade into the falling ash and snow. His rage must have alerted Grey Worm, he’d come running from… wherever he’d been. He was just looking, at first, confused, his eyes falling on the red patch of snow.

“Where is my Queen?”

Jon had just stood there, deep breaths heaving after the searing heat of dragon’s flame.

He didn’t recall much of what came next, the beating, the kicking as he waited for the end. He must have passed out, waking alone and bloody in an empty cell until Grey Worm appeared before him, hatred on his face, blind rage, he knew he wanted to kill him, wished he would, yet something had stayed his hand.

The ship rocked again, voices louder on the port side. They were closer to shore now, he could hear the waves slapping against rocky coastline.

His eyes burned, he’d been doing anything to avoid sleep, the nightmares, and his body ached from lack of sleep.

Instead, in the darkness he had let his mind wander.

What could he have done differently? What would he have changed, if he could have changed anything?

Back, back to the beginning. Back before Dany had birthed the dragons, no, she would have been sold to Khal Drogo, and lost her babe, so before that - before the Rebellion, before - yes, that’s it, if he could go back he would make sure that Rhaegar and Lyanna never met, maybe kill Howland Reed, or kidnap him at least, Lyanna would marry Robert, would he have been born as their child? He wasn’t sure how that worked, if there was any rhyme or reason to anything. Rhaegar would overthrow Aerys, remain married to Elia, the children, little Rhaenys and Aegon; gods how stupid that she had given him the same name, probably something to do with a prophecy.

Daenerys would have grown up a Princess… He thought of her as a pampered child running through the Red Keep, silver hair bouncing free, annoying her older brother seated on the Iron Throne, raised by a mother that loved her, safe and protected and happy.

Yet Dany needed to bring back the dragons. They were born of her marriage, the death of her husband and her son. He’d never want her to go through that again, there must be another way to bring back the dragons… were they necessary? It wasn’t a dragon that ended the army of the dead, it was that blade, Arya's blade, Valyrian steel? His hand throbbed and a sharp pain in his shoulder left him gasping.

There would have been peace in Westeros, and somebody else, anyone else - Uncle Benjen and Jeor Mormont would prepare the North for the dead, Starks would rule in Winterfell - yes, that’s where he’d go back to, what he would change if he could. Everyone would be happy, everyone would be better off.

But he had no way of going back in time. He was stuck, here, with everything he was and everything he had done. So, what did he want now? What could he want? He scrubbed his hand over his face, he was tired. Tired of hiding, tired of being what others wanted him to be, tired of doubting himself.

Eastwatch by the Sea, then the long cold ride to Castle Black.

He clenched his fist and winced, shaking his head against the pain.

If they think I will pledge loyalty to something that doesn’t exist they are stupider than I ever was…

He remembered how solemn it had all felt, back then, back before he knew how the world really worked. He was so naive, his father - uncle - wanted him that way, far too trusting, so he would never doubt the lies he was told; his life was never important to Lord Stark, to anyone.

He didn’t know what the True North would offer him; Ghost, Tormund, the Free Folk and broken promises. But he was no longer the Bastard of Winterfell, never again. The Exiled King, no, the Mad King Beyond the Wall. She would have loved that.

“Keep your Queen warm…”

Yes, full circle. He pushed the thought away.

Think about something else.

How deep was the snow in The Land of Always Winter?

Even as they were leaving Winterfell there had been much discussion about the violent storms, the northern lights glowing night after night farther and farther south, and more recently even rumors of the red comet returning brighter than ever.

Without the storms of the Night King, would the wild game return, the giants, the direwolves?

What magic had changed Bran, was it still there?

So many questions, he felt bitterness and anger rise again.

Muffled laughter followed by a booming voice, distantly familiar, then heavy footsteps followed by a startling knock on the door.

“Come.” As if he were still king.

The door unlatched and the captain came in, sheepish and eyes twinkling.

“Your Grace, you have a visitor. May I show him in?”

Jon frowned, but gingerly moved to sit up on the edge of the bed. “Visitor, Captain? I’m expecting no visitors.”

The captain bowed his head to the side and smiled. “There are things, things you need to know, Your Grace… May I let him in, he will answer your questions I’m sure.”

Jon grasped the bedpost and pulled himself to his feet, his knee rebelling against the heavy rocking of the boat.

“This is your cabin, Captain, you need hardly ask my permission.”

The captain nodded and stood aside as he pulled the door open.

The hallway was dimly lit, the cabin even darker, though his eyes had adjusted to the dark. Yet it didn’t take him long to connect the voice to the large Lord Manderly as he stood in the cabin doorway. Their eyes locked, the blue eyes shifting as the elder lord took in Jon’s full appearance. He knew he looked rough and unkempt, could justify it, but it was still embarrassing to see it in someone else’s eyes.

The joviality left his eyes as Manderly turned to look at the captain who nodded and waved him in.

Manderly took another step into the room and dropped to one knee, head bowed, “Your Grace, White Harbor is yours!”

Jon reeled back and took a deep breath as he held the post, perplexed and annoyed, “Lord Manderly, what is this about? Stand up, you know I'm not King anymore.”

Manderly stood and shook his head, “I know no such thing, Your Grace!”

“Word has not reached you then? I’ve been exiled, returned to the Wall.”

“Exiled by whom, Your Grace? The North Remembers, Jon Snow. The North made you King, and we have not unmade you.” He waved to a thin man who stood just outside in the hall, bowing as he entered.

“The North needs you, Your Grace, perhaps now more than ever.”

Jon wavered on his feet as a wave crested, and Manderly rushed to his side to steady him, sitting him back on the side of the bed even as Jon flinched from his grip.

“Apologies for not telling you our plans, but there wasn’t time and there were spies everywhere, perhaps even on this ship.”

Jon shook his head as the captain pushed a cup of wine into his hands, waiting for him to drink.

“I made you king once, I’m planning on doing it again.”

Manderly stood back and waited for the words to sink in and his eyes to clear.

“But you have a choice, Jon Snow. Come with me, leave this ship now, retake your crown and lead the North, or stay on board, and you’ll be taken to your exile, or to Essos, or anywhere you choose, although you will be recognized wherever you go. Your Grace, you cannot outrun your heritage or your legend.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It's not hard, Your Grace, don’t over think this. You are King in the North. Our pledge hasn’t changed, our need for you hasn’t changed, and no one agreed to the exile you were condemned to.”

Jon stiffened.

“Sansa…”

Lord Manderly sucked in his breath, his shoulders heaving as he scowled.

“...does not speak for the northern lords. We were all infuriated when we heard what she’d done, that she would insist on independence for the North, but not your freedom at the very least.” His eyes grew dark as storm clouds as he leaned toward Jon.

“Tyrion, he said that the Unsullied would fight to prevent my freedom.”

Jon shook his head as his thoughts cleared. “But that never made any sense to me. Grey Worm should have killed me at the very first, beheaded Tyrion the Traitor as well. Dany had already condemned him to death, Grey Worm would not have asked for someone else to pass judgment on him. Then all they had to do was take the ships and leave that very day, no one would have stopped them. It seems that’s what they ended up doing after all, they gained nothing from waiting for a ‘Great Council.’ It still makes no sense at all.”

Manderly agreed. “Your Grace, we have our suspicions… though we can see the marks of the revenge they’ve taken on you, they could have finished you at any time. Perhaps…”

His voice softened, consoling.

“They knew the North was there, armed and ready outside the gates of King’s Landing, waiting for word, they would have fought and died for you, or taken their revenge, if Lady Sansa hadn’t…”

Jon raised his eyes, questioning as Manderly pushed his shoulders back and raised himself to his full height.

“Besides, we do not let foreign armies dictate our rulers.”

“I bent the knee, I gave up my crown…”

“Yes, to the Targaryen Queen, not to anyone else.” He paused, “Your Grace, we chose you to be King and you accepted that responsibility, you vowed to protect the North, your home.”

Manderly nodded toward the thin man standing behind him, who walked forward and placed the box on the bed beside Jon and then stepped back. Watching. Jon opened the hinged lid, his eyes narrowing as he placed his hand on the metal ring and lifted it half way out of the box before dropping it back onto its velvet lining.

Manderly nodded toward the box. “This is how you keep your vows, to protect the realms of men.”

“But I've broken all my vows!”

“Not the ones that matter, not to the North, not to your people.”

Jon shook his head, “The White Walkers are no longer a threat.”

“Then it will be an easy task!” Manderly smiled and laughed as he placed his hand on his shoulder, grasping it and giving him a small shake.

“You need to heal, we all need to heal, and to unify and to rebuild, to move forward. There is no one else to lead us, no one that we all trust to do the right thing.”

Jon looked down, away from the box on the bed. “I swore… I never wanted a crown.”

“I’m sorry, Your Grace, but you seem to think that makes you less suited to be King. We chose you before, and we choose you now.”

Muffled music and the sound of a restless crowd wafted in through the open door.

Manderly pulled a chair up next to the bed and sat hunched next to him, whispering, “I don’t know what happened to you down there, we’ve heard rumors though, we can talk about it when you’re ready if you want, not sure we’ll ever know or understand, but you are our King, and nothing has changed that. And we need our King in the North IN the North!”

Jon struggled, closing his eyes against the words and the lord’s fixed gaze.

“I suspect you’ve heard some of what’s been happening in the North; we are on the brink of civil war, we are vulnerable to our enemies, whose number grows by the day. Great Houses will fall, thousands will starve if we do not work together, and you, Your Grace, you have done it before, you’ve brought us together, the North will follow her King, and only her King…”

Manderly lowered his voice even more, “And there are things, suspicions, I can’t confirm anything yet, but if the North is to survive we need our King on his throne, or this forced peace will consume us all.

“It is dangerous to speak more of it here, now; accept your crown, take your rightful place. Come with me now, and we’ll lay it out before you, what we think we know. Then you’ll be off to Winterfell. It’s dangerous for you there as well, we will send people you trust to be your guards for now, your Free Folk friends, my family, anyone you choose.”

Jon pushed himself off the bed to avoid Manderly’s words and instead looked out the porthole, surprised to see the port filled with a milling mass of people, to hear singing and music in the square in White Harbor.

“They’re waiting for you, my King…”

Jon felt light-headed and confused as he realized they were celebrating… him. He should have felt honored, appreciated, wanted. Instead he felt ashamed and empty. Familiar. He took a deep breath.

Manderly spoke to his back, “It’s out, now, Your Grace, that you’re on this ship, we need to hurry. I'm afraid you have no time, just a moment then you must decide.”

Jon nodded but did not turn.

Manderly stood and glanced at the captain, who left with the thin man, “We’ll wait for you just outside, Your Grace. I hope you make the right decision, for Winterfell, for the North, and for yourself.”

He heard the door latch, a finality to the sound. Once he was alone, Jon shook his head to try to clear his thoughts. He had become resigned to his fate, enjoyed wallowing in despair. But now…

“Ask me again in 10 years.”

He had thought he’d be mad, mad and forgotten by then. What if, was it right, was it right to want to be something, to matter?

Did it matter why?

Jon retook his seat on the bed. Was Manderly right, was he overthinking it. Brooding… No, not this time, he could barely think at all.

He ran his fingers across the lid of the carved box, the Stark direwolf engraved in its top. He paused before opening it, promising himself he would not be swept up in duty, not this time.

He could choose.

Slowly he lifted the lid and pulled out the crown. Burnished spires of the King of Winter’s crown, metal upon metal upon gray upon black; eight crossed blades, a singular blade in front, howling wolves' heads in between. Dark and dangerous. It was surprisingly light, for the weight it represented.

It suited him well.

He stood quickly, then glanced at the door, then the porthole before placing the crown on his head, testing its position until it settled comfortably across his brow, cutting across the unhealed wounds on the back of his head.

By the gods, a crown…

How could he even consider? He shook his head, the crown settling even more deeply into his matted curls.

He removed the crown, put it on again, surprised at how quickly it returned to its earlier position. He removed it again, turned it, round and round. Waiting for something…

Swords and Direwolves.

He looked at his hands, bruised and red and swollen as he turned the crown this way and that. He took a deep breath as a flicker of something - acceptance? hope? - seeped through the dullness of indifference as he again placed the crown on his head, firmly this time.

Jon huffed wryly to himself; surely he would regret this later. But for now…

He placed his few remaining personal items and the crown’s lockbox into his trunk and latched it, placed his cloak on top, then laid the unfinished book on the table and tapped his fingers on it once. He knew how it ended, everyone died of course, perhaps even the kraken, but for the moment he was willing to leave it behind for an uncertain future.

Jon straightened as best he could, pushing down the throbbing pain as he reached for the door, pausing as the board creaked, startled as the door opened before him.

Chapter Text

His eyes adjusted quickly to the lantern-lit hall beyond the captain's quarters. He could see his guards talking to Lord Manderly at the end of the narrow passageway, he watched as their eyes looked him up and down, settling on the crown now resting upon his brow. He started to approach but was set back on his heels as his guards pulled their swords, Manderly shouting at the top of his lungs even as he reached for his own sword, each sharp blade striking the wooden planks underfoot with full force as they knelt before the finally crowned king.

“King in the North” repeated down the hall and over his unbelieving ears, upward through the ship’s crew, then onto the dock and finally resounding, muffled through the sides and deck of the ship.

“King in the North!”

“King in the North!”

“The King in the North!”

Jon nodded and Manderly stood quickly, raising his sword high in the air as he shouted again, inadvertently hitting the low overhead of the ship’s upper deck. The elder lord laughed openly, joined by the two black-cloaked guards as they sheathed their swords to drop their black cloaks to the deck, revealing northern armor underneath bearing the black battle-axe of House Cerwyn on one and the moose head of House Hornwood on the other. The smiles on their faces were brilliant as Jon began to absorb this present truth.

Manderly sheathed his sword and motioned his king forward. Jon paused as the Cerwyn guard approached him, Longclaw extended in his outstretched hands. They stood silently watching as Jon unbound the leather straps and fastened the familiar scabbard tightly around his waist.

Jon sighed awkwardly, surprised at the flood of relief from this simple act. He nodded once and started toward the steep ladder leading to the upper deck when a flash of gray and white fur flew down the passage, skirting through legs and finally through the gap of the unclosed door to the captain’s quarters. The Hornwood guard entered behind the ship’s cat, followed by several servants bearing the Manderly merman, bowing quickly as they rushed past.

Bowing… He’d forgotten about that.

Jon watched through the doorway as they gathered his trunk and cloak, the guard halting them as they began to leave, glancing around the cabin.

“Your Grace, is there anything else?”

Jon turned and glanced over the cabin through the door and shook his head. “No, nothing else…” Just about all he’d ever owned.

He paused, he knew what was ahead, how his life would change. He’d be better prepared this time, less naive…

The guard waved the men back through, and bowed again as they carried the worn trunk down the hall. Manderly raised his hand, taking the cloak from the arm of the guard, then approached Jon, holding it out for him.

“It's a bit windy, Your Grace, and winter is here.” Manderly smiled openly as Jon fastened his cloak, then flinched as Manderly took him by the shoulders and looked him in the eye, studying, until apparently satisfied he gave his shoulders another quick squeeze before stepping back.

“Good lad! Come, we have much to speak about…”

The chant grew louder as Jon ascended the steep steps, wholly unprepared for what awaited him as he emerged from the dark bowels of the ship to stand braced on the shifting deck.

The cold wind blowing off the bay struck his face like a whip, both refreshing and brutal at once. Occasionally the light rain pelted his face, leaving a glistening sheen across every surface of ship and land. The smell of rain was in the air, the promise of snow not far behind.

The North.

Home.

He had been to White Harbor before, but he had never seen it like this; the wet white walls glowing in the midday sun, nearly blinding him as he stepped into the light and waited for his eyes to adjust, finally stunned as a surge of voices rose as he appeared on the deck of the ship.

Manderly paused as he watched Jon’s face, then waved him toward the steep roped gangway leading to the jetty, Manderly knights lining each side, banners flying the merman sigil and the gray and white direwolf of House Stark. Jon took a deep breath and lifted his eyes, finally, and again felt Manderly’s gaze as he took in the scene before him.

White Harbor was the North’s only true city, sprawling and walled, and it seemed that it had poured every citizen onto the streets and expansive docks of the northern port. Jon had never seen so many people at one time; cheering, happy people, at least.

Cheering… for him?

He pushed aside his disbelief and took a deep breath, the wind billowing his cloak to the side, then cutting through his northern Stark armor. He considered removing the cloak, but the walk shouldn’t be too long and he had always felt comforted by the bulk of that garment, despite...

Sansa…

“This next part might be a little hard for you, Your Grace, we all know you are an overly humble man, but just get through it for now.”

Jon nodded his thanks and goodbye to the captain and crew before he started his walk down the gangway.

Manderly nodded toward the sloping ramp, “You don’t have to say anything, just wave and nod and don’t lose that crown!” He tossed back his white mane of hair in the wind and laughed heartily, gesturing to his men to form up around and behind the young king as he approached the short steep bridge to solid ground. His knees felt loose, his footing unsure, and he slowed his steps to keep from losing his balance altogether, relieved when his guards closed in, whether for protection or to keep him upright he wasn’t sure. By the time he reached the wharf, his stiffness had eased and he had regained some measure of balance, and was escorted to a waiting carriage and a handler holding the reins of several well-groomed horses.

“We had a carriage brought for your safety, but if you are able, Your Grace, since your presence here is no longer a secret, perhaps it would be best…”

Jon approached the groomsman, who bowed deeply before handing to another the reins of all but an elaborately tacked black stallion.

“A gift, Your Grace, from the citizens of White Harbor.” Jon smiled somberly and briefly wondered what had become of his own… of his former mount back in King’s Landing.

Hopefully he was being treated well.

He stroked the neck of the stocky animal, then quickly took the reins and mounted, doing his best to hide the pain and stiffness in front of the thousands of pairs of eyes now focused on him. He spoke softly to the side-stepping horse and relaxed, sending a calm and confidence into the mount that he didn’t feel himself.

A bevy of armored knights rushed in, on foot and mounted, encircling him with practiced precision. Manderly had seemed to suggest a specific threat, and he watched as the eyes of his protectors raked over the smiling faces around him, waving and pushing and shouting.

He had little time to enjoy the sight; Manderly rode to his side and nodded to those leading the procession, and they pushed carefully into the crowd as they made their way up the side of the steep mount, several switchback levels of bright white granite-paved street to the front courtyard of the great manse of House Manderly. And none too soon. His hip was throbbing and his shoulder ached from waving, the bruises on his cheek had swollen and his eye almost closed from the forced perpetual smiling, something he had never gotten used to in the best of times.

They dismounted before the great merman fountain in the middle of the courtyard, tarnished copper trident mid-throw, the drops of water sparkling into spray in the stiff breeze. He was escorted into the Great Hall, filled with Manderlys and servants and some familiar faces, many smiling, then dropping to one knee.

Jon felt the weight of his crown etch his brow as he waited for a stillness; then, “Rise.”

Lady Manderly stood first and stepped forward, fanned her skirts and curtsied.

“The North is yours, Your Grace.” Gwindollen Manderly was a lovely gray-haired woman, her eyes had that same spark of mirth as her husband.

Jon nodded as she re-introduced her daughters and other family members, seemingly less torn this time between his two titles of king and bastard, the introductions brief but cordial. Jon smiled politely and tried to remember the faces and names of this important family even as his leg threatened to give out. He clearly remembered House Manderly’s Maester Harrow, surprised to be introduced to Septon Jardan, both hesitant but polite. Septon Jardan had made himself scarce on his previous visits.

Fortunately Wyman Manderly broke in, nodding and waving to the finely garbed gentlemen grouped together at the back of the hall.

“We should speak in private for a moment, Your Grace, then no doubt you would like to rest, wash off some of the past…” He gestured to a set of heavy doors. Several guards entered before him, positioning themselves on the balcony and within the room as the small group entered behind him.

The room was dark and peaceful, a fire blazing in the elaborately sculpted fireplace. Servants bustled in the corners, his Northern guards taking their place nearby as he was waved toward a cushioned chair by the fire. Manderly nodded to the head steward and the room was cleared but for the guards and the selected lords. The steward pulled the heavy doors closed from the outside, and the mood in the room turned serious.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Manderly, my lords…” Jon nodded toward his host, those seated nearby. He vaguely remembered these lords, glad for the reminders as Manderly re-introduced each one. Roxton, Batler, Tyde, Kneight.

Lord Batler, a short balding fellow leaned toward Manderly, lightly touching him on his arm as he whispered loudly, “Did you tell him, Wyman?”

Manderly shook his head and almost growled, “We don’t have proof, yet…”

Jon accepted the mug of ale from the maester and thanked him. He remembered him from the last time he was here. Like the septon, the light-eyed maester hadn’t seemed to like him very much, and definitely hadn’t liked the silver-haired Queen of Meereen.

“Proof of what, Lord Manderly?”

“Wyman, if it please, Your Grace, in private at least…” Jon nodded and waited. “Treachery, Your Grace…”

“Jon, then, in private at least…” Manderly thought a moment as the others looked on, finally nodding. “Jon, then… we have reason to believe there has been a plan underway, a conspiracy if you will… we’re waiting for a final word, but we know it is not good for any of us, the North, even Westeros, and certainly not well wishes for you, Your Grace.”

Jon tasted the ale and sighed, the flagon cool in his hands as the bitter drink burned its way down his throat. He’d never tasted anything so… memory-filled.

He sat farther back in the chair to ease his leg; he was beginning to feel like he was home…

“You… don’t seem surprised… Jon…”

Jon hesitated as the cold of the mug lessened the ache in his hand, “I’ve had a lot of time to consider… Let’s wait for the proof, shall we?”

There was silence then as Jon gathered his thoughts. The ale was rumbling in his empty stomach, apparently loud enough that Lord Kneight seated to his right rose and plated a variety of bread, meat, cheese and fruit from the sideboard, setting it on the table at his elbow. Jon nodded gratefully. He had grown thin; the fish stew had never agreed with him, especially on the rocking ship, and before that…

“Go on, my lords, what has happened in the North while I’ve been gone.”

Manderly leaned forward, “Even before you left, Your Grace, winter had come, and with it the strange storms of the dead. Since then, all kinds of, well… the greatest challenge will be the flooding, Your Grace. It seems that the Wall is melting, forming a kind of great lake, changing the course of rivers, and the land beyond is warming, even the winter winds have lessened, besides the storms that is. We’ve received reports of great herds of northern elk, not seen below the Wall for hundreds of years, and direwolves and shadow cats…”

Lord Lucas Tyde cleared his throat. “We think they’re using the break in the Wall that the Night King made. We’ve sent word to Castle Black – a messenger, Your Grace, we didn’t trust the news to a raven – for a report on the Wall and to let your friend Tormund know you’d, hopefully, be returning to Winterfell.”

Maester Harrow nodded, “We received word yesterday that the, Free Folk, are heading south to Winterfell. With the heavy snows, it is hard to predict who will arrive there first, and we don’t know yet… we trust that your friend Tormund will keep this secret if at all possible, but since they are heading south, there may be suspicions.”

Jon nodded, relieved. It would be good to see friends again, no doubt he would bring Ghost with him as well. He briefly smiled to himself.

The fire crackled and Jon felt himself flinch, then startled again at the knock on the great door followed by quiet creaking as it slid open just a crack, the steward’s voice drifting softly but clearly, “The ship has docked, Lord Manderly, it won’t be long now.” Manderly nodded, and the door rubbed closed.

Manderly straightened in his seat as he caught Jon’s eye. “We’ve been waiting for proof, Your Grace, hopefully our final guest will have answers to our questions, one way or another.”

Jon nodded again. He remembered that when he was King - before - he had developed a crick in his neck from the almost constant nodding.

Jon watched as the steward again knocked moments later, the guards opening the door at Manderly’s nod. The steward smiled widely as he entered and bowed facing the King, gesturing toward the open balcony. Jon could hear voices, children’s laughter through the open doors; he stood to follow the steward and saw a welcome sight.

The heavy clouds had been blown from the bay over the coast, the rough wind poking enough holes in the thick cover to send random shafts of light to pierce the gray shadows. But there was something else…

Jon walked onto the balcony and braced himself, his hands leaning against the stone balustrade.

Snow.

The temperature had dropped quickly and now great flakes of dry snow were falling heavily in places, glistening in the shafts of light, swirling as they neared the ground.

Jon closed his eyes as he felt the cold kiss of his namesake against his face, his hands. He breathed deeply, ignoring the ache as the familiar bite filled his lungs. More laughter rose from below, and dogs barking, and he looked to see several children, Manderly’s grandchildren perhaps, running through the fresh snow dusted throughout the garden, trying to make snowballs in ungloved hands, jumping to catch the flakes as they swirled before getting tangled in shrubs and fountain and flowerbeds. Movement caught his eye; below and to the right he saw a flash of red and blue and white, a scarf being draped over the head of a younger woman, a quiet smile gracing her plain face as she watched the antics before her.

This, this is what he had wanted, for the North, and, yes, for a brief moment at least, for himself.

Peace. Rest. Contentment. A future…

Family. A lost dream…

Jon wiped the melted snow from his face and turned, sensing Manderly’s presence at his side.

“It’s a good sign, my King.”

Jon nodded, “Winter is here, may it be short and gentle, despite what the Citadel warns.”

There was a commotion at the doors behind him, voices rising as each guard eased his sword from its sheath as they took their places to encircle him. The steward rushed to the doors, glancing at Manderly with a raised eyebrow before opening the door just enough to let in a single person.

Jon balked as the familiar figure entered, shaking off the last bit of snow from his graying hair as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkened room. Jon shouldered through his guards and approached this final guest, confused and a bit angry.

“Davos, what are you doing here? Are you here to spy on me for your new king?”

Manderly placed his hand gently on his shoulder to get his attention and calm him. “Your Grace, there is much to explain. But rest assured you are here, you are free because of what Ser Davos and others have done, quite…”

Davos’s eyes widened as he looked Jon up and down, a conflict of emotions evident before approaching him to kneel.

“I am ever your loyal servant, Your Grace, if you will have me.” He bowed his head, and Jon took a deep breath, stifling a frustrated sigh.

“Get up then, tell me what is going on. The last I was told you had a seat on King Bran’s Small Council, Master of Ships if I recall correctly.”

Davos stood, but didn’t answer, instead approached Jon closer, looking into his face. “I’m so sorry we couldn’t get to you sooner.” Jon watched as tears welled in the eyes of his once friend as Davos answered, “Yes, yes, there is much to explain.”

Davos took a step back and reached into his vest, pulling out a small leather bound satchel. He turned to Manderly, who gestured for the steward to leave, then nodded as the other lords stepped closer to watch the exchange.

“This is from Lord Gendry Baratheon, Your Grace.” Davos smiled as he said the name. “Bran chose to honor the wishes of Queen Daenerys, or more likely didn’t want to be bothered with making another choice. Gendry is now Lord of Storm’s End, he’s... I’ve come straight from there, more or less, with this letter.”

Davos extended the pouch to Jon; he knew what was inside. Jon nodded for Davos to read it himself. He dreaded the reality, hoped for anything that he was wrong, but the expressions on those around him told him that hope would not be fulfilled.

“To the Lords of the North ~

“I, Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm’s End, do testify that the words below are true, I wrote them as I recalled them spoken.”

Davos paused to address his audience.

“Gendry told us that he had overheard Sansa talking to her uncle Lord Edmure Tully, to stage a little distraction at the Great Council.” Davos paused to look at Jon, “apparently reminding him that if he wanted to receive a portion of the Neck, he would have to do as she asked.”

Jon felt his heart pound. There it was.

Davos glanced at the other lords and continued, “Soon after, Sansa approached Gendry and offered that he himself would be named lord of Storm’s End. He had questions that she wouldn’t answer. This was before the Great Council, as these lords were arriving in King’s Landing. He wasn’t sure what to do, but he’s good at listening from the shadows, and asked around as if he too had been offered a piece of the North. And he asked about you… There was a bit of confusion about what to do with you, Your Grace. It seems the first choice was public execution, but Sansa was apparently afraid she would lose all hope of gaining the allegiance of the Northern armies.” Davos continued reading,

“As the Lords of the Great Houses gathered for the Great Council, and even before, Lady Sansa Stark did offer Northern lands and goods to southern Houses in exchange for their vote and support for Northern independence during the Great Council, to result in Brandon Stark on the Iron Throne, Sansa Stark Queen in the North, and Jon Snow to be either exiled to the Night’s Watch or executed, whichever was needed to convince the Unsullied to peacefully leave Westeros and solidify her claim to the North.

“House Tully, Lord of the Riverlands, to receive an additional tract of land to the North into the Neck, House Arryn to also receive a tract of land, divided halfway to Moat Cailin…”

Davos paused to look at a stone-faced Jon, then glanced at the others.

“It goes on, Bear Island, Last Hearth, the Dreadfort, The Gift, Eastwatch By The Sea, even the timber in the Haunted Forest, fishing rights along the Northern coasts. She’d traded Northern Houses, as well as bits and pieces of the North for two crowns,” Davos handed the parchment to Jon. “At your expense, Your Grace.”

Jon took the folded letter. He’d known what it would say, he’d had the time to piece it together while he waited for his execution in that dark cell. Still, his heart thudded hard within his chest, it couldn’t be…

“How many people know this, about this plan?”

“We aren’t sure, Your Grace, we had discussed whether it would be wise to make it public, to solidify your reign.”

Jon shook his head. “If news of my family’s betrayal is what is needed to solidify my reign I do not deserve to reign at all.”

Manderly pursed his lips, then nodded, the other lords following suit.

“No, we will keep it quiet for now, the North will need to make alliances with southern houses, and the knowledge of these deals may be of value. It can be made public if necessary, but for now it is more useful to be kept private if possible.”

Manderly smiled to himself and glanced at Davos who seemed relieved.

“No doubt you have questions, Your Grace.” Davos waved him back to the hearth and handed him his ale as they all retook their seats, a chair drawn forward for the newcomer.

Manderly leaned forward, “We all have questions. Perhaps if you start at the beginning, Ser Davos, I’m sure we would all like to hear what happened in King’s Landing, from your perspective, that is.”

Jon swallowed the hurt and anger, nodding to Davos to continue. He was not ready to be fully accepting or relieved just yet.

Davos accepted the cup of wine from the maester. “After… after the dragon burned King’s Landing, I stayed back with the Northern Army. Jon had ordered us outside the gates, and we gathered and tended our wounded as he sought out the queen. I don’t know what happened, just what was rumored, but the next thing we were told was that Jon Snow was imprisoned and the Dragon Queen was dead.”

Lord Tyde leaned forward to interrupt, but Manderly silenced him with a shake of the head.

Davos turned to his king. “Jon, your sister, Arya, she sought me out, told me what had happened, what she’d seen, what she’d heard. She sent a raven to Winterfell, to call the banners to bring you home, but there was no reply. But news had gotten out, and the Northern Army grew to almost double, Glover, Cerwyn and many others brought all their remaining fighting men to King’s Landing.”

Jon couldn’t hide his surprise. “Glover?”

Davos chuckled, “Yes, even Glover. We waited for word from Sansa, or Bran, anyone at Winterfell, but there was only silence. So we, Arya, Cerwyn and myself, we thought it better to do something ourselves than wait to see what their plan might be. There’s never been a doubt that there’s been tension between you and your sister Sansa, Your Grace, so we came up with a plan, to call what was left of the Great Houses to King’s Landing, to hold a Great Council to crown a new king. For some reason Arya was sure, absolutely sure they would name you to the throne. I wasn’t so sure that that was what you’d want, but we had tried too many times to visit you, to get a message to you. Every time Grey Worm would threaten to cut a piece off of you, and we just didn’t want to risk it.”

Jon heaved a sigh, so many of his questions being answered was both comforting and disheartening.

“I suspected as much, thank you Ser Davos. Please go on…”

“It seems we played right into their hands. Gendry sought us out, well, sought out Arya, explained what he’d heard, that there were deals being made, that he had been offered Storm’s End, to honor the Queen’s wishes, if he supported Bran as King, even before House Stark arrived. Apparently Sansa had sent envoys before her, and she had friends in King’s Landing from when she’d lived there before. Gendry was able to give us bits and pieces, but later he made a point to talk to those that voted for Bran and they said yes, that was the agreement being made.” He nodded to the folded parchment still in Jon’s hand.

“Jon was never even considered for the throne, and Tyrion convinced everyone that Bran – Brandon Stark! Of all people! – that Bran the Broken should be King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

There were quite a few huffs at that.

Davos leaned in, jeering. “You know what he said when Tyrion asked him if he would be King? He said, ‘why do you think I came all this way?’ To this day I have no idea what that means! He’s a very strange young man, there’s just something not right there, but somehow he is king, of the six kingdoms, and Sansa bought independence for the North.”

Davos leaned back in his chair as he took a drink of wine.

“The rest of us had come up with our own plan. The North wanted her King returned in one piece, so we decided to go along with their plan with just a few changes.”

Davos nodded toward Manderly, “Lord Cerwyn sent a raven, followed by a messenger, almost killed his horse, and we set things in motion here, and down in Winterfell. As soon as we heard you were exiled, Your Grace, we put this plan in motion.”

Jon listened intently, his eyes darkening as he nodded for Davos to go on with his story.

“Lady Arya, Princess Arya now, she was keeping watch over you, wearing those faces of hers, ready to act if the decision had been to execute you. But she was able to pick up the details of your exile and we, well, two Northern soldiers, hand-picked by Lords Cerwyn and Hornwood, they didn’t want to be recognized by you, so they did their best to play the part of escorts from Castle Black, sent to accompany you to your exile. Arya had prevented the raven being sent to Castle Black, it’s abandoned anyway, not sure who they were sending ravens to, but these two dressed up in black cloaks and swore to protect their King. They kept us informed, Your Grace, your ship made landfall at several ports to make sure we would be ready.”

Jon heaved a deep breath as he turned to nod toward the two guards behind him, grateful but confused by the effort on his behalf.

“The second ship…”

“Second ship, Ser Davos?” Jon stifled a yawn as the warmth of the fire seeped into his bones.

“Yes, Your Grace, intended for exile, you were instead brought to one of Manderly’s ships, Captain Tollher’s ship and headed north. Another northman, one of Glover’s men, he swore allegiance to you as well, resembled you the best we could with such short notice. He was on another ship, one of Stannis’s ships, under Sallador Sahn, they shadowed your ship for your protection for a day or two, until more of Manderly’s fleet could reach you, then it sailed straight north to Eastwatch. Probably arrived today, maybe tomorrow, we’ll hear soon enough.” Davos glanced at Manderly who shook his head.

“We’ve not heard anything yet, Your Grace.”

Davos continued, “They’ll know, if Bran, or Sansa for that matter, sent word to make sure you had made it that far. We’re hoping they’ve only left word with Castle Black. There are perhaps twenty men there, this will give us more time to get you crowned and back to Winterfell, where you belong, Your Grace.” Davos smiled cautiously, waiting for Jon’s reaction.

Jon turned the mug in his hands. “So, to be clear, you’re saying there was never a threat from the Unsullied, or the Dothraki?”

Davos shook his head, “There was a threat, Your Grace, certainly, but against your life only, there were not enough of them to defend against the Northern army. But you were their prisoner, and they could have killed both you and Tyrion at any time. Once the rest of us realized what was happening… we’d had word you weren’t being treated well, they threatened you harm when we tried to see you. We didn’t want to risk anything more, so we went along with it. But there was never any effort by Brandon or Sansa Stark, or Tyrion, or anyone to seek your freedom.”

Jon stretched back into the stuffed cushions of the chair, some of the weight lifting from his heart. He’d have to refocus, rethink at least some of his anger.

“Ser Davos, you joined Bran the Broken’s Small Council? And what of Arya Stark?” Lord Roxton prompted.

Davos nodded after more sips of the fine Arbor wine.

“Yes, I knew I was being watched, as was Arya and all loyal Northerners, we had to make it seem… I joined the Small Council, then as soon as I received word that our plan was working and Jon was safely on his way to White Harbor I resigned, saying I had received word from my wife that she was in poor health. King Bran…” Davos winced as he said the words. “He had that, ‘not there’ look that he has, and I bowed and told him I was leaving, and he nodded and said nothing, just went back to staring into nothing. I went to see your sister… Lady Sansa Stark had remained to help set up the new king’s coronation and the household of the Red Keep, she'd lived there after all. She seemed content, Your Grace, when I asked if she would be pardoning your exile, let you return to Winterfell. She said no, it was more important to keep you far away to keep the peace, and that you never wanted to be king. You would continue to do your duty to the realm, and all would be well.”

There was a heavy silence in the room, eyes averted or casting subtle glances at the king to see what his reaction would be. Jon was well-practiced at not showing his emotions; he simply nodded and waited as he placed the empty mug back on the table.

Davos straightened, “Princess Arya, she boarded another of Sallador’s ships and sailed in the other direction, she told everyone she was going to buy provisions for a long trip to seek out what is ‘West of Westeros’.” Davos chuckled to himself. “She sailed out of sight, then they switched sails - just in case - and turned around and headed straight for White Harbor, then up the White Knife, heading for Winterfell. Until you arrive, she will be the Stark in Winterfell, and is setting things in order for your return. We should hear very soon that she’s returned home, and what you can expect, if we need to send an army with you, Your Grace, until…”

“An army?”

“The Northern cavalry is riding up the King’s Road to meet up with you before Winterfell, we’re waiting for word from them as well. The foot soldiers will follow soon after.”

Davos stopped to glance at Manderly.

“Myself, I took my friend’s ship to Storm’s End. Gendry had left King’s Landing soon after he gathered the details of the conspiracy, he was afraid he’d be found out. We were all being watched. Bran… but we needed to know for sure so I met with Gendry myself, asked him to write it out.” Davos paused, the gravity of the events sinking in.

Jon looked up, surprised, as Manderly stood and the other lords straightened and stood as well.

“Your Grace, we will do whatever is necessary to return you to your throne. This is the only thing that will prevent outright war, North against North against South, and the only thing that will unite the North against all of our enemies.”

All the lords nodded in agreement as Manderly continued.

“We will hear soon, no doubt, my King, my good lords. But perhaps now the King would like to rest and bathe, and have his wounds tended to.”

Manderly turned to Davos, “We were going to hold the coronation here, in private, but our secret is no longer. So we are making preparations to crown the King in the Sept of White Harbor, in the Light of the Seven, for all to see. Then he can get a good night’s rest before leaving for Winterfell on the morrow. We should hear from the others by then.”

Jon hid his wince at the mention of the sept; growing up he had never been allowed in the Winterfell Sept, he was a bastard after all. Then a small smile graced his lips as he imagined an outraged Lady Stark looking on. He nodded, and Manderly’s smile broadened.

Davos frowned, “In public… isn't that risky?”

Manderly glanced at Lord Tyde, “Ser Davos, we’ve taken precautions for his safety, and yours as well. You’ll find a gift from the people of White Harbor in your rooms, Your Grace. Please rest and be refreshed.”

Manderly waved him to the door, Davos following before his guards.

Lord Tyde, a ruddy, freckled older man, accompanied them to the rooms, where they found an armorer and several apprentices already waiting. Jon remembered these rooms, but they had been, well, dressed up a bit since his last visit. Everywhere his eyes fell he found a white direwolf. Embroidered, carved, gilded.

The Stark sigil, his bastard sigil.

The solar was expansive, as all of the rooms in the Manderly manse seemed to be. A table for dining with guests, 8, perhaps 10. A side table covered in maps and ink and parchment, rolled and unfurled scrolls. Books and several candles, and a pitcher and goblets on a silver tray. Stuffed chairs set in pairs around the room, and by the hearth, a roaring fire, heavy curtains on the balcony wall, guards seemingly in every corner. And what would a King’s solar be without a huge framed painting of a seemingly naked bearded merman bursting from crashing waves, rising from the sea as he thrust his trident into the bellies of his enemies, staining the frothing ocean red with their blood.

Jon didn’t recall that painting the last time he used this room, or when Dany had been given these rooms; he no doubt would have heard her laughter ring through the manse.

Tearing his eyes from the moonstruck face of his host on the wall, Jon turned his attention to the work table. Roughly drawn maps, large Xs and arrows for rivers that had changed course, new lakes, dried beds, rising outcroppings. Part of the Wolfswood had sunken in, no harm if it stopped there, but a new lake was forming. Reports from beyond the Wall, from seemingly every House in the North. Descriptive accounts of tragedy, scrawled pleas for help from lords and commoners alike. Even from Wintertown itself. They had two things in common; they had all sent ravens, even messengers to Winterfell, and none had received a response.

Davos came to his side, “There is much to do, you can see how you are needed.” Jon sighed, nodding when he noticed the lords had gathered across the room.

Lord Tyde was beaming as Jon approached, waving toward the armorer standing between two tall covered objects.

“Your Grace, Master Armorer Codin Falker, finest armorer in all the Northern Realms.”

Falker bowed deeply but briefly, “Your Grace, I hope these are to your liking, of course changes can be made.”

Manderly glanced at Davos, who joined them, then nodded once toward the grinning older lord.

“Your Grace, we had always planned on your return to the North, whether by sea or by the King’s Road.” He pulled the cover free to reveal a gleaming set of elaborate plate armor, polished black, with a silver-white rampant direwolf on the chest plate, jeweled crown above its head, the Stark sigil in silver on the shoulders and braces.

Jon felt his jaw drop, disbelief warring with unnamed emotions he’d rarely felt before. Stunned silence followed, broken as Manderly waved Davos forward, “Ser Davos, we value your service to the North as well. No doubt you too will be named a traitor by the Broken King, and, well…”

The draped cover was removed from the second figure to reveal a similar set of armor, impressive though less ornate. The silence grew until the armorer pulled out an object from his vest pocket and handed it to Lord Tyde, who bowed as he extended it toward the King.

Jon took the pin and studied it as Manderly looked on.

“This is not a Northern tradition, Your Grace, but you also rule Andals, and I’m confident the Old Gods of the First Men would not object.”

Jon nodded, then noticed Davos waiting nervously with his hands behind his back. Jon calmly approached and paused, “Ser Davos, I would name you my Hand, officially this time, if you still wish to serve this King…”

Jon could see Davos’s eyes glisten as he took a deep breath and nodded as Jon stepped forward to pin the signet onto his tunic. He stepped back as those in the gathering gave him the applause he so richly deserved, quieting as Davos pulled his sword and knelt, laying the sword before Jon with his promise of fealty.

Jon thought of the meaning behind the formality of it all as he bid him rise. Davos stood and straightened, taller than before as he accepted the congratulations of the Northern lords. He could tell this meant a great deal to Davos, then wondered why he hadn’t done something before. He would have to do better, be a better king, to gain and maintain the loyalty he would need to rebuild, but he had never planned for, never wanted… Jon gathered a smile for the occasion, but was already getting impatient to get on with things, there was work to do, work that would hopefully keep the cold emptiness and nightmares at bay.

At least, perhaps, he hoped he could do some good as he waited for the silent darkness of death to welcome his return.

Lord Tyde gleefully bid him to try on the armor, in case further adjustments were needed. A steward appeared to his side and began to remove his outer garments; Jon winced but chuckled briefly as his Northern armor and quilted tunic were quickly removed, replaced with a thick fitted tunic and chainmail shirt. Several younger armorers joined in to fit and inspect each piece of the plate armor, bits of discussion between them as they adjusted the leather straps. Jon felt light-headed with the extra weight and wondered how he would ever be able to fight with the protective layers.

Jon stood still and silent as they worked, arms outstretched, then felt Davos’s amused gaze. Jon shrugged, annoying the armorers. He’d never worn anything but Northern armor, there’d never been a need to protect him like this. Minutes passed as he was asked to move this way and that. A memory intruded in the silence; who was it? Yes, Bran. Bran had always wanted to be a knight, a Kingsguard. He swallowed hard. His little brother Bran. He buried those thoughts and tried to smile as he expressed his gratitude for the hard work and fine craft expended on his behalf. The mixed feelings would have to wait, joining the lifetime of emotions buried deep behind the wall of urgent duty.

Yes, this would be better than the long cold silence of the Wall, too much time to think, to feel, to dwell… Sparkling eyes, reflecting the icy mist of the waterfall, the warm solitude and simple joy in her smile…

“Your Grace…” One of the servants had carried over a heavy mirror, as if he couldn’t have walked the few steps himself.

But there he was, broody and haggard in the mirror. Not an impressive figure, though the armor certainly was, and the crown.

He brushed his fingers through the scruff of his beard; he was no longer a young boy, not a boy at all. Maester Aemon’s words echoed,

“Kill the boy, and let the man be born…”

Manderly approached, “It will take some getting used to, but for now, your life is in danger, and all precautions will be taken.”

Jon thanked him. “Is there something specific I should know about?”

“No specifics that can be countered, Your Grace, but we know that money changed hands for your death even before you left the Wall, perhaps the Boltons. And we’ve received word that Cersei had sent assassins, and now your current crop of enemies. We are upending many plans, Your Grace, they will not be happy. We had tried to get word to you of our plans, but it was not safe, they could have changed their plans, executed you in your cell.”

Davos sighed as he endured similar treatment from the armorers. “We do know there are assassins waiting for you at Eastwatch by the Sea, likely Castle Black as well. The decoy will drop his mummery before he leaves the ship, will stay on board if we need more time, but we don’t want to put his life in danger any longer than necessary. He and his – um, guards – will return to Winterfell to join your Kingsguard, if it please Your Grace.”

Davos lowered his voice, “You were not meant to live in exile long. Arya… if you had decided to refuse your crown, there were other plans in place, including taking you against your will, anything to keep you from the Wall. She’s a determined woman, your sister.”

“Assassins, why? I was exiled, I was not a threat to anyone.”

Lord Roxton smiled soberly and shook his head. “You were named King in the North, Your Grace, and a Stark, by blood if not by name. Removing a potential threat from the board is the easiest way to win the game. King Robert, King Robb, King Joffrey, King Jon. Even Lord Arryn and Lord Stark.”

Davos shrugged. “Even before I left King’s Landing the reign of Bran the Broken was beginning to fail. This is a dangerous time for the entire realm, with few suited to lead.”

The armorers continued to fuss and adjust even as Jon noticed that they paused to listen to the conversation. He winced as the straps were tightened over his bruised ribs but distracted himself by watching Davos be fit in his armor, less detailed but with a sigil similar to his own.

“We are still in wartime, without dragons and dead men, yes, but dangerous times nonetheless, and those with a desire for power will always try to take advantage of change whether it is for good or for ill,” Lord Daman Kneight warned, the other lords nodding in agreement.

They had removed the crown from his head as they fitted the heavy helm, but placed it back as Jon again viewed himself in the mirror. Manderly approached with his cloak and he stiffened.

He loved that cloak, it was warm and practical and was part of who he was, had been through so much with him. But for a moment all he wished was to grab it from Manderly’s grip and throw it into the fire.

Instead he stood quietly as it was fitted over the armor.

Yes, the familiarity was comforting. He would have to deal with Sansa later.

Oathbreaker.

If he believed in the Old Gods, in any gods, he would have left it up to them to avenge those she had wronged. He remembered the revenge he took in his dreams; but no, he would give the Old Gods one more chance to prove their existence. If they cared at all about oaths and weirwoods and promises of honor…

He strapped Longclaw to his waist and chastised himself; Oathbreaker, Kinslayer, Traitor. Did he himself deserve punishment? He closed his eyes. Of course, but what further punishment could the Old Gods mete out?

They all stepped back to give him room to walk in the new armor, to test its fit and weight. It was surprisingly light and flexible, binding a bit across the shoulders, perhaps because his shoulder was still swollen.

He smiled as best he could, praising the appearance and workmanship of the armor, then approached Davos and seemed to inspect his armor, cocking an eyebrow at the mirth in Davos’s eyes.

“We’ll make the necessary adjustments right away, Your Grace.” Lord Tyde puffed out his chest, pleased with his presentation. The armor was quickly removed and Jon soon found himself seemingly weightless.

Soon after Manderly soberly nodded to Jon, “There is one other matter we must speak of, Your Grace..." He glanced towards his lords and servants and nodded; all left the solar but for Lord Roxton, Davos, Septon Jardan and Maester Harrow.

Chapter Text

Manderly waited for the doors to close before pulling out a raven’s scroll from his tunic, holding it eye level for Jon to see, nodding toward Davos. “Your Grace, for your safety and for his, does he know, do you think it best that your Hand be told of this?”

Jon’s eyebrow lifted at the question, then fell with dread as he took the scroll and unfurled it, taking in random words as the blood rushed from his head. He had suspected that Varys had been executed for trying to spread word of his heritage, but nothing had been said or heard since. He had thought perhaps he had been caught before spreading… he had put it out of his mind.

Things had been going far too well.

He started at the beginning, reading each word slowly, sometimes twice, thrice, each line sealing his fate, putting his life, his future once again beyond his control.

He felt the dread return, even heavier than before. But Manderly was right.

He turned to Davos, met with a curious expression on his face, and handed him the scroll.

“Yes, you should know this, if you don’t already.”

They all watched as Davos read the message, his lips moving as he sounded out the words, “Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark…” He looked up with shock on his face.

Jon turned to Manderly, “Do you know how many of these were sent? To whom?”

Manderly shook his head.

“No, Your Grace, we’ve tried to think of a way to find out, but as far as we can tell so far, a handful of ravens were sent throughout Westeros, and messengers sent to Essos.”

“To Essos?”

Lord Roxton interjected, “Yes, Your Grace, we believe to Pentos, to Magister Ilyrio Mopatis, and perhaps other Targaryen supporters. That was Varys’s goal after all, to return a Targaryen to the Iron Throne. He has, had many friends in high places seeking the same thing.”

“Were you well acquainted with Lord Varys, Lord Roxton?” Jon continued to watch Davos’s expression shift from shock to disbelief to realization.

“Aye, Your Grace, I manage the trade between White Harbor and Essos.” Lord Roxton took a deep breath, “When Rhaegar, when your father fell on the Trident, and your grandfather… when Robert took the throne, I, we, me and Varys and others, we managed to help many Targaryen loyalists escape to Essos. And we kept in contact with those who chose or were forced to take the Black. When I found out your true identity, I had even wondered if that was why Ned Stark had sent you to the Wall, if he had told the Targaryen followers there who you were, to watch over you, for your protection… but with all that’s happened… I’m sorry, Your Grace, if ever you care to speak of him, I knew your father well, he would have made a great King.”

Jon was confused as he felt his heart race. He’d never met Rhaegar, didn’t think about him much, more this day than ever before, but… that the man who raised him, fathered him. He knew who he was, he knew the desolation of the Wall that he was condemning him to. Did he ever care about him, or was he only keeping a promise to his dead sister, to protect his own honor? Jon brushed the questions aside for another time.

“Lord Manderly, the North supported the Rebellion, were you a part of this divided loyalty?”

“Your Grace, we were at war. As in most wars, there was little truth to be had on either side, and we all did what we thought was right at the time. When it was over, we all just wanted to put everything behind us and rebuild… as it is today.”

Manderly heaved a sigh and paced a moment before responding further.

“I’ve thought a lot about this lately, Jon. Ned Stark would have known that his sister loved Rhaegar, and he knew of your rightful claim to the throne. He could have shown his allegiance to his friend Robert and handed you over to him, but he knew what would have happened to you. So he kept quiet. We’ve heard that even as he served as Hand to Robert he fought for the exiled Targaryens, fought for their lives. I wish, truly I wish I knew what he was thinking, why he sent you to the Wall, if he would do things differently if he had the chance.”

Jon deflected, “But you think Ilyrio Mopatis, others in Essos, in exile, still… still want that, a Targaryen on the throne?”

Manderly waved a hand toward his companions. “Your Grace, for us, it doesn’t matter. I, my family, those of us here, we are Northerners. You are our King in the North. But there may be pressure… support for Bran the Broken is neither strong nor widespread, and is considered an insult by Traditionalists and Targaryen Loyalists throughout the known world.”

Jon shook his head. “But I killed the Targaryen Queen, the last Dragon, they’d never want…”

Lord Roxton interjected, “Pardon me, Your Grace, but you are the Last Dragon, you are the last hope, for them.”

“It's good that the Iron Throne is gone, then.”

Roxton answered, “It could be good, leave the Targaryen legacy to the ink of history, or it could be a rallying cry for those who wish to rebuild it, who see a Targaryen on the throne as the unifying strength that it was in past generations, at times at least…”

The Last Dragon. “Has there been any news of Drogon?” He tried to keep his voice even as he spoke.

“No, Your Grace, there has been no mention of his whereabouts in any raven or rumor,” Maester Harrow replied.

Davos still held the scroll unfurled, his face ashen. He shook himself lightly. “Grand Maester Tarly reported in the Small Council that Drogon was heading east. Bran seemed to be very interested in where he was going. Really that was the only thing he seemed to be interested in, but he said he would take care of it. I’m not sure what he meant.”

“Grand Maester Tarly? You mean Sam? Samwell Tarly the Oathbreaker and Thief is the Grand Maester to the Red Keep?” Jon shook his head in disbelief, then noticed a wry smirk on Septon Jardan’s face.

Davos nodded, “Things were still chaotic when I left, my King. Tyrion, as Hand to King Bran, was handling all of the affairs of the kingdom.”

Jon couldn't keep the disappointment from his face. “Tyrion. He always seems to end up on top, doesn’t he?”

“You were friends once, weren’t you?”

Jon nodded, “Yes, perhaps, though I wonder now… I wonder about a lot of things.” He fought the dark thoughts that threatened like storm clouds.

Septon Jardan cleared his throat as he turned to Jon, “Your Grace, can you confirm the contents of this raven, that you are the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen, the heir to the Iron Throne?”

Jon answered quickly, “It doesn’t matter, I make no claim to the Iron Throne.”

“But as this gets out, and it will spread, be assured of that, people will remember, tens of thousands of Northerners at least saw you ride a dragon against the Night King.” Jon heaved a sigh, Davos was right of course. He watched as his Hand returned the scroll to his host.

Jon relented, fisting his injured hand. “Sam said he had found proof, while he was at the Citadel, in High Septon Maynard’s journal. The marriage between Rhaegar and Elia was annulled, and he married another.”

Several of the lords exchanged glances. “This journal, Your Grace, where is it now? If we sent a raven to the Citadel…”

Jon waved them off, “There is no need for proof of anything, there is too much work to do now, for the good of the North.”

He’d thought he had put this behind him, frustrated at how much trouble this one little secret had caused. “It doesn’t matter now,” yet he noticed the cautious glances between his Hand and Lord Manderly, relieved when Septon Jardan broke the awkward silence.

“Well then, I will take my leave to make sure all is in order for tonight’s ceremony. If I may? I will need your crown, temporarily, Your Grace…”

Jon quickly removed the crown from his head, noticing that the weight of it remained even as the septon explained the events of the evening, the procession, the blessings, the formal placing of the crown.

There were voices at the door as the septon left the room, the steward nodding to the maester as he entered and walked to open a door on the other side of the room.

“Your Grace, your bath has been prepared.” Jon nodded as he was waved into the adjoining chamber. “If it please, Your Grace, I will return to treat your wounds after you bathe, unless there’s something that needs attention first, then after you have had a chance to rest, if you’re up to it we will have a meal prepared, a rather small feast for such an important occasion. Afterward, under the full moon, we will all make our way to the Sept by horseback, where you will be publicly acknowledged as King in the North.”

Jon could tell the words were forced; he would speak with Davos about the loyalty of the maester, and the septon, later.

He felt Manderly slip past him once he’d entered the adjoining room, his eyes glancing into the deep shadows made by the light from the roaring fire. A bench and a chair, embellished garments folded and stacked and hung on a rack, and the steaming bathtub near the wide hearth. Another tray of food and wine, or was it ale awaited on the table; Jon refrained from rolling his eyes as an attendant scented the water with fragrant oil and flower petals.

He’d try to remember to ask how many buckets of hot water it took to fill that huge tub.

Jon noticed Manderly speaking urgently to Davos, but was distracted as attendants reached to help him undress, relieved when Manderly interjected, “Would you like assistance, Your Grace, or do you prefer to bathe alone?”

“Thank you, all, I’d like some time to myself,” he glanced at Davos who nodded, then held the door open for the others to leave.

The door closed and he sat heavily in the cushioned chair, gazing between the large tub and the assortment of regal clothes. Most were black, and Jon smirked at that. He felt Davos come to his side as he tried to run his fingers through his tangled hair, his hand coming away with old dirt and fresh blood.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner.”

Jon nodded to Davos to sit as well.

“She didn’t want me telling anyone. I’m not sure if it would have made a difference. I knew, and she knew. And of course Sam and Bran. Sam hated her, and I wonder now if this wasn’t Bran’s plan all along.”

Davos nodded, more relaxed now that they were alone.

“I’m… there is a lot to consider, a lot to discuss, but… you don’t have to do this, you’ve said you never wanted it.”

Jon’s laughter held a bitter edge. “Has it ever mattered what I wanted?”

Davos laughed as well. “That’s true for most of us, we have little control over our own lives.”

Jon nodded. “Yet you seem happy about all this. I still don’t understand why they want me to be king, why you want to be my Hand, especially if your wife is ill.”

Davos leaned back, “It was a ruse, Jon, but I… I've made too many mistakes, and I want to try to make it up to you, and if I can at some point make it up to the people of King’s Landing.”

“What mistakes?”

“I was blind, I missed so much. I wonder sometimes, if I had said something, done something different, done more, earlier, maybe she… maybe things could have turned out differently. I, we, Tyrion and Varys and I, we had talked about a marriage between the King in the North and the Dragon Queen. I wonder if that would have solved so many of the problems that came up later.”

Jon nodded, unsurprised. “Thank you Ser Davos, I have thought about it, will always wonder how it could have been avoided. But I think we were both too late. Whether by blood or the way she was raised, always on the run, sold and savaged, she was convinced she was in the right. That if she could do something, she would do it, and never think about if it was the right thing to do beyond if it was right for her. Everyone that she would have listened to was gone, I don’t think anything could have changed her mind.”

Davos watched him closely, “You tried, to change her mind?”

“Aye, but she no longer listened to me, she didn’t need to listen to anyone. She had a dragon after all, and Targaryens answer to neither gods nor men. Davos, one of the last things she said to me was, ‘Let it be fear.’ If I had…”

“I’m sorry, Jon, truly I am. I know you loved her. But what happened wasn’t your fault.”

Jon brushed it off and shifted before the blazing fire.

“So your wife, Marya?”

“She’s well. I'm not sure Bran believed me or cared about my reason, I suspect that they were just as happy to be rid of me, they knew I would push for your freedom. Questions were already being raised throughout the Red Keep and beyond. I spoke with Ser Brienne, I told her that there was no reason for you to remain in exile after the Unsullied and Dothraki left, they would no longer be a threat once they left the harbor, that you have proven yourself as the right leader to unify the country, at the very least to return as King in the North. She seemed to want to say something, seemed to have been thinking along those lines. But by then she had sworn loyalty to Bran. She was named Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Everyone was rewarded with something, their heart’s desire. Everyone but you, Jon…”

“Thank you Davos, truly, but supporting me puts your family in danger, and you have already done so much for the people of Westeros. Why would you want to continue fighting when you can choose a quiet life with your family?”

Davos grinned, his eyes sparkling, “I wouldn’t know what to do with myself!”

Jon dropped his eyes and smiled sadly.

“I have sent a message to my family to prepare to leave for the North when they hear from me or if there is any sign of danger. As soon as you are settled in Winterfell I will send for those who wish to join me there, with your approval of course.”

Jon nodded, a twinge of pain running up his neck as Davos leaned forward.

“Jon, you have been a good King, you have it in you to be a great King. And I can’t wait to see what you can do, what you can build when you don’t have the army of the dead and the end of the world looming over the horizon.”

Jon gazed tiredly into the fire, rubbing his bruised hands together. “I don’t know that I have anything left in me.”

Davos nodded and gently placed his hand on his shoulder, his voice dropping.

“The North needs to heal and rebuild, we all need to heal and rebuild. And you, my friend, you need to heal and rebuild. You have people who need you, who love you and trust you, who will help and look out for you. And it's not just the North that remembers, you have support from many corners of Westeros, and beyond, it seems. You are not alone, Jon, you have friends, even some family, at least one…”

They both laughed softly.

“What I’m saying, you don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

Jon turned to him and gave him a small smile, nodding.

“And your bath is getting cold…”

Davos stood to leave, and paused, swallowing hard. “We were afraid we’d lost you, Jon. I’ll be just outside if you need anything.”

Jon nodded and stood to remove his clothes, relieved when the door quietly shut. How long had it been since he’d had a real bath? He lowered himself into the still hot water, the oils soothing in some places, stinging in others.

Gods, how did I get here?

He reached for the soap and sponge on the table as warmth began to seep into his yellow and deep purple bruises, easing the discomfort enough to quiet his thoughts.

King. Again. King in the North.

And the Rightful Heir to the Iron Throne. Aegon Targaryen.

Yes, heir to a splatter of molten steel. He wondered if Tyrion would try to reforge it.

Bran wouldn’t bother. It wasn’t the throne he desired, it was… What? The power? To what end?

But Bran wasn’t Bran anymore. He’d said so himself.

Gods he was tired. What would it be like, if…

What if… just Jon Snow?

“To Guard the Realms of Men.”

He had been that all his life, a duty that suited him even as a bastard, but now…

“Protector of the Realm.”

Yes, he could accept that title. Protect. Unite. Rebuild.

“You will rule wisely, and well.”

What had Varys seen in him, what did others see?

He was tired of the doubts. He had devoted himself to saving the North, all of Westeros against the Night King. He’d devoted himself to her. Then it had all shattered.

He took a deep breath. Why was it so hard to… he pushed aside his doubts, for now, and worked to scrub off the caked ashen remains of the burning of King’s Landing, quickly turning the water into a scented gray slurry.

Voices, just the other side of the chamber doors.

Jon sighed at his short reprieve; at least he’d washed the grit out of his hair. He’d get used to this lack of privacy, he supposed.

Jon raised himself from the cooling water and found a direwolf-crested velvet robe, as soft as anything he’d ever felt, just as there was a knock on the door, followed by Maester Harrow’s voice, “Your Grace?”

Jon began to bid him enter, but thought of the crowd that could descend; instead he left wet footprints on the stone floor as he plodded to open the door himself. He stifled a smile at their startled faces as he pulled his robe tight across his chest, nodded to Ser Davos and the maester as they entered, shutting the door in the faces of the blushing handmaids and eager stewards.

“A messenger, from Princess Arya, Your Grace, she’s arrived at Winterfell.” Davos extended the folded parchment as Jon stood by the fire to dry off.

Jon wiped his hands on his robe before taking the message and unfolding it. Her handwriting had always been like his, readable, yes, but not nearly as impressive as the Tully branch of the Stark siblings.

“She’s arrived safely, has set Maester Wolkan to put things in order for our arrival, she can’t wait to see me again, she was worried… she’s, um, she’s…” Jon lowered the parchment, “it sounds like she’s turning Winterfell upside down, making sure there is no threat.” Jon’s thoughts drifted back to his adventurous little sister, before they went their separate ways. She was such a strong, kind little girl. What was she now, what had she become to survive? He smiled softly, there would be time, now.

“Your Grace, it would be best to respond in your own hand, as best you can, to let her know you have arrived in White Harbor and all is well.” The maester waved him to a small table and laid out parchment, ink and quill.

Jon grasped the quill, his fingers struggling to hold it steady. He thought of the shortest message possible. He signed his name, followed by a personal phrase, one she’d know was from him. The maester produced a Stark seal; of course he would have the seals of all the Houses, just in case. He could feel his eyes on him, watching warily as he leaned back in the chair. For now he would trust that the maester had taken vows, that he may not like him personally but he would still do his duty to his House and his King.

“Davos, please include anything that you think she needs to know now.” He stood from the table and Davos seated himself, scratching several more lines at the bottom of the page before rising again so that Jon could read what he’d written. Jon stamped and sealed the letter, handing it to the maester who handed it to a waiting messenger just outside the door.

“Your Grace, if it is acceptable to you?” The maester had turned and waved toward the chair by the hearth where a servant was emptying the contents of the maester’s bag next to a basin on a table.

Jon rubbed his eyes, resigned. As a child he’d been tended to by Maester Luwin, but as he grew, and had learned what, who he was to the Starks, he had felt more and more distant from any sense of care and had come to dread any injury or need to seek assistance. He again remembered Maester Aemon, how he had learned to seek out and trust his counsel, but as a maester he had been sent to Castle Black precisely to care for criminals and outcasts like him.

Jon steeled himself as he loosened his robe. Though he averted his gaze, he could feel the tense reaction from both the maester and his assistant as the scars over his belly and chest, over his heart were fully exposed. Fortunately the surprised silence was short and Maester Harrow focused on the fresh welts and bruises from his recent imprisonment.

“Don’t hide your pain, Your Grace, that’s one of the ways to know how badly you are injured.” Jon nodded as the maester tugged at his shoulder none-too-gently, saying something about it healing wrong, that it would need further adjustment, perhaps a sling to immobilize it before he left for Winterfell. He paused as he wiped his hands, “We had considered sending a maester with you on your voyage, Your Grace, but decided that would have brought too much attention, I hope you understand.”

Jon was taken aback, again surprised at the concern for his welfare. Fortunately Davos found “urgent matters” to discuss to distract Jon from the maester’s thorough examination, his young assistant rapidly taking notes.

Finally it was done and Jon released his long-held breath as he dressed. They had wrapped his broken ribs, slathered pungent liniment on his bruises and salve on the cuts on his face, several stitches on the back of his head. More liniment on his hands, wrapping his right hand to ease the pain and prevent him from using it. The maester had mumbled something about shaving his beard to allow the cuts beneath to heal better, then admitted that the damage, the scarring, had already taken place.

“I can give you something for the pain, Your Grace, and to help you sleep. It will be a hard ride to Winterfell, the snow is deep in places, and by horseback…” The maester shrugged, palms out.

Jon shook his head, the worst was over, but watched as the maester gave a leather pouch to Davos as he bowed to the King and left. Davos pulled a chair to sit close by, letting the silence settle before Jon noticed him studying him, then chuckling and shaking his head.

“What? Please, I could use something to laugh about.”

“Just thinking, it's a good thing you took after your mother, what would Ned Stark have done with a silver-haired, purple-eyed son?”

Jon smiled, he had thought of that before. “He would have sent me to the Wall even sooner. I sometimes wonder what he would think of me now. I’m sure this is not what he had in mind.” He paused, “Ser Davos, did you ever meet Rhaegar Targaryen?”

“No, can’t say I had the pleasure, though like everyone I’ve heard stories. Would you like to hear them?”

“Perhaps another time,” Jon yawned. “It’s a long ride back to Winterfell, plenty of time for tall tales.”

Davos quickly stood and opened a corner door then nodded to Jon. He didn’t remember there being so many rooms, though he could admit he had had other things on his mind the last time he stayed in White Harbor.

This room was warm and spacious and grand, direwolves and crowns embroidered and carved, again glass doors leading to a deep balcony, familiar guards standing watch.

A large raised bed on the far wall, covered in velvet and fur blankets and a mound of pillows at the head.

Inviting.

Davos crossed to nod to the guards before closing the door behind him.

“They will send word when it’s time to join the feast. I think you have time to rest a bit, Jon, sleep if you can.”

Instead Jon turned and opened the doors to the balcony, tugging his robe tight against the blast of cold Northern air. The two Northern guards quickly stood to attention and bowed. “Your Grace.”

Jon stifled another yawn, but didn’t want to delay this any longer.

“House Cerwyn?”

The older fellow bowed and straightened, his hand on the pommel of his sword as he readied to kneel. Jon halted him and nodded.

“Rickard Linden, Your Grace, Lord Cerwyn released me to your service.” Jon nodded once. “And House Hornwood?”

“Layn Cantell, Your Grace.” Blue eyes and red hair. Jon thanked them, “I’m sure we’ll have time to speak more soon.”

They both smiled, nodded and returned to their quiet vigil. Jon wondered if he would ever feel at ease again, if anyone could ever be trusted.

He returned to his room, the doors closing behind him as he spotted his chest on a bench at the end of the bed, Longclaw leaning against it. He started to go through it when he noticed Davos holding fresh sleep clothes. They were so soft; Dany had a robe made of this material, black with red flames and dragons embroidered across the bottom. His were a dark shimmering gray. They would have gone well together. His eyes closed as fatigue suddenly struck.

Davos found a chair and positioned it in a corner facing the bed.

“You’re going to watch me sleep?”

“Of course, I'm not planning on letting you out of my sight at least until we arrive in Winterfell. I'll not make that mistake again.”

Jon considered, “We all made many mistakes, at least some of us have lived to learn from them.” He felt his breath catch, his chest tightened as he fought to restrain himself.

Davos nodded gently and turned away. “I want you to know how sorry I am, that if things had happened differently, if she could have been saved.”

Jon answered quietly. “I don’t know which is worse, thinking she could have been saved, or knowing that this was what she truly was all along.”

Davos pulled the curtains across the balcony doors and the room darkened, the flames from the hearth throwing pulsating shadows throughout the room. “Well, as I'm sure you know, I'm not a devout man, but one thing I know is that there is some hand, some plan that keeps placing you in destiny’s path. If there are any gods, I pray to them all to keep you safe, to bring you peace, and if it be possible, to give you the love and the family you deserve.”

Jon felt nearly overwhelmed. “Thank you Davos, that’s probably one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me.”

Davos clapped his hands together, nodding. “Yes, well, but for now.” He waved Jon toward the bed and pulled back the covers, “I’ve been told you did not sleep well on the voyage here, so sleep now if you can, rest easy. There will always be problems that will need your attention, my King, but you don’t have to solve them all in one night.”

Jon stretched under the covers, pain and jumbled thoughts chasing past events, future plans, the sound of cascading water and dragon song echoing in the darkness, cold snow and warm soft skin…

Chapter Text

The darkness was warm and comforting despite the threatening unknown.

Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder, and a voice, “Jon…?”

“What is it, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Your Grace, everything is well. It’s time to get ready for the feast, for your coronation. Did you sleep well?”

Jon sat up and shook his head to clear it. “Yes, I must have, better than I have in a long time.” He climbed out from under the covers and sat on the edge of the bed, surprised that the aches and stiffness had gotten worse with sleep.

“Good, good, you look better, a little at least,” Davos smiled down at him and passed him a cup of water, then held out a black tunic with regal decorations. “I thought this for the feast, Your Grace.”

Jon drew his hand across the fine bejeweled fabric, the heavily embroidered cuffs of the sleeves.

“Did I see a dark blue? Would that be fitting?”

Davos’s eyebrows rose, mildly surprised.

“Of course.” He disappeared briefly, returning with a simple dark blue tunic in a brushed velvet with dark silver clasps, a high collar with black cording.

Jon fingered the material, “Yes, if it fits, let’s start something new, shall we?”

Davos smiled, then laid the tunic across the end of the bed.

“But first…” He motioned to Jon to follow him to a table by the hearth, a brush and scissors laid out next to a gilded mirror. “Unless you’d like me to call for a barber, I've long forgotten how to cut hair.” Davos brushed his hand through his own thinning hair and they both laughed. After trimming his beard, Jon tried to wrestle a brush through his mass of tangled hair, relenting when Davos took the brush and finished as best he could. He gasped when he noticed fresh blood on the brush and quickly put pressure on the bleeding but stitched wound, apologizing profusely.

“Never mind, Davos, I don’t think I’ll get any blood on the crown.”

A knock on the door and a steward entered with a tray of ale and wine and bread and cheese as Jon finished dressing and stood before the mirror. Better this time, less tangled at least, his eyes a bit less sunken. He ran his hand down his clothes, deciding against wearing Longclaw to the dinner. As difficult as it was, he’d have to start trusting others to protect him. In some circumstances at least. He was facing a different kind of battle, now, one that would hopefully not result in outright violence.

He paused, looking into the still night outside his balcony, the door slightly open so that the curtains wafted in the breeze.

“Is this right? Am I doing the right thing?”

Davos came to his side. “You have doubts?”

“Don’t I always have doubts?” Davos joined as Jon tried to laugh.

“But you know this is the right thing to do…”

“But… this time… after all the times I've said I don’t want it, I'm choosing to be king.”

“That’s a good thing, if you’re asking me. There’s always been a part of you, I think you’ve maybe been running from it, that does want it, maybe not to be king, but to lead, to protect, to get things done, to make things better. This is how you will do it. Maybe that’s your true heritage, from the Winter Kings to the Dragon Kings, it all comes down to you, who and what you are, Jon Snow, King in the North.”

Jon nodded, wincing as he set his jaw, resignation mixed with determination. No doubt this would be an ongoing struggle.

“Yes, King in the North. So be it. Are we ready then?”

Davos nodded and followed as Jon paced through his chambers and down the winding staircase, followed by his Northern guards as additional armored knights carrying Stark banners, fell in to walk on either side of him. He smiled briefly as he was ushered into the Great Hall of House Manderly, striding to the raised table at the end of the hall, not even breaking stride as those that were seated leapt to their feet, only to drop to one knee as he made it to the empty grand ornate chair and nodded to Davos, “Rise.”

Then, “All Hail Jon Snow, King in the North, Long may he Reign!”

“Long may he reign,” cheering and applause rang through the cavernous room. Jon nodded in return and carefully dropped into his seat, Davos seated to his left, Manderly to his right, his Kingsguard positioned behind.

Jon leaned back into the carved driftwood chair and realized this was usually Lord Manderly’s seat and leaned toward his host, thanking him again for the honor and courtesy he’d shown. Manderly smiled, “With pleasure, Your Grace.”

Jon took a moment to gaze at the faces around him, recognizing many, noting those he had not yet met. Hopefully he would rectify that before the night was through. Captain Tollher caught his eye and nodded, Jon returning his smile.

Manderly leaned toward him, “His vessel is The White Wind, Your Grace. Your flagship if you like.”

Jon nodded, his breath catching. A Northern cavalry, a Northern army, a Northern fleet.

The meal was served quickly, the amounts and variety of food almost overwhelming. Manderly grinned as Jon stared at the plate set before him. Venison and gravy and carrots and potatoes; he hoped he wasn’t imagining things.

“Captain Tollher has relayed how seafood does not sit well with you, Your Grace.” Jon nodded sheepishly as Tollher smiled from further down the table. “Fortunately I've been told that wild game is returning to the North, we should be able to put that weight right back on you.”

Thankfully it was a typical feast, food, drink, loud conversation, a bit of music. The mood was jovial, but he heard an undertone of curiosity about him, recent events and the future of the North. He was happy to let Davos carry the conversation so he could listen and focus on his meal. He ate and drank sparingly, his stomach still empty and roiled from the sea travel and fish stew. The last thing he wanted to do was heave it all back up in front of these lords of the North.

He struggled with the silverware, grateful when Davos discretely took his plate and cut his food for him even as he continued his conversation with the lord to his left. He’d introduced himself to Davos as Lord Wyndom, an intense conversation apparently involving several other lords as well. Apparently word had spread about his scars, the mutiny, his oaths. He watched as Davos glanced quickly his way and then nodded. “Yes, I was there. It’s true.” He watched as word spread among the Northern lords, waiting for the shame and guilt to overtake him, surprised when it didn't. Apparently it didn’t bother him much anymore, perhaps in light of the far greater things that overwhelmed him, like the fact that he killed the woman he loved, even as he swore his devotion, her lips soft but fierce, the smell of ash and snow and the copper of burnt blood again filling his senses…

The rest of the meal was overwhelming, louder and more animated as the night wore on. Jon had noticed the concerned looks between certain lords, Hardy, Perle, Barner, toward himself, toward Manderly, but all was festive until Lord Hardy, a few heads down from Davos, expressed his frustration. “Enough of this Wyman, if you don’t ask him, I will, we have a right to know!”

Jon tensed and drew a deep breath.

Manderly raised his hand toward the lord and nodded, then placed his knife and fork on his plate.

“Yes, Your Grace, about the rumor…”

Jon felt his heart pound against his ribs as he held his breath, the blood rushing in his ears as the dreaded question rang through his head.

“Did she… In the Winterfell godswood, is it true that Lady Sansa did swear an oath in front of the heart tree, and that not long after break that very oath?”

Jon found himself relieved as he leaned back in his chair, then noticed that everyone was watching, waiting for the answer. He openly met Lord Hardy’s gaze as he answered clearly, loud enough for all to hear.

“Yes, my lords, I believe it to be true, though I was not there when she broke it.”

Lord Hardy stroked his pointed gray-flecked beard, tugging in agitation. Clearly his answer was not enough.

Jon leaned forward, “If I may ask, what is the rumor being spread, here in the North? The precise nature of it?”

All eyes turned to a colorfully-dressed man farther down the table, a merchant perhaps who nervously responded, “Your Grace, I, myself and several others at this table were in Winterfell to assess the damage after the battle with the dead, what supplies would be needed, laborers, for rebuilding, Your Grace… I, myself, overheard…” He took a deep breath and blurted, “Apparently Bran, King Bran now, I heard Bran telling his sister Sansa that she shouldn’t have broken her oath. But she brushed it off, and he repeated, it was a sacred oath in front of the heart tree, the Old Gods… She said she didn’t believe in the Old Gods, or the New Gods any more, and she didn’t believe in curses, and that the only justice is what you make for yourself. This was overheard by several standing with me, Your Grace.” He had rushed through his testimony, followed by quite a bit of silence even as several others bobbed their heads in agreement.

The words rang in Jon’s ears; he was becoming more suspicious with each question, with each conversation.

“Perhaps, gentlemen… Is it possible that my brother Bran wanted that conversation to be heard? It would seem that he broke an oath himself by mentioning it in a way that it could be overheard by others.”

Jon watched as eyebrows lifted among those listening. The merchant replied, “I never thought of that, but, yes, it was rather careless, and now that I think of it, he could have easily known we were just around the corner from their conversation. We had been in the same room with them just before, Your Grace.”

“So he wanted you to know that Sansa broke her oath. And now he is King, and Sansa is… where? Returning North if I understand correctly?”

Davos nodded, to Jon and the others at the table.

Lord Hardy leaned in to speak directly to the King. “Your Grace, would it help to, if you are able, what was the oath?”

“It's a family matter, Sansa…” he hesitated.

Manderly gathered the gazes of his lords, “I'm afraid, Your Grace, that it is no longer a family matter. The loyalty of the North is divided. Ned Stark was the most honorable man, yet we know he lied to save his daughters, and paid the price for it, we’ve all paid that price. We need to know, have his children turned their backs on everything the Starks meant to the North, that held us all together? Everything Ned Stark fought for, gave his life for?”

Jon paused as everyone stilled, even the musicians, awaiting his answer. He could see how these personal transgressions could divide his people’s future.

Jon took a drink then placed his hands on the table, finally shaking his head.

“I will not speak of it at this time. It would serve no purpose now, the damage has been done.” His mood had darkened, shifting between anger and loss, his fist tight against the bandages.

A voice from the midst of the lords, “Well then, Your Grace, could you tell us how you know that she broke the oath, besides what was overheard? With respect, we need to settle this, Your Grace.”

“I was not there when she broke it.” His voice was clear and firm. “It was a family secret, meant only for those gathered before the heart tree, Bran, Arya, Sansa and myself. It was very important to me that this secret be kept. However it was repeated back to me not long after by someone outside House Stark, causing me great harm when I could least afford it.”

Gods he was tired of secrets, of hiding, but he would need to be careful with this information, make it work for him, be under his control, not like the last time.

Whispers and murmurs circled the table, Manderly prompting Jon further.

“Perhaps… Who did she tell this secret to, Your Grace?”

Jon glanced quickly at Davos who seemed as intrigued as any of them.

Jon considered his words, “Again, I was not there, but… I suspect Sansa told Tyrion Lannister. She was once married to him, and she seemed to still have a good relationship with him. He was Hand to Queen Daenerys. I believe they spoke often while in Winterfell. Sansa would have to have told him just before I took the Northern Army to King’s Landing to remove Cersei from the Iron Throne.”

He paused as he watched the furrowed brows of the guests struggle to make sense.

“Of a certainty, I know that another of the Queen’s advisors, Varys, known as The Spider, had at some point come to know. He spoke to me directly about that very secret on Dragonstone, he intended to act on it, use it, perhaps make it public himself, he wanted to...” He leaned back, glad to have it out. “It only makes sense that Sansa told Tyrion, who told Varys, who told me. I don’t have any more details than that. Sansa will need to answer for herself.”

Jon wondered further when one of the lords farther down the table noticed the maester exchanging glances with Wyman Manderly and threw down his napkin before gulping down what was left in his cup, holding it to be filled again.

Jon took a drink as well and waited, for the next question or revelation of what lay hidden below the questions. Had he missed something?

Manderly broke the uneasy silence. “My King, for thousands of years, Starks have ruled the North, through peace and war and whatever it is we have now. Many of us,” he waved his hand across the table… “we loved…” he paused briefly, “we loved your father with everything in us, and to see what has become of his children - yourself excepted, of course, isn’t that a jape - it is very hard to accept that such betrayal could be possible by the son and daughter of Ned Stark.”

Grief rose as Jon nodded, softening, swallowing hard. “Agreed, my lord, coming to terms with that reality has been painful. Yet I have and will always strive to learn from my mistakes, and I have learned that honor is not inherited, like hair color or family name, and trust must be earned, and not assumed. I am afraid there were lessons that fell short, to some degree at least, and that Starks are only human after all.”

Manderly paused for a few moments, the table motionless, lords watching, before booming his reply, “We follow the Seven here, my King, but we hold an oath before the heart tree, before the Old Gods as sacred as any of our own.”

Lordly nods followed, though Jon noticed not all were in agreement, staring forward or at their plates.

“Pardon, Your Grace,” Lord Perle leaned forward in his seat. “What penalty is there for this treachery?”

Activity again paused as the mood grew even more serious. Jon could sense Davos waiting for a signal to intervene, but this was his moment, his duty as Stark and King. He paused for attention.

“Lady Sansa has many charges she will need to answer for, if she ever sets foot in the North again, and I will not overlook her misdeeds just because of our relations. The North is not just a place; we are a people, a culture, we value our traditions and our gods; they have served our forefathers well for eight thousand years, we shall not abandon them now.”

The words had barely escaped his lips before Manderly banged his mug on the table, “Here, here!”

The tension eased, and Manderly motioned to the musicians to liven things up a bit.

Jon took a slow sip of his ale, enjoying the burn this time. He knew he would be walking past hidden pitfalls for quite some time, but he had set himself on this path, had chosen it this time, and even if he failed in some ways, he determined that he would succeed in others. He wasn’t sure where that certainty came from, but for once he accepted it as the strength that it was.

As the final courses were served, the conversation returned to conditions in the North; different lords were eager to fill him in on the earthquakes, changing geography, flooding and sometimes tremendous levels of snowfall. When Jon had left for King’s Landing, reports had just started to trickle in. He realized now that although she forwarded routine news, Sansa must have kept these particular updates from him deliberately, wanting to deal with them herself, perhaps, or to be able to point to his negligence, reinforce her own position. Perhaps even lie about what his own response was. His heart was heavy as he realized he had lost all trust in all but one of his remaining kin.

“Bear Island, Your Grace, House Mormont?” Manderly explained the current battle over Bear Island, and other lost Houses. Jon had been pondering options ever since the Long Night, the loss of so many, especially both remaining Mormonts.

“House Mormont fought for my brother King Robb, so many lost their lives at the Red Wedding, then fought with me to take back Winterfell, then ended in the battle against the army of the dead. We will seek out another Mormont, perhaps the son of a daughter of another house. House Umber as well. I will not let such great Northern Houses fall because of their service to the Northern people, we will honor their sacrifice and rebuild their lineage.” Jon’s eyes lost their focus as he mulled the loss of so many who rallied to his call. Beside him, Manderly smiled slyly to himself, catching the approving eyes of those close to him.

The conversation returned to the widespread upheavals; the Riverlands had just begun to fully recover from the War of the Five Kings when disease surged for a second time, decimating what was left of the smallfolk. The Twins had been abandoned once the menfolk had been killed; refugees, both southern and northern, and deserters from every army and even the Wall lived there now, pillaging and harassing those who struggled to rebuild nearby.

Pirates, migration, famine, uprisings. Jon huffed, no wonder no one else had stepped in to lead. Then he wondered about Sansa, if she knew what it was going to take to heal the land; was she counting on Bran to assist her? Certainly she had bought the loyalty of several Houses, but he wondered, would like to be there to hear and see her reaction when she learned she would not be reaping the rewards of her treachery.

“Your Grace,” Davos whispered to distract him from his brooding, dropping his eyes to Jon’s uneaten fruit cobbler. Jon nodded gratefully.

The table was cleared and wine was served as questions arose about King’s Landing.

“Ser Davos, you were there, this ‘Great Council.’ How can Bran Stark be crowned king by a vote of all things? The crown is supposed to be placed by the High Septon, did they get the approval from the Starry Sept? And the Citadel, if I recall my history, there must be full reckoning of the lineage back to a Targaryen to qualify for the Iron Throne. Ser Davos, how exactly did Bran Stark end up on the throne?”

Davos bowed his head as murmurs grew, then took a deep breath, answer ready.

“It’s a long, sad story, my lords. By the end, it was decided that from then on the monarch should be determined by the leaders of Westeros, in this case, a very few leaders of Westeros. Tyrion Lannister put forth Bran’s name for King, something about him having the ‘best story,’ and every single person - myself and Arya Stark included, though for a very different reason - every single person there voted for Brandon Stark, the Three-Eyed Raven, to be King of the Seven Kingdoms. It was then that Lady Sansa declared independence for the North, and no one objected to that either.” Jon listened closely, he had many questions to be answered on the trek back to Winterfell.

Questions flew over re-filled goblets: Who are they to make that decision? What is a Three-Eyed Raven? What good can come from this? Did Brandon Stark swear allegiance to the Seven? At least Cersei had been queen consort, and queen mother before crowning herself; she knew how things worked, she knew King’s Landing at least, but this boy, even though he’s a Stark, what has he?

Finally a fist pounded at the far end of the table, “Best story, what story? He’s a crippled boy who fled his home when attacked and only returned when it was safe.” Jon tried to listen but lost track of both the questions and the questioners.

“Though there are those rumors, that he’s a little…”

Jon cleared his throat and waited for silence. “We all have heard, and some have experienced the magic that has existed in the North for thousands of years. My brother Bran experienced it as well, and it changed him. I don’t know how much, or how much of the Bran I once knew remains. Bran was quite young when I left for the Wall, he had just been pushed out of the Broken Tower by Jaime Lannister and had not yet woken up, so I didn’t even get a chance for a proper good-bye. The next time I saw him, well, he was not the same boy I remembered, he was not like anyone I had ever met.” His voice dropped, “Yet I know that growing up all he had ever wanted to be was a Knight.” Sadness fell over his face as his voice dropped at the loss.

Lord Barner raised his eyes, “Your Grace, I was there, at Winterfell, working with Lady Sansa preparing for the army of the dead, before you returned with the Dragon Queen. If you recall, I was a good friend of your father, and when I saw Brandon… Well, I asked him myself why he had not taken his place as Lord of Winterfell, the last trueborn son of Ned Stark, and he said he couldn’t be lord of anything, that he was the Three-Eyed Raven now. I was confused then, I am even more confused now. If he’s the Three-Eyed Raven of our legends, and he couldn’t be Lord of Winterfell, how did he end up as King of the whole bloody kingdom?”

Murmurs, even laughter filled the room.

Barner continued, “Even then I asked your maester, Maester Wolkan, about the decisions being made, some of them overturning orders from the Warden of the North, that he himself had advised Lady Sansa to send a raven to Dragonstone, or at the very least to wait for your return. He was not eagerly forthcoming, Your Grace, he is a loyal man, but he wanted to… he was clearly troubled, torn in two directions. After much prodding, he reluctantly explained that Lady Sansa reminded him that he served House Stark, and that she expected loyalty only to the trueborn heirs of Ned Stark.”

Jon was tempted to rub his forehead, sure he would be doing so often in the coming days, years. Everything he learned, about Bran, about Sansa… if he had seen it before, could he have done something, changed something, could he have saved her… her sparkling eyes, blinding smile, her arm hooked into his, her tender voice…

Manderly cleared his throat to speak, but Jon lifted his hands to give him pause as he gathered his thoughts.

No doubt he would see her later in his dreams…

“We are living in dangerous times, my lords. The Night King, the army of the dead have been defeated and the Long Night is over. And, yes, the Lannisters have been removed from power, but new threats rise. They always will. And it will always be necessary to keep some secrets and plans private. But my decisions will always be made on behalf of the safety and prosperity of the North, and all of her people, noble and small folk alike, even if all of the plans are not laid out plainly for all to see. As you have chosen me to be your King, to lead the North, to protect this realm, I ask that you have faith that my actions will prove my words to be true.”

Jon let his gaze linger over each lord, nods and agreement in most of their eyes. Eventually Lord Perle returned the conversation to King’s Landing.

“Ser Davos, Brandon Stark remained in King’s Landing, and Lady Sansa, the oathbreaker, did she claim…?”

Davos quickly explained. “Lady Sansa insisted on independence for the North, but there was no discussion or mention of who would lead the North. There was very little discussion of anything really, it all happened quite quickly, a matter of minutes, as though ‘someone’ didn’t want there to be time to consider and ask unwanted questions.”

A voice rose, “And Jon Snow, his name was never mentioned, either for King of the Seven Kingdoms or King in the North? He’s the only person living who has truly ruled before.”

Another voice, “And by right of conquest, aren’t those the rules?”

Davos raised his voice to explain. “Any talk of what would happen to Jon was done in private, whether of his exile or his execution.”

“Execution!? What madness - Your Grace, your brother and your sister, they did not fight for you?” Though Lord Roxton slurred his words a bit, his outrage was clear, echoed throughout the room.

Jon’s heart lightened, he would thank him later if he found a way to do so without embarrassing himself. He leaned back in his chair, “When I was held prisoner, I was told that my exile was the Unsullied’s condition for them to leave quietly.”

Lord Hardy jumped in, “But Your Grace, they could have killed you right away and left, isn’t that their way? What were they waiting for? Or they could have taken you with them as hostage. It makes no sense, you were their prisoner, were you not?”

Jon nodded tiredly, “Yes, there are things… I myself have many questions about what happened, perhaps one day they will be answered, but we have to move forward with what we know now, there is too much to do to protect the North from all her enemies.”

Davos smiled and Manderly straightened.

“Ser Davos, what of Arya Stark?”

“Lady Arya is a true Stark, she is loyal to her brother, to the North. She wished she could be here but she has a task on behalf of the North that only she can accomplish. Her actions will continue to speak for themselves in the coming days and weeks. The lords of the North that traveled to King’s Landing to retrieve their King all remain loyal as well. We’ve received word that they have left King’s Landing and are riding for Winterfell.”

“Things seem to be coming together nicely,” Manderly nodded towards his lords.

“What if the Unsullied return, and the Dothraki? Will they seek revenge?”

Jon hesitated, satisfied when Davos answered. “Not all of the Dothraki left with the Unsullied, some have returned to Dragonstone, others have dispersed throughout Westeros, some have even joined the Free Folk, others the Northern armies. They fought side by side with us in the Long Night, and as so often happens in war time, bonds were forged.”

Jon nodded, “And those bonds will be honored. Neither the Unsullied nor the Dothraki are our enemies. They came to the North to fight, bleed and die for us. If they are willing to abide by the laws of the North, they will be welcome to take part in our victories.”

The room grew silent, Jon strained to hear the complaints: They are foreigners! They don’t speak the common tongue. They won’t even eat our food. They are savages!

He raised his hand for silence.

“They simply need time, we all need time, but just as the Hill Tribes and the Free Folk, and even all of the great houses of the North, and the small, we will not hesitate to grow and prosper and bring those with us that have helped us get this far. There are other changes, plans that we can use to our advantage; we must be willing to allow others to change their minds and their ways, even as we are even more clear about who we are and what the North is and will become. If they come to join us, to be one of us, their shed blood has paid the price to be welcomed.”

Jon cleared his throat and took a sip of his ale. He had not been expecting to speak so much, but it was necessary to put forth some of his views while they still had a chance to change their minds. He waited for an argument that never came, though he doubted that it was a settled issue.

Stewards again rounded the table as Jon noticed that deep darkness had fallen, stars and the rising moon framed in the tall narrow windows.

Finally Manderly turned with certainty to his lords. “Is everyone satisfied? Shall we proceed with the crowning of our King?”

Jon waited, emotionless. He wasn’t sure which answer he was hoping for. For better or for worse, all nodded, watching for his response.

“Ayes” circled the table, until Manderly turned to Lord Hardy, who stiffened when all eyes fell on him.

“Emilar, what say you?”

Jon watched as warring emotions drifted over the elder’s face, moments passing, relieved when the lord nodded and stood, sliding his chair back on the deep blue rug. He raised his glass of wine, splashing some of the contents.

“All hail Jon Snow, King in the North, from this day til his last day!”

Jon watched as everyone around him, Manderly, Davos, all stood and drank to his name. He never knew what he was supposed to do at times like this, say something? Stand and drink as well? The last time he was named King…

He started to shake his head but thought better of how it might look, he would be far more attentive going forward. So he wondered to himself, how many have ever said those words, ‘the last time he was named King?’

Finally Jon stood with his mug and the room calmed,

“To the North, to her Great Houses and common folk, to freedom and peace, by the Old Gods and the New!” Jon raised his mug, and all entered in, rowdy and loud this time, servants hustling to fill cups as they were drained again and again.

They all drank to the King and to the North, then Manderly stood and dismissed them to prepare for the coronation. “Remember the King’s safety is paramount, make sure only your most trusted are armed tonight.” The lords of White Harbor nodded, one by one bowing to their King before heading into the cold night. Nearly last, Lord Hardy approached Jon and looked closely at his face, then whispered softly, “Yes, I can see it…”

“See what, my lord?”

“The future, my King!” Hardy smiled, a jagged unseen thing, startling Jon and Manderly alike, then turned and ambled to join his waiting comrades.

Manderly motioned to Davos, who turned to Jon, “Your Grace, we will return to your room for your armor, and when you are ready we will be escorted to the Sept.”

Jon nodded and took another swallow of ale, turning to follow Manderly from the hall. He wondered as he climbed the stairs, though things seemed to have gone as well as could be expected, and they all seemed satisfied, there was still time for… laughter rang out, echoing throughout the manse, boisterous conversation and grunts and the slamming of a door. Jon felt surprisingly relieved, he had survived yet another test without making a total fool of himself.

A flurry of activity awaited him as he entered his borrowed quarters, though there was little left for him to do but follow as directed. The final tweaking of the armor had been done, it now fit quite comfortably. He felt protected, ready. His Kingsguard watched with relieved smiles and growing anticipation on their faces; it seemed they had fully attached themselves to him.

Not that he minded, it was just… all so unexpected. Just that morning he was contemplating, welcoming his own madness.

Ten years.

Servants finished belting his surcoat over his armor, a fine quilted black garment, rampant silver and white direwolves facing away from each other on black and gray grounds.

Finally Davos hastened them out and joined Jon in front of the large mirror. He must have noticed his lingering disbelief.

“You’re ready for this, Jon. You’re the right person to lead the North.”

Jon shook his head. “I… still, why would anyone want me King? I've failed at everything I've ever done.”

Davos started to laugh, “Jon you have to stop thinking like a bastard. So many times, you’ve said someone else would have, should have, could have done what needed to be done, yet no one else stepped up, to do the right thing, no one was doing it, only you, and when it came time to do the hard thing, to stop a mad woman…”

His anger rose as he blurted out, “She wasn’t mad, Davos! She was arrogant and desperate and blind, blind to all but her way of doing things, and it didn’t matter what it cost others to get her way… but she was never mad!”

Davos nodded gently. “Even so, you did what a true leader would do, you sacrificed your love, your own family for what was right. Don’t be discouraged or confused that others see you as the leader that is needed, that King. But now the battles have been won, the big ones at least, and the hard part starts, building a peace. Everything in Westeros, in Essos as well, who knows, everything’s been turned upside down. We all need someone to lead us, who sees what needs to be done and does it, not for himself, but to be the shield that guards the realms of men.”

Jon rolled his eyes, “As if I need to be reminded of my oath.”

Davos huffed, “Aye, but it's true, you know it's true.” Davos grasped him gently by the arm, “so it's time to be the King you always were, the King you are. Wear the crown, not just because it's your inheritance, your birthright, though it is, but because you have already proven yourself to be King. Not that you won’t make mistakes, no one expects you to be perfect, but you will always fix them, for the people, for what’s right.”

“How do I know what’s right? Others think they know, why should I be the one to decide?” He’d asked a similar question of another, now it lingered forever in his heart.

“The very fact that you aren’t blind to that, that you see things from others points of view, not for yourself, your own vision, your own future… Well, you asked me earlier why I'm here, I've seen what you can do in situations that would have broken lesser men.” Jon turned away, but Davos followed him. “Other men would have run, and no one would have blamed them, but you stood up, united the North, did what needed to be done.”

Jon raised his gaze as he for the hundredth time re-adjusted his armor.

Davos continued, “And it's alright to be happy about it, to enjoy the recognition; to be able to rebuild, to lead, to be thanked and honored.”

Jon squirmed, suddenly nervous and fidgety.

“Ah, is that too much attention for you?”

“Davos I've spent my whole life forced into the shadows. It just doesn’t feel right to be at the head table, people listening to me, looking to me. It was hard enough being named Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, but at least my supposed brothers were like me, outcast from their homes and families. And… Lady Stark’s greatest fear was that I would steal her children’s birthright. Well it seems I’m doing just that, Robb, Sansa … even Dany … how can I not feel like a thief? Like I don’t deserve any of this?” He felt relieved to say it out loud.

He could hear Davos sigh in frustration. “Jon, I wonder… I wonder if at some point in time that will change for you, I hope it does. I hope you start to see that this, how you got here, others see things differently. They see that Ned Stark stole your birthright from you, he stole your mother, and your true father, and that Bran and Sansa have stolen your crown. That you are the Rightful Heir of the Seven Kingdoms. Not only by blood, but by your actions. And as far as Daenerys Targaryen, that was her fear wasn’t it? That your claim was stronger? Some would say she, too, stole your birthright. And it doesn’t matter if you did or didn’t want it, that doesn’t make it right that others took what didn’t belong to them, what was rightfully yours.” Davos straightened. “It will take time, but now, you have it, all the time you need. And now there’s work to be done, starting with getting your head around what’s going on in your kingdom and down south in the Broken Kingdom.”

“The Broken Kingdom?”

Davos nodded with an amused twinkle in his eye.

“Yes, that’s what people are calling it now, the Broken Kingdom, with its broken King. I’d like to say we can just let them fall from within, but they are a threat, they could take down the North with it… but soon you will be crowned and the ravens will go far and wide, and we will leave for Winterfell, for home.”

Jon’s heart lurched; all he’s ever wanted, to be able to truly call Winterfell home. “And Arya?”

“She’s readying your people. She’ll probably meet us on the road, she’s not one to sit by and wait. Tormund is coming down from Castle Black as well, so there’s no time to waste.”

Jon turned and paused as a gentle sound wafted through the night air.

Singing, the melody seemed somewhat familiar.

And coming closer.

Jon stepped out onto the balcony; this one faced the edge of the city where it emptied into the port proper.

Amazing. He nearly lost his breath.

The city itself seemed to be lit afire, calm and still but for the drifting tune.

He didn’t recognize the words, but the melody... Winterfell, the Sept… Yes, of course, they worshiped the Seven here. He listened more closely, then stopped… a blessing, an Old Andal blessing for the King of Winter.

He bowed his head, the solemnity of the moment enveloping the room.

No turning back.

Did he want to? No, he had accepted the duty, the responsibility. He would do it to the best of his ability. But this…

Another weight fell, different this time.

This weight gave him strength, purpose. Meaning.

Jon Snow, King in the North.

Chosen. Wanted.

The drifting words were interrupted as Wyman Manderly entered and bowed.

“My King.”

Jon nodded and grabbed Longclaw, strapping it on himself, as he had so many times, accepting Davos’s help in fastening his cloak. He led them through the castle, past the high lords of the North to the open courtyard, filled with common folk and highborn holding lanterns with flickering candles. The singing stilled as Jon quickly mounted his gifted steed, then paused, waiting for Davos and the others to mount as well.

The moon had risen to its zenith, peaking through bundled clouds, the storm past. Wind fluttered his banners - his banners - gently flicking fluffed powder off ledges and spires above to land on his sigil on armor and banners alike.

Snow. He sighed to himself.

Another reminder of who he was, what he was meant to be.

The commander of Manderly’s guard caught his eye, and he nodded, the procession starting its winding journey down the city side of the castle, his Kingsguard riding close beside him. All was eerily quiet despite the throng of bundled northerners. Bright lights reflected off the white stone buildings, and the streets, lined with solemn-faced citizens, each holding a flickering candle, bowing, curtseying as he passed. He nodded, noted their faces, women, young and old, and old men and young boys... yet, something was wrong. They were halfway to the Sept when he realized what it was. What was missing.

The War of Five Kings.

The Red Wedding.

The Battle for Winterfell.

The Battle for King’s Landing.

So many men, husbands, fathers, brothers, sons, even wives, sisters, mothers and daughters.

A generation, more even. Gone. Lost to the North.

He determined, promised himself to make their sacrifice mean something for those they left behind.

Later he would barely remember the ceremony itself. The speech of welcome at the entrance to the Sept, the silent walk down the aisle before the excited crowd, the Seven statues peering down. The practiced smile of Septon Jardan as he waited expectantly adorned in gold finery at the top of the stairs, waving to the step below as Jon carefully ascended to the landing under the banner of the Seven Pointed Star, his silent Kingsguard taking their posts above, Davos below fighting his satisfied grin.

He turned, faced his people, gazed upon their faces. He had left his cloak at the entrance to the Sept, and now felt exposed and vulnerable but for the weight of his armor, and the familiar sword grounding him, wishing Ghost was there to distract the people’s gaze. He took a deep breath to calm himself.

Eager faces, smiling his way. How could he have ever imagined? He barely heard the blessing of the Seven, he supposed he had failed at his duty already, and fought to keep from smiling outwardly.

His gaze turned upward.

So… this is a Sept?

Just a building with seven sides and seven statues, laid out awkwardly if anyone had asked him. He had always intended to learn more about each of them, before, for his people’s sake, but there were other things… Father, Warrior, Stranger, Mother, oh and Crone, something like that…

Suddenly the septon took a step to stand directly behind him, the crown outstretched in his raised hands.

“In the Light of the Seven, I now proclaim Jon Snow of House Stark, First of His Name, Lord of Winterfell and King of Winter, Uniter of Andals and First Men and Protector of the North.”

Jon stilled as the symbol of his reign was placed on his head. It was familiar, now, and Jon stood quietly as the septon withdrew behind him. He took the final step to stand on the landing below the Seven’s banner and paused before the waiting crowd, this time the crowned King.

“All Hail Jon Snow, King in the North. Long May He Reign!” The septon’s voice clanged against the stone statues.

“Long May He Reign!” Followed by clapping and resounding cheers, pounding feet, a whoop and a holler here and there.

Jon stood motionless.

Another oath, another duty.

The cacophony of clapping and cheers melded into a roar of rushing water, the warmth of sunlight reflecting off icy waters, overwhelmed only by the memory of a bright smile and sparkling eyes.

“A thousand years…”

-----

Wyman Manderly straightened his coat and sighed deeply, satisfied.

An independent Northern Kingdom.

He had joined Ser Davos to help deflect the enthusiastic lords of White Harbor. The new king greeted his Andal lords seated on a makeshift throne, solemn and respectful as he accepted fealty and gifts for his reign. He was young in years, yes, but had lived several lifetimes already, perhaps a death as well. He wondered what Ned would have thought, or King Robb, or his own son, slain with his King at the Twins. It had been years, but his breathing stilled every time he thought of his end.

Were they all looking on? Blessing, or cursing?

“Wyman, a moment…”

Manderly nodded to Davos before following his maester into a quiet corner where Harrow leaned closer, a practiced discretion. “A raven from Eastwatch, the ship has arrived. Without Jon Snow.”

Manderly smiled, more for the distant audience than his own maester. “They have their instructions.”

“Yes, to ride to Castle Black, proceed as if he was with them, but to not make anyone a target for assassination.”

Manderly nodded as the maester continued.

“But, apologies, my lord, I am shamed to report that the maester’s copy of Varys’s raven is missing. Someone broke into my quarters, they knew where to look.”

Manderly started to turn quickly, then caught himself. He nodded soberly then shook his head slightly.

“I’m afraid it was only a matter of time. See if you can find out who took it, make sure you prevent it from happening again.”

“Of course, Wyman. Does this change anything?”

“No, our plans are set in motion. We won’t tell the King until later, unless of course he asks.”

“Are you sure? Does he know?”

“That there are traitors everywhere? Of course he knows, it's just not important right now. Let him make his own choice, as circumstances demand; so far he has chosen the North.”

Maester Harrow nodded, his expression reserved.

Manderly sighed and crossed his arms over his broad chest. “You haven't changed your mind?”

“No, my mind hasn’t changed, Wyman. Jon Snow is a bastard and an oathbreaker, and from what we can determine a queen slayer and a kinslayer. And all those rumors swirling around him… Mutiny, fire gods and blood magic… Yet you have made him King.”

Manderly nodded with understanding. “We’ve been through this. Who among us who have fought for our people have clean hands in these times? Look at the honorable Ned Stark, how many lies…? Life is rarely as black and white as we would like.”

Manderly paused and looked upward, eyes gazing at the seven towering statues.

“We rely on our gods, dear maester, to weigh our hearts, and to bring judgment and reward where it is due.”

Harrow folded his hands across his clinking chains. “But to name a bastard King, Jon Snow of all things?”

“You were there for Ned Stark’s visits, how many times did he tell the story of searching for his sister, striking down the Targaryen Kingsguard, Ser Arthur Dayne and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Gerold Hightower. Do you think Rhaegar would have left his most loyal and trusted friends to protect a mere bastard?”

“But there is no proof…”

“Until there is…”

“And what if…”

Manderly turned to face his maester. “Yes, and what if there is never proof that he is trueborn. What great tragedy if we deny his service to the North because his mother was not married to his father?”

The maester took a breath to argue, but was waved aside as Manderly patted the scroll in his tunic vest.

“No, we shall follow this through. The Most Devout, the new council that is, has accepted our choice of king. Reluctantly, yes, but for all we know they, too, have received Varys’s raven and have uncovered secrets of their own.”

The maester frowned as he turned to gaze across the celebrating throng. “Why should that make a difference at this point?”

Manderly turned as well, returning the smiles of his people. “Targaryens follow the Seven, the Starks follow the Old Gods. Jon Snow is both, born of two great houses, two lines of kings, known to be a good man, chosen and governed and ruled before, who better to protect and unite…”

“Yes, protect the North…” Understanding lightened the maester’s eyes, “You plan on… The Seven Kingdoms? Does he want it?”

“It’s rarely up to any of us to decide our own future. But whether he rules from Winterfell or King’s Landing, or anywhere else for that matter, he will do right by the North. That’s all that matters to me, for the moment at least.”

His voice softened. “I will not push him, but I will prepare my House for whatever choices the Rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms makes. I never want to have to send another son to war. I just want peace and prosperity for the North, even for the Starks, what is left of them. The choices that we make now will determine the future of tens if not hundreds of generations to come.”

Maester Harrow considered, “Then why did he do it, Ned Stark I mean? All of those lies to protect Robert? In the end he betrayed his friend anyway. Wyman, do you think he ever told anyone, does anyone else know this secret?”

“I think of that often, what would have happened if Ned had trained the boy, prepared him to rule, to let him make the decision himself, would he have started a war to take back his throne? Him?” Manderly jerked his head toward the dark-haired fellow seated under the banner of the Seven. “I think he’s telling us true, he never wanted it.” Manderly let his hand fall to the pommel of his sword. “However we got here, he is well-suited for what lies ahead. He is loyal to the North, steady and observant, he will not be easily swayed, but he listens well. Yes, I do wonder if he had sought the throne instead of the Wall, but…” he turned to watch the spectacle before him. “My friend, the ink is dry, we can’t change the past, we can only plan for the future.”

-----

He struggled to stifle a yawn, his hip rebelling in the confining armor.

One after another, lords and ladies in their finest, smiling and bowing and Seven Blessings to You, Your Grace. Jon hoped he wasn’t expected to remember all their names. He had smiled as best he could, laughed when he thought he should. He wondered if it sounded as empty and forced to others as it did to his own ears.

Davos leaned in, “Manderly will want to send the ravens soon.”

Jon started to take a deep breath, checked himself. He would need to learn to take these momentous decisions in stride.

“Very well.”

Davos caught Manderly’s eye and nodded, and Jon watched as Maester Harrow discretely left the Sept. Not long after, Jon caught fluttering movement through the round windows circling the crown of the Sept as gleaming black ravens soared from their roost under the ice-misted glow of the fully risen moon, each toward their own destination. Yes, King in the North. Not what he was expecting when the sun rose this morning, but the start of a new chapter of his life just the same. He would do his best, for the North and for those who had gone before him.

“Your Grace, may the Seven grant you wisdom and the joyous sounds of a happy home.” Another lord bowed before him, smiling, introducing his wife and daughter. So many daughters.

Jon smiled and nodded his thanks, shifting in his seat as he tried to judge how many yet remained in line to pledge allegiance to his reign.

-----

A flutter of wings against glass, a single raven with white eyes roosted on the round window pane atop the sept, silent and gazing over the pomp below.

Only a thousand years…

Chapter Text

Deep darkness, shadowless and solid.

Ash. And grit. Her breath was rough and bitter on her tongue.

Her gloved hands gripped the wooden handle tightly as she lit the torch, the flames whooshing, then falling back, finally only the faintest of light in the endless black.

Suffocating silence, then muffled scraping as she stepped forward, holding the torch high, to no effect.

She knew this place, who was in this place. Who was waiting, watching in this place.

Dread filled her heart, yet she reached out, fingers seeking, finding only an empty void.

Swirling smoke floated in front of her eyes, then suddenly, there, right before her… her heart pounded, deafening. He was there, waiting. Always waiting.

He hated her, she knew. How could he not.

She shouldn’t have come.

The mist rose again, a putrid stench, ragged breaths.

Dragging skirts, blood soaked hair, lifeless eyes.

She hated her too. She would find no redemption here.

All was lost.

She turned and tried to run, but felt a fierce tug on her cloak. She dropped the torch, shadows now cast upward on the low curved ceiling.

Gliding steel, a drawn sword. Footsteps and the rub of steel and armor.

She reached blindly for the torch, bruised fingers sifting the dusty stone, eyes straining in the dark mist, faint movement coming closer.

She gasped, gulping, she couldn’t breathe.

She looked down, found the torch, turning as she lifted it.

No!

The air left her lungs, her vision faded. She turned back toward the steep stone steps that led out of the crypt, tripping on her skirts as she fled.

She fell to her knees, dropping the torch yet again. She sprawled on the stairs and looked back, the dim light revealing the three headless figures before her, three heads each gripped in shrunken hands by the hair, blood dripping, three accusing voices.

“Look! Look at what you have done!”

“Cursed for all time, by the Old Gods and the New!”

“YOU! Every Stark cursed because of you!”

She tried to scream, closing her eyes to their hateful glares, pushing through the door into the Great Hall, the echo of her entrance muffled by the heavy cobwebs and ragged tapestries on the walls.

Abandoned, plates and mugs askew on the tables, a squealing rat. Candles burned low. Benches cockeyed and tipped.

Acrid spoiled wine.

Dust thick and gray.

Fire crackled in the hearth, she stopped to warm her hands, but felt nothing.

Voices. Laughter.

The soft cooing of a child.

She tried to make out the garbled voices. Vaguely familiar. Flickering light from the adjoining room.

She laid the torch on the ground, easy to retrieve if need be. Slowly she approached the doorway, one hand outstretched to find the edge of the entrance, then inched closer to peer in. The outline of two seated figures facing the hearth, a blazing fire crackling, embers flying into the room.

She gasped. Their whispering ceased, interrupted.

Darkness fell, she couldn’t quite see, couldn’t quite make out what she saw.

The child fussed, was shushed by its mother.

She drew closer, she must see. What child was this?

Suddenly she was there, between the chairs and she could see clearly, yet was unseen. The blood soaked tunic of the well-dressed man oozed as he reached out his hand to grasp what was left of the woman’s hand extended between them, bloody skin ripped and torn, pink muscle shiny in the firelight.

The darkness lifted, and the child gurgled, then coughed, blood spluttering and spraying into the air, falling on her face, on her hands. She shut her eyes, failing to block the sight of the shredded child, suddenly wailing in the dark.

No, no more. Not again!

She tried to turn back, to retrieve the torch, to return to daylight, but her feet refused to move and the woman caught her, skeletal fingers grasping at her hand, dropping the clump of torn child as she stood and screamed, mouth gaping and hollow.

“Cursed for all time! The North pays for your crimes!”

Sansa struggled to free herself from the creature’s grip, finally striking out with the torch, lighting the chewed corpse ablaze, shrieks echoing through the halls of her home. She stepped back in horror as the fire spread, engulfing all she held dear.

She backed out of the doorway, turned to be faced with another door, familiar and welcome. She pulled at the latch, finding it rusted. She tugged again, harder, even harder, then stopped as a voice whispered in her ear.

“As long as it pleases me…”

She turned to peer into the silent black, a footfall on the stairs.

No! No, he was dead, dead and burned, ashes scattered in the wind.

She pulled at the latch again, threw her shoulder against it and it opened. She folded herself through the opening and quickly shut the door behind her, turning the key.

Stale winter roses, moldy bread on the table. Icy wind blew through the broken panes in the window. But she knew this room, had lived here, then. She lit the lantern on the wall, leaned the torch by the doorway, just in case.

Safe.

She was so tired, so alone.

No one to protect her, defend her. They had all failed her when she needed them most.

She straightened the bedcovers and laid down, for just a minute, she knew she couldn’t stay. But she was so tired. She shut her eyes.

A gust of wind, a whistling tune.

“Hello, Sansa…”

The air left her lungs as the candle died, the flames in the hearth dimming into embers. She struggled to open her eyes, to move, to raise her arms, until finally two arms clenched around her from behind, pulling her down, down into blackness.

“I told you, you can’t kill me. I’m part of you now. Now and always…”

White teeth and black eyes coming closer, low growls, laughter at her struggle.

Finally she drew air into her lungs, terror erupting in a piercing scream, then the distant pounding pulling her from the depths… gasping she forced her eyes open, flailing as she sought understanding, the stench of death slowly leaving her nostrils.

“Your Grace, Princess Sansa, is everything alright?”

She sat upright in bed, her hand above her racing heart as she sucked in great gulps of air.

“Kara, come…” She felt the darkness returning, relieved when the door opened and her handmaiden rushed in.

She felt the coolness of the cloth on her head, “Lie back now, Your Grace, slow deep breaths… you’re safe now, Princess.”

She reached out, comforted when her hand was grasped and held tight.

“There, there, it’s over now, over and done. We’ll be going home now… no more nightmares for you, Your Grace…”

Her head ached, her ribs bruised. She waited for her senses to return.

Sansa opened her eyes and spared a small smile for the young woman leaning over her. She had accompanied her from Winterfell, though she wasn’t a northerner herself. But she knew how to help, when she…

“Better now, drink this.” She held the watered wine as Sansa drank, slowly returning, remembering.

Winterfell. Home.

Her heart beat heavily, but slowed as she remembered to think of something happy, pleasant. High walls, loyal guards and locked gates.

“Yes, thank you Kara. Going home.”

She felt stronger now, squeezed the small hand in hers and let it go.

She took a deep breath and encouraged herself. She had work to do, plans to make. She managed a smile as servants set her breakfast at the table by the window. Fortunately it looked out over the sea, and she was not incessantly reminded of the destruction in the city below.

Once they left she rose and thanked Kara as she helped her with her robe, draping her long red hair carefully over the direwolf crested velvet.

“Porridge with berry jam, biscuits and eggs and fresh fruit, Your Grace, just as you requested.”

Sansa nodded, pleased. Her last night, her last morning in King’s Landing. At least for now. Kara curtsied and began flitting about the room, pulling open the several trunks on benches to receive the last of her personal goods.

Sansa ate slowly, relishing each bite. The North was nearly starving, she might not have this fine of a meal for quite some time.

A fierce wind blew through the bent seals of the window, carrying tense voices and acrid stench.

“Kara, please bring me my box.”

She treasured this new routine, focusing on the future to forget the past. Kara smiled as she opened the box and laid out fresh parchment, quill and ink, setting the tied scrolls within reach.

Sansa reviewed her list, satisfied. She could say, if anyone ever asked, that she had left the southern realm in good stead before she left; she could point to her accomplishments above all others.

First, the coronation of the new king. Bran had been crowned soon after the meeting of the Great Council. The throne room was still unusable, so they had assembled what was left of the lords and ladies and citizenry of King’s Landing on the grand staircase leading to the Red Keep. It had been a beautiful day, cool for the south but it held bright blue skies and a breeze that gave respite to the awful stench. Stark guards and bannermen lined the stairway, their banners and cloaks flapping in the background. She had been disappointed that they weren’t more excited for a northerner to sit the Iron Throne, so to speak, but she supposed they were just as anxious as she was to return home. Then Grand Maester Samwell Tarly had said a few words about the Great Council, and then in a surprisingly strong voice had proclaimed Bran the Broken King of the Six Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. He had dropped a simple hammered circlet on her brother’s head and then stood back.

“All Hail King Brandon, Long May He Reign!”

Those standing with her, and a few of the lords and ladies farther down repeated the phrase and cheered, clapping and smiling and nodding to one another. The smallfolk however seemed disinterested and soon silently turned and walked away, slowly fading into the wreckage that once was their crowded city.

Next Sansa had organized King Brandon’s Small Council. It had been decided at the Great Council that Tyrion would be his Hand, but she knew Bran best, she knew what kind of advisors would serve him best. And Tyrion had relented.

Not that there were any great decisions to be made, most of those qualified to sit on the Small Council were either dead, missing or had returned to their homes.

So Tyrion had asked her to stay, though of course she had refused. The North needed her. But she had made note of that conversation. For later.

Ser Davos Seaworth, Master of Ships for a day, had left immediately after the coronation, soon after Jon left for his exile at the Wall. He had received word that his wife was in ill health; Sansa was relieved. She had never trusted him, he was a fool. He had done nothing to stop the Dragon Queen, his loyalty shifted with the wind and he had done nothing to advise or protect those he served, neither Stannis nor Jon. He would not have served Brandon well. So she had mentioned the position to Yara Greyjoy, who had laughed in her face. Very well, then.

Ser Brienne had asked to be allowed to return North in her service, but Sansa had suggested she stay to protect her brother, there was no one else she could trust, and Brienne had relented, swearing allegiance when Bran named her Lord Commander of his Kingsguard. She planned to rely on her eyes and ears in King’s Landing, and to be her personal protector when she returned, after.

Grand Maester Samwell Tarly. Sansa was repulsed by him. He had no loyalty and no honor. Yet she knew he was responsible for the victory she now enjoyed. They had not spoken but once or twice; he would approach and she would remember an urgent errand elsewhere. How could Jon have ever considered him a friend? But she had encouraged Bran to elevate his position within the kingdom; he was malleable and grasping; she doubted Tarly would do anything to endanger his new position.

Then there was the Master of Coin. Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. Lord of Highgarden and High Paramount of the Reach. The Tyrells were no doubt rolling in their graves. First to be betrayed by the Tarlys, their own bannermen, then replaced by a mercenary. She had helped him write to the Iron Bank for a loan; she’d be doing the same once she returned to Winterfell.

There were still empty positions; Bran didn’t need a Master of Whispers, he could see it all himself after all. So, Master of Ships, Master of Laws and Master of War. She had convinced her uncle Edmure and her cousin Robin to send for trusted candidates to come to King’s Landing, at one time a great honor. She had met one of the candidates yesterday, his bashful smile had seemed vaguely familiar, young for a position on the Small Council, but it wasn’t her problem any longer. Tyrion would have to deal with the rest himself.

Sansa returned the scroll to her box and retrieved another parchment, folded and tucked under the corner of the felted bottom.

She had her own list, one she encouraged herself with, reviewed often during the day, sometimes in the sleepless dark of night.

When she returned North, to Winterfell, home, she would be ready.

Queen in the North.

Her throne, her crown.

Her Small Council. Strictly Northern Lords at first, to gain their loyalty, find those willing to reform. Then she would invite Southerners as her advisors over time. Those that had supported her at least. The North was a backward place, needing to be dragged into more civilized ways of doing things. She would force them to put away their Old Gods and embrace the true Seven.

She would reclaim the land beyond the wall as northern territory, as it was always meant to be. The Wildlings would either have to kneel to her or would be driven from their, her, lands. She planned to strike right away, while they were small in number and all in one place, apparently waiting for Jon to come to lead them. She’d already begun speaking to the Northern Commanders, sowing seeds, seeking loyalty.

It was a good plan, a way forward. Would her mother be proud? She supposed.

Yes, she was ready.

She placed the parchment back into the box and closed the lid, finished her breakfast and smiled as Kara opened the door to summon the servants to clear the table. Sansa smiled at each of them one final time as she stood, then took a seat near the hearth. So many times she had sat there, not just this hearth, but every hearth, every captivity, every lonely night.

She let her eyelids fall as she smiled. A beautiful gown, a golden crown, a carved throne.

She slowly entered the Great Hall, eyes forward, regal and royal as her bannermen knelt as she passed by.

She took her place by the hearth, anticipation making her quiver.

Slowly the crown was placed on her head; she gazed upon her audience, breathless as she took her throne.

As one they drew their swords, eager and embracing.

Queen in the North!

Queen in the North!

The Queen in the North!

The words rang in her head and she gripped the worn arms of her chair.

Finally she was getting what she deserved, what she’d been promised.

And it was only the beginning.

“Your Grace?”

Kara stood over her, a soft smile on her young face, offering a light blanket to cover her legs. Sansa raised her arms and the blanket was soon carefully draped.

Kara had proven to be a loyal servant, accepting of her tragedies, trustworthy with her secrets. She recalled when she had first offered her services in Winterfell, their first conversations. Over time she had found herself comforted by her presence, felt compelled to explain the scars, the night terrors. Of being captive of the Lannisters, Petyr Baelish, finally the Boltons, Roose, and Ramsay.

“No one came to rescue me, I was all on my own. I escaped, and I rallied the Knights of the Vale, and they took back my home for me.”

She smiled softly as the young girl listened with rapt attention, her questions innocent and unthoughtful.

“My lady, why do they call it the Battle of the Bastards? Didn’t the Stark bannermen make Jon Snow King in the North?”

It grated sometimes when she returned to calling her ‘My Lady,’ she would discuss this with her again on their return to Winterfell. “Because I'm a woman,” she patted her handmaiden’s hand. “But Jon has proven his treachery and will pay the price for it.”

“But my lady, he saved you, he saved all of us, why would he be punished? Shouldn’t he be rewarded instead?”

Sansa shook her head solemnly, “These things are complicated, the lords of the North could never trust a bastard.”

Her eyes widened as if with understanding. “Oh, so they didn’t know he was a bastard when they first made him king?”

Sansa smiled and waved her question away. “We’ll have plenty of time to discuss proper northern traditions. For now, know that I will always look out for what’s best for the North, and for those that are loyal to me.”

Sansa looked intently into her eyes, waiting.

“Oh, I see now! With Brandon Stark remaining in King’s Landing and Princess Arya taking to the sea, you my lady are the last trueborn Stark and the rightful heir of Winterfell. Do you think they will choose you to be their Queen, Your Grace?”

Sansa smiled politely, relieved that Kara had finally found her way to the truth of her future plans.

“Oh, I haven’t thought about that. I’m only glad that the North will be protected from the disorder of the South. No doubt we will have our own problems, but we will make choices that will be best for ourselves, and never serve another southern king, even if he is a Stark.”

Kara folded her hands in front of her. “Yes, that’s what will happen. Your rightful place is on the Northern throne, isn’t it? For all you’ve been through… Your Grace, let me help you. I’m not a politician, but a great deal of helpful information can be found in rumors.”

Sansa smiled at her, “Thank you Kara. Who knows what the future holds, we will simply plan on working hard and diligently to rebuild Winterfell, unite the people and prepare for a new and brighter future for the North.”

Kara laid out her traveling clothes on the freshly made bed, nodding when Sansa waved her away and began dressing herself. “And your brother, the King, will you be meeting with him again, to bid him farewell?”

Sansa hesitated. She had said goodbye the day before, another unsatisfying conversation with her ever-increasingly disinterested younger brother. He had once again brought up the oath, and she had bristled, startled when he had soothed her on this particular occasion.

“Don’t be concerned about the curse of the old gods, Sansa. The ink is dry.”

She had smiled, honestly relieved. It was his new favorite phrase; she planned to use it on the lords of the North when it came to her previous actions. She had changed the subject to her final thoughts on the latest designs for his throne and more ornate crown. The people would expect Bran to create a new throne for himself, but the present plans were far too similar to the Iron Throne to suit his new reign. She had wondered briefly if she needed to stay and correct this idea, but in the end decided that she needed to work on her own throne instead. Thinking back, most of the conversation had been about dragons. Not the human kind either, but curiosity that there had been no word of Drogon’s whereabouts. Sansa sighed. What did it matter? As long as he wasn’t in the North.

Bran had merely tolerated her farewell embrace, not even returning her heart-felt thanks and encouragement. She wondered when she would see him again, how much he might be changed over time. They were the last of the Starks; honestly she thought Arya’s plans were foolhardy, mystified that she had found someone to provide her with ships, crews and supplies. When they had parted she had accepted she would likely never see her again, perhaps not even to hear of her death.

Kara cleared her throat, “My lady?”

“Yes, Kara, we will need to make haste as it is, if we are to catch up with the northern army. I don’t think there will be time to visit the King again. They are anxious to return home, there is so much to do now that this difficult business is behind us all. Besides, I’m sure the king has far more important things to do than receive his sister just to say goodbye.”

Kara opened the doors to the balcony, checking to make sure nothing was missed as she packed. Sansa sniffed; King’s Landing still reeked of death and burned flesh and wildfire and sewage. By the time she returned, she hoped that the worst of it would have faded.

A soft knock on the door, and Kara rushed to open it a crack.

“My... Your Grace, the King’s Hand is here, do you wish to speak with him?”

Sansa smiled, laughing inwardly.

“Yes, that’s fine, you can let him in.”

Kara backed away as she pulled the heavy door open, nodding politely at Tyrion Lannister, fully recovered from his weeks in prison, resplendent in red and gold and a shiny new Hand pin. She wondered if it was the pin he had thrown down before the Dragon Queen, or if he had had a new one made.

“Tyrion, you’ve come to see me off I take it?”

Sansa stood silently before him as he gazed around the room at the trunks and packed bags.

“Are you sure I can’t convince you to stay? We really need you here, your brother needs you here.”

Sansa folded her hands in front of her. “The North needs me more, it's where I belong. If I wait any longer I won’t be able to catch up with my cousin and my uncle, you know they, we’re traveling with the northern army for protection. There are so many bandits, and the savages from Essos have taken to pillaging without regard.”

Tyrion shook his head. “Those savages saved your skin, and mine too.” Sansa scoffed and turned to walk away.

Tyrion followed her. “All I’m saying is it would be nice if you could show a little gratitude…”

She wheeled to face him, chin high. “We were never in any danger, Tyrion. You should know that by now. The Night King was never that much of a threat, all it took was a single stroke of a knife to end him and his entire army. What kind of a menace is that? Jon blew it all out of proportion, just an excuse to bring his whore to Winterfell.”

Sansa paused, waiting for Tyrion’s usual angry response. He was dead set on finding something good about the mad woman he had pledged himself to that he was willing to blind himself to the ridiculousness of his arguments. She sighed when he dropped the subject.

“Two weeks, 10 days is all I ask. We need you here, at least until we have more members on the Small Council.”

“I thought you interviewed several prospects yesterday. I know House Tully and House Arryn sent suitable candidates, at least they said they did.”

“Yes, we invited one that may work well for Master of War, a young knight from House Arryn. But the others, well, none of them want to serve the realm, they just want to take advantage in any way they can from being close to their new young king.”

Sansa laughed, “We both know that won’t happen. Bran has said he has a plan, you can just trust and follow his directions and everything will work out fine.”

“Yes, but the people expect…”

“Oh, bother what the people expect. I’m sure you and Tarly and Brienne and Bronn of the Blackwater will solve all of these problems in no time. There’s nothing stopping you now, is there?”

Tyrion’s shoulders drooped. “I appreciate your confidence in me, but my recent history is not particularly good.”

Kara banged the lid of the trunk, sitting on it to lock it for travel, surprised by the startled expressions on the other occupants of the room.

Sansa softened her demeanor. “But Tyrion, you suggested Bran to be king, that was a good decision, the right choice.”

“You mean I got your note?” Tyrion pulled out a folded parchment from his vest, the words “King Bran” clearly visible, only for it to be snatched from his hand. They both turned toward Sansa’s handmaid who watched the exchange with cocked eyebrow before returning to her duties.

Sansa could feel panic rise briefly before she threw the note into the fire. She’d have to have another talk with her dim-witted servant. Perhaps she should find another handmaiden altogether, or was it better to keep this one close?

She stepped away from the flames, turning to find Tyrion staring at her, a look of shock on his face. She knew he already had doubts. Another reason for her to leave; he would be too busy and too far away to ask any more questions.

Tyrion eyed her briefly, then changed the subject.

“And what of Jon Snow?”

“What of him?” Sansa sought for another subject to divert the conversation.

“The danger is past, you can release him from his exile. You could name him your Hand. His presence would unify the North, make it easier to deal with the Wildlings. He’d support your claim, I know he would…”

Delay? Divert? Agree.

Sansa softened her expression. “Yes, I will consider it, the timing would be very important.”

Yes, the timing. She was even now awaiting word of his untimely, tragic death; drowned at sea on the way to his exile. Or in a stupidly simple accident, falling off his spooked horse and hitting his head. Or had he killed himself rather than return to Castle Black, or out of grief and guilt for what he had done?

After all, she’d not been specific.

Tyrion stepped closer, watching her face intently as he extended a hand toward her arm, apparently to press the point. “He doesn’t deserve…”

Sansa was relieved when there was a knock on her door. Kara opened it slightly, then pulled it open wide to bid several servants entry, directing them to the waiting bundles and trunks waiting by the door.

“These go to the carriage, or wagon, or whatever is safest on the roads. The rest will be coming with us. Make sure they will travel well by horseback. We will be riding hard.”

Sansa heard the gasp and sensed the alarm coming from her handmaiden. “You did say you were a capable rider, did you not?”

Kara squirmed, “Yes, my lady, but it’s been quite awhile. I don’t even have proper riding clothes.”

Sansa struggled to keep her frustration from her face. She herself had not spent much time astride a horse, not for any length of time at least, but she needed to set a good example for those she would be traveling with. She was determined to be seen as the Queen of her forces, not some soft southron princess.

“Kara, go find something different to wear if you must. Please, don’t delay us any more than you already have.”

Kara curtsied and hiked her skirts to hurriedly leave the room, several Northern guards entering past her. Kara pointedly left the door wide open, nodding as she caught Sansa’s eye. Sansa greeted her House guards, then directed them toward her bags, reminding them of her plans.

“Take these to the horses, fasten them well. I don’t want to have to pay them any mind. I will be out soon after, no need to return to fetch me.”

She had been practicing the right balance between being friendly to those who would protect her life and expressing her own authority, to remind them of her status. Or theirs. At least one of the guards had attended her family from her childhood; she was somewhat amazed that he had survived through all the turmoil House Stark had endured. She wanted to make sure they understood her position, and treat her accordingly. Even as they nodded and gathered the bundles she had waved toward, she could see there was a reticence to their actions, their bows toward her were stiff and reluctant. Resentment perhaps? She reminded herself to be patient. There was time for them to come around.

She turned to glance around the quarters she had been staying in as she pulled on her riding gloves. Had she forgotten anything? She would have to ask Kara to braid her hair before they left, confirm that she had arranged for meals for travel.

Yes, she was ready.

A soft boot scraping on the balcony startled her.

Tyrion. She’d forgotten all about him. Sometimes he unnerved her, he could be too… observant. He re-entered her quarters.

“Well, this is really goodbye, then. It’s been such a…”

“Yes, new beginnings for us both. Hopefully violence free. No dead men, no dragons, no… well… I’m sorry we never had much time to talk, there were so many things to take care of.”

“Yes, of course.” He pointedly strode to the side table and poured two cups of wine, handing one to her, holding it as she removed her right glove.

“To new beginnings, wife.” He raised it toward her, watching her face. She smiled, relieved that soon she wouldn’t have to accommodate this foolish man’s whining.

“To new beginnings, husband.” She raised her mug and sipped, smiling wider as Tyrion guzzled his wine down as though his thirst was driving him mad. She placed her cup on the table, waiting for Tyrion to do the same before leaning over for a last brief hug.

She couldn’t predict the circumstances under which they would meet again; better to keep all of her options open.

She pulled away, surprised to see her once-husband’s eyes wet with tears. He took a step back.

“Well, I will leave you to it, then. Goodbye, Sansa. I do hope to see you again.”

Sansa nodded, “Thank you, Tyrion. Take good care of the kingdom for my brother, and don’t hesitate to send a raven if need be.”

Tyrion nodded, turned and left, closing the door soundly behind him. She was alone now; somehow Sansa felt a strange mix of emotions, far stronger than she had experienced when farewelling her own brother.

King Bran the Broken.

Bran, just a boy.

Arya. Rickon.

Mother. Robb.

Father.

Home. Safe.

Memories started to flood her vision, but she pushed them all down. Winterfell was hers now. That was all that mattered.

She walked slowly to the open doors to the balcony. King’s Landing. She’d heard what people called it: The Broken City. Capital of the Broken Kingdom, ruled by the Broken King. She wondered if it would ever be the same, or if it should be.

After the dragon, she was afraid to walk out onto the balcony, afraid it would fail her. Yet Kara, and others, they walked out all the time.

Courage, Sansa! She took one step, two. Far enough.

She closed her eyes, allowing the memories to flood in, a tribute to all she had lost. Crowds cheering as the sword came down, the blackness and horror that followed. The news of Robb, her mother. She remembered all those who had mistreated her, abused her. Wished her dead. She felt her hands trembling.

She opened her eyes. Gazed upon the city. She hoped they were all dead, that they all died screaming. She could thank the dragon queen for that at least.

She lifted her eyes, gazing past the city, toward the horizon. Tyrion was right, a new future. She would never be anyone’s pawn, never again.

Sansa crossed her arms and turned, gathered the last of her bundles and left her quarters without looking back.

Chapter Text

Tyrion paused briefly as the doors closed behind him, then turned sharply as two guards, newly recruited City Watchmen going by their gold cloaks and youth, fell in behind him as he passed through what remained of the structurally sound portion of the Red Keep.

He stopped on the landing of the wide stone steps to vigorously rub his legs. Even living in the pyramid of Meereen he had not had this much pain just from carrying out his daily duties. Perhaps he was just getting old.

Voices carried from the courtyard and he saw fluttering movement from the corner of his eye. Brushing between his guards he stepped atop the bench under an only-slightly-broken round stained glass window. A flash of red hair and gray cloak; Princess, soon to be Queen Sansa riding off with her guards, Stark banners drab and lifeless against the dull overcast morning. He smiled and waved at her though he knew she wouldn’t see him. Tyrion sighed. Why was he suddenly feeling so melancholy? He missed her already, wished he could have convinced her to stay, to be reasonable.

Sansa had grown from a naive child into a beautiful woman, a good person. She had gone through so much, had learned so much. She would no doubt rule the North well.

He stiffly crawled off the bench and tugged his tunic straight before proceeding down to the Audience Chamber, the sporadic clang of hammers resounding off the stone walls.

At least he was glad they were able to end on a more positive note, even if none of his concerns had been addressed. She had been avoiding him since that day, everyone had been avoiding him. He wondered if it was because they blamed him for their new King or simply because he was a Lannister.

Yes, the new King. They had all voted, had chosen him. Bran the Broken. Though he doubted they ever would have considered him to rule if it hadn’t been for his own little speech. The boy was young, still in his teens, and his life experience extremely limited. But he had powers, powers and a family name that Tyrion hoped would lead the Six Kingdoms into a peaceful and prosperous future. The new king was surrounding himself with good counselors, trying to at least. And he was a Stark; honorable, fair, trustworthy.

Yet his doubts lingered.

House Stark.

The guilt and regret swelled. He knew he hadn’t changed her mind, she was only assuaging his worries. He remembered their last conversation, about Jon.

“I’m only finishing what my father started. He knew from the beginning that Jon was the rightful heir to the Iron Throne and sent him to the Wall anyway. My father knew the dragons had to be wiped off the face of the earth. The Targaryens had to end, just as Bran has determined to do now, once and for all… for the good of the Realm, for the good of all of us.”

Tyrion had been struck by the venom in her voice, the hatred in her words.

“But he’s your brother, your family! And we know that Ned Stark tried to protect the Targaryens in Essos, he didn’t want them killed, he gave up his position as Hand of the King, his friendship with…”

“That was before she had dragons. He knew that if they ever set foot in Westeros... I was so relieved to learn that Jon was never my brother.”

He’d come to accept his new life, his new reality little more than a string of regrets. He should have done more to protect his queen, from herself and from Westeros.

Maybe he should have tried to convince her to stay in Meereen; she was happy there, things were working well for her, she was loved and respected and feared.

But he’d wanted revenge, against his family, against the citizens of King’s Landing. He had saved the city, but all his father wanted to do was have him killed.

And she was his best weapon.

In the end, all he’d wanted was to save Jaime, even if it meant saving Cersei, even if it meant betraying his queen.

He should have found a better way, a good reason to spare Jaime. He had always been clever, smart, persuasive, he should have been able… but she was too far gone by then, everyone had rejected her. At least that’s what he told himself now.

Then Rhaegal, Missendei, lost.

Tyrion wondered… did she even want the Iron Throne by then? Could she have been convinced to give it all up, return to Meereen, return to doing good? Convince her she wasn’t wanted there, wouldn’t like it once she’d won the throne.

Too late.

And Jon… He was lost, and Tyrion cringed inwardly whenever he remembered. He had used his persuasion then, had tipped him over the edge, had used his honor and uncertainty and grief against him. Though there was something else, confusing… he had replayed their conversation over and over in his head. He was missing something, just under the surface. Not that it mattered now. Surely he himself was lost, had lost his wits, his luck, his mind. He had been grateful when Sansa had sent him that message… “King Bran.”

But how would she have known what Grey Worm was planning? Wasn’t it just as likely that the Unsullied would execute both Jon and himself long before a gathering of Westerosi lords? He rubbed his forehead. Sometimes he could almost make the connections, find the missing pieces, see the whole picture. But then the gray haze of memory would dull all the rough edges into one solid mass of fog. Not that it mattered, the ink is dry.

He turned the corner, through the open doors and into the disjointed activity in the Audience Chamber.

The Iron Throne.

They’d been at it for days, master masons, smiths, carpenters, hammering and dragging and burning. After much argument and experimentation, they had resigned themselves that the whole structure was a lost cause. So now they struggled to remove the molten mess that once was the symbol of Dragon rule and the solid stone dais underneath. Just as well, they could design both a new throne and platform around the young King’s special needs.

Eyes turned toward him, then back to work as he approached what was left of the melted blades of Aegon’s conquered foes.

It occurred to him he didn’t even know what had happened here. No one did, none that would speak of it at least.

He had paced down this hall so many times, had expected to be proudly strutting before them all, those that had accused him, cursed him. In his imagination, he was Hand to the Queen, and she commanded fear. And they would fear him, bow before him.

Was that all it was? Revenge? All those lives… and Jaime lost after all.

Failure.

Traitor.

Imp.

He straightened the pin on his chest. Her Hand, her pin. Now Hand of the Broken King.

What if he hadn’t told Varys? What if Sansa had never told him?

That was the great loss for his queen, the great threat wasn’t it? That it was all for nothing?

That they - both the people and the lords - would choose Jon over her, that all she had fought for mattered little in Westeros.

Tyrion brushed his doubts aside.

No more excuses, they wouldn’t change anything.

He would have to accept what he had done. And try to make up for it, as Bran had said that day at the Great Council. He would make up for his mistakes.

That was too simple, now. He felt beads of sweat on his brow; there was something dreadfully wrong.

What if? What if Varys had the right idea, to tell everyone? Rhaegar’s son. A male heir, honorable and experienced. And loved. Didn’t they all have a right to know? So they could choose? Would they have made Jon King of the Seven Kingdoms?

Probably.

And everyone would be happier. Except perhaps Sansa. He didn’t want to think about that.

Jon would have made Ser Davos his Hand, and he himself could have gone home. Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the Westerlands. Taken a wife, raised sons and daughters. Though the Lannister mines had run dry, he was a clever man, he would have found a new source of income. He would do what he had long boasted, Drink and Know Things.

Was that true anymore? Everything he thought he knew came to nothing.

Worse than nothing.

He had had many chances to run to a life of luxury, with Shae, or before or after. Yet his own words echoed in his memory, “I belong here. These bad people are what I’m good at. Out-talking them, out-thinking them. It’s what I am. And I like it. I like it more than anything I’ve ever done”.

That was before his mistakes, all of the horrors, the lives lost, hopes shattered. What he had longed for, then, he would now trade for… what? Peace of mind?

He had assigned stonemasons to replace the block of marble laying just below the dais. They had tried to remove the dark stain, but it had refused to yield.

Somehow he found that fitting.

His eyes lingered as he passed, pausing to look back into the Audience Chamber.

Was it his imagination, or were there fewer workers here than yesterday, and fewer still than the day before? Perhaps they were elsewhere. But he had assigned them here, the new throne was a priority.

And there were new faces, giving direction, pointing at plans he had not seen or approved. He determined he would speak to them after the meeting.

Tyrion paused before entering the Small Council chambers. With Sansa gone, he had little confidence left that setting the kingdom in order would be a simple task. He heard footsteps behind him, could hear them pause at the same place he had just lingered before they approached the short staircase leading behind the throne.

“Ser Valen, have you found your accommodations acceptable?”

He hoped he sounded friendly but found himself decidedly unsure as the smile that graced the young, fairly handsome face before him was both polite and practiced.

“Thank you, Lord Hand. My rooms are quite comfortable.” Tyrion waited a moment for further comment; when none came, he turned and walked down the stairs and into the familiar chamber.

Brienne, Sam and Bronn.

Not a stellar beginning. But King Bran had approved his recommendations, and he would know best, wouldn’t he?

Fond memories of this very room softened his features as the members quickly claimed their seats, though they only used half the table for now. All eyes turned to the tall fellow standing behind him.

“To make it official, this is Ser Valen of House Egan of the Vale. King Bran has approved his appointment to the Small Council as his Master of War. Welcome, Ser Valen.” Tyrion held his hands high to lead the applause as Samwell quickly gathered his parchments and moved down one chair, apparently determining where the new Master of War should be seated.

Perhaps ‘approved’ was too strong of a word. Tyrion had not met with the King in days, had been turned away at his door earlier, had not had any response for a request for an audience, or even seen him outside of his quarters since his first and only appearance at a Small Council meeting. All he was interested in then was locating Drogon, his last order to, “carry on with the rest.” Instead, he had received a series of scribbled messages, all signed King Bran the Broken, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Six Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.

Very well then.

“This is Ser Brienne of Tarth, Lord Commander of the King’s Guard. Grand Maester Samwell Tarly. And Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of the Reach and Master of Coin.”

Tyrion noticed the lingering glance between the last two as they leaned across the table to briefly shake hands. There was history there, he hoped there would not be a problem. He was not in a position to turn away a candidate sent from a major House.

Tyrion took his seat at the end of the table and gestured to the empty seat next to his for the new Master, studying their faces as Ser Valen took his seat and neatly folded his hands in his lap.

Tyrion smiled politely again as he tapped a finger on the table, rejoicing when the steward served the goblets of watered wine, placing a plate of bread, cheese and grapes conveniently within reach on the table. He had not thought much of the position of Master of War; he was certain he’d be able to avoid any armed conflict in the future, considering his King’s abilities... He held his head high; that was his strong suit after all, persuasion and diplomacy. Until recently. His chin dropped and he sighed quickly to himself. He would do better going forward. He glanced up to see the others watching him, waiting.

“Well, right then. Shall we begin?” No one would know how many ideas of hers, of theirs he planned to use as his own. His eyes wandered over the table until he noticed that Lord Commander Brienne was reading through the ornately bound book.

“Ah, good, Grand Maester Tarly, I see you’ve brought the book. What’s the title again?”

Tarly rushed to take it from in front of Brienne and laid it in front of Tyrion, retaking his seat as Tyrion riffled through the gilded pages.

“A Song of Ice and Fire. I helped Archmaester Ebrose with the title.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned that before. I’ve received word from the King that there are many errors in the record, too many to simply revise. And I would have to say I certainly agree with him. I wonder who even wrote this – nonsense. No one ever even asked me what happened, and I was in charge of the defense of King’s Landing when Stannis Baratheon attacked the city.”

“The maesters at the Citadel do have a habit of only talking to one another I'm afraid,” Sam smiled earnestly.

Tyrion looked up as he let the heavy book fall shut, capturing Sam’s gaze as he pushed the tome into the middle of the table.

“The King has ordered this burned. As well as all copies retained at the Citadel, and any others that may have made their way throughout the kingdom. All burned. He has hired several scribes and plans to dictate these events himself since he can see the events as they truly happened.”

He could see the shock and apprehension on their faces, the dismay on Tarly’s. Yet they all nodded.

“Grand Maester, you will need to contact the Citadel. The king wants a full inventory of every book contained in the library so he can prioritize which ones need to be corrected most urgently.”

Tyrion raised his eyebrows at Samwell’s expected confusion. “What? Why? They will not…”

“I know it will be difficult, Grand Maester, people don’t like giving up their positions of power, and knowledge is power. But they must accept that our King’s ability to see the past even as it happened places him in a unique position to correct the errors of past records. This seems to be a priority of our King, please see to it at once.”

Tyrion paused as Samwell squirmed, reaching out to pull the book towards him, turning to a colorful image.

“Yes, I’ll send a raven, to arrange for a full accounting. But do the books truly have to be burned? There is valuable information, many hours of transcribing, workmanship, copying, and some of the illustrations are truly artful.”

“These are the King’s wishes, Grand Maester; history does us no good if it's inaccurate, no matter how beautifully recorded.”

Samwell stifled his gasp, his chest heaving. “Very well, Tyrion, I mean Lord Hand. I will see to it right away.” He folded the book closed and tugged it to lay in front of the vacant seat to his right, his eyes falling on it often through the remainder of the meeting.

Tyrion tapped his fingers on the table in front of him.

“Very well. Since Ser Davos left, have we made any progress in replacing him as Master of Ships?”

Brienne leaned forward slightly. “Lady Sansa had approached Yara Greyjoy, Lord Hand. She was not interested.”

“Yes, then, that isn’t very helpful, is it?” Tyrion hadn’t meant to be harsh, still irritated that Davos had left so abruptly. He had been relying on his experience and stability. To be left with… he was relieved when Tarly interjected.

“We should reach out again to Dorne. Their own interests would be served well, and surely we could avoid a rebellion by giving the new Prince a seat on the Council.”

Tyrion stifled a laugh. Did he think he was the first, the only one to come to that conclusion?

“Quite, yet we’ve not received a reply to the last raven…”

“Perhaps we should send a messenger instead.” Brienne, ever helpful.

Tyrion fought his impatience. It would take time and no doubt great effort on his part to grow this Small Council into what it needed to be, to be able to generate new ideas for old challenges under the new reign.

“And the Master of Laws? Surely Grand Maester Tarly you have influence with the Citadel. Can they recommend a suitable advisor to the King?”

Samwell’s eyes dulled as he dropped his chin and his voice. “I’ve not heard back from my inquiry, though I expect something soon.” Tyrion noticed he was avoiding his gaze. Tyrion suspected that Samwell Tarly knew that his tenure as Grand Maester would likely be short-lived.

“Well, we’ll just have to make do. I expect everyone here to continue to reach out to those who are loyal to King Bran to put forth candidates for these open positions.” Tyrion knew that though they all nodded, little action was being taken, at least, none that were bearing fruit.

“Right, what’s next… Lord Commander Brienne, if you are ready, I can arrange an audience for the King with the new candidates for the Kingsguard.”

Brienne leaned back as she placed her hand on the table, her polished armor rubbing against the oiled hardwood of the table.

“Apologies, Lord Hand. As of yet, we have not been able to recruit any qualified applicants. Several are interested, but have no experience in actual armed conflict.”

Tyrion watched as Brienne stilled herself, waiting. They had spoken just last night; those that were even slightly qualified had been approached and had all refused. They didn’t want to serve under a novice Lord Commander, one who was barely trained as a knight or even a House Guard, let alone under a woman. And those of noble families didn’t want to risk the reputation of their House for Bran the Broken, a strange boy who had shown no character worthy of loyalty as far as they were concerned. That Bran had elevated Podrick Payne, who could yet barely swing a sword, to wear the white cloak of the King’s Guard and his personal protector was the subject of bawdy ballads around the fires.

“Pardon me, Lord Tyrion,” Ser Valen nodded to those around the table. “I don’t mean to interrupt, or to overstep… I had thought to be able to meet, to speak with the King, at these Small Council meetings…”

Tyrion smiled patiently. “No pardon necessary, we are all still working at establishing a routine for the smooth running of the realm, which is why we are focusing so heavily on getting the right people in the right positions. No doubt the King will begin joining us more frequently when there are actual matters of state to be discussed.”

Valen leaned back, nodding, brushing a long wave of dark brown hair from across his eyes. “I see… until then, may I formally request, then, as Master of War, that I be granted an audience with His Grace the King? I will need to know his plans, his goals, his heart for the good of the realm if I am to develop our defenses, strategies, and gather the necessary resources to protect his kingdom, which would seem to be a priority under the present circumstances.”

Tyrion felt his heart drop. How to explain Bran?

“Our King is quite busy lately on matters concerning each of the Six Kingdoms. We have discussed setting aside a day when all new appointments will have an opportunity to meet and discuss any pressing issues directly with His Grace. Until then, I would counsel patience, as we have all learned to embrace these past few weeks.”

Tyrion watched as Valen quietly considered the reply before nodding and leaning back in his seat, his light blue eyes guarded. “Apologies for interrupting, Lord Hand.”

Tyrion took a drink of his wine before gathering the gazes of the others seated before him, startled when Bronn interrupted the silence.

“Have we heard anything about the dragon? We know King Bran is interested in his whereabouts, shouldn’t we be working on that as well?”

Tyrion nodded. “So far there has been no word. And the King seemed to want to manage that - project - by himself.”

“Lord Hand…” Ser Valen Egan was polite but quietly insistent. “Considering our current situation, shouldn’t this Council be equally involved in finding the dragon? Surely we owe it to the citizens of King’s Landing to assure them they are safe, to know where the beast is, after all the damage it’s done? What if it returns, repeats… we could at least be sending ravens, messengers across the sea…”

“The King will let us know if we are in any danger. If he can’t see Drogon, it only means he is very far away, or perhaps has even died and fallen to ground, or into the sea. Perhaps we will never know… I could live with that, even if uncertainty is not the best approach…”

Tyrion had already considered his options. He had planned on asking Davos to accept this task as Master of Ships, to scour the seas, ports, every known land. Unfortunately, Davos was the smart one, or a lucky one, and had retired with little fanfare. They had had many a long drink commiserating over the previous weeks, had shared the guilt of failure and the shame of betrayal, their lack of faithful service to both queen and king. Tyrion had come to realize there was no one else, except perhaps Davos, who could understand his deep disappointment in himself. He had failed everyone he had ever loved. At least Davos wouldn’t be faced with the outcome of his tragic shortcomings staring at him every day for the rest of his life.

“Ser Bronn, the City Watch. Has there been any progress…”

Tyrion stifled a chuckle as Brienne started to raise her hand. “That was my duty, Lord Hand. Gratefully I can say some progress has been made toward fortifying their ranks, for the safety of the city. Watchmen are receiving priority rations, housing and equipment, so there is actually a backlog in vetting individual candidates.”

Brienne paused nervously as she gazed at the Master of War.

“Perhaps Ser Valen would care to assist in the process?”

“It would be an honor, Lord Commander. I look forward to discussing this further.”

Tyrion watched as Brienne smiled broadly. Was she flirting? Or perhaps she was just as excited as he that something might actually be getting accomplished. He cleared his throat.

“Is there a similar approach that we can use to strengthen the King’s Guard? We must take whatever actions are necessary to return the King’s Guard, as an extension of the King himself, to the highest regard among the noble lords, and the people, as soon as possible.”

Brienne nodded but rebutted, “Yes, whatever actions necessary, but the qualifications for the two vary greatly. The City Watch only requires a certain level of training and familiarity with the city and the people. Guarding the King himself, those around him, and the Keep itself – the threats are greater, so the requirements for the King’s Guard are greater as well. It is not as simple as offering food and gold to buy loyalty to a cause.”

Tyrion pushed his chair back to ease his legs. “We need to find a way to speed the care for the people. Despite our best efforts, those who are able are fleeing the city in droves, seemingly abandoning any hope of rebuilding their homes and businesses. We will not be able to ensure safety and stability and instill loyalty in our King’s rule over the kingdoms of Westeros if King’s Landing is allowed to fall apart. Rebellion is always one event away.”

Heads nodded in agreement.

“Any ideas?”

Gazes dropped, voices were still.

Tyrion cleared his throat.

“Lord Bronn, Master of Coin, when can we expect the first shipment of food from the Reach?”

Tyrion noticed his eyes were slightly glazed as the former sellsword straightened in his seat. He wondered if it was from boredom or his late-night activities.

“Well about that, I've been - informed - by my lords and maesters to wait to be paid before agreeing to send food. What with the wars and dragons and overthrown Houses… There are quite a few willing to purchase food and supplies, from any source. And since the Citadel has warned of a terrible winter... The other Houses, even some merchants are able to pay in gold, even filling out them contracts and everything, as I’ve been told is the wisest way to do these things.” Bronn let his voice hang over the council.

Tyrion scowled. “I don’t understand, the Reach has always had abundant resources to supply King’s Landing and all other contracts besides.”

Bronn lifted one shoulder, scoffing as Tyrion flicked random parchment across the table.

“Then fill out the necessary contracts. If you need help, I”m sure someone can assist you, you are the Master of Coin after all. Simply pay yourself from the Treasury.” They had been through this before; Tyrion knew Bronn was neither interested nor capable of serving in such a vital position but had convinced himself he would be able to replace him quickly once that became evident.

Another miscalculation.

“As you say, but I ain't the only one spending. It seems King Bran has his own projects and he’s taking the money that was set aside to pay for food for the people and spreading it far and wide.”

Tyrion frowned as he felt his heart race. Every gaze turned to Bronn.

“Where, where is it going, what are these projects? Certainly not the repair of the Red Keep, hardly anything is being done, not even…”

“You’re the Hand, shouldn’t you know?” Bronn watched him warily.

“Yes I’m Hand, but Bran is not the kind of king that… it appears he’s going to be a very hands-on…” Tyrion waved his hand aimlessly as the others sat quietly with their own thoughts. “Anyone have any ideas of what projects the King is spending this money on?”

Raised voices echoed from the throne room overhead.

“Ballistas, Lord Hand, and scorpions, and wildfire. It seems he’s recruiting every able-bodied man, merchant and laborer to rebuild the defenses of King’s Landing.” Tyrion breathed deeply. Yes, out of anyone here, Bronn would know what was truly happening in King’s Landing. He leaned forward.

“The King is doing this? Who is he speaking to?”

Bronn scoffed. “He is the King, people do what he says.”

“He’s reinforcing the outer walls as they are rebuilt.” Tyrion could hear the tinge of fear in Sam’s voice. “I wonder what he knows, what he’s seen.”

Tyrion waved the steward in to refill their cups; he could not be the only one whose mouth had gone dry.

“Surely there must be enough coin left to pay for food, for repairs…”

Bronn emptied his wine, held the cup to be refilled.

“I’ve been told by the treasurer that I need approval directly from the King to spend any gold. It makes me wonder what I’m doing here?”

“You did send word to the Iron Bank of Braavos, though? For a loan, in the name of the King?”

Bronn nodded, “And so far the King seems to be satisfied with that, he signed the letter at least.”

“Then since you know the coin is coming, can’t you simply extend provisions as a gracious gift to the people of King’s Landing until…”

“I ain’t been Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the West for long, but I do know which side of the toast to butter!”

All eyes fell on Bronn as his eyebrow raised. “Just because you ask for a loan doesn’t mean you’re going to get it, and at some point you gotta pay it back, with more tacked on. The Lord Hand taught me that hisself if you mind to remember…” Bronn tipped his cup to Tyrion. “See, I was paying attention after all.”

To Tyrion’s relief, Valen Egan cleared his throat.

“If I may, I do have some questions, about the rumors swirling around the kingdoms, around King’s Landing. And since I pledge fealty, and will be serving King Bran, I was wondering…” He paused to gather his thoughts, “I realize my Liege Lord Robin Arryn voted for Bran Stark to be King, but the Lords of the Vale sent me with questions. Perhaps now would be a…”

“Pardon me, Lord Hand.” A young messenger stood at the bottom of the stairs. Tyrion eyed him up and down, surprised by the elaborately embroidered garments he wore, finally waving him in.

The lad charged toward the table, a sealed scroll drawn from the raven crested leather pouch across his chest.

“From the King.” Tyrion took the scroll and nodded, the messenger bowed, turned and left. Tyrion noted the unbroken black wax seal of the King, a crowned raven with wings outstretched. He snapped the seal and read the brief directive, shoulders dropping as he released the scroll to roll back up as he tossed it onto the table.

“The King wants to hold a tournament, to celebrate his reign and to cheer up the people. And apparently he’s always wanted to be a knight, so he’s having armor made for himself. And he’s asked that I make him a saddle like I had designed for him when he was a boy. He wants to be able to ride again… perhaps even… joust.”

Bronn took the scroll and read through it. “He’s released up to half the remaining treasury to pay for this.” Tyrion recalled that Bronn rarely raised his voice, he found other ways, bloody ways of expressing his displeasure.

Sam extended his hand for the scroll. “Well it's a good thing we’ll be getting a loan then, and a tourney would be a bright spot for everyone!”

“As Ser Bronn has pointed out, would you give our King a loan, Grand Maester? The Iron Bank will require collateral, if they agree to a loan at all. What do we have that is of any value?” Tyrion noticed Brienne draining her cup again, her third if his count was accurate.

Sam rolled the scroll toward her, but she passed it to Ser Valen without reading it.

“Then what are we going to do?” Tyrion cringed, the shrill in Sam’s voice was already getting on his nerves.

Bronn answered, “Raise taxes. No, wait what am I saying, I can’t afford more taxes, I’m the one paying them now.”

Tyrion brushed their concerns aside. “I’ll talk to the King. I’m sure with his powers he has ideas on where or how we can get however much coin we need. Then most of these other problems will be solved.” Tyrion noticed the curiosity growing on Valen Egan’s face, admired him for his current restraint. He could only imagine what their conversation sounded like to new ears.

“If you could find out why we need such heavily fortified walls, with twice as many scorpions, that would be helpful as well… Could he have found Drogon?”

Tyrion changed the subject. “Instead of worrying about dragons, Lord Commander, let's concentrate on what we have under our power to manage. Have we found a way to deal with the remaining Dothraki or are they still on a rampage through the countryside?”

“We don’t have the resources, Lord Tyrion. Under the Targaryens, the Lannisters as well, both Houses had personal armies to carry out the crown’s orders. The Lannister army was slaughtered by the Unsullied. Though surely some escaped, perhaps made their way back to Casterly Rock. Lord Hand, perhaps you could recruit…”

Tyrion nodded and wrote himself a note. He was finding himself doing far more of the actual work than he had expected.

“Lord Commander, what of the Northern Army? They were ready to fight for their former King, surely with a Stark on the throne…?” Ser Valen’s voice fought against the sporadic clanging echoing above.

“Bran Stark is without… the Northern Army is returning North even as we speak.”

“Why is that, Lord Commander? Pardon my ignorance, but isn’t the Northern Army loyal to the Starks, to King Bran? Surely there was an effort made to recruit from those who had come to King’s Landing to form a standing force under the Raven banner?”

Tyrion smiled indulgently. “The Northern Army is returning home to begin the long and difficult task of rebuilding the North. They are loyal to House Stark and to Winterfell. I gather that if King Bran thought it necessary or desirable, he would have reached out to those loyal to him when they were just outside the gates.”

The mood around the table had turned decidedly somber as he poured himself another cup of wine. Things weren’t going to be getting easier any time soon, especially when his own Council contributed nothing more than re-stating the obvious.

“So do I understand this right? We got no food, no men, no gold, and no plans to get any, except maybe a loan?” Bronn had sunk even further into his chair; Tyrion began to wonder at what point he would begin putting his feet up on the table and cleaning his fingernails.

The heavy silence lingered.

Valen Egan brushed his hand across the table before him. “And all of you voted for this? You chose this?”

Bronn rushed to answer. “Not me, I’m just claiming my side of the deal I made with the Lannister brothers.” He began to practice tossing and catching grapes with his mouth.

Tyrion tried to smile convincingly. “Brandon Stark was, is the best choice.” He was the only choice. Sansa was in a far better place to see what was needed than he was.

Brienne shifted uncomfortably. “Lord Hand, I have been meaning to ask, at the Great Council, why did you put forth Bran Stark? There are others that have good stories, some would say better stories. Why was Jon Snow not considered? He has ruled before, he was King in the…”

Tyrion interrupted. “He killed his Queen, Lord Commander. He was to be executed, we saved him from that.”

Brienne cocked her head. “Who’s we, my Lord?”

She straightened, her new armor gleaming.

“Pardon me, my Lord, but by rules of succession, I do believe that Jon Snow should have been made King, even the Dothraki and Unsullied acknowledge that universal principle. They all could have been convinced, and I’ve wondered why no attempt was made to…?”

“He didn’t want it,” Sam interrupted. “Jon never wanted to be King.”

Brienne glared at the Grand Maester. “That’s not the point. Lord Tyrion, did you never consider…”

Tyrion dropped his gaze and remained silent as he played with his empty cup.

“Lord Hand, you seem to be avoiding…”

“The matter is settled, why bring it up now?” Tyrion most definitely did not want to go down that path, settled history or not.

Bronn scratched his beard as he watched the exchange, shaking his head. “What rules of succession? All I know is that whoever is left standing after the fighting is done claims the spoils.”

Brienne smiled slightly. “That is what I'm saying; Daenerys Targaryen took the throne from Cersei, by all rights. And Jon Snow took the throne from Daenerys. It would be his throne by right of conquest, and…”

“But we don’t do that anymore. It was agreed at the Great Council, surely you remember?” Tyrion growled.

“I wasn’t there, but how can you just decide to change how things have been done for hundreds of years? Especially if you don’t even consider putting the one person who might know what they’re doing in charge of things.”

Tyron felt his heart race. There were too many questions, and he was left alone to answer them. He felt a panic rise as Ser Valen leaned back in his chair, nodding slightly as he listened intently.

“Bran has special qualities, he has powers.” Tyrion knew he would need to find a way to make Bran’s presence more public.

Sam sat up, warming to a favorite topic. “He’s the Three-Eyed Raven! He saved the world from the Night King, defeated the Army of the Dead.”

Bronn pulled the plate of grapes and cheese even closer. “Really? How did he do that?”

“He saw them coming and…”

“What, he fought them off with his magic powers?”

“No, he, umh…”

“I thought that the younger Stark girl, Arya Stark, was the one that killed the Night King. Where was Bran then?” Valen tapped his hand on the table in front of him, only looking up when Brienne replied.

“Yes, she did, she killed the Night King just as he was about to kill Bran.”

“So Brandon Stark, the Three Eyed Raven was about to be killed, and did nothing? What kind of powers could he have if he couldn’t even save himself?”

Tyrion held his breath as Valen and Bronn shared a glance.

“It will all work out, I’m sure our King has a plan that he will share with us soon.”

Tyrion sighed, relieved, when another messenger, one of his own thankfully, arrived with a folded parchment.

“Apparently I’m Master of Whispers as well as Hand.” As before, he read the letter and tossed it amidst his council.

“Well, my little birds tell me that Dorne has closed its borders and ports to the King, apparently they are planning on declaring independence…”

Tyrion gestured to the steward for another round of wine as stunned silence engulfed the room. He had been expecting it, they had discussed the possibility, but this could only be considered an act of war.

Slowly Brienne turned to face him fully. “Lord Tyrion, what you said, about calling a Great Council so that the Lords could decide… What if the Lords were to call another council, include Jon Snow this time, Sansa Stark, even yourself, others that want to be considered, others could be nominated, admit we were hasty, do it right this time?”

“That’s very close to treason, Lord Commander.” Tyrion put every ounce of sternness he could muster into each word.

“No, I never meant to say that we should simply remove Bran from the throne, but if he is King at the will of the Lords, the Lords can change their minds, can’t they?”

It had occurred to Tyrion earlier that this was why monarchs so often claimed their authority came from the gods; gods don’t make mistakes, gods can’t be challenged, and gods don’t change their minds.

“He is king for life, and as he is a young man so, let’s say at least 50 years, surely he will have figured this out by then?”

Brienne scoffed openly. “I was there, Lord Tyrion, and I don’t remember voting Bran King for life, that’s not something we discussed… I don't think the lords knew…”

Tyrion was relieved at the timing of the interruption, smiling as Podrick entered and approached his side.

“Lord Tyrion, the King wishes to speak with you.”

Tyrion nodded. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be, I will certainly be raising these issues with the King. We will meet again later today, so if you have other matters to attend to, please be aware I will be sending for you.”

Tyrion stood, the others standing as well as he followed Podrick out of the chamber.

===

Brienne hesitated, then returned to her seat, relieved when the others returned to their seats as well.

“Well, what do we do now?” She shifted under her new golden armor. “I wish Ser Davos was still here, he’s done this kind of thing before…”

Bronn raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps Seaworth had the right idea, go home and live life. Lady Stark as well, she’ll probably have better luck in the North than her brother is having in the south. Even the younger sister left in a hurry. I wonder if they know something we don’t…”

Bronn could see the apprehension grow on Ser Valen’s face as he straightened his collar.

“I remember Tyrion saying Starks don’t do well in the south.”

Brienne spoke carefully. “I’m not sure Bran is a Stark anymore.”

Valen let his hand fall with a thud to the table, the sound echoing through the stone chamber.

“Then what is he?”

Brienne hesitated, annoyed when Sam cheerfully broke in.

“He’s the Three-Eyed Raven!”

Bronn chuffed. “See you say that as if I’m supposed to know what that means…”

She had heard the tales before, in Winterfell, preparing for the Long Night, but Sam elaborated from the tales written in several books he’d discovered at the Citadel and Winterfell itself. She felt even more perplexed by the end of his explanation, Bronn and Ser Valen seeming to share her confusion.

“If the Three-Eyed Ravens are magic as you say, how long do they live?”

Sam’s gleeful smile froze. “Um, I think Bran told me that the previous Raven, the old man in the tree had been waiting for him there for a thousand years…”

Brienne gasped.

Bronn leapt to his feet and leaned forward, hands tented outstretched on the table.

“Seems like that little bit of information would have been helpful to know when you smart people picked a new king.” He glared at each face before turning and striding out of the chamber.

Brienne and Sam quickly followed, the Grand Maester heaving the doomed book to his chest, leaving Valen Egan alone. He quietly rose to stand by the newly-repaired window looking down on King’s Landing before pulling a folded letter from his vest, opening and reading it briefly, then folding and returning it to its home. He let his hand drop to his dagger, pulling it free from its sheath only to let it settle back. A moment passed, two, until the Master of War nodded to himself and turned to cross the council chambers and up the stairs to the throne room.

Chapter Text

Hodor.

Sansa had found him working in the stables and convinced him to come assist the new king. His new title was Personal Advisor to the King.

He was as large as any Clegane, and had dull straight red hair and freckles, which Tyrion had earlier thought gave him a youthful appearance. Now, as the scruff-faced man drifted in and out of sleep slumped over in the upholstered chair in the corner next to the empty wheeled chair, he simply appeared uninterested.

His name, his true name, was Symen Haygood. But the King wanted to call him Hodor.

Whether in honor of his former friend and servant or so that he didn’t have to remember a new name he wasn’t sure.

So Hodor it was.

Tyrion drummed his fingers lightly on the table. Several hours had passed and he merely sat there as the King’s white eyes stared into nothing.

Servants and attendants had drifted away, likely to do something productive or even interesting, leaving Podrick and himself seated at the central table nearly alone with the magical boy king.

Podrick must be used to this. He sat quietly in the chair across from him, his hands folded precisely in his lap, a half-filled cup of wine to his side.

Tyrion smiled at him, relieved when he smiled back.

They had arrived hours earlier from the Small Council chamber, his two guards falling in behind them, all pausing briefly on the middle landing leading to the King’s quarters. He’d become annoyed with the heavy leather pouch strapped over his shoulder, struggling to adjust it until several blank parchments had spilled across the landing and skittered down the stone stairs. Thankfully Pod had bowed quickly and fetched them for him, deftly removing the pouch off his own shoulder only to replace the papers and drape the leather strap over his head, patting the contents as he again donned that disarming grin. He thought he’d seen the taller of the guards roll his eyes, but it was fleeting, and he let it be.

“Thank you, Pod. Or shall I say, Ser Podrick of House Payne.” Tyrion was grateful for the help. He had not anticipated having to abandon the Small Council meeting and then rush across the length of the Keep to meet with the King as if he was some commoner, but also wanted to be ready to get some work done and hopefully set the tone going forward.

It was not long ago that Podrick was a boy following close on his heels, a bit odd, naive and clumsy. Though somehow pleasing to the ladies.

Yet now; Tyrion noticed his strong shoulders, confident gait and head held high as they passed through one hall after another, up and down one set of stairs to another, painted wooden ramps positioned down the center of each stairway. Pod looked older now, more mature, his fine black cloak billowing softly with each step. He was happy for him. He was happy he’d survived it all. Then… a flash of red. Just a bit, underneath the fine black fur trim, a raven with floating crown embroidered in gold thread on the back.

He focused, waiting, until it flashed yet again.

Black. And red. He had hoped it was an oversight when he’d seen it before, but there it was again.

“I don’t think I’ve truly congratulated you, Ser Podrick. It’s really quite the accomplishment. And to find ourselves in such a situation… life has treated us both kindly, in the end, or perhaps the beginning…”

Podrick bowed his head as he flung his embroidered black velvet cape to the side, proudly exposing his new attire. Tyrion bowed his head in return, eyebrows raised as he took a step back to admire the embellished deep black armor bearing the crowned red raven, trimmed in gold. Another question for the King.

They shared a smile as Pod waved him forward.

“How are you getting along with our King? Is he treating you well? I don’t suppose I should be asking these questions, I should know the answers already, but things haven’t exactly unfolded as I had expected.”

“Everything is going well, Lord Hand. King Bran seems to be quite pleased with my service and he treats me quite well.” Podrick’s voice lowered. “He likes to hear stories of my travels, of my time with his sister Lady Sansa, and with you, and with Ser Brienne…”

“About me?”

“Yes, especially about the Battle of the Blackwater, he does seem to enjoy tales of war…”

Tyrion had frowned, briefly, cautious in front of his new guards; Bran would be able to see these tales as they happened, why was he asking for their retelling?

“It sounds like you have wonderful conversations, that’s good to hear, he’s always seemed quite - unresponsive - it’s good to know that…”

“No, its more than that, I think. He just likes to hear others talk, my lord. He rarely joins the conversation. I’ve asked him what it was like becoming the Three-Eyed Raven, how did he learn about what had become of his family. I even asked him his favorite place and time to travel, but he doesn’t respond. I don’t ask him many questions now, but sometimes he does ask me a question, and then prompts me to continue every time I get distracted.”

Pod had halted in the hallway and leaned over, bending toward Tyrion's ear as he softly clasped his hands together.

“I - I don’t think he’s very happy, my lord. I think he’s really quite lonely, and just likes hearing other people’s voices rather than the voices in his head.”

“Voices in his head? What do you mean?”

Pod stood straight. “That’s what he calls them. Then he explained that it’s not like he’s hearing voices, its just - how did he put it - they call out to him, voices from other times, sometimes - he says he hears his father call his name, his mother, his brother Rickon - sometimes - I’m sure its nothing, my lord, its…”

His heart had skipped a beat, then he’d remembered Bran was not like a normal young man, he was special, he had gifts. They’d both let the subject drop as they’d arrived at the King’s quarters, immediately being waved through the heavy wooden doors.

The room was familiar, somewhat, it had been used as a private family dining room, before… he had had many an eventful conversation in this room. But now it was lined with heavily armored guards within the room and onto the balcony, all wearing black and red armor. Movement caught his eye, and he glimpsed raven banners on gilded poles flapping in the breeze over the court yard of King’s Landing. He had imagined it was quite the sight from below.

To the left as they had entered were two narrow tables, one piled high with covered dishes and bowls of fruit, chilled flasks of - something, and place settings of gold plates and goblets ready to be filled.

The other table, well he could only make out a few items from that distance, but he easily recognized a detailed map of Westeros laid out and covered with House markers. A War Map? And an even more detailed map of King’s Landing, covered in X’s and arrows and scribbled instructions.

The room itself was garishly decorated, gold and black and red drapes, with the crowned raven embellished on every piece of furniture deliberately facing the long heavy table filling the center space.

And there, at the far end of the table, sat Bran the Broken.

The furs he wore were dyed a deep solid black, edged with red cord and gold fringe. The gilded chair was styled as a throne, his personal Kingsguard standing on either side of the unmoving seated boy. A young scribe sat just behind and to his right, his quill at the ready even as the king sat immobile.

For hours Bran had remained still, eyes white, seated as though for a portrait but for his hands gripping the arms of the temporary throne, completely unmoving.

Tyrion shook his head. He would have to remind himself often of the new king’s youth and inexperience, a teen-aged boy with extraordinary powers who had been isolated from the real world, from how things worked for most of his young years. But action must be taken, and soon.

He’d been sitting there reviewing his notes, what he wanted to talk to the king about. Then had made himself a second plate of freshly delivered food, offering to do the same for Podrick, who’d smiled as usual and shook his head. He’d been nursing his cup of wine since they’d been seated.

The door opened behind him; a messenger of some kind carrying a woven basket crossed the room and opened the doors to a large cupboard. Tyrion felt his heart race; even from across the room he could see stacks of scrolls and sealed leather pouches filling the shelves within. He glanced at Podrick who had likewise turned to watch, both eager for distraction. Tyrion sipped his wine until the messenger closed the cabinet and left the room, then dropped the goblet next to his plate, stood from his seat and marched to the chest, pulling a footrest forward to stand on so he could easily reach the knobs to the doors.

“Enough of this.”

He nearly gasped as his eyes wandered over the stacks of unopened messages stacked within.

“Shouldn’t you wait for the King?”

Tyrion quickly glanced at Podrick.

“As the Hand of the King, it is my duty to receive and address his correspondence.”

Podrick nodded as he stood to help him carry armloads of messages to the table, making several trips as Tyrion began to review and sort by House seal and implied urgency.

Tyrion glanced at Bran as he worked, shifting from foot to foot to relieve the perpetual pain.

He startled to find both sealed ravens and hand-delivered letters bearing the Spear Pierced Sun of Dorne. His frustration grew as he found messages from many other major and minor houses alike, even the Citadel, even the Bay of Dragons.

No doubt Daario Naharis, or perhaps the Queen’s Council wanting a confirmation of her death and events following.

But as he ran his hand across the many notes, Tyrion began to realize that the King had his own priorities, his own idea of what was important. Did Sansa know?

The future of the realm lay before him... Why were these inquiries, threats going unanswered?

He’d begun to have suspicions when he’d first received her note. “King Bran.” He’d have to spend more time trying to fit the pieces together, to find an explanation for the undulating mist of conflicting worries ever before his thoughts.

But for now, he would simply convince the King to let him run his kingdom.

He’d done it before, he would do it again.

To make up for his mistakes. He could do better, would do better.

“Podrick, did you know about these? Has the King said anything about…”

“No, my lord, though I’m afraid I’m not very clear on my duties to be honest…” His voice carried the doubt and meekness that Tyrion was more familiar with.

He gathered the most crucial scrolls and took his seat, taking another sip of wine as he dragged a piece of bread through gravy, being careful not to drip on the first scroll from Dorne. He glanced up at the king’s face, the eyes still white, the expression still unwavering.

What did he see? What was he thinking. Was he in the past, the present, the future? Westeros? Essos? Somewhere West?

Tyrion sighed before chuckling to himself as he remembered Arya Stark launching an expedition to answer that very question and wondered why she couldn’t just ask her brother.

He could answer her in a moment, couldn’t he? How far could he see, to the stars at night? How far back in time?

And now that he could see into the future… that was what he was doing now, wasn’t it? But that raised other questions.

Questions for another time.

Yet what was it like, that kind of power?

He was glad he was a mere mortal.

Tyrion set aside his plate of food and wine, thanking Podrick when he gathered them and set them on the far table.

Let us begin.

He shrugged his shoulders, leaving the past behind, readied himself for the task before him. A certain satisfaction rose in his chest, this was what he was made for.

He unfurled the first scroll. Then the second, and the third, a sealed letter from the new Dornish prince, placing them in their apparent proper order.

Disbelief, alarm.

Tyrion glanced up, catching Podrick staring at him as he read. How much to say? “You’ve sworn fealty to the King, have you not?”

“Of course, my lord.”

Tyrion leaned back in his chair.

“We have a problem. I mean the realm, the King’s court.”

Podrick frowned, “A problem, my lord?”

“I’ve just received word that Dorne has closed their borders to the King, and plan on declaring independence from his reign.”

Podrick had a quizzical expression on his face.

“War, Podrick. We are about to be at war with Dorne, all because these…” he waved his hand at the papers spread before him. “These were never answered. Do you know anything about this? Who has been reading these ravens, you can tell me, Pod.”

“I wouldn’t know, my lord. I wasn’t here much, not when Lady Sansa, Princess Sansa would … she spent a lot of time with the King, my lord. I don’t know what they spoke of.”

Tyrion nodded, pursing his lips before lowering his voice.

“What we have before us is … well, apparently there was a meeting, after the Great Council I assume, though perhaps… there was a meeting between the Prince of Dorne, King Bran and perhaps Princess Sansa, in which promises were made.”

“Promises, my lord? Is there something unusual, I thought, isn’t that…”

Tyrion smiled sadly. “Yes, that is often how the game is played I’m afraid, only I have not been included in…” He sighed and Pod hurried to fetch a fresh cup of wine.

“Apparently King Bran had promised to take a young Dornish bride, in payment for all that the previous monarchs have done to Dorne, specifically Dornish women. Although it would seem that all of their retribution would have already fallen on my niece Myrcella.”

The memory of her murder, and the grief for his sister and brother rolled like a storm cloud across his good intentions. He pushed it aside for the moment, there would be plenty of time to question his choices, again.

“So here again we face the threat of war. The Prince promises that if the marriage is not speedily announced, he will expose the promise, expose the treacherous liar that has been chosen king.”

Tyrion was both angry and frustrated, only distracted when he noticed Podrick sitting straighter in his seat, eyes fixed on the King.

Tyrion startled, unnerved by the dark eyes blankly watching him. He gathered his emotions, reminding himself that he couldn’t berate the King of the Six Kingdoms, especially to his face.

“Your Grace, I’m grateful that you’ve made time for us to discuss these urgent matters.”

Podrick stood quickly to prepare a meal and wine for the king, bowing as he placed them before him, even spreading a linen in his lap before nodding again as he re-took his seat.

Tyrion watched as other movement began in the room; Symen, Hodor shifted in his seat and sat straight, watching for the King’s signal to provide assistance. Likewise the young scribe pulled his writing desk closer, waiting for a word from his liege. Finally four of the king’s personal guards returned into the room, making their way to stand behind the king, ready for whatever request he may make.

Anticipation grew to nervousness, melting finally as all in the room waited for the King to finish his meal and silently nod for the service to be removed.

“Yes. Tyrion, I do have some things I’d like to speak with you about. But you seem quite disturbed. We can reschedule if there are things that need your attention straightaway.” Bran clasped his hands in front of him, resting in his lap.

“No, your Grace. I am here to discuss many matters with you, your input is required before I can move forward on the realm’s business.”

Bran tilted his head slightly. “I was not aware that there is any business that has not already been taken care of. Sansa assured me that the realm was in fine shape. What new problems have arisen since her departure a mere few hours ago?”

Ah, it was becoming clear now. Sansa had been in quite the rush to leave, had seemingly kept the Hand and the King apart, and now… he would have to think on this, later.

Tyrion stood and approached Bran, speaking as privately as he could.

“I’m concerned, Your Grace, that there has perhaps been a misunderstanding, a miscommunication, regarding some important matters, matters concerning the security and governing of your realm.”

Bran stiffened and leaned back in his throne. “Go on.”

Tyrion waved toward the stacks of messages on the table. “These have been collecting for some time, now. I’ll admit I was remiss in not insisting I be involved in your meetings with your sister, I see now that it was a mistake. But as your Hand…”

Bran huffed, an odd sound coming from the usually stoic young man. “Another mistake, Lord Hand?”

Tyrion’s face fell. He felt he was flailing, trying to connect with the king, this king that he himself had put on the throne.

“Yes, Your Grace. I’ve known your sister for quite some time. I understand she’s done a stellar job in the administration of your ancestral home, running Winterfell, running the kingdom for Jon while he was away. I’ll admit I had just assumed she would be taking care of these matters.”

Bran’s demeanor softened before returning to his usual unreadable features.

“Never mind my sister, you are my Hand. What do you need from me?”

Tyrion struggled to keep the relief from his face, focusing on the priorities at hand.

“Your Grace. It seems we are, for all practical purposes, soon to be at war with Dorne due to some promises you have made to the Prince of Dorne Mors Martell.” He waited for a reaction, but continued when there was no response.

“Your Grace, if you could please tell me, regarding any promises or commitments you and your sister have made so that I can respond to these messages? We cannot afford a war with any of your…”

Bran interrupted, seeming to grow impatient with the question.

“Prince Mors wanted to marry Princess Sansa. We had discussed who would be named my heir, and since there was doubt as to my being able to produce one, he had suggested taking her to wife. I explained that she would be returning to Winterfell, to rule the North. So instead we agreed that I would take one of his cousins as a bride. Though we never discussed the nature or timing of this – union. It doesn’t matter, anyway…”

Tyrion smiled, relieved. There would never be a need for an heir; the next king, or queen would be selected by another Great Council. He’d done something right at least.

“Your Grace, I’m afraid it does matter. It will take time for the people to understand things are done differently now. And even if it is not an heir to the throne that is being discussed, you must admit that those spending time with you will have great influence over decisions regarding the realm. Any bride you choose will elevate her entire House and heal festering wounds.”

Bran seemed to smile slightly before shaking his head.

“An alliance with Dorne will not be necessary.”

Tyrion watched as Bran’s eyes gazed forward, looking into nothing. Not white, not at this time, just… vacant. He felt a shiver down his spine. He took a deep breath; he’d get used to this, he’d make sure of it.

The doors opened at the end of the long room and several servants entered, some retrieved and replaced the covered dishes of food and cleared the plates, others began lighting the candles throughout the room, quite a lengthy process.

How long had they been there, waiting for Bran’s return?

The sun had started to set, and Tyrion saw the raven banners glowing red and black on the balcony, the gold fringe reflecting the ethereal glow above the city.

“I will reach out to Dorne, open a dialogue, explain to Prince Mors the nature of the new way of doing things. I’m sure…”

“Yes, Tyrion, they have a choice to make. They can live in my new world or die in the old.”

He heard a buzzing in his head. No, that’s not what he meant, surely. No, it...

“Take care of the rest, Lord Hand.”

“Yes, Your Grace, I will arrange for any messages be brought to me at once, and for all of these to be taken to my quarters at once, perhaps Pod…”

Bran shifted in his seat but agreed. “Podrick, see that it’s done.”

Podrick nearly leapt to his feet, perhaps eager for something to do, and Tyrion had to stifle his smile at the young man’s eagerness as he motioned to two guards to assist him in his task. Before leaving Podrick whispered into his King’s ear, followed by gestures to the new Hodor and the young scribe to leave the room. Tyrion smiled at Podrick gratefully. He was the best squire any man had ever had.

Soon the table was cleared but for Tyrion’s own papers, and he had regained his seat and his advisory demeanor, attempting to put Bran at ease now that they could more or less speak in private. He needed to develop a personal relationship with his king now that Sansa had left. He would have to gain his trust and confidence, and discover what goals and designs he had for his kingdom.

“Your Grace, now that we may speak more openly, as your Hand, do you mind if I ask how you fare? Are you settling in well? Is the food to your liking? Your quarters?” Tyrion waved his hand across the expansive room with doors leading to yet other rooms and a tower-top garden undamaged by dragonfire.

“I am well, Lord Hand.” Bran clasped his hands in his lap and gazed at Tyrion.

“Good, that’s good to hear Your Grace. Then may I ask, if you don’t mind. Many want to know, not just myself, rumors have been…”

“What is your question, Tyrion?”

“Your Grace, when you - go - wherever it is that you go…” Tyrion couldn’t help but lean in closer. “What do you see?”

Bran leaned away, shifting his gaze to the darkening sky, and Tyrion felt he had overstepped his position.

“That is, Your Grace, is there anything I should know, anything to be concerned about?” Tyrion again wondered why Sansa had left so suddenly, why she couldn’t stay even another week, apparently making promises and plans without him but leaving him to deal with those decisions. He wondered…

“Your Grace, did Princess Sansa know about your meeting with Dorne, about this promise? About all of these ravens?” He managed to keep the irritation from his voice, but just barely, instead tugging at the hem of his embroidered tunic as he awaited the king’s reply.

“Does it matter? There’s nothing for it, the ink is dry.”

Tyrion felt deflated as he rubbed his forehead to try to ward off the impending headache.

“No, I suppose not Your Grace. As you say there’s nothing that can be done about it now.” Tyrion tried to chuckle, to lighten the mood. Bran remained unmoved.

Sansa. He would give her the benefit of the doubt for now. To be sure, he was putting all of his trust in her that Bran would be a good king; good for the realm, good for the people, good for their future.

“And what do you see now? Anything I need to know?”

Bran seemed to take a deep breath. “No, nothing at all. Everything is as it should be.”

Tyrion tapped his fingertips lightly on the table, unsure as to how to press the matter.

“Its only that some of the people have noticed that the walls are being reinforced as they are being rebuilt, and more ballistas, and scorpions are being set upon the walls, and that you are gathering all of the resources…” Tyrion’s voice had risen, trying to get a response from the silent monarch, until suddenly,

“Yes, that reminds me, please –” Bran waved toward the parchments laid out on the other table, nodding as Tyrion hastily fetched them and spread them out before the king.

Bran studied it but a moment, then dragged a long finger across one side of the map of King’s Landing, just under a series of scribbles and arrows.

“We will need to move the outer wall on the east farther back. The capital is particularly vulnerable on that side, the terrain rises quite a few feet compared to the wall.” Tyrion stood to lean over the table, following the king’s directions. Yes, that made sense. Had it always been that way?

“Or we could just raise the wall higher? That would be less expensive, and faster.”

Bran hesitated, then almost whispered. “By moving the wall outward we make room within.”

Tyrion’s eye roved across the map, trying to read the garbled scribbles, the seemingly random markings.

“So its not because you see some danger on the horizon?”

Bran leaned back, hands lightly gripping the arms of his throne.

“I see nothing but peace and prosperity for many generations to come, Lord Hand.” He glanced again out into the dark over King’s Landing. “Many generations to come…”

Tyrion found himself staring and shook himself, choosing to once again review the map in front of him.

“And these other walls, surely they weren’t all this badly damaged by dragon fire?”

Bran continued to gaze, one minute, two, then sighed.

“The foundations were ruined by the battle and the wildfire from the Sept explosion. Several of them can be rebuilt, but would need to be reinforced several times in the coming years. It’s best to reinforce them as they are rebuilt now. Several of the gates must be replaced as well, its understandable that people would misinterpret what they see.” Bran’s voice trailed off a moment, then boomed, startling Tyrion.

“Do you want to see the new hinges and locking mechanism I’m going to use on the new gates? It will be used throughout the Eastern Empire in a coming age, but now I will have it here first!”

Bran began looking through the parchments before him, scowling. “It was here this morning, I drew it all out, do you see it? It was here…”

Tyrion marveled, he couldn’t recall Bran being this – alive.

Bran’s shoulders relaxed. “Oh, I remember now. I drew it out and gave it to that tall fellow who said he would pass it on to someone who would make it for me.” His face fell into serene confidence, a slight smile giving him a youthful appearance.

Tyrion again leaned over the table. Yes, he could see the thinking behind these changes, improvements. Costly, but in the end they would benefit the city and the realm.

“I see what you’re doing here, Your Grace. There will be more room for the markets, and we could start to solve the sewage problem in Flea Bottom at the same time as the walls are being reconstructed.”

Bran’s gaze slowly shifted toward Tyrion. “Sewage?”

“Yes, Your Grace, sewage from the Red Keep flows down the streets toward Flea Bottom then into the sea.”

Bran’s gaze returned out the balcony.

“Have you started this project, Your Grace? Talked to someone? I can follow up with them, no need to start again if you’ve already…”

Bran didn’t respond.

“If you approve, I will take this map for reference, to carry out your plans.”

Tyrion had turned the parchment to begin rolling it when he noticed an odd series of arrows and markers, sigils along the edges.

“What did you want done here, Your Grace?”

Bran’s voice was barely audible, nearly drowned out by the flapping of the raven banners in the wind.

“It doesn’t matter any more. Take care of the rest.”

“Very good, Your Grace.”

Tyrion sat back in his chair, placing the rolled parchment next to his own papers.

“Your Grace, there are several other important matters…”

“Lord Hand, I thought we just agreed that you would take care of all correspondence.”

“Yes, Your Grace, but there are issues other than the ravens.”

Tyrion marveled at the grimace that passed across the boy’s face. For a moment he seemed agitated, angry, though quickly replaced with indifference and apathy.

“Very well, what are these pressing concerns that you are incapable of taking care of on your own?”

Tyrion paused and took a deep breath.

“You’ve been sending me plans for all sorts of projects, and from what I understand you’ve taken a lot of gold from the treasury without going through your Master of Coin. I’m afraid there is… well… we can’t have the same coin being spent by two people, Your Grace.”

Bran settled back in his throne. “I am the King, the King can do as he likes.”

Tyrion felt the hairs on the back of his neck tingle as Joffrey’s words were repeated back to him.

“Sansa told me how things work, that the King decides what he wants to do, then the Hand and the Small Council make it so. Are you saying she lied to me?”

Sansa. Again.

“No, of course not, Your Grace. She didn’t lie to you, but there are… limits… to what anyone can accomplish in any given amount of time, with only a given amount of resources. Even with all the time and gold, there are limits…”

Tyrion could see Bran’s jaw tighten and raised his hand soothingly.

“But yes, of course, you are King, and you decide what you want to have done. But the purpose of your Hand, your advisors, your Small Council, is to help the King make the best choice, to prioritize, to decide on what projects, which actions to take that will bring the King closer to his goals.”

Tyrion paused, looking for a sign that he was getting through to the young King. When he found none, he leaned toward the King once again.

“Your Grace, the purpose of your Small Council, of the Master of Coin, and your advisors in general is to provide stability and security to the realm, for instance, so that the gold is spent on your priority items and not wasted on minor incidentals. To bring urgent matters to the attention of the King, as well as explore every different aspect of any possible decision before making a recommendation to the King.” Tyrion had thought Bran would have come across great kings in his travels, and would be more familiar with how his kingdom could best be managed. But Bran was silent, and though Tyrion could see that his eyes hadn’t gone white, it didn’t appear that he was even listening. He gave up, instead standing to sort through his bundle of parchments, finally finding and reviewing his notes.

“Your Grace, we need to buy food for the people, for the workmen, for the City Watch and the servants here in the Red Keep. We need to develop a plan to protect the city and Westeros, there are rumors of pirates and …”

“Take care of it, Tyrion, and see that you don’t make any more mistakes.”

Tyrion rocked back on his heels at both the inference and the mocking tone in the King’s quiet voice.

“But Your Grace, surely you have a plan, with, using your powers…” He swept his hand over the parchments filled with drawings and notes.

“How can we pay for all of the things you want to do, surely you know a way to get the coin?”

“I signed that letter, for a loan from that bank. I was told that was what I needed to do to get more gold. Why are you bringing this up again?”

Tyrion felt the blood drain from his face. Surely he had learned, seen… He suddenly felt like he was cajoling a child to finish his dinner.

“Well, we would only be getting a loan, Your Grace, which, of course, we would have to pay back.” He’d had the same conversation with Bronn, oh those many years ago. He cringed to himself. Bronn was now Lord of the Reach, in control of the food for the realm. And Bran was King. Both by his own hand.

“How did the Baratheons pay for things? Where did they get their gold?”

Tyrion smiled lightly, trying to release the tension, “King Robert borrowed money from my father.”

He could see the direction the conversation was going. He’d have to accept that every meeting would be little more than an opportunity to teach his king, at least for now.

“Tywin Lannister lent money to the Crown, as did the Tyrells later, in order to control the Crown, Your Grace. When you owe someone, they have a level of influence in the decisions made by…”

“But that’s how the Lannisters paid for things? They used your family’s money?”

“Only for a time, Your Grace. At the end, my sister, when she was Queen, was borrowing from the Iron Bank as well.”

“Ah yes, the Usurper Queen. Your brother killed Olenna Tyrell, and stole all of the gold from the Reach. Yes, the Queen, or King, can do as they like.”

Tyrion wasn’t sure he liked the conclusions Bran was drawing from the past. Wouldn’t things be different in the future? They broke the Wheel at the Great Council, didn’t they?

“Yes, Your Grace. The Tyrells had pledged to the Dragon Queen. It was war, after all.”

Bran had returned to his stone-faced gaze into the night.

“Yes, it was war. Queen Cersei had murdered most of House Tyrell, much of the lords and ladies of King’s Landing as well. There is little loyalty in times of war, I’ve noticed.”

Tyrion squinted at that. There was a numbness growing in his chest.

“Yes, I would say that is true. The greater the reward, the greater the risk. Waging war is a craft, you have to…”

“Yes, I’ve seen what happens Tyrion. I do wonder, though, if you had counseled the Dragon Queen with the knowledge you extend to me now, toward your family, toward her allies, would there be a Targaryen on this throne instead of me?”

Tyrion’s heart sank, but this was his life now, a string of regrets. “It is a possibility, Your Grace.”

Bran shifted his shoulders. “Don’t worry, Tyrion. The ink is dry. We can’t undo the past, only prepare for the future, guide it when we can.”

Tyrion stifled a gasp. “Is that what you are doing, Your Grace? Can you change the future?”

“The future is wind, Lord Hand. It blows where it will and cannot be controlled, only turned.”

“So you are turn…”

“And the Targaryens, how did they pay for the things they wanted to do?”

“Your Grace, they raised taxes, and they had dragons to collect them, at least at first.”

“Then, after the dragons died off, did they just raise taxes? And people paid them without the threat of being burned to death?”

“Yes, I believe so. For the most part the kingdoms were willing to pay, for the peace and stability of the Targaryen rule, though of course they had their turmoil, from generation to generation, especially under the Mad King.”

“Then you will raise taxes, so we can sell them to pay back the loan.”

“Sell the… Your Grace. That’s not how taxes work. Did Sansa not explain?”

Sansa was gone. Perhaps he could use her absence to his advantage and shift some of the burden onto her absent shoulders.

“Taxes are usually paid in gold dragons, in coin, Your Grace, though in some cases the Crown accepts an equal payment of livestock, grain, or other items that are needed. It’s negotiated by the Master of Coin, who oversees the collection of the taxes, and each individual House of the Realm.”

“Good, that will keep everyone busy, raising and negotiating and selling taxes.”

Tyrion took a deep breath, resisting the temptation to pour himself a fresh cup of wine. “I would advise against that, Your Grace, at least not right now. The realm is in shambles, ripe for rebellion. We should approach those Houses that were the least harmed by the War of the Five Kings and since… and make alliances with them.”

Tyrion hesitated, but then considered there may never be a better time to broach the subject.

“And, Your Grace, it is well known that the best way to make alliances is through marriage.”

“And who do you want to marry, Lord Hand?”

Tyrion chuckled, “No, not me, Your Grace, but you are a young unmarried king who will need a queen.”

Bran seemed to twitch.

“No, that will not be necessary, I will not need to marry.”

“Of course, Your Grace. We will find another way to make alliances with these Houses, ever since…”

“Which of the Great Houses has the most gold?”

“It’s hard to say, Your Grace, I suppose House Arryn has been the least affected by the recent wars, they were…”

Bran folded his hands into his lap.

“Send my cousin Robin a raven. Tell him to send gold, half of everything he has. Will that be enough?”

Tyrion balked. “Again, it’s hard to say, Your Grace. But it would be better to put it in terms that would be more easily accepted by the people of the Vale, say, ‘In exchange for a place on the small council and the influence this provides, the king seeks a one-time toll of 3 million gold dragons.’ ”

“Would that be enough?”

“It would be a good start, Your Grace, it should get us through until the other major Houses more fully recover and can contribute taxes to the safety of the realm.”

Bran heaved a sigh as he nodded. “Very well, Lord Hand, make it so, and I will send my requests through the Master of Coin in the future. Who is the Master of Laws?”

Tyrion was surprised by the question. “We don’t have one yet. Grand Maester Tarly has asked the Citadel for a recommendation but we’ve…”

“Until then I will submit my own laws for you to implement as I direct.”

“You want to write your own laws?”

“Of course, I am the King, and I can see what works and what doesn’t.”

Tyrion nodded. He had the… gift. This was why Sansa had suggested him to be king.

“Very well, Your Grace, and as I expect we will be meeting more often, we can review these new laws at your convenience.”

“Why would they need to be reviewed?” Tyrion watched as the king’s unlined face suddenly tinged red, his cheeks seeming to puff in and out. “Apparently neither you nor my sister think me capable of making even the smallest decision on my own.”

Tyrion assured him of its mere formality. “The review is so that there is not a duplication or a conflict with existing laws. You are not starting with a blank page.” Tyrion regretted it as soon as he said it, suddenly afraid of what Bran might choose to do, yet doubting he would go as far as wiping away all the existing laws just so he could start fresh.

But Bran only nodded. “Carry on with the rest.”

Tyrion let out the breath he’d been holding.

“Your Grace, do you have any additional direction, or insight or new way of raising money or paying for the rebuilding and safety of the realm? How do they do it in the future?”

Bran paused as he for once looked Tyrion in the eye.

“Do you think things are any less chaotic in the future, Lord Hand? Any less arbitrary, unpredictable, violent in coming generations?”

Tyrion held his gaze even as he wondered at his words. Yes, he admitted to himself. He had thought that things would get better. At least in Westeros, with a being such as Bran to set things right, build a better foundation.

To Break the Wheel.

Bran blinked, breaking his gaze.

“But for now, Lord Tyrion, perhaps I did not make myself clear before. I am taking care of the greatest threat in the realm, in all realms, locating Drogon. The rest is your responsibility.”

Tyrion wasn’t quite sure what to make of this.

“To be clear then, Your Grace, you are giving me the authority over the treasury and the administration of the Red Keep.”

Bran’s voice held impatience. “Of course, do what is necessary.”

Tyrion nodded, filled with mixed feelings. This is what he had wanted. He would be able to fulfill his own visions for the kingdom, incorporating all he’d learned from the Dragon Queen, even from the King in the North. He was confident all would be well, he wouldn’t repeat his mistakes.

And yet… King Bran the Broken. He was supposed to be the answer to all the world’s ills. An objective savior, powerful and all-seeing. Who better to be King?

All back on his shoulders.

Very well then.

“What will you do when you find Drogon, Your Grace?”

Bran’s voice filled with melancholy. “It depends. We shall see what the future holds.” Bran turned from Tyrion to gaze back out over the balcony, a light rain falling, wind gusts sprinkling droplets onto the colorful carpet and the stone floor.

“Take care of it then, Tyrion, and make ready for the tournament. I’d like it to be held as soon as possible. Hodor has been selecting horses for my purposes, and a saddler. This is a priority for your King, so make it so.”

“Yes of course, but we will have to cut back on the cost, we just don’t have the gold.”

“Yes, yes, do what needs to be done.” Tyrion made a note that the king had approved the reduction in cost.

“Your Grace, do you really intend to joust? Have you ever jousted before, when you were…?” He had not intended to ask such an awkward question, unnerved as he waited for a response.

“My King, perhaps… something simpler… that the small folk could partake in?”

A moment passed, another, until Bran suddenly gripped the arms of his chair. Tyrion sought to see if the eyes were white or brown.

“I need to be seen as strong, among the people. But if you have other ideas, you may present them as well.”

Tyrion tilted his head, acknowledging the virtue of the goal. “Yes, Your Grace, that would be wise. It shall be done.”

Tyrion calmed himself. Everything would work out. Bran was young and inexperienced, but the king he chose was reasonable and listened to his advice.

“And what of Dorne, Your Grace?”

“Dorne is of little concern, they will…”

“Not to interrupt, Your Grace, but they have shut the ports against your ships, have closed the roads against travelers, they are trading with Essos and…”

“Don’t be concerned, Tyrion. They will soon have no interest in rebellion, and won’t be bothering with past promises, broken or otherwise.”

Tyrion frowns, “What is it, Your Grace, did you see something? What happens in Dorne?”

The side of Bran’s lips quirked up. “Nothing to be concerned about.”

“But if you, as King, don’t appear to put down their rebellion, other kingdoms will see you as weak and will also rise up against you. It is better to …”

Bran nodded. “Very well, then. Strengthen my navy, expand my fleet, the future is on the sea. Expand my armies as well, I want the finest cavalry the world has ever seen.”

Tyrion gulped for breath as he took down the king’s direction. At least this will give the new Master of War something concrete to focus on.

“You don’t have an army, Your Grace. Sansa returned home to Winterfell with the Northern forces. There are no loyal forces here in the capital that…”

“See to it, Tyrion.”

Tyrion bowed his head. “Very well, Your Grace. I’ll set up a meeting with your new Master of War, I think you will find him…”

“Why do I have to meet with him? It’s not complicated, just build my army, restore my fleet. Why do I have to even mention this?”

Bran reached for the golden goblet before him, rolling it in his fingers, admiring it before taking several sips.

“I suppose I’ve expected too much from you. Sansa said you were the right choice but now I’m not so sure. She’s been wrong so many times before.”

Tyrion felt as though he’d been struck, both by the words but also the childish petulant way in which they’d been spoken. That he thought of Sansa this way; he’d thought they were in agreement in all things. He would have to consider… his face drooped. He had no one to seek counsel from, no one to talk to. He was playing the game of thrones, and if he lost…

“Your Grace, Ser Valen Egan has been seated as your Master of War. He will no doubt have his own questions, ideas, and strategies that he will need to discuss with you in order to achieve these goals.”

Bran huffed softly, again startling Tyrion.

Tyrion leaned toward the king and tried again to elicit his thoughts. “Your Grace, I am here to serve you, to make your reign a success. There are things that must be done a certain way, at least for awhile. Of course, every monarch leaves his mark on history, how things are done, the health and wealth of the kingdom, but the relationship between the Small Council, your most trusted advisors is of utmost importance.”

Bran seemed unimpressed, and uninterested. Tyrion reached out and placed his hand on the table near the king.

“Please let me manage even these small details in the future. I assure you that meeting with your Small Council regularly will only strengthen your reign and accomplish what you seek.”

Bran seemed to consider; a hopeful sign.

“Perhaps if we tried this for now. You can always make changes, though those changes should be made gradually.”

Bran’s face relaxed. “Yes, I can see how that would be helpful. To make changes slowly.”

Tyrion wondered that that is what the King took away from his words.

“Yes, Your Grace. With that in mind, Your Grace, may I ask if you are engaged in any other projects, or holding audiences with anyone else? I would need to know about it all if this is to work.”

Bran shook his head, “I don’t think so. Nothing that won’t keep.”

An odd thing for an all-seeing being to say.

But then he sat straighter. “Lord Hand, what do I do, then? I am King, and I have nothing to do?”

Tyrion felt his heart lighten. He was just a boy after all, a boy who had lost his parents, his family when he was very young.

“You – and I – have audiences with the lords and small folk and foreign dignitaries, negotiate trade deals, prevent armed conflict, look after the welfare of your subjects throughout the six kingdoms. You will find yourself quite busy, I assure you, Your Grace.”

“Very well, Lord Hand. Make it so. I’ll have more time to look for Drogon.”

Tyrion started to ask him why this was so important; if he was not near enough to be seen by him, why seek him out?

But Bran’s voice interrupted, hard and sharp.

“You killed your father, didn’t you? And your lover, your father’s whore?”

Tyrion’s jaw snapped shut.

“And you failed your Queen, betrayed her time and time again. But you didn’t kill Joffrey. You still deserved death, though.”

Tyrion laid down his quill. Of course Bran would know the truth of it all, but why bring it up now? He’d named him Hand knowing all of this.

“Yes, Your Grace, I am here to make up for my mistakes.”

“What does that mean, mistake?”

Bran’s voice trailed off as the wind picked up outside, blowing the damp curtains into the king’s chambers.

“You killed your sister, and your brother as well.” His slow words hung heavily in the air between them as Tyrion struggled to understand.

“No, Your Grace. Dragonfire, the Red Keep, they were found underneath the rubble.”

“You set him free, you sealed his fate. Cersei’s fate as well.”

Shock turned to barely controlled anger.

“No, not at all. Daenerys would have killed him, I gave him a boat, a chance. I knew he wouldn’t leave without Cersei, and if they both left, she –”

“Daenerys wouldn’t have killed him, Tyrion. He was valuable to her. He had killed her father, betrayed her trust, but there was a time, not long ago as time flows; she could be pragmatic when she needed to be. When he turned up first in Winterfell, then in King’s Landing, she thought to promise to spare Cersei’s life if Jaime ordered the Lannister army in King’s Landing to stand down at her arrival. The Golden Company would have followed suit. They’d already been paid, they didn’t care to fight a dragon. And it would have worked. The gates would have opened and the Iron Throne would have been theirs with barely a drop of blood spilt. But that was long ago, before the betrayal.”

Tyrion’s ears were ringing. He didn’t want to hear any more, but the voice continued.

“Why did you tell Varys? Why did you tell him Jon’s secret? You knew it would hurt her, you knew what he’d do with it. You used them all, for what purpose?”

Tyrion raised his eyes to the boy king, surprised by the barest hint of compassion on the pale face.

“That’s not true… why would I do that, I didn’t want to hurt her, she would have been a good queen.”

“It was simple, really. Jon had the stronger claim, and she loved him. She would have listened to him, eventually, and he would have accepted their blood, eventually. But you couldn’t have that. Neither one of them needed you, trusted you. You’d be nothing if they were together. After all you’d been through, you’d be discarded. Forgotten.”

Tyrion rubbed his forehead, his eyes burning as he tried to sort through the memories, the possibilities.

“What have you done, Lord Tyrion, to be here? To be my Hand, to rule the Six Kingdoms, to advise me?”

He braced himself, he knew the answer, struggled with it daily. He swallowed, his throat dry as he whispered.

“I survived.”

Bran smiled. He’d never seen that, an actual smile, a true smile.

“Yes, Lord Hand. Such a great accomplishment. Such a victory. You simply, didn’t, die. While those you betrayed perished due to your mistakes. Or your vanity.”

Tyrion closed his eyes, found himself nodding, even as his anger stirred.

“Yes. I survived. I’m alive. Surely I can’t be blamed for that.” His father had hated him for surviving, blamed him for his mother’s death. His sister too. Only Jaime…

But the king’s face had returned to that seamless mask of indifference.

“Is there anything else, Lord Hand?”

Tyrion relented and reached for his cup, wishing it was much larger and of a much better vintage to make sense of this very painful, very strange conversation with a very strange boy king.

The wind and rain had turned into a mild storm, thunder booming as lightning cracked over King’s Landing.

A moment passed, another as Tyrion struggled to regain his senses. Why stay here? He could return home, be happy, take a wife, have…

The double doors behind him quietly opened and Podrick entered, the tension pausing his approach.

“It’s getting late, Your Grace. Do you…”

Bran raised his hand, glancing at the remaining papers on the table.

“It appears we have yet some business to attend to. Ser Podrick, you are dismissed for the evening. Hodor will assist with anything else I need.”

Tyrion tried to smile as Podrick nodded toward him, closing the doors behind him with a heavy thud. More than anything Tyrion wanted to be on the other side of those doors.

Instead he changed the subject entirely, hoping to change the mood. He and the King would need to work together. Wouldn’t they?

“Your Grace, the Small Council…” He decided to be blunt, he had little to lose at his point. “Ser Davos Seaworth, your Master of Ships. Why… Had you considered… It would have been easy to bring Davos’s wife to the capital so she could be well cared for, did he never, did you…”

“He was where he was supposed to be.”

“Yes, of course, but he has a great deal of experience, and is known by the small folk and in Essos and would have been a great asset to your reign.”

Bran turned to face Tyrion, his gaze seeming to pick him apart. Tyrion brushed his tunic with his hand.

“My Kings Guard. My City Watch. My Army, Navy, Cavalry.”

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“My Small Council.”

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“Lord Hand, you wear the colors of House Lannister. All of those loyal to me should wear my colors. My sigil. Make it so.”

Tyrion hesitated, perplexed at the abrupt change of subject.

“But your Small Council members are here not only to serve you, but to represent the interests of their Houses as well.”

“Their Houses? The only House that matters is mine.”

“Your House? I wasn’t aware you were … What are you calling your House, Your Grace. It would be confusing if…”

“It remains House Stark, for now, for the comfort of the people. Over time it will be the House of the Raven.”

Tyrion nodded, realizing he would not get an answer to his previous question.

Bran sighed and shifted forward. “But I will consult with you before I make any more of these kinds of changes on my own. Is that satisfactory?”

Tyrion was relieved as the earlier discussion was forgotten. He would be a good king, he wasn’t stubborn, just young and untested. Things would all work out. He stood to lean over the table, pulling a pair of parchments to lay between them.

Bran pulled them apart, turning them so they faced Tyrion. “What do you think of them? These are my favorite so far.”

The first parchment, larger by far, held a detailed sketch of the Audience Chamber of the Red Keep. The new Audience Chamber. Barely recognizable. But for the sea of swords molded, melted into the columns supporting the tiered vault of the expanded roof. And there, in the center, where the Iron Throne had been melted to a black pool, was some kind of a wooden contraption, within it a throne the size of a small carriage. The written promise was that it would fully accommodate the wheeled chair of the king. The ramp and ridges and pulleys and gears were marked and described in great detail throughout the parchment. The throne itself… A close replica of the Targaryen throne.

The Iron Throne. Re-forged.

At least the King’s interpretation of it. Tyrion recalled that Bran had likely never seen it in person, only in his hindsight.

Tyrion re-read the scrawled descriptions, giving himself time to order his thoughts. Now was not the time to…

Bran suddenly pushed the other parchment into his line of sight.

“I’ve narrowed it down to these three. I will decide which one I like best once they’re completed, or perhaps I’ll use them all for different purposes. I’ve designed one to wear under a helmet when I joust…”

Tyrion couldn’t help but gasp.

Crowns.

Very elaborate crowns. All finely detailed and opulently bejeweled. The largest quite tall, huge really, tiers of gold and black and red, with a raven at the top, wings outstretched.

Ridiculous. Incredible. Gaudy.

“What do you think? Aren’t they perfect? I couldn’t decide…”

Bran shifted the parchment and excitedly described each detail even as he fingered the simple circlet on the table at his side.

“This one,” he pointed to the large central crown, “it’s because of this chair. Because I can’t stand, or walk, but I want people to see me, know where I am, that I am the King. And this one, this is based on the Targaryen crowns. It will inspire confidence and loyalty. I suppose I will get tired of it, but I can always change it. Mine will be more elegant than the Targaryen’s, of course. For all their physical beauty, the Dragons never had much of a sense of style.”

His excitement was startling, and Tyrion struggled to join him.

“Yes, Your Grace, they’re all quite beautiful. You say you designed them yourself?”

Bran smiled again, barely able to contain his excitement.

“Yes, I’ve been thinking about them since I crossed the Wall, since I started to see. It took awhile to find the right people… I wanted to have more of the red stones, but Master Karwell, he’s making these for me, he said there are difficulties finding rubies big enough to be shaped into these forms, so I added sapphires in as well. We’ve been working together… He just left these for me this morning. You do like them, don’t you?”

Tyrion nodded hesitantly.

“Yes, you’ve clearly spent a great deal of time on this, which every King would. Though I have noticed, Your Grace, how much you are including elements from House Targaryen, and though I realize there is a significant similarity to – the same as the colors you’ve chosen for your sigil, black and red,” Tyrion paused, “I’m afraid the people may not appreciate, or differentiate between your choices and the banners under which the city was just burnt to the ground.”

Bran’s face fell.

“But its a raven, not a dragon!”

‘Yes, Your Grace, but there is still the reminder there, the loss still felt, wounds are still fresh, and since most have not had the chance to get to know you…”

Tyrion waited as his words hit their mark. The young king nodded.

“And the throne, and these crowns…” Tyrion tapped the parchments on the table. “These will be very costly, and many of your people don’t have a roof over their head, or clothes, some not even food to eat.”

Bran grimaced. “Why not? You were supposed to take care of that!”

Tyrion wondered then if he should have pushed harder to be included in discussions sooner, to keep the king informed, to steer him in the right direction.

“Your Grace, we are in the process of accomplishing these goals, but it takes money. And Ser Bronn, your Master of Coin, has been informed that he is not able to approve any spending without your permission.”

“That seems reasonable, Lord Hand.”

“Your Grace, we have sent numerous requests for an audience, or for your approval of expenditures, but have not received any reply.”

They both turned to look at the now-empty cabinet.

“Very well. Take care of the rest for now.”

“Very good, Your Grace. Thank you. And am I authorized to – reschedule – the other projects you have started?” Tyrion waved toward the parchments, to which Bran waved him away, nodding.

“Yes, yes, I understand. Do what needs to be done. But understand I want to be able to ride again, and I want a throne and a crown and everyone to know…” He faltered as he took a long deep breath, and Tyrion wondered what he was actually thinking.

Tyrion nodded as he felt the weight beginning to lift off his shoulders, anticipation returning. All would be well. He should be happy enough that he would be in charge again, building, planning… wielding the authority and strategies that would ensure his name be remembered for doing good. He would meet with the workers in the Audience Chamber straight away.

“The gold, Your Grace… perhaps we should send another messenger to the Iron Bank, the ravens may not be making it across the sea, and the last messenger may…”

“Ravens are remarkable birds, Lord Hand. Never underestimate them.” Tyrion snapped his jaw shut at the scolding underlying the words.

“Yes, of course, Your Grace. I only meant we need to hear from the Iron Bank before making any more plans.”

Bran remained motionless. “I have heard from the Iron Bank. You may carry on.”

Surprise and confusion welled up within as Tyrion again reached for his wine. It seemed that every conversation would be a struggle.

“That is wonderful news, Your Grace. Will they be extending a loan? May I see their reply?”

A small smirk wafted across the king’s face. “I don’t know where it is, perhaps Podrick took it to your rooms. Or the scribe has it, I’ve been giving him things to do to keep him busy, he was copying down everything I said… no sense at all.” His voice drifted into a mumble.

“Of course, Your Grace. I will …” Tyrion jumped in his seat as Bran nearly shrieked.

“No, wait! I know where it is… I was reading it out on the balcony, there were others…” Tyrion nodded and hurried to the puddled stone balcony, the wind and rain beating him in his face.

Nothing. Nothing but the sopped black banners struggling against the storm.

His shoulders dropped.

He turned to retrace his steps to his seat when he noticed a smaller table in the corner, just within the king’s quarters. There were several parchments and raven scrolls, one of them torn and another smeared and covered in a wine stain. Apparently Bran was not a neat person; had he always had someone to take care of these kinds of things for him?

Tyrion shifted the numerous documents on the table, finding notes in Sansa’s hand, in Bran’s hand as well. And a crumpled letter from the Iron Bank of Braavos. Tyrion sighed as he read that they were sending a representative to King's Landing to meet with the new King to arrive as soon as things were deemed safe. His relief turned to a heavy stone; they were quite clear. The old loan would have to be paid back first, before they would even consider supporting the new king’s reign.

He heaved a sigh as he re-folded the letter and returned to the King’s table with an armful of papers.

Casterly Rock…

“Your Grace, it appears…”

“Yes, yes, they want money before they’ll support me as king.”

Tyrion gazed at the king, watching, waiting for more. Did he misunderstand or was this just his way of addressing the issue at hand?

Bran folded his hands in his lap.

“House Arryn will give us gold to rebuild. Tell the other Houses to sell what they have to pay back the Iron Bank.” Bran continued to gaze into the distance. “That will take care of everything, will it not?”

Tyrion was alarmed. “No, Your Grace. The Iron Bank demands the entire loan be repaid, it is a great sum, my sister… we owe them a great deal of coin. If we ask the lords of Westeros to pay for this, surely there will be rebellion, everything we’ve worked…”

“Very well, then. See that this is taken care of, Lord Hand.”

Tyrion drew a breath to continue.

“What do you know about Drogon, Tyrion, about dragons?”

He felt blind-sided by the quick change of subject, shrinking under the king’s stare.

“Dragons?”

“Yes, you spent time around them. Before you betrayed your queen and your friend.” Irritation filled his words as the stare turned to a glower.

Tyrion stuttered before asking, “What is it you would like to know about them, Your Grace. You saw them in Winterfell, I gather you can see them in…”

“How were they controlled, Tyrion, how did she control them all. Could she ride all three of them? Why did the others obey her? Why did she not protect them? They were quite valuable, should have been protected…” His face was enraptured as he leaned forward.

Suddenly Tyrion felt a wave of intense pressure coming from his king; thick and living, looming, overwhelming his thoughts, weighing down his heart.

Was this the gift? The magic of the three-eyed raven?

The power?

Tyrion shook himself. “Queen Daenerys hatched the dragons from stone eggs, Your Grace. The eggs were petrified, there have been no living eggs for hundreds of years. She used some kind of blood magic if I remember the story correctly. She raised them, taught them, loved them, they were her children.”

Bran leaned back in his seat and Tyrion felt his heart return to normal.

“And, of course, she was a Targaryen, a Dragon Rider. There are rumors that Targaryens had dragon blood in their veins.”

Bran’s head snapped to Tyrion.

“Blood in their veins?”

Tyrion shrugged slightly. “There are stories… but Your Grace, have you found Drogon? Is he alive? Is he a threat?”

“The fleet of Unsullied and Dothraki, those that chose to leave, have separated, parting ways, some returning to Essos, the rest have landed on Naath. They picked up all those that wished to leave from Dragonstone, it’s nearly abandoned, for now.”

“Do you have plans for it, Your Grace? It’s a strategic location, could be a…”

Bran remained silent. Perhaps he was getting tired.

“But that is good news about the Unsullied, they are no longer a threat to Westeros.” At least that part of the plan was working well.

Bran looked at him like he was an ignorant child, and Tyrion supposed that was what special creatures do. Look down on everyone else. Sometimes he had felt that way around Daenerys.

“Tell me about the Dragon Queen.”

Tyrion took a deep breath, then raised his cup of wine to her memory.

“She wanted to break the wheel, bring peace to Westeros, to the world…”

“Breaking the wheel, what is that?”

Tyrion was again surprised; couldn’t he see, hear that from the past? Couldn’t he figure this out on his own? Maybe… perhaps this was nothing more than a test, a way of learning more about his new Hand.

“Breaking the wheel… she thought to…” Suddenly he was having a hard time explaining it. “She wanted peace for the small folk, Your Grace. And she thought the best way to bring it about was to end all the infighting among the great Houses. That if a single House, if the Targaryens were restored, if she was on the throne, with a dragon, no one would…”

Bran scowled. “Peace? The idea that ‘breaking the wheel’ would result in peace… there were wars before Aegon the Conqueror flew his dragons over Westeros, and even with that threat… there will always be someone who seeks power, and is willing to risk it all, Lord Hand. You should have counseled her such.”

Tyrion dropped his eyes. Another regret he could do nothing about. But others…

“Your Grace, if you want to learn more about the dragons, about Drogon, perhaps ask Jon to King’s Landing. There is no threat from the Unsullied now, and he would certainly be of assistance, would bolster the loyalty of the people.”

Bran did not respond.

“I spoke with your sister, about pardoning Jon, returning him to Winterfell, but she didn’t seem inclined. But you could… he would be quite helpful here.” Tyrion’s spirits rose at the thought of Jon’s presence. He wouldn’t feel quite so alone, at odds with the new king and all the lords of Westeros.

“Bring him to the capital, he would be a stabilizing force. His presence would unite the people, they know him, he’s a Stark.” Tyrion halted as anger crossed the king’s face, mixed with pain and, perhaps, regret, more emotion than he’d ever seen, perhaps a glimpse of the boy Bran used to be.

“There are assassins waiting for Jon at Castle Black.” His voice was emotionless, undercutting Tyrion’s alarm.

“Your Grace! Assassins? How long… can’t you do something?”

“You were good friends with Varys, weren’t you? Yet you betrayed him to your Queen, you knew what would happen, you could have warned him, helped him, as you did with your brother.”

“Varys betrayed his queen, he went behind her back, about Jon.”

Bran seemed satisfied. “Yes, that’s right. About Jon.”

Tyrion shook his head wistfully. “I wish I had done more, convinced him when I had the chance.”

Bran looked down to Tyrion. “Don’t worry, Varys knew this would happen. Was willing to risk it. He had his plans in place, plans even…” His voice trailed off as his gaze darkened.

Tyrion watched his eyes, waiting for them to turn white as they so often did, but they remained dark and fixed on nothing. A moment passed.

“Lord Tyrion, you used wildfire on Stannis Baratheon’s fleet, killed all those men, burned them to death. How long did it take to make enough wildfire to do that?”

Tyrion paused, wondering. “Yes, I understand you are trying to make more. I don’t know how long it takes, Your Grace. By the time I learned about it my sister had already made a great deal of it. But, may I ask why? There is no need…”

“It seemed to be effective, may be useful in other ways. And I want to have enough available if the occasion called for it. See that its done.”

Tyrion nodded even as he doubted. “Yes, Your Grace.” At least it wasn’t incredibly costly to create the lethal brew.

“And Tarly, and the maesters at the Citadel?”

“Your Grand Maester is sending a raven to the Citadel to carry out your instructions, though I suspect they will be sending someone to meet with you in person, Your Grace. Perhaps we have already received… I’m sure they have questions.”

Another smirk flitted across the boy’s face. “Very well.”

“And if I may encourage a gentle hand, my King. I will meet with them first, and you and I can come up with an approach that will satisfy…”

Bran’s voice rose as he interjected. “The Citadel, yes, but we don’t need maesters anymore. I will give them a chance to become accustomed to my New World before giving them a choice. But after, they will comply.”

Tyrion perked up at his phrasing. There it was again. Of course Bran could have heard what Daenerys wanted to do, what she had said, but again Tyrion wondered what Bran was learning from the past, what was he seeing in the future? So many questions, but he assured himself that he’d done the right thing.

“A Song of Ice and Fire. I helped Archmaester Ebrose with the title.”

Bran’s voice had become soft, almost musical.

“Jon is the Song of Ice and Fire, not some history book filled with mistakes.”

His voice trailed off, and Tyrion again sighed. He should spend more time with the king, perhaps dinner that night, every night, until... It was no wonder, though. Bran had never even received a full education or been raised to be lord of a holdfast, let alone Lord of Winterfell or King of any number of kingdoms.

Yet here they both were.

“I have to go. Carry on with your duties.”

Bran nodded once and Tyrion hid his cringe as Bran’s eyes turned white.

He tossed back the remains of his wine and gathered his papers, as was his habit halting at the doors opening before him to say goodnight to his sovereign, only to be surprised by the joyful smile on his King’s peaceful face.

If he had looked closer, he would have been even more surprised by the scroll in the King’s hand bearing the unbroken seal of the Merman of White Harbor.

=====

"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent. Arise, Brienne of Tarth, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms."

“Pardon me, maester, but what are you doing?”

Brienne stood in the entrance to the White Sword Tower. She’d expected to be alone, undisturbed as she gathered her wits about her.

Instead she found Maester Galen sitting at the central table, the great White Book, The Book of Brothers, open before him, ink and parchment to his side.

“Ah, Lord Commander. How fortunate to meet you here, if you have a moment?”

He stood and waved to his side; Brienne laid her hand on the pommel of Oathkeeper, steadying her gait as she approached the table, anger rising.

“What are you doing here, Maester Galen?” She glared down at him, unaffected by his wide smile and subtle nod.

“Not to worry, Lord Commander. Nothing nefarious, I assure you. But the Book has been updated recently, and all changes must be recorded in the Citadel’s records, for safe-keeping at the library at Oldtown. I am merely recording those changes.” He tilted the filled parchment toward her. Yes, those were her words, though a little blurry.

“If possible, Lord Commander, can you confirm that this is accurate?”

He ran his hand over the original page.

“Some of the ink has been smeared – it looks like the book was closed before the ink was dry. It would be helpful if you could sign this parchment yourself, affirming the accuracy? For the records?”

Brienne scowled. She’d come here to be alone, to think, to remember. But the copy was accurate, and she obligingly signed where the maester pointed.

Ser Brienne of Tarth, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard of King Bran the Broken.

Ridiculous.

Lord Commander of nothing, over no one. Under no one.

She felt herself sway to one side and placed her hand on the table to steady herself.

Not that it mattered.

How long would this take? She had things to do.

But Galen was closely watching her now.

“Maester is there anything else I can help you with?”

He smiled brightly, his intense blue eyes meeting hers.

“Yes, Lord Commander. If you’d permit me, I did notice…” He waved her attention back to the book as he turned to the next page, then the next, and the next.

Blank. Empty. Pristinely white.

“It would be helpful if these records were kept up to date, Lord Commander. Of course all in good time, but it would seem… well, there should be entries for all seven current Kingsguards, even if they have not achieved any accomplishments. Just their names to reserve their page, with their House sigil and lineage would be sufficient. For the records.”

What was he doing? Was he trying to embarrass her?

“Maester, it is…” She knew what she wanted to say, but the words themselves kept slipping away.

“So this page would belong to you and your accomplishments, starting with who knighted you.”

He seemed genuine enough, his smile reserved.

“This is such… Really, you should be quite proud of your place in history, Lord Commander. The first female knight of the seven kingdoms. So I understand that you would want to take some time to compose these entries, but if you could… when do you think you will…” He let his question drift off, waiting.

Her heart filled with disappointment. Such a high honor. Indeed.

“Thank you for your concern, Maester Galen. I will fill in the necessary pages when and how I see fit. I’m sure your duties will leave you time enough to return to monitor my progress.” She was being abrasive, perhaps enjoyed it too much, but at the moment there was no desire in her to be respectful.

The maester smiled, mockingly in her view, and nodded, inspecting her fresh signature on his copy before quickly gathering the parchments and ink into their box and bowing as he turned and quietly left, the stillness of the empty tower returning.

Brienne leaned over the book, frustrated, then circled the room twice before settling before the window. This was not at all what she was expecting. She had been honorable to a fault; this should have been her greatest reward. Instead it was – she could hear the hushed titters behind her, the outright laughter when she walked the streets of King’s Landing. Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. She was not sure which garnered the least respect, herself or the king.

But she would do her duty. To her king, her position and her family.

She sat at the table, wondering what she could write. How far back should she go? She could begin as Kingsguard to King Renly, tell what she saw, the black ghost of his brother Stannis, stabbing him in the back and then vanishing into thin air. Brienne huffed. She’d be stripped of her knighthood that very day. When then? Fleeing the camp with Lady Catelyn, swearing allegiance. That would be acceptable, now that her son Bran was king. Yes, she’d start there. What next. Tasked with bringing Jaime Lannister to King’s Landing to be exchanged for the Stark daughters, confirming her complicity in Lady Stark’s treason. Then the battle of the dead women. She should come up with an inspiring name for that. She’d single-handedly killed three Stark soldiers. Stark… No one else knew about that. Maybe that was a story better left untold. Jaime stealing her sword, their duel. Taken captive by Locke of House Bolton. Jaime losing his hand as a result of saving her honor and her life.

None of it exactly a stellar reflection on her skill or honor or judgment.

Then the search for the Stark daughters.

Brienne sighed as she stared at the blank pages.

She’d lost Arya as soon as she’d found her, abandoned Sansa at her time of greatest need, missing the pre-arranged signal to instead indulge her own desire for vengeance. Executing Stannis Baratheon was satisfying, truly, but the cost had been high.

At least she’d finally caught up with her, fought for her, saved her. Then delivered her without challenge to her brother at Castle Black, only to fail again when charged with convincing the Blackfish to come to his niece’s aid.

Should she tell the story of Oathkeeper, of Jaime Lannister?

She fought a welling sob. Another failure. She couldn’t even convince Jaime to…

She suddenly realized she was thirsty. All of this could wait.

She had tried counting the steps leading to what was left of the top of the White Sword Tower. Every few landings, the scorch of dragonfire could be seen on the walls where the flames had broken through the windows. She had dragged her fingers through the soot the first time she had ascended these stairs, tempted now to smudge out the trails she had made in the grit.

She needed time to think, grateful for the silence broken only by distant echoes of the chaotic city below.

King’s Landing.

Lord Commander.

All she’d ever wanted was to fight for a lord she believed in.

Bran the Broken.

Three-Eyed Raven.

Resentment welled as she remembered being rebuffed by Lady – Princess – Queen Sansa. She left her behind, abandoned among the ruins, after all they’d been through, all of the secrets she’d kept for her. All of the doubts she’d stifled.

At the time she’d decided to make the best of it. The first woman knight, first woman Lord Commander.

But it was all – empty – meaningless.

She’d found a small undamaged room that faced the sea. The steady roil comforted her, reminded her of home.

It seemed these were some kind of guest quarters; a small bed, empty chest of drawers, mirror and table.

Bottom drawer. Pushed to the back. Just in case.

She uncorked the wine skin and gulped down several mouthfuls, relieved as the ache in her chest mellowed.

She paused; were those footfalls? She stilled her breathing, waiting. Nothing.

Another moment. Still nothing.

Very well. She rummaged again in the back of the drawer, pulling out a copper cup to set on the table. She’d need to refill the skin soon, but for now she filled the cup and sat on the bed. The wine filled her with warmth, and she relaxed.

Duty. She would do her duty. That’s what Stannis had told her, wasn’t it?

The Small Council.

Their earlier meeting did not inspire confidence, didn’t inspire anything, really.

Tyrion. Tarly. Self-important cowards.

Bronn, and the new Master of War Valen Egan. She’d noticed the looks between the two during the brief meeting. Something under the surface.

All just going through the motions, doing their duty.

She missed Ser Davos. He was a steady, hopeful guiding hand. And had always been kind to her. He would have known what to do, would have been honest with her. But he was gone.

She merely sipped her wine now. To stretch it out until she could get more.

What to do next. She had choices. Decisions to make.

A smile slowly crept across her face.

She could go down all those steps and find the light-haired serving girl in the kitchen for a meal, and more wine…

Or she could lean back here, on this smoke-infused bed, and let her dreams be of home and honor and the sapphire seas, as she had so many times before.

She jiggled the wineskin, listening to the slosh of the contents.

Decision made. A trip to the kitchen, and then…

Brienne closed her eyes as she stood, tucking the almost empty wineskin within the folds of her cloak.

Lord Commander. Knight of the Six Kingdoms. First Woman…

Suddenly she realized that’s all she’d be known for. She’d been struggling all her life to be accepted for who, what she was; her skill, her honor, her deeds. But no… instead she would always be known for something she had no control over.

Never mind. There was time, she’d find a way. But for now…

More wine. More duty.

To fill the blank pages.

=====

He goes white and he’s soaring, pushing into the shadows of time. The resistance to his intrusion has increased, but he finds that if he makes himself small he enters unnoticed.

There. A fleet on the Narrow Sea, silhouettes of a thousand ships, those at the forefront bearing black sails with the three-headed dragon in red. He hears the roars, the beat of wings, but cannot see his quarry.

He peers into the dark mist, but only encounters his own fear. He wants to scream in anger, but instead he tries again, thin and agile, but is weakened by distance. He feels himself stall, halted, then turned back.

Discovered. Exposed.

He feels his body like a great boulder weighing him down, pulling him toward the crashing waves. He falls, the thick mist enfolding him, opening for him as he drops through and into the green abyss. Down, dark, smothering.

His eyes open.

It is dawn.

Chapter Text

NAATH

Dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin.

He searched their eyes, each face, each smile for something familiar, something of her.

Could her family be here, even standing right before him?

And what if they were, what could he say? How beautiful she was, how clever, how loyal, how courageous?

How loved.

He would tell them how she’d died at the hands of her enemies. Her queen’s enemies.

A senseless death.

The pain and guilt churned his stomach once again.

They had landed on the beach four days ago, just the three of them, had sat and waited for two more before a solitary figure had approached.

They had left their armor on the ships and had set their weapons aside, raising their hands, kneeling in the sand.

Anything to show they were not a threat.

Conversation was difficult, another half a day to find a few who understood, who could interpret enough to make sense to one another.

He’d thought they were making their offer clear, their intentions.

Only to be served a meal of fruit and bread and some kind of drink of fermented bark and fruit until the sun set and they were left alone on the beach for the night.

The next day, just yesterday, the islander had returned with two others, and talks had finally progressed until they had bid them follow, leading them through a well-hidden cave within a rocky inlet that emptied into the deep forest, slowly rising to the side of the closest of the several small mounts that dotted the long twisted island.

The heat increased steadily as the sun and ground rose, sweat trickling down his forehead and into his eyes. He’d known heat, of course, it was his way of life. But this was not heat, it was like sitting over a pot of boiling water hanging over an open flame, the air heavy and wet and barely breathable.

The muffled laughter of children running alongside their party filtered through the dense underbrush, broken by scolding commands as they trudged blindly, following the lithe islanders. They’d been brought to a small clearing, a well-used vantage point providing an unfettered view of the narrow white coastline until it was swallowed up in sea and forest.

More islanders waited for them there. Frowning, chattering at those who had brought them.

He didn’t need an interpreter to know they were not welcome.

He’d tried to explain why he’d come, to fulfill a wish, a desire, to protect those who could not protect themselves.

Only to be met with anger, frustration and resentment, villagers shouting and stamping their feet, circling and kicking the sand into their faces as they sat by the smokeless fire.

He could tell those with him were content, as he was, to meet their end then and there. Though he wanted to understand. He could make out only a few words, but they were enough.

If they wanted to defend themselves, to protect themselves with weapons, with violence and bloodshed and killing, they could do it themselves.

They had taken it as an insult, arrogance, pity. As if they were not strong enough, smart enough to take care of their own.

Torgo Nudho took a deep breath. He understood.

They were simply not willing. And he had insulted their way of life.

They had their ways, their culture. They neither needed nor wanted their help. Anyone’s help.

Few slaves were taken from Naath now, only those who had become lazy and had forgotten to be wary.

So now they waited, the elders and leaders and mothers and fathers gathered farther away in the jungle, somewhere. He could hear voices rise and fall, could make out a few phrases over the buzzing cicadas and screeching birds, repeated over and over even as some of the children and young folk had come to curiously observe them from across the clearing.

Yes, this could have been her life.

Hunted, yes. But able to escape, evade. Their way of dealing with the slavers and pirates.

Not his way.

He knew what the answer would be. They’d had many discussions on the ships about what they would do if they were turned away, though there had been no final decision made.

”Wait and see.”

The fire had nearly burnt itself out as the four elders returned to the clearing, the young people abruptly scurrying into the deep shadows. In an instant they were gone, invisible to his eye.

The three Unsullied stood, waiting, unsurprised when the oldest among them said nothing but held his walking stick high, pointing it to the ships bobbing in the shallow blue sea below.

They could not stay.

Torgo Nudho nodded, turned and walked back the way they had come, relieved when the elders hurried to lead them, or perhaps to herd them most quickly out of their home.

He wondered again if she had been with him, if they could have made a life, found some kind of family here, or if they would still be rejected as a threat to their way of life.

No matter.

They were not welcome here.

It was easier walking down the mount than walking up, and at least this decision, this choice was behind them.

The sun was lowering into the sea when they arrived on the beach, its last rays casting red and gold shimmers along the tops of the fluttering waves.

Torgo Nudho shaded his eyes in surprise; other ships, other sails had joined his own, though he didn’t recognize the figures on the unpainted fabric. He felt his companions stiffen beside him and he wondered if they should follow their host’s example and hide in the brush.

Moments later his attention was brought to his own vessel as a small boat was lowered off the side. There didn’t seem to be any concern or particular haste as the men rowing the craft battled the tide and wind to approach the shore.

It would be awhile before their ferry would arrive. He motioned for his brothers to sit, nodding as they rummaged through the palm leaf wrapped bundles shoved into their hands as they were left alone on the beach.

He sighed, empty. Another failure. They had chosen him to be their leader and he had failed them again.

He had hoped they could find a purpose here, to protect these people, her people.

But now, what was there… many had already left for other shores. What could he say to those that remained?

Unsullied. Warriors. Fierce. Undefeated.

Homeless. Lonely.

Free.

Weeks ago they had hurriedly sailed from Blackwater Bay, eager to leave the city, its treachery and its strange new king behind. At first he’d thought about what had happened there, so many things didn’t make sense, but then he’d had to plan, focus. His men were relying on him to overcome his own grief and anger and lead them to a new future, a new purpose.

They had stopped at Dragonstone, collecting anything left by the Queen or any of her advisors in the dark castle. He’d packed Varys’s possessions himself, had found a letter to Jon Snow, struggling to make out the words enough to know that Varys had turned on his queen, that she was untrustworthy, unstable, and that the Northern king would be a better king and should take the throne for himself. He’d promised he would make it so on his behalf.

Jon Snow would be a good king, and the Dragon Queen would be …

He remembered the rage, the unfairness, wondered what Missendei would say. She had reminded him over and over since leaving the Bay of Dragons, that Westeros would be different. They didn’t know the queen, not like they did. She had set them both free, and so many others, had changed so many lives with her dragons and her good heart.

But there was no slavery in Westeros, not for generations.

He’d wondered, then, what was the purpose, the reason, if they were not setting the people free from slavery? And Missendei had explained that their Queen’s throne was stolen from her, and she wanted it back, that Cersei was not a good Queen to her people, they were suffering under her rule.

And he had understood at the time, until… he had relied on his own grief and rage as they’d entered the city. They were all enemies, they had killed what was most precious to him, and they had to pay. But over time that rage had waned, with only grief to fill the void.

He knew Queen Daenerys had done the right thing, she was the Breaker of Chains after all, it was right that she had burned all the people and destroyed the city. But how could dead people be free? She had killed the Masters before, but these were not Masters, and no one was set free.

He shook his head. She would have been a good queen, kind, compassionate, strong. Perhaps some day he would think about it more, but for now her people, his people were depending on him for a way forward.

His queen had left a small contingent of both Unsullied and Dothraki to care for the freed slaves and the small folk on the dark island. Of course they had heard what had happened, the rumors at least. Torgo Nudho answered their questions when he could, but none of it mattered anymore.

More questions had come, asking for more details. Explanations for his own actions, explanations for their Queen’s end.

Torgo Nudho had long considered how much to explain why he had done what he had done, rather why he had restrained himself. But it had been a quiet conversation there in the castle on Dragonstone, between a surprised queen and her loyal advisors shortly after Drogon was brought down with a single spear in the midst of battle. He’d done his best to tell her wishes, but words had failed him, the grief and regret too fresh to be silenced. Those who remained, who hadn’t already left or returned or vanished into the Westerosi countryside, they were entitled to know as much as he did. He felt he should make her wishes known, her wishes in case the unthinkable happened.

He was content when they had decided, for themselves.

They had all agreed their options were limited.

Return to Meereen, support Daario Naharis and the new councils there, fulfill the Queen’s dream to end slavery in the region. Farther, wider if possible.

Settle on Dragonstone, protect those that remained, salvage and spread whatever was possible of the Queen’s influence. Though it was not clear what her goal for them would be here.

Or they could sail to Naath, defend these islanders, the homeland of the queen’s most loyal advisor against the slavers. It would give them purpose, a value to their skills and discipline. Meaning for what had been taken, stolen from them as children. He supposed he had made clear what his choice would be.

Or they could dissolve the Unsullied. This was the most troubling, it was the most foreign. But in essence that is what they were already doing.

Because they were free now. They could choose. As a group, as individuals.

They had once chosen him to be their leader. And they could un-choose him now. Yes, choose new leaders, or no leader at all.

They discussed, argued. It had not gone well, it was not something they had learned to do.

Argue, express their own opinions.

But in the end, decisions were made.

Even in the short time spent in Westeros, on Dragonstone, in King’s Landing, even as they crossed Westeros to fight in the North, bonds had been formed, some with people, others with the land. They were all strangers in this strange land, all finding it even more strange when commonalities and opportunities were found. They knew that many of the Dothraki had remained in Westeros, though many were rampaging through the countryside, pillaging and burning, being hunted and cut down by the dozens as the high lords fought back.

They, too, the Unsullied of renown, could now choose what suited them.

Perhaps a quarter of his remaining force chose to stay on Dragonstone, some saying they would return to the mainland, they would look up this person or that that they had befriended. Perhaps learn a trade, find work, learn these new ways. Some even planned to join the broken king’s army. He didn’t think his queen would like that, but Torgo Nudho understood.

None of them had chosen Unsullied. And many when given the chance turned from it, eager to remove their armor, let their hair grow. Find a place to belong for themselves, for who they were.

Another group, larger, perhaps half of all the Unsullied wanted to return to Meereen. It was familiar, warm, the closest thing they had to a home. And they could follow their allegiance to the Dragon Queen, the Breaker of their Chains. They felt they owed her that, at the very least. Given the choice, they chose the Unsullied life once again.

Many of the former slaves agreed, even when they were reminded that their future would be unknown. They could be returning to a life of hunger, slavery, misery and death. They had persisted, and had begun to pack.

Then those few who were left, those very few, chose to continue to follow him. He had told them, explained his thinking. That he and Missandei had already chosen to leave Westeros, once the queen no longer needed them. To start their own lives, to choose, to be free.

On the island of Naath.

And that final, most difficult choice was left unconsidered as an option, meaningless under the circumstances.

The next day they had met with the captains and divided the ships accordingly, those that they had secured in King’s Landing and those of the Queen’s fleet that had not already returned to their home ports.

The voyage to Naath would be the longest, traversing dangerous seas and slavers’ routes, so they were assigned the most seaworthy, fastest ships of the little fleet. The remainder of the fleet was outfitted to return to Meereen.

Days later, when they had set sail for Naath, the weight had left his shoulders. And settled on his heart.

She had wakened him in ways he had never imagined, and sometimes now regretted.

Better to live as though dead than to carry this pain forever.

If she had been here, if she had still lived, she could have explained it to him, what had gone wrong, why had things turned so quickly. It couldn’t all be blamed on the little lion, could it?

He should have killed him, wondered often why he hadn’t.

Missandei had loved their queen, as he had. As much as he was able.

At night, the memories tried to overwhelm him even as the sea swells took his appetite.

Regrets.

He remembered her darkened eyes as she had landed her dragon after taking the city. They had made plans before striking, plans unknown to her allies, unknown to the northern king.

He didn’t understand. She had been happy, seemed happy to be with him. Then she was not.

He could see now that his own joy at being with his love distracted him, had overwhelmed the gnawing questions in the back of his mind.

They were ambushed, and they had both lost everything. She should have seen this coming, someone should have. He should have seen it, had seen his own fleet destroyed off of Casterly Rock, should have been ready, prepared. He remembered the waiting, the unbearable fear as they stood before the city’s walls.

All was not lost. She was a god, the queen, the Unburnt, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Mother of Dragons.

She would find a way to save Missandei. He knew she would. She had to, she loved her; and she was magic, relentless, powerful.

But to protect those she claimed to love, she had only words. Until the blade swept silently through the air and his world ended.

He squeezed his eyes tight, though that image persisted in his mind. As it likely would forever.

He tried to make the pieces fit, but this was not his world, he did not understand, had relied on his orders and his training. But he had eyes.

In Meereen their lives were all about freeing people from slavery, this he knew, this he understood. But across the sea, he was merely loyal to his queen. He didn’t understand why a throne was so important, only that she wanted it, and he would help her get it.

She had always been strong, decisive, brutal, and he understood her desire, her need now for vengeance, he’d felt it himself. But even then he suspected that she would regret her actions.

As he did now.

This was not the freeing of slaves, giving what was needed so they could free themselves. After, he had walked the streets, trying to ignore the dead children of ash, the scattered bones of those she had said she would free.

Was it right, what she did? What he had done?

He had followed her orders then, captured those who fought for the evil queen.

Slaughtered them, their blood running thick in the gray ash beneath his feet.

And he had felt satisfaction. Vengeance for Missandei, revenge for his queen.

That satisfaction had lessened now, and all he remembered was the brutality of his own training. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything, yet here he was. Love, admiration, hope made him vulnerable to all kinds of foreign thoughts and feelings, a lifetime of questions and regret among them.

Somehow his queen had failed, and there could be no turning back for either of them.

“Every time a Targaryen is born the gods flip a coin…”

He had heard the story as he traveled with her advisors, among the Westerosi. The Unsullied played a similar game among themselves in those few moments of empty time, wagering for food or privileges, so he understood. He had just begun to grasp that for his queen – for himself – there would be no good outcome.

Grief filled his heart, he had no one to talk to about this. Missandei was gone, his queen was gone. He did not know the right thing anymore.

He knew his men were once again discussing their plans. Free to choose. Red Spear, once Broken Dog, they had gone through the training together, they all had, seen those who failed butchered before their eyes. They were used to the blood and the loss, but the Dragon Queen was supposed to change all that; death would no longer be random, arbitrary.

Yet here he stood. He was free now, he could choose. They could choose. There was much discussion, so many had returned to Meereen, to fight to free the slaves. Why was that necessary? He was not the smart one, but he had eyes to see, and in the deep night when he could not sleep, he remembered the wisdom of his love. Always kind, always merciful.

He knew nothing. Why had they ever named him commander?

Finally it had dawned on him. He should have seen, it was the price of freedom after all.

Once their queen had died, murdered, taken, they had become loyal to themselves. They had freed themselves from the burden of revenge, and did what was best for themselves.

He envied them, that they could separate themselves so easily, though he knew it wasn’t easy.

For now he only knew they were not welcome here.

They stood as the boats pulled onto the shore, his men leaping quickly to drag the craft out of the surf. They hesitated before approaching to meet on the beach, their eyes searching, dropping when Torgo Nudho shook his head.

They were silent as they rowed back to their ship, quickly pulled into the bobbing vessel, greeted there by several strangers who introduced themselves as traders from Westeros. They had been sailing for Meereen but were blown off course by a sudden violent storm. The high winds, currents had brought them here, but as soon as they repaired their ships they would be on their way.

Torgo Nudho nodded as the visiting Westerosi captain smiled.

“Oh, yes, you must have come from there, we heard what happened, the rumors at least. What do you think of the new King?”

The anger returned, batted away.

“They choose.”

He stepped forward, tried to pass. He wanted nothing more to do with these people.

“Yes they chose, but why didn’t you kill him when you had the chance? He killed your Queen, didn’t he?”

Torgo Nudho stopped, turned.

“No, the Broken King had nothing to do with that.”

The captain nodded, stroking his beard.

“Apologies, I thought we were talking about the other new king, the King in the North, Jon Snow.”

Grey Worm froze, his breath caught in his throat as his brothers closed in to hear.

“What you say? The other one, the woman, the sister, she is Queen in the North.”

“I don’t know what happened to her, but the word is out, Jon Snow has been made King in the North. At least that’s what we heard.” The captain hesitated, sensing the deep reaction of the Queen’s followers.

“I suppose the other was true, then. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring it up. Well we won’t bother you with any…”

“You say Snow is King now?”

The captain nodded. “Yes, and it is said that he is welcoming the Dothraki and Unsullied to make their home in the North. I’m surprised you didn’t know, we’ve heard … well there are so many rumors, some of them almost unbelievable.”

There was no answer, and the captain nodded to his men who readied to return to their own vessel.

“Thank you for the supplies, and may you have smooth sailing to … wherever the wind takes you next.”

Torgo Nudho nodded, his breathing slowing, dread threatening to rise despite his training even as the light-skinned sailors made their way over the side to their waiting boat.

His brothers crowded in. He could feel their confusion and anger, Red Spear speaking for them all.

“Jon Snow has been named King in the North. They did not follow what was said, the punishment that was agreed. Now he wears…”

Torgo Nudho finished for him.

“A crown.”

Silence fell as what was left of his followers gathered on the deck of the ship.

“What do we do?”

He shook his head.

“We cannot stay in this place. So we choose, again.”

They all nodded as Torgo Nudho walked to the ship’s bow, gazing first to the white beaches of the Island of Naath, then toward the merchant ships heading into rough seas.

King. Crown.

Freedom for Jon Snow.

For the Unsullied.

What was the right thing to do?

He could hear their conversations, back and forth. Decisions made, unmade. Blame, anger, doubt.

“What do we do, Torgo Nudho?”

Once again, they couldn’t decide for themselves. He supposed it would take time.

“Do what you choose. I don’t speak for you now.”

They shifted on their feet as the boat rocked side to side.

“But you, we chose you to be our leader again on Dragonstone. Where will you go?”

Later he would wonder why the words came out so easily, so clearly.

“I go to Westeros, to North.”

They all seemed to breath in, looking at each other.

“Are you sure, this is what to do?”

He nodded, “The words of our queen… It is what must be done.”

He let the words hang; he didn’t want to repeat her words out loud, they already echoed in his dreams.

“But you do not need to come, you can choose.”

There was a little silence. He would go alone if he had to. He had nothing else.

“Torgo Nudho. You brought us here for Missandei, I, we, we will go with you now for our Queen.”

He shook his head. “I do not know what will…”

“We follow where you lead.”

He could see their expressions of resolve. Unsullied still. He nodded.

“We go North.”

-----

BRAAVOS

“It is settled then, you will leave tomorrow on the early tide.”

The bronze figure of the Titan of Braavos had long since lost its awe, now serving more as a symbol of home, of risk, of doubt.

This would be the second voyage to Westeros in as many years, and he felt more unsettled than ever before as he passed beneath the shadow of the city’s great protector. Not a favorable way to begin such a paramount endeavor.

Tycho Nestoris sighed and shifted in his embroidered overcoat. He knew by experience it would take several days before he gained his sea legs.

No use replaying yesterday’s conversations now, his orders were clear. His overlords had always been relentless, and the ink on the contracts was clear.

And binding.

It had been a good investment.

As soon as the messengers had arrived in Braavos, from King’s Landing and from Pentos, he had double-, triple-checked the accounting.

So many plans, based on a certainty of events now proven – dare he say proven? – now presumed an obvious deception.

Fire and blood, dragons and gold, ice and steel.

Whips and chains.

Numbers on a page. Neat columns of them, line upon line, page after page.

Profits for his institution, promotion for his manager.

Not the way he would have wished, but it was not up to him.

He’d presented the bundle to his overlords at that meeting, unadorned but for the seal unbroken though faded slightly with time. He had protected it in the deepest reaches of the iron caves, at one time had thought its existence would be forgotten, relieved when it was easily relocated and fetched.

He remembered watching as the memories of decades past stirred his betters.

The Targaryens had fallen. Without their dragons, they had succumbed to whatever madness had once been their strength.

They’d called it Robert’s Rebellion. Rumors said otherwise: a treacherous Hand, unfaithful advisors, a game of cyvasse. The board was cleared.

He’d been sent to King’s Landing then as well, though a mere bookkeeper accompanying the designated representative at that time. He’d always loved his numbers. They were reliable, loyal, honest.

But he’d seen the devastation of the Lannister army’s sack of the capital first hand, and they had all wondered what he’d find now. The sacking of a city, not by an army, but by dragonfire.

The early morning sun had spread its hazy light across the stone floors of the receiving chamber, thirst from the heat building in his throat as Lead Director Aronos Vhassar leaned to pull the leather pouch to himself, running his hand lightly over the wax seal.

“Do we know what’s in it?” He passed it down the table, each observing the parcel in turn.

Tycho shook his head. “It was sealed when it was delivered, with the details of its disposition only upon certain, shall we say, unlikely and untoward circumstances…”

He glanced at the parchments before the Lead Director, watching as he carefully gathered them into their original cloth binder, leaning back in the massive chair.

He heard a soft boot scrape, overly loud in the silence.

“Who could have imagined?”

So here he stood once again setting to sea, sailing to negotiate falsity, living through the unfolding if at all possible. Though he had heard stories, flowing freely now, Targaryens and Starks and Lannisters and Baratheons. Kings, Queens and bastards, treachery and carnage and magic.

He hoped there would be no dragons, though in the back of his mind he’d always wanted to see one for himself. He’d even hoped, before, for a visit from the Dragon Queen herself, if it had been true she had living dragons. But she had never sought their services, apparently she had enough gold without borrowing theirs.

It was all… such a pity.

The overlords had given him the opportunity to send someone else. It would be a dangerous venture, many moons of travel on rough seas, in a land of chaos and starvation and likely civil war.

He’d demured. This was his account, he’d inherited it from his mentor, had been there when it had been formed. He both dreaded and longed for this conversation and would not entrust it to another.

He wanted to salvage as much as he could, and they’d given him full authority to handle these matters as he saw fit. As well as a full contingent of well-armored guards and three servant-assistants. Chaos brought opportunity, but it also brought out the worst in people, causing them to take risks they wouldn’t normally.

Yes, perhaps opportunity.

The winds picked up, and he was grateful to watch as his personal luggage was finally carried below, escorted by a retinue of guards. He’d packed multiple times, his wife mocking at the final number of chests and boxes and bundles. But he’d heard of the unpredictable weather, had made several investments accordingly in fact, and did not want to be unprepared. He nodded to his attendants to follow then turned to follow his guards.

Dread and uncertainty pinged his heart before a wave of confidence re-asserted itself as he fingered the message from the Magister in his pocket.

“Is it true?

He shrugged to himself and briefly wondered if he’d see these shores again.

Time would tell.

Circumstances change, undoubtedly. But he’d always found a way to benefit from them. For his institution. For himself.

He smiled briefly as he stepped onto the steep stairs that led him into the blackness of the ship’s hold below.

-----

BEYOND ASSHAI

He languished at the edge of the cave, his eyes barely open, the heat and dry wind shimmering off his shining scales.

Within eyesight he could see other caves, few in number, mostly appearing abandoned as were those on this side of the cliff, though several of the ancient dragons lived in the largest lairs. He had tried to count his brothers, but they only reminded him of his loss.

Below him a dry gorge, deep and unpassable for those who walked the red earth.

The Valley of Dragons.

Home.

Somehow he had been drawn to this place, he’d known his way, his destination, always accompanied by the long red fire.

He’d known he’d find help here.

For mother.

But he’d found he was not welcome here.

She was not welcome here.

He was exhausted when he’d first arrived, days riding the highest drafts over sea and mountain and desert had taken all of his strength.

So he had slept, curled around her sleeping body, waiting, calling, assuring her it was safe. It was time; once she laid her egg she would be strong again.

But she’d refused.

They’d let him be at first, had let him rest. He was not a small dragon after all, though there were several here much larger than he.

They’d even brought him food, unknown creatures smelling of sea and rot.

He could hear them trying to speak with him, but he could not understand.

He wanted to be with them, to be known of them. He’d admitted to himself he was lonely, still grieving his slain brothers, still bitter at their loss.

They had trusted mother. She had loved them, raised them. But had entrapped and betrayed them even so.

He had returned to her time and again, for their sakes. And he loved her; she had given him, given them life. But he would never trust her again.

And these were not his brothers.

They’d been surprised and angry at first, roaring and grabbing and snapping as he had entered the long valley. He’d circled twice in the early light, choosing the wide mouth of this high cave as a proper nest for his coming sibling, startling those already inhabiting the deep recess. They had rushed past him, brown and gold and red and black, wings touching, talons scrambling as he searched the darkness for a safe secluded corner.

Later, once he’d recovered, curiosity had overtaken their fear and several had come forward, curious and hesitant. He had tried to explain, where he was from, what he was doing there, and he supposed they had listened as best they could. Only to retreat to the far edges of the cave. Waiting.

As the comforting darkness settled, he had startled at gleaming blue eyes, the barest glint of light off of silent leathered wing as the shifting shadows approached his resting place.

More eyes followed, green and red and amber and purple, pressure and sound and singing filling the cave. He’d circled tighter round mother, dropping his head to the cave floor in submission.

He could not fight them off, he only hoped they’d understand.

Suddenly they stilled, pulling back as one of them, large and shimmering purple, blue atop red, pushed forward to gaze fiercely into his face.

Drogon released his breath and closed his eyes against the onslaught of the brief black and gold flame.

What are you, why have you come? Why did you bring this here?

Drogon shuddered at the words, raising his head as he realized he understood them.

I am Drogon of the East, I have brought my rider to nest, to lay her egg and raise it.

He hesitated, how much to say? How much was understood?

The eyes in the great head widened, snorting smoke and embers as it reared in surprise.

You speak as the old ones? Of the East you say?

Drogon stood and stretched, slowly, gently. Respectfully.

Yes, of the East. From the land of the dragonriders.

He could feel the others crowd in, gazing between the two conversing dragons.

There is no such place, no dragon has been ridden for generations.

He snaked his head lower. The dragonriders have returned.

When? How? Why?

He only understood bits and pieces as they pieced his story together.

And you, why do you understand me and these others don’t?

I am what remains of the dragons of the mount, born of the last of those who came from the land of the smoking caves, the cursed place. We left before they were lost, some refused the chains, the caves, the high walls. Yet I alone am left.

Yes, I know you now, your scent is familiar to me. I too, and my brothers, we lived in the black caves in the midst of the sea, where the dragonriders lived.

There are others?

No, only I am left.

A great sense of mourning swept through the cave as the meaning of his words was conveyed.

And this, why have you brought this here? We were warned by the red flames of the highest dragon… It is a curse to us, it brings only death and destruction.

He’d pulled his wings protectively over her sleeping form and had tried to explain as best he could.

There was so much he didn’t understand, how could he explain it to others.

But this, she, your mother, she is one of those, dragonriders?

Yes, mother and father are the last of all dragonriders.

Father? There is another rider?

Yes, I left him behind, to make sure no one followed. I heard mother cry out, she had fallen, but she didn’t tell me what to do, what she wanted. So I brought her here.

He’d blurted out too much, afraid to trust, or perhaps just afraid.

The larger dragon huffed, but pulled back with a nod.

Very well. I am Targa. I have explained, it has been decided you may stay until your mother has laid her egg, but then you must leave this place, others – father – he will come looking for you and for his egg, a risk we cannot take.

Drogon had considered this, had often wondered if it was the right thing to take mother and her egg from father, but he also knew there had been danger in that place. He could smell the dragon’s blood, and knew that mother needed a safe place to lay her egg. He had wanted to stay to protect father as well, but father would not speak. Perhaps he already knew what Drogon had planned and stayed behind to make sure they were not followed. He’d tried telling father where he was going so he could come later, but again he did not answer. He could hear others coming, those he knew and those who had frightened mother, those enemies he had failed to destroy. He could wait no longer, so he’d sent his flames searching for anyone who might be hiding, warning them not to follow and then left with mother for home.

Targa had chirped as he raised his great head, rumbling deep within as he relayed the tale to the others.

Drogon lowered his head, nudging his mother, encouraging her, saddened by her stillness.

They would not let them stay for long, they needed to protect this place, the many nests throughout the deep caverns.

Why does she not eat? She needs to be strong to sit her egg, even though it must be tiny.

He could hear concern and curiosity in Targa’s words.

I do not know. I should have brought father, he would have known what to do.

Chirping echoed through the void, several smaller dragons leaving but returning quickly with tasty foods to be placed before the mother.

You call her mother, how many eggs did she lay with you, how many brothers did you have?

Drogon settled next to his mother, draping a wing across her sleeping form.

I was one of three, we all hatched at the same time, in the flames of night.

He’d thought of it then, the flames. That his egg, and the eggs of his brothers had broken and cracked in the flames of great darkness.

Perhaps that is why she would not lay her egg, she was not strong enough to breathe on them. He raised his wing to speak to her, to ask again what to do, yet again she had not answered and he –

Searing heat swept under his fluttering wing, flames of black and gold and green gliding along the floor of the cave and into the darkness, alighting the several unseen nests behind him. Blazing light sent the other dragons skittering back into the darkness even as Targa clamped his jaws shut, rearing back as Drogon stood and returned his own barrage against the attack.

Peace, brother, peace. We could not wait any longer, we cannot allow -

Screams filled the cave, screams of horror from other dragons, that their eggs had been swallowed up, destroyed in flames, screams of betrayal and hopelessness as Drogon raged against the meddler, screams of… something else.

Behind him now. He released one last blast at the others before turning, flames and sparks flicking in the recesses of the cave edges and on the bundle below his wing.

Undulating movement, cracking, ripping, heaving.

Mother? Mother!

He’d heard her cries before, of pain and power and grief. Had tried to comfort her when she woke screaming in her sleep, sorrow and regret following the rage and memories of flames. He had always felt closest to her when she slept, when she dreamed.

But this – wailing! He felt the agony on the edges of his senses, knew she was there, reaching for him, seeking her son.

But she was too far, he didn’t understand.

He shifted away, warily watching behind him as he turned toward the dying flames.

Mother!

He had nuzzled her, trying to comfort her, assure her she was safe. But she pushed back at his snout, screaming into the returning black.

Shouting for father.

Drogon carefully stepped away, ashamed.

He should not have taken her away.

Mother? Mother?

She had refused to answer, refused to rise, refused to lay her egg.

He reached again, angered when Targa approached, younger dragons behind him, his eyes gleaming with anger and pain.

Drogon flicked his wing over his mother, readying his flames to defend her against these wild creatures, finally noticing they were looking past him, slinking toward the remains of the smoking blaze under the cave’s overhang.

Even in the darkness Drogon could see the wonder and confusion settling in their eyes.

Crackling, tiny cries had emerged from the wispy haze.

Tiny wings, a tiny head, another, another crack as Targa lowered his head, a gust of warm breath dissipating the black haze to reveal the wonder below.

Nests hidden in the darkness, several of them scorched and burnt, tiny flames licking between leathery orbs and hardened mounds, some deflated and hopeless, others shifting on their own, still others emptied of their precious treasure, the newly spawned flapping translucent wings, calling and clawing through dark ash and dirt toward the excited observers.

At least they had lost interest in mother.

Mother.

Drogon shifted again, hiding her presence as best as he could, relieved when her wailing was ignored.

He could tell she was in pain, choking and screaming and pulling at the remains of her clothes, hurling handfuls of powdery dirt and ash into the air and onto her head. She was stronger now, so he waited, waited for her to lay her egg, or to make a nest at least, but in the end all she had done was sit and rock and weep, arms folded around herself, finally falling to her side, stilled and silent, holding the sharp shiny tooth in her hand.

He had gently huffed at her, bumping her twice, fearing she had left him once again, relieved when she had moaned and pushed him away.

That was many suns ago, and mother had been angry ever since.

She would not speak to him, only calling out for father.

He left her then. She must hate him, until he saw the fear in her eyes, knew she was in danger, promised he would protect her even though she hated him.

She was still Mother.

The dragons had raged at him.

But they were also curious, and were willing to teach him their language, and he had the time to learn. So he had answered their questions, about the world, about their home, about the dragon riders.

They had considered retaking their homeland, the spires and supremacy of the dragonhold central to the stories they had been told from generation to generation. When Drogon explained that it could be uninhabitable now, they scoffed, how would you know?

I have been there. I flew over the Old Kingdom. I had considered taking mother there first, but there are too many shadows and dark things that live there.

It had taken him by surprise, the awed silence that had fallen.

You have been there? It is a real place then? Could we return? If we all returned at once, we could remove the dark things, we still have our strength. We could return…

But others were fearful.

We were hunted there, enslaved. Unprotected, betrayed by the dragonriders.

They had looked to Targa then.

We have not left here for many seasons, we have no knowledge of what could await us there or anywhere. We have only known this place, and have been safe here.

The elder dragons had agreed, but one of the younger had raised his head high, flicking his snout.

You would be satisfied, with this? We are still hunted, they still seek to steal our eggs. And we dare not hatch them, there is not even enough food for us, let alone for another generation. You here, you elders, you have raised your hatchlings, you have seen the world, what is out there, the good and the bad, but we have not. And one day you will be gone, and we… Those you have raised here have no future because we have no past, only rumors and stories and …

Curious chattering rumbled through the gathering of dragons.

Targa glanced at Drogon, then toward the elders, and back to the youngers.

Perhaps the red flames of the high dragon are not a bad omen but a good one, perhaps a promise of our future, it is a dragon after all. For now we do not know enough about what has happened to our kingdom, whether it is time to return.

Drogon could barely make out their words, but could easily sense their uncertainty.

What do we do? If there is a possibility, that we could have a proper kingdom for our hatchlings…?

Targa shook his raised head, closing his great blue eyes.

When Drogon returns to his father, I will go with him. We will return mother to father’s nest, I will take those I have hatched to be raised with the hatchlings of the dragon riders. We will see if we can … if the Reign of the Dragons can be restored, if we can return from the shadows, if we can…

Drogon didn’t hear the rest.

Mother had found the hatchlings, and Targa had let her care for them, made the others promise not to harm her, that she could be trusted to protect them. Now she was petting them, cooing to them, feeding them. She had even smiled once or twice.

And she had built a nest for herself under the overhang in a recess of the cave, though she had yet to lay her egg.

Something was wrong, mother was not getting stronger. She slept only rarely, screaming when she woke.

He asked mother what he could do, what did she need, but she never answered.

It wasn’t like before. He didn’t understand, knew only that she was angry.

So he waited.

Under the moon the dragons would gather in the caves, sometimes Targa would tell tales of glory and battle, of dragon riders and doom. Even Drogon enjoyed his stories of past generations as he learned the ways of the wild dragons.

But mainly he just watched over her.

Drogon could smell water and growing things, other strange smells in the cave, and could see markings on the walls, of soot and ash and lines and circles and creatures.

Mother often roamed the cave, carrying her flames on a stick deep where he could not follow, sometimes staggering as she dodged the curious dragons as she returned to her nest.

She used the shiny tooth to make... something... as she sat at the edge of the cave, slashing at the hides and bone of what remained of their meals. Targa had seen what she was doing before he did, and brought her wood and stones and reeds and branches. Mother seemed happy with much of it, though she didn’t speak to Targa either.

Then one day he had heard the screaming, painful and piercing, alerting all the dragons to her nest, the hatchlings squawking and flailing as they fled her presence.

Had she finally laid her egg? Were these shouts of excitement? Happiness?

No.

He could only see her faint outline in the deep darkness of her nest, but she was not happy.

She was holding her belly, where she kept her egg, rocking as she sat near the embers of her flames, calling for father.

Yes, it was wrong that he had taken her. Father would have known what to do.

Was he coming, now?

Is that why she screamed?

Could she tell he was close, or…

No! Was father in danger? If something happened to him…

The terrible sounds continued, and the rocking, even as she threw another wood on her embers.

Targa joined him, outside her nest, carrying food for her, a smaller creature that she had eaten before.

She needed to eat.

Drogon felt relief when she stood, hand again on her egg, carrying the shiny tooth.

Only she didn’t come for the food, she didn’t move at all, only grew more angry, rage and screaming filling the cave.

She held the shiny tooth to her egg. Was she going to cut it out? Perhaps dragon riders didn’t lay eggs, perhaps they had to pull them out with their teeth.

Mother sobbed, and Drogon could smell the dragon’s blood, startled when she suddenly screamed and threw the shiny tooth into the darkness and fell to her knees, retching and coughing, fear and sadness and the deep grief that all creatures recognize echoing through the cave.

Drogon laid his head on the ground, peering at her, consoling. He would make it right, he had to, he had to fix this.

He couldn’t wait, he needed to take her to father’s nest.

But she was not listening.

During daytime mother sat by the cave opening, doing strange things with the reeds, making things out of hide with the shiny tooth, finally covering her body and her feet, hiding her egg from sight to protect it.

Targa’s hatchlings were frightened of her now, from the screaming and the blood, and had taken to watching her from a distance. She would throw bits of her food their way, speaking familiar words, seeking their company again. Then she would breathe strangely, making strange sounds with her hand on her egg, missing father.

Drogon missed father too.

But something had changed.

Perhaps she understood after all.

She had started to work not just at the edge of the cave, but she would work throughout the night next to her flames.

And she had approached Drogon with outstretched hand. Did she accept his regret? Did she hear his promise?

She had called his name, stroked his side. Leaned against his head. Drogon heard her words, though he didn’t understand them.

But he knew what she wanted, what he had to do.

He told Targa what he planned to do, to return to the other dragonrider, and that maybe he shouldn’t have taken her to his nest but to his father’s nest in the cold place and waited for him there. He didn’t like the cold, but he had found ways to be warm when the sun shone on the white covering. He would do what needed to be done.

He’d waited patiently as the larger dragon explained to the others, relief lightening the worry, until Targa repeated his own plan, that he would go with him, with them, bringing his hatchlings to be raised with dragonriders. Maybe this was the purpose of the return of the red-tailed dragon. That it was time for the return of the rule of dragons.

Drogon could feel a ripple of excitement course through the gathered dragons.

Zheeta, one of the smaller, younger dragons stepped forward before Targa.

I will come too, there is nothing for me here, and you will need a messenger to send for the others when its time to return to our home.

Drogon shook his head. It is too far, you are too small to fly across the waters. There is no place to land, you would not…

Targa interrupted. Zheeta will come, we will need another in the land. I will take care of the young while you care for the dragonriders. Zheeta will be our eyes and ears in the new world. If he tires, I will bear him on my back, as I have seen others do for their young.

Drogon dropped his head. It is not good to bring a young one that cannot take care of himself. We will fly so high to ride the air, it will be very cold, and if he falls…

If you dare to take mother and the hatchlings this way, it will be safe enough for another dragon. It is decided, he will come.

Drogon closed his eyes, relenting. He remembered his flight here, his fear and exhaustion, glad then that he had known he would survive the cold. He remembered the other cold, the white ground and shiny water, where mother was happy, and father was happy. Then he remembered his brother and the far cold place where the bad man had killed him, the screams of father’s dragon, his last brother falling into the sea. Grief welled up suddenly, uncontrollably, flowing from deep inside as he let his flames roar, only stopping when Targa knocked him hard in his side, angry and disbelieving.

Don’t do that in here!

Drogon opened his eyes, suddenly aware of where he was, glaring eyes staring back at him. The grief and anger lingered, even as it had over the burnt place, but he understood and lowered his head to the ground. Even surrounded by his own kind, he missed and grieved for his brothers. Targa approached warily, and Drogon pushed his longing away.

Father isn’t always at his nest. We will have to search for him. I know his scent, and when we are closer he will speak to me. Perhaps mother hears him now, but she is not speaking to me as before.

He would go to the place he found father, to the dragon mount, the home of the dragon riders. Targa would surely be glad to see this place. If he wasn’t there, they would go to the burnt place, the last place he saw father, the place of anger and crying and fear, the place of dragon’s blood where mother fell. If he wasn’t there, they would go to the cold place… should he take her beyond the white wall? No that was dangerous and mother was upset there. No, he wanted her to be happy again, he would take her to where she was happy, where father was happy, to the cold valley of roaring and white and hard shiny water.

Yes, she was happy there, they were all happy there. Surely they would find father’s nest in one of those places.

There was agreement among the dragons, there was nothing for them here. They were hunted still, and could not raise their young. This was not how dragons should live, not if they had a choice.

He’d have to get stronger for the long flight, so he spent more time hunting. The others were right, food was scarce, though he thrilled at the powerful sultry updrafts along the many canyon walls that tunneled through the hard red surface below. Over the distance he could see brothers seeking their own food, silently drifting, rarely dipping for prey.

Ever vigilant under the red-tailed omen.

And then it had begun, and it was time to leave.

Chapter Text

She grabbed the rail as her stomach heaved and her vision blurred, pain stabbing behind her eyes as she retched over the side. Slowly she dragged her gloved hand over her lips, steadying herself against the roll of the ship. The cold morning wind felt refreshing on her face even as it cut through her light cloak, sending a shiver down her back. The wind died, and again she marveled at the increasingly warm stillness between the stormy gusts.

There was little she could do about it all now, but she realized she must have missed something.

Perhaps it was simply too much; too much magic, too much murder, perhaps some kind of backlash from the gods.

She’d been wearing faces for weeks, and now she was barely able to stand.

She lost her footing and slid as the ship hit a small swell, quietly grateful for the steady hand on her elbow.

Davos had insisted on guards, even though she had likewise insisted they were not necessary.

She could take care of herself. At least she’d always thought so.

She was the Hero of Winterfell after all. The acclaimed warrior who’d killed the Night King.

Yet she hardly remembered it, that night was such a blur. Somehow she had ended up with the Valyrian blade, targeted by the Red Witch and reminded of her earlier words.

“Brown eyes, green eyes, blue eyes.”

For years she’d thought she’d been referring to her list of names, had used her words to justify her slaughter. If she’d been wrong all that time … it was too late now, and it had all worked out in the end. For her at least.

She took a seat on the crate pulled forward by her young guard Kartis Sunglass. Davos had wanted a half dozen, settled for two, even let her pick from those he’d narrowed down beforehand.

She’d have preferred a Stark soldier at least, but Davos had worried it might arouse suspicion with her sister.

Sansa.

Anger joined the pain as her hand dropped to the ever-present dagger’s handle.

She’d examined the blade once she’d had a moment to herself. It was clearly Valyrian steel with a dragon bone handle, a Targaryen blade destined for a dragon, for Jon.

In her new melancholy, she’d started yet another new list: things she’d stolen from Jon.

If she had sided with him from the beginning, seen Sansa for what she was, what she truly wanted.

“That’s all right, I don’t need many allies.”

If she had taken her place as a Stark, made her own decisions. That’s all she’d wanted, wasn't it, for her family to be restored?

If she had stood for him at the Great Council, before it all… he’d be King of the Seven Kingdoms now, and there’d be peace.

If she had talked to him, about her…

If she had listened.

If she hadn’t made him choose.

“I know a killer when I see one.”

Her heart thudded against her ribs.

She avoided mirrors now, closed her eyes to avoid seeing her own tainted reflection.

What had she thought she’d accomplish but to hurry him along the path of his own destruction.

She deserved it, now, the pain. She’d betrayed every oath, every promise of honor and family and love, and duty.

Thousands at the Twins, strangers along the way.

She still had nightmares of the stable boy.

“A girl is Arya Stark of Winterfell, and I'm going home.”

Jaqen H'ghar had smirked at her and nodded. For all her vaunted training, she should have suspected… something...

She had betrayed the god of death, all the gods, and they would have their due.

The nausea rose again and she pulled herself up to the rail, noticing the captain approaching out of the corner of her eye.

Davos apparently trusted this pirate; she found him vexingly cheerful. She’d sought for deceit in his words, finding none but no longer trusted her own judgment.

“Princess, I have good news for you!”

He waited as she again wiped her lips with the back of her sleeve, unnerved as his eyes twinkled.

She’d given up balking at the titles, no longer having the energy to insist she was no lady, let alone a princess, and she’d realized she was drawing more attention to her station by insisting that that term not be used.

“I could use some good news, Captain.”

He stepped forward, joined by her second guard Corren Byrne, an older fellow that distantly reminded her of her father. He smiled rarely but had kind gray eyes and a sternness that inspired confidence.

“Well we could say it’s a mix of good and bad, but at least it is not, well, we have arrived at the end of our voyage…”

He waved his hand toward the thin glistening ice covering the slopping black water.

Arya frowned.

“I see no land, Captain. You promised passage to the King’s Road, that would be several days upriver at least…”

The Essosi pirate grinned. “Truly, Princess, and if there was hope of delivering you into your brother’s arms I would surely attempt to do so. But Winter has come, as you Starks are known to say, and there is no safe ship’s passage beyond this point.”

They’d all discussed this possibility just last night, preparing contingencies for the several obstacles that could hinder her safe passage home.

Arya nodded reluctantly.

“Thank you, Captain. And thank you for your courtesy.”

He returned her nod and smiled, tilting his head as he bowed with a flourish.

“At your service, Princess.”

Arya returned to her cabin to pack her things, the shouts above filtering through the ship’s sides, drawing her to the porthole to watch as men cut through the thin ice with long-handled pikes to make a way to a stable shore.

She startled at the knock at her door, forcing a brief smile as she handed her small bundle of belongings to Kartis, reluctantly returning his bow with a nod of her head.

She would have to get used to that. Bowing, and smiling. If Jon could do it, so could she.

“It’s gotten colder up top, Princess, best to stay below until safe passage has been made and the horses unloaded.”

Arya nodded again, suddenly grateful for a few moments in the dark to lessen the pounding in her head.

North. Winterfell.

Soon she would be home.

She lay back on her bed, drawing her arm under her head.

She should be more excited.

Winter had come, but not what anyone had been expecting. Even as they’d sailed up the White Knife, she’d joined the crew to watch the herds of Northern Elk trot south along the river bank, surprised to find great patches of long green grasses between deep swathes of ice and snow. New maps were being drawn, they’d even slowed several times to make careful notes of both the new riverways and altered landmarks; rising mountains amidst lowered plains, lakes forming from the overflowing river, tracks of shadow cats and snow bears along the river beds themselves.

Each night the entire crew would linger on deck as the moon set, just to watch the bright red comet cutting through the green and gold of the dancing northern lights directly overhead. Those nights it felt like those long summers from her youth, even the early winter winds that were soft and gentle.

Except for those few nights when the storms were raging as if the Night King still roamed his lands, the river cresting higher than the ships sides, coating the deck with ice inches thick.

She’d found comfort here, the busyness of the crew and familiarity of the land and the hope of her plans. But now that it was coming to pass…

There would be challenges for them all, and she wondered if she would be strong enough to meet them. Would she, could she abide her choices? Would others let her?

Her weakness, uncertainty frightened her.

These weren’t the kinds of choices she’d been expecting.

She’d left for King’s Landing with Sandor Clegane, intending to never return, and it had felt familiar and comforting. But they had been too late to make any real difference, and soon they were both swept up in events they had no control over.

She’d heard how he’d died; he’d taken his brotherly revenge, both being consumed in the flames.

Would anyone have condemned him for kinslaying?

Would anyone condemn her, for what she’d done, what she was doing now, for what could come next?

She’d conspired against her own kin, against Sansa and Bran. But they had conspired against Jon, and he was their kin, too.

Arya felt tears prick her eyes.

How long had it been since she’d wept?

She shook her head. She would be strong, she must be.

But the fear almost consumed her. She’d lived with it for so long. She’d learned well how to push it down, stuff it into her bundle of stranger’s faces.

Death. She knew Death. How it felt, how to mete it out.

But Life. Life was a stranger to her now. And terrifying.

Now that she had time, now that she could make her life, what did she want it to be? She had less control over her life now, even with her faces and her blades and her lies.

She felt her heart beat faster, worked to slow her breathing as the pain radiated down her spine.

Nothing to fear.

Everything was going to plan.

She had thought, at first, to simply kidnap Jon and take him to Braavos. He’d like it there, it was warm and beautiful and they could rest and heal in a quiet manse, enjoy the people and their petty problems. Even if it would no doubt be a short reprieve. Running would solve neither of their problems. So she had sought out Davos; Jon trusted him, she hoped she could as well.

Arya relaxed her muscles one by one, her training helping to resist the overwhelm as voices echoed brightly throughout the ship.

-----

She’d said her goodbyes to Davos and Cerwyn outside the northern camp, well away from the readied Northern Army. They’d nodded to each other and parted ways, the plan straightforward and practical.

What had started out as grief and uncertainty had grown into anger and resolve.

When she’d learned Jon had been taken captive, she’d sent ravens to Winterfell to send for help to free Jon, but there had been no response. Lord Cerwyn had come on his own, even Lord Glover himself had joined his men outside what was left of the gates of King’s Landing.

So she and Davos had made their own plans.

They’d called a Great Council, sent out the ravens and messengers to the few remaining lords of Westeros. As they’d prepared for the Great Council, she’d been confident that Jon would find himself with the crown, whether he wanted it or not. She’d prepared a little speech to convince him, that his destiny was to guard the realms of men. She always smirked to herself when she rehearsed that line.

Jon was too honorable for his own good; like father, so much like father...

He would be a good king, and she would help any way he chose, as Sansa and Bran would as well, with no doubt.

She took a deep breath, let it out slowly.

She had been so wrong. All of her training, and she had missed all of the lies and betrayals right under her nose. Maybe it was because it was family; the tears welled again and she wiped her eyes before the drops could spill.

Arya sometimes wondered what would have happened if Gendry had not sought her out. But he had, and the puzzle pieces had all fallen into place. They knew what, who they were dealing with now, who the true enemy was.

Her first impulse had been to simply kill her sister. She could wear a stranger’s face, perhaps someone who would have known her before. No one would ever know.

Arya rested her hand on the dagger.

She would know.

And her sister’s face would haunt her dreams just as the Hound’s had joined the never ending nightly parade.

The highborn had come to attend the Great Council, and Arya had approached her kin to confirm their intent to put Jon on the throne. They knew he was the rightful heir, and would be a good king, for the North and for all of Westeros. But they had scoffed at her; he didn’t want it, he was still known as a bastard and couldn’t prove his claim. He was an oathbreaker, a kinslayer. A Queenslayer.

They were adamant. They couldn’t put him on the throne, of Westeros or of the North, they couldn’t even allow him to be considered.

Queen Sansa and King Brandon. They’d failed the Old Gods, failed their father’s honor, failed their family.

She’d decided that if Jon refused the northern crown, she would take it for herself, a true Stark, never a Lannister or a Bolton. Then she would convince Jon to accept it for himself, perhaps even name him her heir and then disappear. Yes, that would ruin Sansa’s plans, though she hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Arya smirked, picturing the disappointment on her sister’s face, surprised at her own desire for vengeance on her kin.

And Jon. She not only worried for his safety, she could only imagine how he would be tormenting himself. He had loved the Dragon Queen, any fool would have seen that. So she had tried twice to visit him in his cell but was rebuffed by the Unsullied both times, even threatened harm to Jon if she came again. She understood their anger, but she had to protect her brother.

So she had worn the face of that pretty serving girl to bring him his meals. They wouldn’t allow her in, but she got close enough to the guards outside to know that Jon was at least alive. She’d been there once when their leader Grey Worm had met with them, picked up on some of their conversation, she’d lived in Braavos after all, a city of many nations, many tongues. She had heard some of their words but not always their meanings.

“Cannot kill him.”

“Wait and see.”

“...what Queen say...”

They’d need to be ready to act swiftly…

-----

The knock on the door startled her awake. She waited for the pain; for a moment she held her breath as it seemed to have lessened greatly only for the disappointment to surge as her new familiar returned to its steady thrum marching to her heartbeat.

“Yes, I’m coming, give me a moment.”

She paused briefly to let her breathing calm before swinging her legs off the featherbed, steadying herself before straightening her cloak and shifting the blades in their sheaths.

They’d need to ride hard and fast to make up for the lost time. If Jon… the assassins… what if they’d missed something? Decisions would have to be made, she was needed…

The ship heaved with each wave. It was built for speed, smaller than others she’d seen in Sallador Sahn’s fleet. Perhaps chosen to avoid attention. It had been comfortable enough.

She was escorted down the gangway to the frozen riverside where long planks had been laid out, hay strewn far and wide on the ice and shore to steady the horses’ footing. Arya braced herself against the fierce wind, not as cold as expected but dry and bitter just the same. She pulled on her gloves, eyes widening as her white mount, Traveler, was led from the hold down the ramp and brought before her, holding his head high to stare into his new surroundings.

Her guards had tried to convince her to take another mount, at least for now; the former mount of the Commander of the Golden Company was easily recognized and known to have been claimed by the Hero of Winterfell. She was again reminded that she was as much a target as her brother was. She had resisted.

She stroked his face, her gloved hand lightly scratching under his mane as he lowered his head and pushed into her side.

If all went well, they would both be able to put all of the war, the violence, the danger behind them.

What kind of a life would that be? She started to shake her head to clear her thoughts only to be struck once again with the piercing pain and buzzing in her ears.

Perhaps a return trip to Braavos, perhaps Jaqen Haqar could assist her, could explain the source of the pain.

Or perhaps he would blind her again, even poison her and take her face.

Poetic.

She tightened the girth and readied to mount only to be paused by the ship’s captain.

“Wait here, Princess, just a moment longer.” He tossed a glance into the white expanse. “I have sent a dozen men to search the land, they will go before you, for your safety. I have promised my captain and Ser Davos, who has no doubt promised your brother the King…”

Arya stiffened with impatience, softening as she remembered her goal.

“Of course, Captain. I will not make any more trouble for you or your men, please forgive me for my obstinance.”

His return smile was nearly blinding; she should have spent more time with him, he seemed a genuinely interesting man. Perhaps one day she would sail with him into the unknown, if her other plans didn’t unfold as hoped.

So she stood there, long reins in hand as her mount stretched his neck to investigate the straw and ice beneath his hooves. It had been a long time since she had just stood around, let alone in this kind of cold. Her boots must have thinned, she felt her toes and feet begin to tingle, the prickles slowly rising up her shins. She shifted her weight, leading her horse up a small rise so she could see into the bright whiteness.

Kartis, of course, accompanied her, and she smiled briefly at him. She hoped he would be good company, brotherly, friendly. He was of her age, a fair-haired northerner with freckles who had blushed when she’d apologized after a string of Braavosi curses when they’d first set sail.

She wondered that their ruse had worked so well, at least so far. She added that to another new list, things to do to protect her new life, to seek more understanding of what her younger brother had become, the magic, the myth. What did he see, what did he know?

Sansa, well, Sansa she understood already.

She clenched her fist. Regret. Shame.

How could she have been so fooled. Bitterness burned the back of her throat.

The wind gusted up off the river, crisp shards of icy snow blown into her face, spooking her horse into a sidestep that almost knocked her over. She grasped the saddle to catch her balance, hoping no one had seen, relieved to find that all eyes and ears had turned to the two small specks in the distance, waving the all clear.

Good. Time to go. Time to go home.

She nodded goodbye to the dark-skinned captain.

Corren Byrne was suddenly behind her, taking the reins from her as Kartis extended a hand to help her mount. She was tired, from the pain and sleeplessness and the ache and the nausea, and for once she accepted help. She gathered the reins and nodded, leaning forward as she clucked to her horse, her guards quickly falling in before and behind.

Soon she could see lines of tracks in the snow between two bluffs, likely elk and wolves and shadow cats that had come down to the river for water, the tracks obliterated on the shore where she had disembarked. They followed the tracks inland, joining with those that had waved them forward. Arya squinted painfully at the blinding sun as she strained to listen to the reports of their scouts.

There had been numerous sightings of wildlife as they had made their way up the coastline, past White Harbor and up the swollen river. Now they traveled in their tracks the way they had come, trusting they knew the terrain better than they themselves now that the reliable landmarks were no longer reliable. Gladly they continued heading north, scouts searching for the King’s Road to the west.

Byrne raised a hand to halt their growing party, resting their horses for the long ascent. They seemed to add several of the scouts as they caught up with them along the way, others returning to the ship. They bowed their heads to her as they took their place surrounding her; she met their eyes as she nodded back.

They would make camp soon, too treacherous to travel in the dusk in such uncertain terrain.

Arya dismounted and pulled off her gloves, suddenly aware of the slight sheen of sweat on her brow. Even surrounded by snow and ice, the farther they traveled inland, the warmer the air itself had become.

The Citadel had declared Winter had surely come. What was this then?

She took a long drink of water from her flask, refreshed by the cool bite soothing her parched throat. She closed her eyes, trying to picture their present location, to remember the last time they had traveled this way. Before her life had been blown to seven hells.

Wait, was this…

Yes, the day they’d reached the Inn at the Corners. She could almost relive that day. Prince Joffrey. Mycah. Nymeria.

The Hound. The King. Sansa’s betrayal. Lady’s sacrifice.

She’d known then that this would be more than just an adventure as her father had promised them both.

How had things gone so wrong?

Her breathing quickened with the memories, reminded of Nymeria’s visit not so long ago. That warmth, or gnawing in the back of her mind.

She gasped. She might have recognized it sooner if not for the pain.

Yes, it was familiar now. This must be her range, her pack’s territory.

Should she seek her out? Or let her be… she’d cast that stone before, had decided again to let her be free.

Still the longing was awakened, more likely embraced, and Arya remounted her horse when signaled, longing for a glimpse as she traveled into the sparse woodlands.

She walked her horse up the long hill before remounting, gasping at what lay before her as she crested the long slope.

In the distance she could see the dark curve of the King’s Road, meandering between greening grasses and long burrows of standing water. The comforting scent of rain hung heavy in the air.

Small paths wound through the patches of green, animal tracks, even signs of campfires scattered on the higher mounds. Some wondered if they were Dothraki camps, or Free Folk. Or even Southerners displaced by all the wars, looking for peace and refuge.

So much had changed, was changing. She reminded herself to take note; anything to help Jon, to help the North.

To restore Winterfell, to restore the Stark name to the duty it once held, to the honor it once deserved.

A steeper trail rose before them, a scout returning to advise making camp for the night. Arya was torn, but agreed; she had expected to be home by now and her anxiety was compounded again; what was happening in Winterfell, who had taken charge, who was making decisions? She imagined it would be Maester Wolkan; but was he ever a Stark maester? Was he still loyal to the Boltons, that fealty falling on Sansa Stark?

His name was first on her list, in urgency if not importance. She snickered to herself. He should be grateful it was not that kind of list.

They arrived at their camp, she was relieved but uncomfortable that the tents were set up before she’d arrived. Uncomfortable in general at how she was being treated, as if she was incapable of doing any work, of taking care of herself.

No wonder Jon squirmed at wearing a crown. Starks took care of themselves.

Stark.

The Last of the Starks.

So be it.

Byrne gathered Traveler’s reins as she dismounted, nodding as he led him away to be bedded for the night. Her bannered canvas tent was erected in a dry swale, just the slightest breeze flapping the sides as she entered.

Princess.

Princess Arya Stark.

All the comforts of home, all things considered.

Brazier blazing, cot readied with blankets and furs and pillows, benches and a small table holding a writing desk, the bundle of her belongings nestled alongside, guards posted at the entrance.

“Your Grace, supper will be ready soon. Do you need anything else before then?”

Arya hesitated. All she wanted to do was close her eyes and sleep, but she knew she had not tracked all of the conversations during their travels. She pulled a map of the North from her backpack and laid it out, flattening it with her hand as the young guard approached.

“Thank you, Kartis, can you tell me where we are right now?”

He bowed, again, and strode forward, smiling.

“We seem to be about here, Princess, making good time, considering. Which means we should cross the King’s Road about here, either late tomorrow or early the day after.”

She nodded, sighing. Still, it was too far.

“Your safety is our main concern, Your Grace. It will do no good to hurry and take risks and deliver an injured princess to her home, we…”

Arya raised her eyebrow, “Thank you, I am fully… I realize… I’m grateful that you have taken your… assignment so fully to heart. Of course if there is anything that can be done, that I can do to speed our travels, don’t hesitate to bring it to my attention.”

Kartis gave a tilted nod before turning and leaving her finally alone.

She took a deep breath and removed her cloak, letting the heat from the brazier seep into her soul. She pulled the chair close to the map, sat and pulled the candle closer, distracted briefly by the banner fluttering in the light breeze just outside the tent flap, causing the direwolf sigil to ripple and entice.

Was it a good sign or for ill? Time would tell.

She leaned back, tempted but too tired to lift her muddy boots to rest on the table.

What had happened to the honor of the Starks? What would father have to say? Though now that she knew the truth of things, he himself could not protest too loudly.

And her mother? From what she’d heard her own actions had caused the simmering pot to boil over.

Arya found herself betrayed and broken… but beginning again.

She stood quickly to pull the flap of her tent closed, tying it shut. She could not afford to be interrupted.

Arya sat again at the table and pulled her bundle closer, rummaging until she found a small but almost full leather pouch, followed by a small metal cup, its handle and underside blackened through use. She carefully added a pinch of the herbs from the pouch, rummaging again for the small vial wrapped carefully in her nightshirt.

She added water to the cup and placed it on the brazier, waiting for steam to rise, finally bubbling before starting her count to one hundred.

She used a worn linen to remove the cup carefully from the flame, letting it cool just a bit before carefully opening the vial.

She’d sniffed from it once as she’d opened it, woke up two days later under the bridge by the river.

Now she drew up a single drop on the glass rod, stirring it slowly into her tea, diluting its potency with the gentle herbs.

She closed the vial again, sealing it tightly before wrapping it and returning it to her bundle.

She’d seen it made, had watched carefully, though she’d never made it herself, for this was the magic of the House of Black and White; for those who wished for rest, for those who wished for sight, for those who wished for a new beginning. Just a sip of the tasteless water would give you what you wanted most.

She’d been taking it to still the voices. So she could sleep, so she could think. So she could live. But she wondered as well if this wasn’t the very cause of it all. It was truly magic after all.

Voices rose and fell outside the tent as she clasped the cup in her hands, enjoying the warmth before taking a sip, another before feeling the lightness in her hands and feet. The voices came closer, and she finished the tea quickly, rinsing the remains before returning the cup and herbs to her bag.

She breathed deeply, slowly, in through her nose, out through open mouth. Her heart slowed as her eyelids drooped.

She waited for a voice asking for entry, but they passed by again and she stood and moved her chair to face the tent entrance, her hand dropping to her familiar blade as a small smile fought its way to her face.

It would be good to see him again, to just be Jon and Arya again. The last time she’d seen him, well, no doubt either of them looked well.

Sansa had convinced Bran to say their farewells to Jon on the docks. She’d said it would look good to his supporters; the siblings would be sincere and sympathetic and remorseful, that they could not have done more for him, that his sacrifice was necessary for the safety of the people. No doubt people would understand; Jon was always willing to sacrifice himself for the safety of others.

But it had not gone as planned. The Last of the Starks had waited on the jetty for what had seemed like hours, tensing as their former King was shadowed along the walkway by his two black-cloaked escorts.

It was strange seeing him without Longclaw.

He’d paused as his eyes had adjusted to the shimmering reflection only to find his former family waiting stoically, performing for those who would no doubt report back on this final sibling interaction.

Arya had braced herself; she had struggled over what to say, should she give him a hint of what was to come? Should she encourage him? In the end she had decided to deliver the tale his benefactors had concocted, a tale of seafaring exploration that she could neither afford nor was prepared for.

In the end no words were needed.

The black cloaked escorts had fallen back, to allow privacy for the expected emotional goodbyes. Only to have to rush forward as the former King in the North brushed past his siblings to ascend into the small boat, back turned as he was rowed out to the bobbing ship in the harbor.

Arya had been tempted to smile, instead watched as her brother and sister nodded to one another before Sansa placed her hands on the back of the new King’s chair.

“Are you sure this is what should be happening?”

They halted and turned to her in unison.

“Once he gets on that ship, he will be lost to us.” She knew she would be lost to them as well, in her own way giving them one last chance to reconsider their plans.

But the Broken King merely nodded slightly as he gazed into the open sea. “He was lost to us a long time ago. He’s not a Stark, he never was one, you can’t lose what you never had…”

Arya remembered the ache in her head pounding.

“It’s what he’s always wanted,” Sansa had approached her to look down into her face, taking her hand to draw her close. “Everyone has finally gotten what they’ve always wanted.”

Arya was grateful that her kin were ignorant and untrained, or they would have seen the anger and loathing that sparked across her face.

“The rest of us had a choice.”

Sansa dropped her hand and turned to her duty, wheeling their brother the king a few steps before his appointed guards took her place to return him to his throne.

Sansa had paused to pull on her gloves, turned to wait for her on the pier.

“Why didn’t you tell me about your plans? I thought you’d be helping me in the North? You’re turning your back on…”

“You don’t really want me there, we both know it. It wouldn’t be home for me, not any longer. And the northmen won’t have any choice but to support you, Your Grace.” She’d smiled then, a practiced smile, and Sansa had smiled in return.

Not that either of their smiles or their words meant anything, though for very different reasons.

She’d never forget that fateful day, when everything had changed, when the past had caught up with them all.

They’d met in the Godswood, the children of Lord Eddard Stark.

Sansa, Bran and herself. And Jon.

To try to talk sense into him, about his Queen. That she was not one of them. She couldn’t be trusted.

Then they’d promised, they’d sworn to keep that unknown secret, then waited for Jon to speak.

She’d thought about that often, why he hadn’t told them himself. Why leave it to Bran? Was he ashamed? Did he think Bran would be more believable?

Later she’d understood.

He was losing everything. Had lost it all.

He would never be a Stark. He would lose the North. He would lose his queen, his love.

The family he’d hoped to one day deserve.

Because of the truth the honorable Lord Stark had kept secret from them all. Because of the treason against his King and the betrayal of his own sister’s son. He’d kept the promise, but betrayed the love behind it.

“Protect him…”

More than ever she would have liked to have asked her father what he was thinking. Had he always planned on exiling Jon? He could have had him named a Stark, given him his own holdfast, a family…

No, that would have continued the Targaryen bloodline.

But later she’d heard he had given up his position as Hand in defense of the young Targaryen queen, to prevent her assassination. Why should she live free, to love and have children and bring dragons back to life, and Jon, his own kin, be sent to the Wall? If distance was the answer, he could have told Jon who he was and sent him to his family in Essos.

She rubbed her forehead. Yes, it would surely get complicated.

Jon was the rightful heir; and it was well known that Prince Viserys was dead set on retaking the throne himself. He’d likely kill Jon himself.

But what about later, what about…

But that day before the heart tree Bran had straightened in his chair and told his tale.

Had the betrayal started there in the godswood?

“Jon is not our brother, he is our cousin.” His monotone voice for once held a distant note of emotion. “Eddard Stark is not his father, but our aunt Lyanna is his mother.”

He’d waited, watching. Jon had lowered his eyes to the ground and bowed his head. Arya looked from one to the other, waiting for the words to make sense. Sansa had apparently comprehended more quickly, grasping her arms around herself and taking a step back, scowling.

“Bran, what are you saying, you can’t know that for sure.”

“It’s true. I know it is. It’s the only thing that answers why…” Jon’s voice trailed off into the trees in the godswood.

Bran’s voice broke through her confusion.

“Samwell Tarly and I were talking when he first arrived in Winterfell. So many times, the Three Eyed Raven had…”

“I thought you were the Three Eyed Raven!”

“I am, but the old man in the tree, the last Three Eyed Raven, he taught me, he was teaching me, how to control the sight, how to use it to fight the Night King, how to keep it from…”

Bran’s voice trailed off, “but I made a terrible mistake, and it cost everything; his life, Hodor, Summer, the Children of the Forest, they all died because I made a mistake. That’s when I learned that even with all of this knowledge, all of this sight I could still make mistakes. I’m still learning…”

They watched as his face showed more emotion than any had seen since they’d parted ways years before.

“I’d failed, I put us all in danger, and he said we had to leave, that I would have to take my place sooner than expected. I asked him if I was ready, and he said ‘No,’ but we had to leave anyway, it was then…”

Bran nodded slightly, the stone visage returning.

“Before, he would bring me places, show me things in time. Over and over, he kept taking me to this tower, in Dorne, it was guarded by two Kingsguard for House Targaryen – Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning and Ser Gerold Hightower – and I saw Father Howland Reed and four others. I asked him, ‘What’s in the tower?’ Father was looking for Lyanna, this was after the war was over, after the sacking of King’s Landing, after Robert Baratheon had taken the Iron Throne for himself.”

Jon’s tortured gasp had pulled her attention and Arya found herself wringing her hands.

“They wouldn’t let them pass, so they’d fought.”

Sansa scoffed, “we’ve heard this story. This doesn’t mean anything.”

“I was there Sansa, Howland Reed stabbed Ser Arthur Dayne in the back of the neck, and father finished him off, then… I followed him up into the tower. Aunt Lyanna lay in a bed, there was blood everywhere.

“She made him promise, to protect her babe from Robert, that he’d kill him if he found out.”

Arya closed her eyes as she remembered Jon’s face contorted with pain and confusion. He stepped toward Bran, breathing heavily.

“Why, why are you telling all of this now? Why couldn’t this have waited?”

Bran simply raised his eyes.

“His name is Aegon Targaryen, you have to protect him.”

Sansa was aggrieved. “Targaryen? No, this can’t be… father never would have dishonored our house for…”

Jon raised his eyes, hurt and anger flaring.

“...for me?”

“That’s not what I'm saying, there must have been another way, mother, father, if this is true…”

Arya had straightened from her own thoughts and placed her hand on Jon’s arm.

“Then it’s you, you are the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. You are the last Targaryen, no wonder you can ride a dragon.” She had chuckled lightly, had tried to lighten the conversation. But Sansa was having none of it.

“He can’t be, he’s still a bastard. I'm sorry Jon but we have to deal with the reality here, your birth is still…”

Bran interrupted. “Samwell Tarly held the key, though I should have looked back further at the time. I didn’t have the chance then, but I realize now there was a reason the old man kept taking me to the tower. Jon, you are the purpose of it all, the Prince that was Promised, the future of the…”

“I don’t want it, I never wanted it, I still don’t!” He spun angrily to face each of them in turn. “And you’ve all taken an oath before the heart tree…”

Arya nodded, then turned back to her brother. “What did Tarly say, Bran, what was the key?”

“He’d been training, researching at the Citadel, searching for ways to defeat the Night King, and he’d been reading the High Septon’s journals, and the ‘Tales of the Long Night.’ The High Septon had recorded in his diary how he had annulled Rhaegar’s marriage to Elia, and had performed a secret marriage. So I went to see, and there it was, Rhaegar and Lyanna were married in The Seven by the High Septon himself. Jon, it's true, you are the trueborn, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, you alone can rally all of Westeros, the entire Seven Kingdoms to turn back the Army of the Dead…”

Later Arya wondered if that’s truly what Bran wanted, the defeat of the Night King, or was this all just a way to destroy both Jon and the Dragon Queen.

Jon slowly shook his head. “As it is now I can barely keep my hold on the North. If it gets out that I'm not a son of Eddard Stark, that I'm a Targaryen… No, this must remain a secret, we will follow the last true Targaryen into the Long Night, we will…”

Sansa had pulled him to face her.

“Jon, if she hasn’t already, she will figure it out, others will. They’ve seen you ride a dragon. Everyone knows the story that father told, eventually she will put it all together, and she will see the threat you are to her claim. The best you can do is manage the truth, you have to act first, you can’t hide, you have to –”

“Stop! This conversation is over!”

Arya had never seen Jon truly angry, and for a brief moment she was afraid. She’d wondered if he got his temper from his dragon side, later would find herself looking for signs of his Targaryen heritage with every new encounter, searching every memory.

He’d glared at each one of them and had stalked out of the godswood, leaving the three siblings gaping and confused.

Silence lingered for a heartbeat before Bran leaned back, placing his gloved hands on the arms of his chair.

“We must all keep the oath or suffer the consequences. These are Jon’s choices now, as your kin and as your liege lord.”

Arya watched Sansa’s face, she could see her running through this new knowledge. Yes, that’s when it had started.

Then she’d caught a glimpse of Bran, a glimmer of emotion as a brief smile of satisfaction crossed his face before returning to his mystic mask.

She glanced over his shoulder; behind him watched the bloody face of the weirwood tree, beacons of the Old Gods.

Were they listening? Did they care? Whose side were they on?

Did she believe in them any longer?

Oaths and curses and honor and survival.

No, this was more than an oath, or a crown, or even a tainted promise.

Yes, now she understood.

For a fleeting moment Jon had been someone, with a name and a family and a heritage, a past and a present and a future. Not that he wanted to be king, but just to belong, to not be an outcast, to be more than just a bastard, to find out who he was and to be that, whatever he wanted it to be, to make his own way.

She leaned back in her chair. She knew what that felt like.

Arya huffed as she sipped the watered wine, her hand trembling slightly.

”There is only one god, and his name is Death.”

Did Death stalk her sister now? She’d been told so many times of the curses bestowed by the Old Gods; sickness, ruin, desolation, destruction… madness. She wanted to feel sorry for her, but she couldn’t. Sansa had broken her oath and would suffer whatever consequences the Old Gods, the New Gods, the God of Death deemed appropriate for her crimes.

Arya felt sweat break out on her forehead, the palms of her hands.

If she’d only known then… what would she, could she have done? The seeds had been planted and had found fertile ground.

So many regrets, yes, but she needed to concentrate on the future, her own future, for once. A cold wind skirted through the open flap of the tent, fluttering the map before she held the edges down with her gloves.

Jon’s safety was of paramount importance. His safety and his crown. Sansa had conspired for both, was unlikely to give up easily. She likely had a list of targeted names of her own now; Tormund, loyal northern Lords, who else? Perhaps others who knew Jon’s true heritage. Tyrion? Tarly?

Her own name? Perhaps even Bran?

Arya cursed. She had to admit that it was a good strategy. Start a war with what was left of the Free Folk by killing Tormund and any lords still loyal to Jon. She could frame it however she chose, use the conflict to unite the North and perhaps even take control of the lands beyond the Wall, wiping out the leaderless Free Folk as she fought for the North.

Nothing but mere speculation for now, but another reason to speak with Gendry. He might have heard things said that at the time he didn’t know were important. Perhaps even about Bran. What he wanted, what he’d become.

Arya reached again into her bundle and pulled out a leather folder, untying the cord and laying the parchments before her, each page a list.

She’d laughed when she’d realized, but everything, now, was a list.

She’d started a list of the changes Sansa had likely already set in motion before leaving Winterfell for King's Landing, perhaps even before Jon had returned from Dragonstone. She realized now that her own actions had only aided her sister’s plans; killing Baelish had removed a great obstacle to her usurpation and raised her standing with the lords. Then, leaving Winterfell for King’s Landing to kill Cersei had allowed Sansa to make unchallenged decisions in the North.

She reviewed what she had so far. Sansa had made offers of land and goods to high lords, perhaps for more than votes. The North would need money to buy food… She’d have to marry for protection…

Once again Arya felt tears well. Sansa was her sister, and a monster.

When she’d last left for King’s Landing, she hadn’t even told her goodbye, had not told her she would not be returning. They’d never been close, not as close as siblings, as sisters should be.

Then, in King’s Landing, when she’d found Sansa and Bran speaking so quietly, almost whispering, falling silent when she entered the room...

Before she supposedly left for the sea, she’d expected more questions, ‘When had she become an explorer?,’ or at least some effort to convince her to stay. Her presence in Winterfell would have bolstered her sister’s legitimacy, an acknowledgment from the Starks that Sansa was the rightful ruler.

But Bran, he’d no doubt seen all of this. Would he intervene? For the North, for Jon? Did he not see? Did he not care?

Did he have plans of his own? She’d need to find a way to discover…

But when they’d parted ways, he’d merely smiled at her.

“You will do well, Mercy.”

Sansa had flinched at his voice, as Arya had flinched at herself being named. Arya closed her eyes, could see the expression on her sister’s face. Relief, sadness, even loneliness and disappointment. As if she believed they’d never see each other again.

Perhaps that would be true.

Was she on Sansa’s list?

Something would need to be done about Sansa permanently, and Arya wondered how Jon would react to her suggestions.

And once the truth was out. What was Bran up to? She’d seen, witnessed his powers, his sight. It was all so confusing, what he said at the counsel. He’d been offered the title of Lord of Winterfell, his rightful position, and had turned it down. Then why did he ask, “Why do you think I came all this way?” She had tried to detect lies, but had found his actions unreadable. Perhaps because he was no longer a human, no longer her brother Bran. Would he be a threat to the North? To her? To Jon? What would he do when he found Jon in Winterfell?

She wondered if he was watching them even now through one of his ravens…

Davos had told her of the discontent over the new king, so many problems, and so little faith that this young boy could solve them. Perhaps why so many were willing to conspire with Sansa.

Surely they knew that if Jon’s name had been put forth, he would have been wearing the crown even now, regardless of his actions, regardless of the threat of the Unsullied. He would have been a good king, loved and respected, a good leader, and they couldn’t have that.

House Arryn. House Tully. They were her kin as much as Sansa’s. They’d betrayed her as well as Jon and the realm.

She wondered, could she have a hand in regaining their loyalty?

The Last Loyal Stark.

And House Baratheon. She was saddened, for Gendry. He’d found himself thrust in the midst of conspiracy and treason. He could find his new future destroyed even before he could get used to being called Lord.

And she had new questions for him. She hoped he’d be savvy enough to keep his head on his shoulders without her there to protect him. She smiled to herself; as if he needed her protection.

She’d almost nodded off studying the map before her when the steward brought her supper, enough food for a dozen of her. She wondered if she looked like she needed to be fattened up. She ate in silence, alone, enjoying the setting sun casting red shadows across the outside of the tent, shadows of the northmen guarding her tent, Stark banners fluttering lightly in the waning wind.

She pushed her plate back and belched, relieved, then laughed at herself.

She’d have to grow up. She was a princess now.

Or at least a lady.

What would father say?

What would a younger Arya say?

“That’s not me.”

She stood and stretched, hands locked and arms overhead, as her cot beckoned to her, sitting on the edge as she pulled off her boots, stained from the pockets of sticky mud that had slowed their passage. They were so close to home, yet the changing landscape had made it treacherous for the horses and often they’d walked through bog and across ice patches for safety’s sake.

Arya pulled her bundle close, fingering past her leather packet of dead faces to find her few personal items; brush, mirror and spare leather to tie back her hair. She laid them out on the bed before removing her outer garments, untying her hair to brush it before settling in for the evening.

She must have fallen asleep almost immediately, later woken from her nightmares when the moon was fully risen, green and purple stripes from the northern lights rippling over the sailcloth of her tent ceiling. She was tempted to rise once again to watch the colors of the sky, drawn to the red tailed comet seemingly stuck in the embrace of the ever changing flares, only to hear distant chatter and stomping of hoof, an occasional snort of a restless horse, and the soft song of the North circling the campfires.

Arya ignored the ache in her head and breathed deeply as she turned on her side, pulling the soft furs around her, the warmth familiar and comforting.

Soon she would be home.

Chapter Text

Arya awoke to shouting in the camp, she quickly rose and dressed and tied back her hair, strapping on the sheaths of her dagger and sword as she rushed out of the tent, startling the guards outside. There were far more than last night, standing with their backs to her, facing the source of the commotion.

“What is it? Are we being attacked?”

She was tempted to abandon her guards and go find out for herself, but realized those days were probably over. She’d have to wait for information to come to her.

“You’re safe, Princess. Just some refugees drawn by the fire. We’re doing our best to send them on their way.”

Arya sheathed Needle. “How many, can we feed them, shall we take them with us to Winterfell or are they heading elsewhere?”

Corren Byrne smiled and nodded to his counterpart.

“We’ll send word, Your Grace.” He bowed and Arya nodded in return. She was getting used to this, and wondered if that was a good thing or bad.

The steward entered the clearing carrying what she hoped was her breakfast. She was hungrier than usual, even thought it was a good sign until the headache and shooting pains returned with a vengeance.

She turned to follow her steward into her tent, “I'll be ready to get moving as soon as I’ve eaten, is there anything delaying our departure?”

Her companions all bowed, “We’ll be ready, Your Grace.”

She could hear the activity in the camp escalate, and after a short breakfast they were on their way.

As the mist had lifted with the rising sun, from horseback she could clearly trace the King’s Road running north along the slight ridge. Even from there she could see other travelers, also heading north.

“Mid-day, Princess, and we’ll be able to travel quickly then. Scouts tell us that the road itself is damaged in places where carts or carriages or wagons could not pass, but we should have no problem, and should be arriving at Winterfell tomorrow evening, the next morning at the latest.”

Arya nodded, relieved. She was getting used to Kartis, he was learning to give her the information she needed and nothing else. He was barely older than her, and she wondered what his story was.

These days everyone had a story, of loss and courage and fire and blood.

Maybe one day she’d ask.

Arya nudged Traveler up the bank, the white horse easily navigating the uneven rise leading to the well-worn rutted road.

Relief flooded her heart; through the distant haze she could follow the dark trail leading north, could barely make out the stone entrance to Winter Town, in her mind even the shallow domes of Winterfell just behind. She wanted to spur them all on, instead she shut her eyes as the memories flooded in. Home. She could almost smell the bread baking in the kitchens.

Traveler stomped his hoof, reflecting her own readiness to ride hard. Instead she patted him on the side of his neck.

“Easy boy, we’ll be home soon enough. No reason to get careless now, we don’t know what or who is lurking along the way.”

The white horse tossed his mane as if in agreement, and Arya was tempted to roll her eyes as Kartis smiled at her words.

They’d all been watching her closely, not just to protect her, but to see what she was made of. She’d handled the large war horse well, once he’d gotten used to such a small figure on his back, and she suspected they appreciated her attentiveness to the dangers of their situation as well.

“Corren, send a messenger on ahead, that we have made it this far safely and will be arriving in Winterfell soon.”

Once again Arya appreciated her training, her ability to remain calm and in control under every circumstance. The next few days, weeks would be perhaps her greatest test.

Thankfully their ride was fairly uneventful, but for avoiding damaged roadways or skirting groups of small folk blocking the road.

They camped late and rose early, all anxious to hasten now that the end was in sight.

As expected, they’d arrived at the outskirts of Winter Town in the late afternoon. The town itself had more than doubled in size, the ancient stone buildings surrounded by campfires and makeshift hovels as far as the eye could see, at least in the dim dusk. Many of the refugees came to the road and watched suspiciously as she rode past, crying babes and running children mingled among the tired and dejected adults, none showing much emotion other than fleeting hope when they’d heard her name.

She had mixed feelings, that they’d been alerted of her arrival – Arya Stark, the Hero of the Long Night, the Stark in Winterfell, the daughter of Ned Stark – and now had come out to greet her homecoming. She was not used to this kind of responsibility, to be the reason for hope. She planned to deserve their consideration. And she wondered what version of the truth had made it here from King’s Landing, if she’d get a chance to tell her tale.

The last time she’d traveled this road; her thoughts turned to the Hound. He’d kidnapped her and tried to trade her for gold, traipsing all over the countryside, all the while protecting her, teaching her, listening to her.

Did she miss him, or simply miss that part of her life, when she still had hope, when she was still just Arya Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North.

She often dreamt of the happenstance of it all, the timing. If they’d arrived sooner to The Twins, could their arrival have stirred the camp enough to interfere with the planned treachery? If they had arrived earlier to the Eyrie, would her Aunt Lysa still live, for good or for ill? If they’d made it to King’s Landing sooner, and she’d crossed the Usurper Queen’s name off her list the night before the battle raged?

What if she could have prevented it all? All of the death and destruction, the horrible choices.

Jon’s choices.

Arya heaved a sigh. The ink was dry.

Dusk was falling, and her mount’s coat reflected the yellow and orange flames from the open fires as they rode by. Her eyes drifted upward as the stars faded into view, the night clear but for the bright red comet hanging over the high towers of Winterfell.

Welcoming her home? Or a sign of things to come? Danger, treachery… deception.

She remembered the last time she’d hid among the townsfolk, watching as the Warden of the North rode next to the Dragon Queen amongst the Unsullied and Dothraki. She remembered the terror and thrill of the screeching overhead, the shadow cast along the road and over the terrified crowd.

Dragons.

She’d had doubts then, of course. Had Jon made the right choice, could he still be trusted, had his loyalty been turned by the beauty of the last Targaryen?

She’d seen later that she’d been a fool. She’d let Sansa poison her own judgment, let herself be used.

Never again.

Now as they rode through the crowds of people lining the streets, some even waving and cheering as she smiled and nodded and waved… Yes, Princess Arya, the Stark in Winterfell for now, had learned how to play a part. The expectations didn’t bother her as much as they once had. She had made her choice, knew what she wanted, knew what she had to do and how to do it.

She’d not be bound by her past, if she could help it, and welcomed the quiet darkness as they left the village limits.

Night had fully settled as they arrived at the gates.

Winterfell.

Home.

Apprehension threatened her bearing when she remembered the last time she’d “come home,” the uncertainty, the longing, the drop of hope.

No longer home, not the home she’d left oh those many lifetimes ago.

Father. Mother. Robb. Rickon. All lost. She’d tried to remember the last time they’d all been together, but the memories had all blurred together in the haste of packing and goodbyes and the septa’s warnings to behave.

And Jon. Needle.

Nymeria.

She straightened as lanterns were lifted to mark the road.

Everything had changed.

She knew what was waiting for her this time. No wars, no dead men. New challenges certainly, but she felt like she had her feet under her, despite the pain and aches and nausea. She’d find ways of dealing with those as well.

Winterfell’s guards nodded as she passed, her troop pausing just before the opened gates.

A new life. She could choose. She did choose.

She nudged her horse into the courtyard.

Shouting had erupted behind the walls of the castle as they’d approached the gates, but silence greeted her now as her eyes adjusted to row upon row of somewhat familiar faces lined up in the dark courtyard, curtsying, bowing as she passed. Torch flames danced on their faces, and she found it hard to tell how her return was being received. So she smiled, tried to make it appear genuine, she even felt it might be genuine; she was glad to be home at least.

Finally she found the face she’d been seeking; Maester Wolkan. She halted before him, her companions following loosely behind.

She’d planned out what she needed to do once home, starting with taking this man’s measure. And time was of the essence.

Wolkan stepped forward as a steward took her horse, her guards following close at her elbow.

“Maester Wolkan, it is good to see you.”

Arya slipped off her gloves to shake his hand, that was the protocol was it not? She would not be extending a hand for a kiss, not ever…

Wolkan’s smile was jumbled; there seemed to be true joy mixed with uncertainty, a reflection of her own feelings.

“Princess Arya, we are grateful you have arrived home safe and sound.”

Arya nodded, taking a half step back and a deep breath as she faced the inhabitants of Winterfell. She’d heard enough speeches, giving one shouldn’t be that hard.

“Maester Wolkan, good people of the North, friends of Winterfell. We are all this day charged with preparing for the return of the King in the North, my brother Jon Snow.”

She paused to listen carefully to the varied murmurings among the crowd, grateful that a measure of the uncertainty was replaced with expectation even as she caught suspicious glances cast her way.

“I know I can count on all of you to do whatever is necessary to be ready for the King’s arrival, for his safety and for his reign. No doubt you all have many questions, and though we may get some answers today, we will all have to wait for many of those answers to come from the King himself.”

That came out better than she’d expected; it was not her way to be out in front of the people, she much preferred the shadows, but she didn’t want to say anything that might interfere with whatever story Jon himself wanted to convey.

“For now, I thank you for your warm welcome, and I look forward to assisting in whatever way I can to restore Winterfell and the North to their former – peace and prosperity.”

Arya was relieved when the crowd finally responded, clapping and happy talking to one another, all lifting their lanterns high as they turned to leave when she turned away to face Wolkan.

Wolkan bowed again to Arya and waved her toward a side entrance to the castle.

“Princess, there are many waiting to see you. I've told them you would greet them at the feast tonight but may wait to speak to them tomorrow so you can recover from traveling.”

Arya smothered her annoyance, affronted that Wolkan seemed to imply he knew what her wishes would be. Instead she wondered what her sister would do, how would… how should the Lady of Winterfell behave in this situation? She tried to make her smile feel genuine. This would all take time, and soon she would know if this Maester could be trusted. Her life, Jon’s life, the future of the North could depend on actions she took now.

“Thank you Maester Wolkan. But first, are there any messages from my brother, or any other concerns that must be dealt with for his safety or for the safety of the people of the north? Is there any reason I would not want to send a messenger to Jon that I have arrived in Winterfell?”

They’d stopped in the inner hallway, and Wolkan shook his head, “No, Princess,” and whispered to his steward to fetch parchment and ink as Arya removed her gloves.

Arya smiled as she wrote out her message, uncertain as to how many would read it, relieved as the maester sealed it with the Stark sigil.

“I take it it is still best to send by messenger rather than raven?”

Wolkan nodded with a cocked head, “It does seem to be safest.”

Arya was relieved. She’d assumed Jon had made it to White Harbor, and had no doubt that Lord Manderly would have sent a raven or messenger if Jon had refused the crown. So he must have decided to do the right thing and accept the crown, so to speak. King in the North.

For now at least; they’d deal with the rest of it later.

Wolkan lowered his voice. “There are loyal messengers within these walls, or would you like to send one of your own men?”

“Perhaps its best that I send someone I know, someone who has traveled with me and would be more familiar with all of the changes as well.” Though it hadn’t struck her until then that she had her own men.

Wolkan nodded and inserted the sealed parchment into a leather pouch, binding it securely before extending it toward her. Arya accepted it and turned to Corren with instructions for a speedy delivery, notwithstanding the care for horse and rider given the constantly changing roads.

She nodded to Wolkan as her guard exited the hallway back into the dark courtyard, offering thanks as he waved toward the dimly lit wing of the family chambers.

Wolkan and his steward led the way before her and her guards until she found herself at the door of her old quarters, surprised when she opened the door to find that her childhood room had been expanded into one other to make a long narrow chamber, decked out in fine fabrics and glass lanterns on the candles, new fringed rugs on the floor, expensive tapestries on the walls and even colored glass in the windows.

Arya cringed as she entered, overwhelmed as she slowly turned before the dual hearths, once separated by a stone wall. If this was what had become of her room…

Curious, she quickly ventured down the guard-lined hall, past the newly stoned-in door next to hers, to find that what was once her parents rooms were now expanded to make a single grand bedroom suite.

Fit for a Queen.

She chuckled as she stood at the open doorway, imagining what Jon would say, how he would react when he saw what she has done, what had become of his room now.

Something to look forward to, and fortunately nothing she needed to act on now.

Arya returned to her room, finding Corren waiting with news that the messenger was off on a fast horse.

She nodded and smiled and closed the door behind her, this time finding the fire roaring and her bed inviting.

Home. Perhaps not as familiar, but home nonetheless.

No time for nostalgia.

A feast was being prepared for her return, lords of the north and who knows who wanting to hear from her, even though she had nothing to say. She wanted to put it off until Jon returned, but realized it would be better to take every opportunity to make this sudden change positive and easy to embrace. There was no way of knowing how many waiting in the Great Hall had committed to a Queen’s rule, and as much as she’d like to impale them on stakes in the Godswood, it would probably be better to give them a chance to embrace the new leadership.

Or perhaps reveal themselves.

Until then she needed to connect with these people, assume the best. For now, she would consider them to be Jon’s lords, and above all else she wanted him to be proud of her.

He would be a good king, good for the North, good for the Stark name.

And she would need his help, his support for what was to come.

She found her traveling bundle on the bed, carefully retrieving the hastily stuffed garments and bundle of herbs and potion and placed them on the chair and table between the hearths. She took a moment to really look at the room; the heavy drapes, deep red rugs and green and gold tapestry depicting mountain lakes, woodland animals and climbing winter roses. A smaller tapestry hung over her bed, fairly new by the looks of it, detailed the outline of Winterfell itself. Something was – off – and she stepped closer to inspect it, unable to put her finger on what exactly had her troubled, finally discovering an additional wing had been added to the side of the ancient castle.

Did this tapestry reflect Sansa’s plans for expanding Winterfell?

Voices in the courtyard rebounded against the new stained windows, breaking her from her reverie.

There would be time to make herself at home, as much as that would be possible.

But for now, festivities awaited her, for her, in her honor.

She recalled the last time there was a feast in her honor, where she was dubbed the Hero of Winterfell.

She’d skipped that celebration, would have liked to skip this one as well.

But things were different now, she was different.

She smiled to herself and sorted her rumpled belongings. A sudden pang nearly took her breath away; she could almost feel her mother’s presence, hear her voice.

She’d give anything to be scolded one more time.

Arya carried her clothes to the massive engraved wardrobe, her fingers tracing the bronze hanging pulls.

This was her mother’s wardrobe. Somehow it had survived the Greyjoys. The Boltons. The White Walkers.

Apparently hers now.

She pulled the cabinet door open, startled to find a variety of garments already hanging inside, dresses and leather vests and leggings of every material and color. She suspected whatever seamstress Sansa had cajoled into the task had no idea what she would desire, so had seemingly guessed at what might suit her and made several of each color and material.

Very well, she would work with what was here. She’d become comfortable dressing for the part. No reason to offend the help.

Arya startled at the sharp rapping at her door, a muffled voice in the hall. She dropped her clothes on the table and swung open the door, smiling stiffly at a somewhat familiar servant carrying a sizeable tray of covered food and a silver pitcher.

She curtsied quickly, then crossed to a table suitable for dining, judging by the several chairs pulled against it. Soon the food and drink were at her disposal, and Arya placed her hand on her stomach as it rumbled in the silence.

She laughed, at herself and at the awkward silence, relieved when the girl curtsied again and introduced herself.

“Syrena, Your Grace. I’m to be your Lady’s Maid. Your sister made it clear, she, well, she gave very specific instructions as to my duties. I am … anything you need, Your Grace…”

Silence hung in the room for a moment, two. Finally Arya realized her mouth hung open and she snapped it shut, relieved when the young servant returned to her duties.

“Your Grace, I’ve made preparations for a bath to be brought if it suits you…” She waved to the far corner, and Arya marveled at the hidden door leading to a room fully dedicated to her bath and a rack of formal clothes and surprisingly even an alcove for weapons storage.

She muffled a cry, overwhelmed as she ran her hand over the richly embroidered gowns, long quilted vests and velvet coats of muted tones. At least there was nothing too flowery, or bright or ... She reminded herself that her duty had changed, from now on she would be someone else to the servants, to the lords, to the guards, to herself. At least Jon would surely be more flexible… She shook her head slightly and attempted to smile graciously.

“Thank you, Syrena. I think I would just like to rest before the feast instead. And tomorrow I would like to meet with the creator of these beautiful garments, perhaps work on some more practical… some other kinds of attire, do you think that is possible?”

Syrena bowed her head and curtsied, “That would be Jorlyn, Princess. Lady Stark, Sansa Stark that is, she had appointed Jorlyn Krey to be your Seamstress, and of course anyone you have brought yourself can easily be folded into your household, Your Grace.”

Arya caught her breath.

Lady in Waiting. Stewardess.

She shook her head.

What was Sansa thinking?

Had she thought that all of – this? That this is what would buy her loyalty? Her agreement? Her compliance?

She’d never wanted to be a lady, nor a princess, nor a wife nor mother nor anything to anyone.

She wanted to be… to make her own choices, to do and be whatever she chose. And then she became something else.

No One.

She sighed as Syrena curtsied and closed the door behind her.

Kartis and Corren followed close behind as Wolkan accompanied her to the Great Hall, the doors swinging wide for her entourage. Her heart raced; how many times had she run through these rooms, carefree and happy, for the most part at least. This was her home, even with the changes the Boltons had wrought after the Greyjoy’s fires, it was still her home. Yet when she walked in…

She paused to let her eyes adjust, pushing down the stinging jolt behind her eyes, instead taking in the scraping boots and hushed voices of the lords and ladies of the north within the halls of their liege lord and king.

And princess.

But this, this was not her home. She didn’t know what she was seeing.

She felt Maester Wolkan shuffle to a halt beside her as the leaders of the north quietly stood as she entered.

Focus, remember what you’re here for.

Arya relaxed her hands and raised her head, affixing what she hoped was an authoritative mask. She had learned how to use other’s faces to control an audience, now she would have to do it without the magic, that kind of magic at least. She calmly walked to the center of the room as she’d seen father, and Jon do before her.

“Welcome home, Lady Arya!”

“Welcome home, Princess.”

“Stark in Winterfell!”

“Lady Stark!”

She allowed herself a tense smile as she passed, grateful that the voices were familiar and comforting. She’d not known what to expect, she’d paid little attention on previous occasions, had never thought she would be the center of that attention. All she knew was that she didn’t want to do or say anything wrong. It would be better to do nothing than to do something that Jon would have to correct later.

She slowed her pace, these were friends. Many had fought, had lost kin fighting for her family.

She softened her expression, let them see she was grateful.

“Princess, welcome home.”

Arya startled as a youthful redhead, by appearances a true northern lord, quickly stepped forward, bowing as he pulled his sword from its scabbard, striking the ground and kneeling.

“We’ve been told our King will be arriving soon; but we,” he waved his hand toward the others now crowding forward, “we wanted to assure you of our loyalty to your family, to House Stark. Whatever may come, rest assured, The North Remembers. And the North knows no King but the King in the North. Long May He Reign!”

It was as if a whirlwind had been unleashed and a storm of swords filled the rafters, candlelight catching the sharpened edge of each blade, sending flits of light across the stone floor, armor and sigils of everyone in the hall.

“King in the North!”

Bolton. Mormont. Umber. Karstark.

Lost.

“Stark! Stark! Stark!”

Glover. Cerwyn. Manderly.

Honored.

“Long May He Reign!!!”

Hornwood. Reed. Cassel. Poole.

Restored.

Arya bit the inside of her cheek, the echoing noise expanding the pain behind her eyes. She waited for the cacophony to subside, overwhelmed and grateful when her silence was mistaken for emotion. Yet…

Perhaps it was her present condition, her weariness, the long ride, the pain, even the concoction she’d been drinking, but she’d actually felt moved by her welcome.

Yes, that’s what it was. The return of House Stark.

The rightful return, of a Northern, noble, honorable House.

A House her ancestors, her father, Robb and perhaps even her mother could have been proud of. Glimpses of the past, her past, rushed through her memory.

All the misery must come to an end, all so this could start again.

Hope for the North. The return of the way things were meant to be.

She took a deep breath.

“My lords, my ladies! On behalf of my brother the King in the North, I accept and I am grateful for your allegiance. For myself, I pledge to do whatever is in my power to support his plans, your plans to rebuild and strengthen the north and her people. Winter has come North, and with it comes the return of House Stark.”

A fresh enthusiasm bolstered the cheering crowd as they sheathed their swords and slowly returned to their seats for the feast. Arya flinched as Maester Wolkan gently grasped her elbow, leading her toward the head table, settling her in the central chair in front of the familiar hearth.

Her chair was pushed in from behind, and Arya grasped the chair arms and leaned back as the room spun before her.

She was tempted to close her eyes, instead tried to focus on the revelers below her, to name those seated next to her at the family table, to make sense of the changes to the Great Hall itself.

Life in the North had always been a matter of survival, scarcity, sacrifice. Winter was always a heartbeat away, and with it the possible death of a generation of northerners if not more. Preparedness in leadership was as valuable as courage; Vigilance as honorable as justice.

This was the duty that fell on House Stark. She’d seen that duty in her father, in Jon. The duty to prepare for the unknown, to prepare for the worst that could happen.

But what did she see before her?

She had noted the elevated dais when taking her seat, this very chair carved as a throne, the flames from the hearth glowing through cut outs along the sides and through the direwolf carved in the back.

A throne fit for a Queen.

She felt eyes on her as she took in her surroundings, finding new embellishments in every corner, on every surface.

The new furnishings were ornate and expensive, some kind of attempt, perhaps, to elevate the austere northern castle to a more regal, more southern standard.

Red and gold and green and silver seemed to be the more common colors, interrupted occasionally by gray and white and frost blue.

Each long wooden trestle table was striped with a reflective banner carefully draped down its length, stenciled sigils of a variety of the major houses, the Stark direwolf featured in silver in the center of each table. The fine shimmering fabric before her, weightless and golden, a reminder of the incessant heat of Braavos.

Each runner was held in place by gold and silver candlesticks, candles ablaze within stamped crystalline chimneys, brass and silver bowls of colorful southern fruit and northern decorations of pine cones and cedar boughs with ribbons of red and white and gray in between.

Clear glass flutes covered the candles filling the iron and wood chandeliers that hung from the rafters.

Heavy drapes of gold and silver and blue gathered velvet framed shimmering swathes of silk panels, blocking the light and casting a sickly yellow tint on furniture and faces alike.

Southron. Gaudy. Lannister.

Sansa must have started these changes as soon as Jon, and even as soon as she herself had left the North.

She’d have to think on this more.

Later.

As the lords took their seats, she could just make out a smudged chalked pattern on the stone floor. She was relieved they’d not finished whatever this was going to be, instead covering the worn flagstone with a patchwork of finely woven rugs.

They would not last long under these Northmen’s boots.

She heard the conversations next to her as she waited for her breathing to calm, the discussions of the newly crafted banners on the walls, celebrated until a voice explained that portraits and landscapes had been commissioned to take their place. The voices had stilled at that, glances thrown her way.

The walls themselves; Arya couldn’t quite make out what was different, grateful when Maester Wolkan, seated to her right, explained she was seeing the first coat of whitewash, meant to lighten up the dreary room, to reflect the candle light better at night.

He snickered lightly, a sound she’d never imagined hearing coming from the usually dour man.

“Unfortunately all that the white really does is reveal the soot from all of the candles, so we stopped the second coat halfway up the walls. And now… it will be up to the King to decide if he wants to continue.”

He waved his hand upward, and Arya shook her head, regretting it soon after as pain raced across the back of her neck.

Perhaps she should send a raven, once Jon was closer, warning him of what had become of Winterfell.

Arya pulled her elbows off the table as a full plate of venison, gravy, potatoes and boiled greens were placed before her. Her stomach twisted and she rested her head on her closed fist, waiting for the nausea to pass and wondered if the magic was already wearing off, or if she was simply getting sicker.

Slowly she ran her fingers across the edge of the gold-rimmed plate, gathered her strength and pushed herself back in the chair, glancing across the hall in case she’d been observed, then to either side.

Maester Wolkan.

He must have been watching her; his cheeks ruddied as he avoided her eyes, waving over one of the servant girls.

Tomorrow.

They’d have other things to speak of then as well; perhaps it was better this way. She might need his help; asking for it, and for his discretion, might be a good way to learn his thoughts, test to see if he could be trusted.

She’d rather just ride off by herself, wait for … something … to change, to get better. But she’d chosen this life now, and she couldn’t just do what she wanted. She had responsibilities now.

She nodded to herself, determined to shove a forkful of meat down her gullet only to be interrupted by a soft clearing of a throat at her elbow as her plate was removed to be replaced by a large bowl of hot broth.

She dropped her fork and sat back, nodding to the softly smiling serving girl, then leaned over the bowl in front of her. Her stomach rumbled again, this time with hunger, and she sighed as she picked up her spoon, glancing to the side to find Wolkan watching.

Arya dropped her eyes before nodding in his direction. He returned the nod and returned to his own meal.

She hadn’t realized how hungry she truly was until the bowl was empty and the serving girl brought her another. She waved it off with thanks, and took a moment to watch the rowdy crowd before her.

“Princess, perhaps it is best to release these great lords for the night, so we can all get a proper night’s rest.”

She turned her head slightly. Apparently they had reached some odd agreement to not be seen speaking to one another. But others had heard, and were now leaning across the table to listen.

“Tomorrow we will review with you what preparations have yet to be made for the king’s return, and perhaps you will have some guidance on some pressing matters.”

Arya listened as best she could, nodding as those closest to her murmured in agreement. She’d spoken little to the young man to her left, introduced as Lord Marlyn of House Dormand; she wasn’t sure how he had gained such a seat of honor, wondered vaguely if he was one of Sansa’s co-conspirators.

Energized by a good meal, she for the first time noticed the wariness of her guards behind her, noticed also that she was joined at the table by Ser Charres Mooton, the Master at Arms of Winterfell and several House Stark masters that she had seen but had ignored the last time she’d been home.

They were looking out for her safety.

Could she be tempted to let them?

Trust had to be earned.

Arya pushed her chair back and excused herself, startling at the shouts and raised fists in her direction. She bowed her head and waved a good night, feeling crowded by her familiar guards, steward and maester that rose to accompany her to her rooms.

This may not get any easier.

Even more guards stood at strategic points along the way, two standing on either side of her bedroom door.

Were they there when she left her rooms earlier?

She couldn’t remember, raising even more anxiety. How was she to be alert for danger if she couldn’t trust her own memory? Her own senses?

She paused as the guards opened the door, started to enter before being passed by her own guards, watched as they thoroughly searched her rooms.

Was this necessary?

They nodded and made to leave until Arya halted them, waving forward those that had accompanied her this far.

“Maester Wolkan, we will meet first thing in the morning in the king’s solar. In the meantime, is there any threat, or anything else I need to know about before I retire?”

No one spoke, and Arya detected no deception.

“Very well. Of course, if anything comes up before sunrise, if there is ANY word from Jon or about him, I am to be awakened immediately. Agreed?”

“Yes, of course, Your Grace.”

Wolkan nodded again awkwardly and was last to back out the door, closing it behind him.

Alone at last.

The crackling of the fireplace filled the silence of her room.

She could still back out, there was time, she knew there were secret passageways, at least one that Jon had shown her. She could make it to the stables when the moon was full and ride into the dark night. Sail back to Braavos, seek out Jaqen H’gha for answers, perhaps finish her training.

Arya brushed her hand across the quilted linen at the end of the bed.

She was tired. And when it was quiet like now, she admitted to herself she was lonely.

Could she just be Arya Stark? This was the question that kept echoing in her mind.

The titles didn’t have to change her. Jon was still Jon, wasn’t he? Even as king… by the gods, Jon was once again King in the North.

And what would become of Sansa?

She wished she could be there when she found out, that all of her plans, her schemes, her bribery…

Her treason.

What if she had spies? What if she’d had the food poisoned?

What if all of this was just to lull her into safety before springing the trap.

She’d tried to be watchful, looking for that deception, for the lies. She’d seen the avoidance in Sansa’s expressions, but nothing in Bran’s. Had she lost that skill, or was it just… Bran.

Just moments ago, in the Great Hall, the Northern Lords had pledged fealty. To Jon, to the Starks, to the North.

Would they have done so intending to betray them all?

A sharp sting crossed the side of her head and she felt her heart race.

She had had a good meal, apparently having little affect on her queasy stomach. She glanced around her room, her eyes falling on a tray on the table, relieved when she found crusted bread and cheese and sliced fruit. She sipped the fresh cool water as she nibbled, suddenly noticing the gentle music meandering through the halls of the keep.

Her eyes drifted shut as a sense of calm enveloped her.

Yes, she could live like this, be like this and still be Arya Stark. And even fight for it.

Another irony to be considered in the wee hours of the night.

She quickly made her special concoction, though it stifled the pain only enough to let her sleep. She knew what was to come and wondered if she herself was cursed as well. She hadn’t told the secret, hadn’t broken her oath, but she’d failed Jon nonetheless, hadn’t defended him at the Great Council, never really listened or thought about what he wanted.

She wasn’t quite sure how the curses of the Old Gods worked.

Arya snuffed out the candles along the mantle and in the corners of the room before changing into her worn sleepshirt, slipping her dagger under her pillow after hanging Needle’s scabbard over the bedpost, just within reach. She stared at the ceiling, new beams bracing the familiar stones above, straining to remember what adventures she had conjured from the carved blocks, faces and animals she had crafted in her imagination as a young girl. She noticed flickering color on the stone by the table and turned her head to find its source.

Stained glass – red and green and purple and yellow – had replaced the simple cross-hatched window panes of her youth. Now she could barely make out what was going on outside, not that she wanted to. She’d been traveling long enough to know what would greet her in the night sky: shimmering green and yellow ribbons of light lasting for hours, dimming out the familiar white stars.

And the glow of the red comet, incessant, intriguing.

She’d lost the wonder of it all, tried instead to slow her breathing, her muscles relaxing as the tea took effect.

Soon she found herself again walking the castle at night, only it wasn’t Winterfell, and she didn’t feel welcome.

Ghosts had always haunted these halls, not just fallen Starks, but those who had fallen under her blade. She felt her heart pound, knowing the only thing that would save her was the dawn. Only this time, things seemed… different.

This time she heard the howling of wolves. Not just any wolves, direwolves.

Gray Wind, Summer, Lady, Shaggy Dog.

She could just make out Nymeria’s echoing howls as she walked the empty halls, finding herself in her father’s solar, just as he’d left it so long ago. The shouts of justice drifted up from the floorboards, roaring and stomping of feet with anger against the traitor filled the air around her. She had pulled herself against the crowd, grabbed by the shoulder and held still. And in that stillness, the whoosh of blade and gory thud.

Her heart stopped, as it always did, and silence enveloped her as the fire in the hearth blazed, then cascaded outward, catching hold on the furniture, the desk.

Her clothes and hair. The flames encircled her hands, and she watched as they turned black, the skin bubbling and sloughing off the bone.

There is only one god, and his name is death.

And she was his messenger.

“Arya.”

She turned and walked into the flames, trying to find the source of the voice.

“Come, Arya. This way.”

She couldn’t make out what was being said, not entirely, couldn’t quite make out the voice. Was it father? Robb? Jon?

No, not that familiar.

“Arya.”

More demanding, insistent. Threatening.

The Hound. Jaqen.

Gendry?

She found herself at the window, following the voice. The glass panes unlatched and opened before her, and she stepped up on the bench and onto the sill, her thin nightshirt blowing wildly in the swirling snow.

The pain suddenly stopped, and she could see clearly.

The wind and snow ceased, leaving the moonlit sky crystalline and cloudless.

The courtyard below was empty, not a guard or fading brazier.

Not a footprint in the snow. Not a sound.

She stepped off the sill and landed in the soft snow a dozen feet below, walked forward one bare foot in front of the other, a silent imprint with each step.

Across the courtyard, past the locked gates and the empty guardhouses.

“Arya.”

She’d felt fear before, had learned to scoff at it. Now it welcomed her, two snarling defaced wolves circling as she approached the braced door guarding the past.

She was not welcomed, only compelled.

The door swung open, and she found herself carrying a lit torch as she descended into darkness.

One step, another.

The air was thick, putrid, filled with death and dust and the mold of disturbed cadavers.

Another step, two more until she again found herself walking among the dead, the statues undefiled, pristine.

Eyes watching as she passed.

“Arya Stark.”

She tried to turn back, tried to see, to hear who was calling her. Tried to breathe, holding the torch high as she passed quickly to the end of this level, then down, passing unfamiliar faces, contorted and sneering. Down again, drawn forward, the light finding the end of the last passageway.

The first Stark.

A seated figure, eyes aglow, mouth pensive, waiting.

She’d never made it this far. Never past the first level.

She saw the words form on his lips as he stood.

“Arya Stark.”

He waved her forward, the direwolf at his side slinking toward her, hovering in the darkness. He raised the sword from his lap as he stood, sheathing it at his side. The graven figure turned and bade her take his seat.

She could not resist.

The stone was hard and cold, quickly seeping into her feet, her hands.

The figure leaned toward her, placing the sword on her lap as the wary direwolf turned twice before re-taking his guardian position at her side.

Her face froze, her arms and legs locked as her form became one with the carved throne.

She strained to look up as the crown of the Kings of Winter was placed on her head, tried to shake it off, frightened when she found she was unable to move. The figure smiled and stepped back, bowing deeply before crumbling into a thousand thousand pieces of chipped granite.

She tried to breathe, knowing it was futile, her lungs refusing to respond, then tried to get up, to resist, to scream, to somehow grab the sword and fight.

One last breath, and her howl should have raised the dead. Finally she could cry out no more. The torch faded, the black settling around her, somehow warm and welcoming.

“Princess Arya.”

She waited for what was next, however long she couldn’t tell, waited for time to pass, for the answers to come, her name again drifting past her senses.

“Princess Arya, are you well? May we enter?”

She felt her body pulled through stone, through the crypt door and back into the courtyard, finally returned to her room. The door swung wide, footsteps entering as her vision returned, enough to find a tray of food being laid out on her table by happy women burdened only by their cheery disposition.

Arya took a deep breath, relieved when her lungs filled with cool northern air.

Chapter Text

She shook her head as she sat up in bed, finding her nightshirt drenched in sweat, almost relieved that the pain was less but still there.

This was real.

She’d had these awful nightmares before, ever since she’d started taking the tea, but none that had left her so completely engulfed, trapped in the darkness.

She forced a smile and a good morning for the chattering women as they entered her quarters, then sat herself at the table to break her fast with fragrant tea, warm muffins and fruit.

Perhaps that was at the root of it all; the uncertainty, the doubt. The death.

But the voice, the crypts, the direwolves. The darkness. There must be something more.

“Maester Wolkan will join you for a proper breakfast in the King’s solar, Your Grace. Shall I prepare your bath and wardrobe for the day?”

She shook her head as she cleared her throat, her voice raspy. “Thank you Syrena, I think I will dress myself this morning, perhaps once we’ve met with the seamstress…”

Syrena curtsied, a northern curtsy, just a short drop and she was off, followed by a shy stewardess.

A bath had been tempting, but hauling the water would take time and she was anxious to meet the day. She rummaged through the wardrobe to find a clean, suitable shirt and redressed in yesterday’s britches. She’d managed to keep the pain and queasiness under control until she readied to leave her rooms, barely managing to make it into the adjacent room where she emptied her tea and fruit into the chamberpot. Her vision reeled as she grasped the table for balance and her stomach rumbled in protest; she’d need to do something about this.

Hopefully Wolkan would be able to help; and if not, this would at least be a good way to test his loyalty.

She sat at the table, nibbling at the muffin and jam, relieved when the rumbling stopped. She stood to leave and felt a level of strength return.

“Your Grace, I’ve brought your seamstress as you asked. May we come in?”

Arya was tempted to send them both away, instead realized that keeping Maester Wolkan waiting wouldn’t be such a bad thing, and could be used as an excuse to keep their discussion brief if she chose to.

She opened the door herself and waved them in, not only Syrena and Jorlyn Krey, but several stewards carrying bundles of fabric which they stacked on the bench at the end of the bed. Syrena held the door for them as the stewards left, and Arya let her take the lead in this - endeavor.

That’s what was expected of a Lady, a Princess was it not?

The whole ordeal took longer than she expected, and she took several more bites from the breakfast tray, Syrena sending for fresh food. Arya was relieved there were no incidents she would have to explain to these gossiping strangers.

They’d started with the dresses already prepared, supervised by Lady, Princess Stark of course. She’d done it before, worn dresses, costumes to play different roles. This was no different, not really.

And they were actually quite beautiful, soft and warm, and went with her coloring surprisingly well. Not very comfortable, far too tight just about everywhere. Perhaps Sansa hadn’t realized they’d all grown up since they’d last...

She smiled to herself, picturing Sansa’s face as she imagined dressing her up like one of her childhood dolls. She’d probably planned to put ribbons in her hair as well.

She resisted her restlessness as they unfastened the long line of buttons on the back of the most ornate velvet gown, noticed a muted green fabric in the unfastened bundle. The seamstress was quick to unfold it on the bed, and Arya was heartened by the textile itself. Not too heavy, but not wispy either. A pretty color without being gaudy. Not shiny, but not dull either.

This might do well.

She fingered the fabric, apprehensive as tassels and fringe and a variety of accompanying fabrics were laid alongside across the footboard.

“Please, if you would, I’d like something more – practical. Perhaps… the Dragon Queen, do you recall… she wore trousers under her dress for riding her dragon. I suppose that would work as well for me, could you do something like that?”

Arya had braced herself, ready for the disdain, taken aback at the enthusiasm.

“Of course, Your Grace. This fabric would make a lovely overdress. I will speak with the tailor as well, I’m sure we can come up with some ideas that will meet your needs.”

She sighed and stifled a grimace as the prickles returned to her hands.

The gowns could wait.

Earlier she’d caught Syrena watching her, politely and respectfully but closely all the same. She nodded as her Lady’s Maid escorted the seamstress out of her chambers.

What rumors must be flooding the halls of her childhood home.

All in good time.

For now she’d find ways to distract herself, anxious to see what Sansa had done to father’s solar to make it her own, fit for a southern queen.

She hesitated before strapping on her weapons, Needle and the Valyrian steel dagger, the blade that had started and ended it all. She wondered if it was blessed or cursed, if she herself was blessed or cursed.

One of her guards followed her as she quickened her steps through the castle; she’d found a brisk pace kept the questions and unsteadiness at bay. The passages were familiar and comforting, yet … she had a hard time naming what troubled her; loneliness, confusion, even despair? She would have to settle that, have to set a course for her life before she lost her wits completely.

She found herself before the doors of her father’s solar. She’d been here often enough with Jon, even with the Dragon Queen - her breath hitched - the last thing she’d said to Jon, no, she wasn’t going to think about that yet, there would be plenty of time for regrets and apologies.

The doors suddenly opened before her and she startled as she reached for her blade. She paused before drawing it fully clear of its leather scabbard, embarrassed.

If he had meant her any harm, he would have had ample opportunity.

“Princess, I hope you are settling back into your home.”

Wolkan smiled softly and joined her in the hall, ignoring or unaware of her reaction.

“Yes, Maester, thank you for coming.” She let the blade settle back into the leather and took a deep breath to focus. “I believe we have much to discuss.”

He bent his head as he nodded, backing away from the doorway to give her entrance to the chamber. She entered the room before him, reminding herself of those little actions that establish authority, which she definitely wanted to do with this man.

It felt good to be listened to, to be admired, wanted for more than her blade.

Arya hoped she was projecting confidence as she took Jon’s seat behind the Bolton’s replacement desk. She missed her father’s desk, the desk of the King’s of Winter, but it was ashes, lost to the Greyjoy’s flames. There was no use crying about it. They both waited patiently as servants set out breakfast on a side table, meat and fruit and baked goods and eggs and oatmeal. She stood to pull back the thin bright blue silk curtains, the rays of the angled morning sun crossing Wolkan’s chains as he placed several ravens within her reach.

Arya nodded as the servants left and she joined Wolkan to prepare a suitable breakfast, aware of his studious avoidance of her gaze.

Her stomach grumbled at the sight and smell of the food, from hunger or revulsion she could not tell. She filled her plate regardless; people were more likely to speak freely, reveal themselves as they are dining and drinking and comfortable.

Oatmeal, fruit and toasted raisin bread with jam.

A passable breakfast.

She took her seat, surprised as the Maester offered her a cup of fruit juice.

“Apple juice I believe, Princess.”

She smiled and took a quick gulp, surprised and a bit relieved at the cool sweetness.

Wolkan tapped the ravens closest to her.

“These are ravens waiting for the king, but you may want to review and see if we should be getting more information or options for him so that when he arrives it will be easier for him to move forward.”

Arya nodded and took a small bite of oatmeal, hesitating briefly as her vision briefly blurred, then quickly read the few alarming ravens.

Tainted water and another outbreak of a wasting disease at Moat Cailin.

“This came in just this morning. You can see the Northern Army has been warned, and by your leave we can forward this on to the king. The cavalry should have no trouble passing through safely, but the army itself will need to garrison elsewhere.”

Arya tried to picture the landmarks, tried to consider options, finally agreeing to simply forward the message to Jon.

“And these are the most urgent calls for help. Unfortunately as of now they have gone unanswered, and we’ve received ravens that representatives are traveling to Winterfell to seek help in person.”

Arya nodded as she read through the dire pleas; pirates, Dothraki raiders, landslides, drought, famine and armed disputes. How could things have gotten so bad in such a short period of time?

“The King has been made aware of many of these, the earlier ravens were waiting for him in White Harbor.”

“What can we do for them now?”

She felt pressured. She’d thought she would be leading the conversation, then remembered this was how Maester Luwin had always worked with her father, doing what he could to make his life easier by prioritizing without being asked.

“We have taken a good inventory of what supplies we have under the North’s control, but the king will need to release the resources himself as well as send troops to protect those under attack. Which he is no doubt being made aware even as we speak. So we can prepare as best we can to be ready for whatever orders he sends.”

“Thank you, Maester Wolkan. Are there any things that need to be dealt with here in Winterfell before the king returns?”

Wolkan seemed uneasy, leaning over the desk as he sat at the edge of the chair.

“Speak freely, maester. Is there something…”

Arya observed his face, his pulse, the way he fisted his left hand, the shifting of his right foot.

“Well, Your Grace… I'm not sure how to say …”

Arya leaned back in the chair, folding her hands while she gave a slight nod.

“It seems, well, you know, when Jon Snow left with the…, Queen Daenerys, and I believe you left not long after, it was then that Princess Stark… she said that she would be the Stark in Winterfell, that Jon would be staying in King’s Landing with the Dragon Queen, and I…”

He waited for her to interrupt; she restrained herself. Wolkan sighed deeply.

“Pardon me if I speak out of turn. I have confirmed with my betters at the Citadel to cooperate fully with King Jon, and you of course as he has sent you before him and you are the Stark in Winterfell until he returns.”

She felt her eye start to twitch, reminding herself that she was fully armed if this fool didn’t start talking…

“Speak, Maester Wolkan and then we will both know what is making you so nervous.”

He smiled briefly as he gave out a great sigh…

“Your sister, Princess Sansa, there were ravens…”

He pulled several rolled scrolls from his satchel, sliding them across the desk to rest before Arya.

“Yes, Maester Wolkan, my sister was receiving these on behalf of the Warden of the North.”

He stiffened, his lips tightening.

“Princess, these, these are copies of ravens Princess Sansa ordered me to burn. I believe she burned the originals.”

She was surprised, though not shocked. She started going through them, several addressed to Sansa, many questioning the changes that she’d commanded. She also seemed to be establishing her authority by collecting taxes of many of the northern houses, as well as submitting contracts for fine goods from Essos.

Arya read through the ravens twice, aware that Maester Wolkan watched her every move as she leaned back in her chair, her memory recalling one question after the other.

Earlier she’d returned home only to be at odds with her sister. Later, after executing Petyr Baelish, she’d come to wonder if there wasn’t some other reason both she and Bran wanted him dead. There was no rush, he could have been held in the dungeons until Jon returned home. But Littlefinger knew her sister so well, had so much history with her, and she had learned… so much… from him. It had always been clear what he wanted from her – the North, the Iron Throne. Could he have used her secrets against her to further his ambition, perhaps force her to marry him? Would he have been able to contend for Jon’s position?

Another riddle to be solved, perhaps, eventually.

Wolkan unfolded a letter he’d removed from his tunic.

“This is probably the most significant.”

Arya took the letter and started to read. The wording was vague, but she could tell what was meant.

Her breathing shallowed and she felt her face flush.

Of course they had Gendry’s written witness testimony, but here it was in black and white.

A response to her inquiry, a surveyors report of the Neck, recommendations for the division down the center and the commensurate changes to the location of the King’s Road and other landmarks that would be necessary.

To divide, to distribute the North.

Her head throbbed and she felt her shoulders sag.

She read it again. In and of itself, Sansa would be able to claim that it was merely a misunderstanding; that she had asked for a report on the health of the Neck, what with all of the strange goings-on.

But no other reports had been requested, not on any other part of the North.

“Are there other messages related to this?”

“No Princess. Princess Sansa had called the surveyors here and met with them privately in her rooms.”

Arya nodded as she refolded the letter.

“Very well. Though it is another piece in the puzzle, Jon will no doubt want to be able to review everything before deciding what action to take. Do you have the names of those surveyors?”

Wolkan shook his head.

She paused, reluctantly… “If you can, find those names, any correspondence, anyone else that can support their meeting, guards, servants, anyone.”

Wolkan nodded attentively as he scribbled her directive.

“Once we have everything, I’ll meet with the new Lord of Storm’s End to see what he can confirm or correct. Perhaps he can connect us with someone who was offered something in order to get a second person willing to testify against Sansa. If it comes to that. Until then, I’d like to keep these to review. Do you have other copies?”

She’d seen the brief curiosity cross his face. “Yes, Your Grace, I made additional copies for my records.”

Arya nodded, not sure what to make of this conversation.

“Maester Wolkan, as you say, the Warden of the North left Sansa Stark in charge in his absence. She ordered these messages destroyed. Why is it that they exist today?”

She watched as fear? anger? briefly crossed his face.

“Princess, at that time it was my understanding that we both - myself and Lady Stark - we both served our liege lord Jon Snow. As such, I would not be able to destroy any officially received or sent message without his direct approval.”

“Did you tell her you didn’t destroy these messages?”

Wolkan sat back in his chair, slumped then straightened.

“No, Your Grace.” His head bowed, though his eyes watched her face for her reaction.

Arya wrapped her fingers around the cup of sweet fruit juice before her, the cool droplets forming on the outside soothing and grounding.

“Maester Wolkan, let us speak frankly.”

Arya met his eyes and leaned forward slightly as she took a sip and settled the cup onto the desk.

“By all means, Your Grace.” His face seemed to relax, a good sign.

“We do not know each other, only that for many years you served House Bolton, traitors to House Stark. You served Roose Bolton, who betrayed and by his own hand killed the King in the North, my brother Robb, and conspired to kill my mother, and all of those northmen. He wanted power, and was willing to destroy my family and the North to get it. He allied with House Lannister, his son Ramsay married…”

Arya paused as sadness and regret settled on the older man’s features.

“Well, you were here for some of that weren’t you? Did you know? Maester Wolkan, I've often wondered, what does Honor, and Loyalty mean to the Citadel. You surely know of all of the rumors of what happened to Roose Bolton, his wife and child. Did you do anything to intervene? Or do your oaths prevent you from protecting the lives of your liege lord, the lives and safety of women and newborn babes? Of lying to the people, lying to the Citadel? If you knew of these treacherous acts, Ramsay’s murder of his father, did you tell the Citadel? Did they respond?”

Wolkan’s reply was not long in coming; clearly he had been thinking through these very questions.

“My training, my oaths are to keep the secrets of the House I serve. That is the only way Maesters of the Citadel can be trusted, and that trust is what makes our service so vital. But I can say that the Citadel was informed of the actions taken by those under the Bolton banner, in order for me to receive counsel and direction from my leadership. I had not received that direction when Winterfell was re-taken by House Stark, my… Princess.”

Arya held his gaze.

“And now, Maester Wolkan, who do you serve now?”

“My duty is to House Stark. The Citadel has sent instructions, options that will be presented to the King in the North, should he desire to make changes.”

“I see, and until then?”

He straightened in his chair.

“I serve House Stark, Princess Arya.”

“You will have to prove your loyalty.”

“As expected, Your Grace.”

“Very well then. Have there been any threats against Jon or myself?”

“We’ve received word that there have indeed been threats made against both King Jon and yourself, Princess. And we’ve had many discussions within the halls of Winterfell to prepare for any attempts to disrupt or divide the loyalty of those traveling to await the arrival of your brother.”

Arya nodded, wondering what surprises waited them all, distracted when the maester continued.

“There was also a messenger from the Free Folk coming down from Castle Black. It seems they were ambushed, thankfully they had been warned so they were prepared, only a few injuries, but they will be bringing a prisoner with them to Winterfell. They should arrive soon, perhaps within the day.”

Her thoughts swirled. Their prisoner could provide very valuable information, perhaps settle Sansa’s fate once and for all.

“It also seems clear that, well, it would be wise to consider other possible enemies… the Dragon Queen’s armies, the Unsullied and Dothraki, who are already stirring up the countryside, and her dragon as well. Though honestly I have no idea what could be done to prepare for that beast’s return, if that became a reality.”

Arya nodded, she had been wondering the same, ever since the questions had gone unanswered about what had actually happened in the Throne Room, how the Iron Throne had been melted but Jon himself had remained untouched.

So many questions. But there would be time, now, for answers.

“We will discuss all of these with the Master at Arms, Winterfell must be secured when Jon returns.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“What are the urgent matters for the people of the North, and please tell me what instructions my sister left for you to follow.”

Wolkan relaxed as he finished dragging the heel of bread through the sausage gravy.

“Starvation, Princess. Not only the North but many regions of the seven, six kingdoms are not able to feed themselves. Refugees from the south and other houses in the north have descended on Winterfell and need to be cared for. Neither your sister, nor your brother Bran left any instructions other than to keep the small folk from breeching the castle itself.”

Arya huffed, unsurprised that her sister’s concern would be only for her own safety.

“There is more game, though, coming from the Far North. Why is there starvation?”

“The wildlife is quite wary, Your Grace, and are avoiding anything that has the scent of people. And everyone is hesitant to travel far from their homes with so many brigands and Dothraki let loose in the North.”

“And what of the rumors of outright wars in the North?”

“Some are calling them ‘House Wars,’ civil war if you think of it, between some great Houses, even minor Houses, some escalating even as we speak. Several houses and holdfasts are no longer claimed, and there are prolonged battles taking place for ownership. I’m afraid … without someone to lead them, many are taking the opportunity to claim what others have lost, even taking what they claim is due them without cause. Blood’s been shed, revenge killings are rampant, more blood will flow if the King… Your brother, Jon Snow, the Warden in the North had started a plan for restoring these castles to their rightful families. I showed those plans to your sister but she threw them into the fire.”

“Do you have a copy of those notes, Maester Wolkan?”

“I’m afraid not, Your Grace, this was before I ever could have imagined… But I do remember their contents and the actions that were taken before Jon Snow left for King's Landing.”

“Very well, could you please write them out to the best of your memory.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Arya felt the ache in her hands pull her fingers tight and reached for the goblet.

“And my sister, after Jon left? What was she going to do about these House Wars?”

“I heard of no plans, though she didn’t seem bothered about it, but looking back now it seems…”

Arya leaned back in her chair as streaks of light pierced the black behind her eyes.

“Go ahead, Maester Wolkan. What now?”

She heard his hesitation, heard him rise and pour and return, placing her mug within reach. She nodded, eyes still closed and grasped the cool cup without drinking.

“It seems…” He lowered his voice. “If your sister had plans for Houses, holdfasts, lands to change hands, to reward her supporters and remake the north, the chaos after a war would be a good time…”

Arya forced her eyes open to find the maester gazing at her with concern.

“I see. If that’s the case, she has been thinking this through for some time. We will have to assume the worst, Maester Wolkan. That her plans… are extensive and proceeding, and not for the good of the North, but for herself.”

He nodded.

“What else?”

“Well, in general, simply the chaos of change and the uncertainty it brings. The weather is unpredictable from week to week, almost from day to day, with new lakes forming and the earth rising into new mountains; roads and bridges collapsing, making travel quite difficult, all added to the fear of the unknown and diseases, even the ground itself shaking and shifting in places. I have asked for assistance from the Citadel, perhaps the history of the region could shed some light, but we are getting most of our news from the Lords and small folk as they arrive in Winterfell.”

Arya nodded, it was starting to be comforting that someone else was carrying at least part of the burden.

Wolkan cleared his throat. “And there are many rumors and so-called prophecies from the Old Gods making the rounds about the red comet and the northern lights, too many to remember and none of them worth the recall.”

He smiled, his face relaxing into what she guessed was his more natural state.

“My favorite is that the comet has returned to retrieve the dragon buried underneath Winterfell, in the crypts, its fire is what keeps the castle warm in winter. I’m not sure how it was supposed to have gotten there, but the stories go back quite a ways. Perhaps a way to keep the young children in line.”

Arya remembered those stories well, had imagined herself riding a dragon alongside her Targaryen heroes.

She should have made friends with the Dragon Queen, if only for a chance to make her dreams come true.

Another missed opportunity.

Arya took another bite of her breakfast. She did not have an appetite and was afraid the pain and nausea would increase, but she knew she needed to eat something if she was going to wrangle Winterfell before Jon returned.

Afterward, well she’d have to wait and see.

Wolkan had stopped talking, and she found him gazing softly at her, smiling when their eyes met.

She leaned back in her chair, her hands resting softly along the arms.

“Yes, of course, maester. I suppose I'm not as good at hiding my … I have been…”

Her shoulders drooped. “After we have finished the business of the North, if you are willing to keep silent, I would appreciate your help in perhaps something…”

“Of course, Your Grace. Though my loyalty is to serve your brother the King, and I… But anything that I can do to assist…”

Arya nodded tensely, searching his face for falsehood. “I understand. Hopefully there will be nothing to be kept from him. But I do wonder if I at least could ask you to delay telling him anything so that I could tell him myself, explain things to him myself, if there is anything that needs explaining that is.”

Arya relaxed as Wolkan nodded. “I’m sure we can find a way to both keep the King informed of his sister’s well-being and maintain your… secrets.”

Arya felt heat rise in her face. She’d not told anyone of her difficulties, and had lost some of her confidence in being able to judge a person’s character. She hoped she was not making a grave mistake. Though what could he do to her, what could anyone do?

She straightened the papers in front of her, grateful that the maester began to rush through the final concerns. For a moment Arya felt overwhelmed, until she remembered these problems were not on her shoulders; Jon would know what to do, though the delay in his return was only making things worse.

“All of these ravens, messages for the Warden, then for the King. How was Sansa responding to them?”

Wolkan shrugged, waving his hand over the scrawled messages and marked map.

“I’m afraid she’d not included me in her plans or communications, other than a few replies calling for the lords to ride for Winterfell.”

Arya hesitated, watched his face, decided to ask those long-delayed questions.

She straightened as she pushed back her half-eaten breakfast, adjusted to the hard seat of the chair. She imagined her father sitting here, her sister, Jon, dismayed when a wave of… some kind of emotion, longing perhaps… she felt her face flush as she sipped her juice and paused to regain her focus.

“Maester Wolkan, my sister and I have always been… well, we have not always had open… neither of us has been forthcoming in sharing what has happened in our past. I can see now that this was not good for either of us, and now her past - maybe mine as well - those terrible things that happened before may need to be understood better to be able to prepare for what actions she has set in motion, how she - and of course my brother Bran - how the future of my brother Jon and the North may be affected by what we all have gone through.”

Arya watched as a dark apprehension fell over the soft features of the maester.

“If you could, Maester Wolkan, there have been so many rumors… what happened here in Winterfell once House Bolton claimed the North?”

She could tell he was hesitant, could see him struggle.

“Your Grace, as Maester I was loyal to House Bolton while they ruled Winterfell and the North. I’m afraid the oaths I have taken, that now extend to House Stark and the King… I cannot divulge any specifics, I wish I…”

“But you’ll be able to tell the King? Do you need to seek…”

“Yes, Princess, I will be able to inform the King regarding all matters needed to rule the north.”

Arya dropped her eyes and felt her stomach churn. The sun was now shining through the replaced glass panes in the window that looked out over the courtyard, and she could hear seemingly chaotic voices carrying on the ordinary work of the day.

If she’d believed in any gods, she’d pray for more ordinary days like this.

“However, as far as the rumors…” Wolkan sighed. “I can say that as with most rumors, there is truth to many of what you have probably heard, I’m sad to say.”

“Thank you, Maester.” She could see genuine pain and regret in his bearing. He sighed again, placing his hands in his lap.

“I understand my position here, Your Grace. If there is anything I can do to earn the King’s trust, and yours, I am at your service.”

Arya nodded once again and changed the subject.

“I’m not sure when Jon will return, do I need to meet with anyone before then? I know the lords that were here last night seek a meeting, but is there anyone else?”

The rest of the meeting went as well as could be expected. Wolkan had kept track of all of the newcomers that wanted to meet specifically with Sansa, not necessarily conspirators but those she would want to be mindful of.

“Do you also have a list of those she paid money to, for food, contracts, services, anything like that.”

“Yes, Your Grace. I can make these all available to you, though I seem to have been deliberately kept in the dark…”

“Understood, but tell me, when Sansa met with these… the surveyors, the craftsman, the masters, did my brother Bran sit in on those meetings? Was he included? Involved?”

“Hmm, now that you mention it, no I think not, Your Grace. I recall Bran Stark spent most of his time in his rooms or in the godswood. He didn’t seem to be interested in what was going on in his home or with his fellow northerners, or even with his sister.”

“And my other kin, my cousins from House Tully or House Arryn?”

“None that have passed through my hands, Your Grace.”

“So there could be meetings taking place that you are not aware of?”

“I can’t be everywhere at once, and with so many new people, I wouldn’t recognize…”

Arya wondered if she should dare to use her faces to find out what was going on within the castle. But she, too, couldn’t be everywhere at once.

“I need at the least a handful of northerners that I and my brother can trust, men and women within these walls; can you find them for me?”

Wolkan nodded, adding to his list on the parchment to his side. This was the first important task she’d assigned to him, and she hoped he would be worthy of her trust.

“There are things we don’t know about what happened in King’s Landing, Bran and Sansa and others, and more questions have come up than before. We need to do our best to get those answers, but for right now Jon’s safety and Winterfell being fit for his arrival are the most important.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

He hesitated. “Your sister, she… The rumors…”

Arya hesitated as well. “Yes, my sister Sansa acted against Jon and the North and will no doubt answer for her treachery. I’m not sure if Bran knew of her plans, but she was clearly keeping them from me. Gather any information you can and have it ready to present to Jon, both what is known and what is suspected, no one will be accused without good reason, so there is nothing to fear and no reason to alarm anyone.”

Wolkan looked relieved as he made notes, his writing small and precise, glancing up as he asked his next question.

“I suspect that some of the northern lords that are already here meant to meet with Princess Sansa. Do you want to treat them differently?”

“No, we will let them change their minds, for now. The King can choose differently once he’s here, but if you know of any that had pledged to my sister in any way, please keep a record.”

Wolkan’s voice dropped and he leaned forward.

“Several of the lords had approached me earlier, Your Grace, after learning of what happened in King’s Landing, with the Dragon Queen, the King’s exile, they wanted to know if you, yourself would consider, as a trueborn Stark with no prior allegiance… this was before it became known about Jon Snow, of course.”

Arya felt her heart race. The Lady of Winterfell, Princess Arya, but never in her own right to be… She had never even imagined the thought.

“Jon is King in the North. He is a true king, whether Stark or Snow, our true leader, willing to do what is right for his people even when it cost him all he holds dear. There will be no further…”

She took a deep breath as the words caught in her throat, reminding herself of her own plans as her anger faded. She saw the questions, the surprise at her reaction in his eyes but didn’t give him a chance to speak.

“Relay my appreciation and my wholehearted rejection of any such notion. If it comes up in front of the lords I will do so myself, once and once only. There will be no wavering, is that understood Maester Wolkan?”

Wolkan nodded again before adding to his records.

“I will meet with all of the lords in the Great Hall tonight and tell them a bit of what I know all at the same time, I don’t want it to seem like I’m being at all secretive or giving some information to one group and not another. And please don’t go beyond what I say even if you know more, I don’t want to do or say something that puts Jon in a difficult position.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” He nodded politely, changing the subject to the care of the refugees, in Wintertown and beyond.

“For now we will do the best that we can; feed them, tend to them, send them home would be best, but if possible ask why they came here?”

“More are coming since its been rumored that Jon Snow is once again King in the North.”

Arya was relieved to hear, then encouraged at the number of ravens simply announcing the plans of his lords heading to Winterfell to see him crowned.

“Good. Later you and I will review the ceremony, make sure it is Northern to seek the blessings of the Old Gods at night in the godswood. Any records as to how that was done in the past would help.”

Wolkan continued taking notes, adding, “Lord Howland and Lady Meera Reed have arrived, Princess. They have been offered rooms within these walls, but have set up their own camp… somewhere. They urgently want to meet with the King, they said they had urgent business. I offered to accept a letter to have on hand when the king returns, or to set up a meeting with you and they refused. It seems, well, the crannogmen have always been a little peculiar, with their own kind of magic as you know, but even… when… it seems they are hesitant to speak with anyone but the King, understandable based on the rumors and truths of what has been happening in Winterfell and the treachery of Sansa and Bran Stark.”

Arya sighed and rested her head on her hand, elbow on the edge of the table. She had a chance to reach out to Meera when she had brought Bran home but was too focused on her self. She’d need to grow up if things unfolded the way she hoped.

“They didn’t mention you by name, either way, Your Grace.”

She let a smile flit across her lips and raised her head.

Wolkan smiled as well, chuckling, an odd sound when she first heard it. He leaned toward her conspiratorially.

“Your brother the King has other guests waiting as well.”

Arya looked at him with raised eyebrow, her eye twitching as she did so.

“Lords proposing their daughters hand; grand daughters, nieces, sisters, many of them guests here in this castle, more arriving every day. From every House in the North, even from the small folk. He will have quite the flood to wade through once he returns… at least I believe they will wait for his return and not race out to meet him once they know he is close.”

He smiled broadly at his own jape, slapping his hand on the corner of the table. Arya wondered what this man was like with a few mugs of ale in him.

“By the gods, Jon will not be happy. Between you and me, all I want is for him to be happy, if he can be after all of this.” Not too long ago she would have rolled her eyes at the idea of Jon Snow choosing a bride, but things change.

Wolkan nodded. “The lords, well, this is a central topic of conversation. I thought it best to let it continue somewhat, that it would be far better to be discussing the king’s future betrothal than the betrayals and more weighty matters facing the kingdom. And I’m sure Wyman Manderly has done his best to keep his granddaughter’s names at the top of the list.”

She was torn. Under other circumstances, she’d be happy for her brother, to have a wife, children. But was it too soon? Would he be agreeable at all, ever?

“For now we focus on the safety of the King and of those under his care.”

She was done with this meeting, she had talked more in that short time than she had in years prior.

“Thank you Maester Wolkan, I hope things work between us all, I trust you will keep confidence…”

“Of course, Your Grace, and I will be available when you wish to meet, privately.’ He waved his hand toward her and she nodded, avoiding his gaze as he gathered his papers and writing desk. He’d almost made it out the door when she’d glanced around her father’s, her king’s solar.

“Oh and Maester Wolkan, Jon, I mean the king, may want a full accounting of all of the changes Princess Sansa made to Winterfell, or really anything. I noticed last night…”

“Yes, Your Grace, she’d made quite a few changes, some large and small and quite petty, she’d ordered southern style tables and chairs and glassware, craftsmen for her throne, oh and a portraiture has been commissioned, it was to be of herself naturally, to be used for the new Northern coin. I suppose the King… I’m afraid it’s already been paid for from the North’s remaining coffers.”

“A portrait! Hah! Now I've heard everything.” Her head ached as she laughed but she felt it was such a rare true laugh she would enjoy it anyway.

She was grateful when Wolkan laughed as well.

“I will gather as many details as I can, it may help to have them handy for those lords who may not be swayed by her actions in King’s Landing to learn her intent was to undo the traditions and culture of the north even here in Winterfell.”

Arya chewed the inside of her lip. That was a good point, perhaps he would be worth keeping around, he was the only one with the history of these turbulent times.

The door closed behind him and she stood quickly, rolling her shoulders to work out the ache in her neck. She remembered her father complaining when he came out of his solar; at the time she’d thought it was just a room.

She realized now it was the heart of Winterfell, the heart of the North.

The heart of a Kingdom.

Jon’s kingdom. She smiled. He would be a good king, she was sure of it. He was kind and compassionate and strong and would do what was best for others.

Even when it cost him what he wanted most.

Regret again swelled, this time she let it bloom.

Yes, so many regrets. Words, deeds, choices.

She’d had time, now, to reflect on those past years. She’d hurt so many people, even those that had wanted good things for her. She’d pushed them away, refused help, refused counsel, at least made herself impossible to reach.

Even the Hound, at the end. Though she’d listened when he’d sent her away.

Another regret. He’d killed his brother, died with him. But left Cersei alive.

Yet he’d saved her life, and he’d saved her again.

And she’d done nothing to save him. Ever.

Not that she owed him anything - but he’d kept her safe when there was no one else, kept her alive.

“This is where the heart is.”

This is how to kill. She’d wanted that, needed that, to survive.

But she didn’t need that anymore, to just survive. She didn’t need to be a killer. She didn’t need to be No One.

She could be herself.

She sat down heavily in the stuffed chair by the window, her thoughts jumbled as hopes of the future that had long been swallowed up by reality shouted to be released.

She didn’t know who she was anymore, who she ever was, what she ever wanted.

And it mattered, now.

She could be whatever she wanted. Who ever she wanted.

She could do whatever she wanted.

If only she knew what that was…

Something akin to terror blanketed her thoughts, darkness and voices and pain.

How could she even think to be something other than what she’d become? She may not be good at anything else, murder, mayhem, deception. But what if she could change? What would she, could she be?

She paused.

She’d still have to keep her past hidden, would have to rely on a stranger for help.

She’d known it was too much, that it was not good for her all along, that she was becoming something cold and dark and empty.

Not Arya at all.

But now, now that the war was over and she could have something to look forward to. Now she wondered what her life would have been if they’d never traveled to King’s Landing.

What if…

Her life, future had been upended again, and for once she was truly afraid. What if she was too late, what if those choices had passed her by?

She felt the panic rise as her stomach roiled.

I don’t want to be No One, not anymore. I want to be someone, I want to be me, whatever that is!

Familiar dread rose with the pain as her heart threatened to burst from her chest. She didn’t fight it this time, raised her hands to her face as she felt hot tears well.

Regret and anger. Why had this happened, what had she lost, what could be regained…

Arya wept quietly, letting the darkness take her mind, somehow her pain less as the memories of death and horror and despair and loneliness floated like leaves on the summer streams in the Wolfswood. Her head nodded against the cool glass, and she felt herself calm into sleep.

“Princess Arya!”

Knocking continued at the solar door.

“Just a moment.” Arya pulled herself together, “Come.”

A smiling Wolkan rushed to her side bearing a folded parchment, sealed and unopened.

“This just came. From White Harbor.”

He turned to show the seal of the new king.

Arya rushed to take the folded parchment, almost tearing it as she sought its contents. She read it quickly once, then glanced at Wolkan before reading it again, more slowly.

“It’s done, he’s made it to White Harbor safely, and he’s agreed to be king, he’ll be crowned tonight…”

And at the bottom…

“Stick em with the pointy end.”

She smiled, grateful when Wolkan returned his own.

“What do you think?”

Wolkan pondered, “It would be better to send reinforcements and not need them than have regrets later.”

“That’s what I was thinking as well. And if he is going to stop at Castle Cerwyn, he can wait there until those reinforcements arrive, either from here or if the weather holds for the Northern Army coming up the King's Road. How many men can we send, Maester Wolkan?”

“I’ll send for Ser Mooton, Princess, to give a full accounting. We don’t want to leave Winterfell, or Winter Town for that matter unprotected.”

He seemed to be helpful, she dared hope he was being true and faithful.

“Very good. You’ve mentioned that there has been damage to the walls of Winterfell, what about the crypts? With everything that happened there…”

“Lord Snow had started to clear out the damage, but as soon as he left for King’s Landing, Princess Sansa stopped it. I didn’t think it was of the highest importance at the time, and our resources are limited. However I can arrange…”

Arya smiled awkwardly.

“That’s all right, Maester Wolkan. We are all having to face difficult choices. I would like to visit my family, however. I suppose that the stairs are at least passable, it seems at least someone survived what happened there.”

“The entrance is safe, Your Grace, the way was cleared a good ways, but I'm not sure if you can make it all the way to your family crypts. I can arrange…”

“Thank you, I will look myself, and if I need help we can set masons to work. I would think… this is important to my family, I'm sure you understand.”

She fisted her right hand, the burning, tingling returning. She wasn’t sure why visiting the crypts had become important, other than her taunting dreams.

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Later she’d found a torch just inside the broken door and soon found herself descending the curving stone steps into the black crypts of the Kings of Winter. She hadn’t visited since she’d first returned to Winterfell, when she’d wanted to see, to make it real.

So many lost, waiting. Here.

She searched for the candles between the statues, grateful that previous workmen had left some in place, had left a bucket of fresh candles to place as they worked. She lit those she found and made her way down the long passage, past the familiar statues of the first Starks, many broken beyond repair from the battle within the crypt. Much of the debris had been cleared away, and she found barrels and carts waiting to be taken up again at the right time. But she wanted, needed to go further.

Deeper into the darkness.

Dust hung in the unmoving air as she passed alcove after alcove, some statues recognizable and familiar, some holding little more than uneven piles of jagged stone.

She had played here growing up but now lost all sense of where she was, leaving lit candles in her wake as she pulled herself over fallen arches that blocked her way, climbed over tumbled statues and opened grave boxes, wary of unstable walls or cracked ceilings overhead.

Silence but for the scuffing of her boots, dust covering her hair and face and clothes.

She’d reached a corner. A familiar turn, and there…

The air was thick, and the torch dwindled.

No matter.

She breathed a sigh of relief.

She’d know these faces anywhere.

Father.

Robb.

Rickon.

She turned away, the faltering flames of the torch tracing a hazy arc in the dusty darkness.

Found herself before her aunt.

Lyanna Stark Targaryen.

This is where it had all started. Or rather, where it had all fallen apart.

She felt a tightness in her chest.

She wasn’t sure what she was expecting to find, but when the maester told her of the shaking beneath the castle, the cracks forming in some of the walls…

Tales of the “hidden dragon” beneath the castle.

She laughed, the sound dull and hollow among the ruins.

When she had time she’d look into the origin of that story; did someone know something? Or was it just a story, one of the endless prophecies she’d learned to despise, surging to accompany the red-tailed streak in the sky.

Another kind of magic.

Crowding smoke wafted around her as the torch faded even more.

Rustling in the darkness, a dragging sound, fluttering above her head.

Teeth gnashing.

It was getting hard to breathe.

The pain flared and she fell to her knees, nearly dropping the torch, instead leaning it against the statue of her aunt.

Distant voices in the darkness, in her head.

Father’s voice. Whispering, calling her name.

Comforting.

She could feel his fingers tousling her hair.

“You’re a Stark of Winterfell, you know our words.”

Mad, she was going mad!

She reached for the torch, her hand dragging streaks in the thick dust. She pulled herself up slowly, grasping at the stone, what was left of the fluttering light playing tricks on her eyes.

By the gods, why did she come down here?

She raised the torch, the statue’s face grimacing, light reflecting off of an odd corner behind the stone vault of Lyanna’s tomb casting a jagged shadow and an odd yellow light flickering onto the outer wall’s curve.

She felt dizzy as she stood, her father’s voice whispering from behind.

“We cannot fight amongst ourselves.”

“Look after one another.”

“Sansa is your sister.”

Arya wondered if her father had ever told Sansa these things.

She was having trouble breathing, choking when she tried to inhale.

Time to leave this place.

She stood to catch her bearings, wishing she had placed more candles, turning to follow her own footprints in the dust.

Father.

We never should have left Winterfell.

Would you have chosen another path, father, if you’d known what would become of your House? Your family? You betrayed your sister, her son, for your friend Robert. Would you have knowingly risked your own family as well. For Robert?

A sudden gust of fresh air brushed her face as she stood there, teetering as she reached to touch his face, cold and stern.

“Winter is coming, and we’ve come to a dangerous place.”

She ran her fingers down his face, remembering that day, her eyes welling with the memories. She hadn’t seen it, Yoren had seen to that, so it was left up to her imagination and her nightmares to recreate his death over and over again.

Her chest tightened, her stomach churned as she gazed into his vacant eyes.

She missed him so.

Why, why…?!? She could have had a life, a family, a home.

“Now winter is truly coming, and in the winter, we must protect ourselves.”

Why, father? Why couldn’t you protect US???

Her knees wobbled, and she fell against the statue, arms outstretched and reaching around, the torch falling to her side.

She wanted to hear, to know, but only silence.

Only her pain.

She looked up, into his stony gaze, his unmoving lips.

The tears spilled over unhindered, searing agony in her chest choking each breath as she sunk to the crypt floor, crying out in the dark, for the love, the safety, the future that had been stolen from her.

She tried to halt them, hold them back, but the sobs kept coming, somewhere a dam breaking inside, the years of fear and anger and rage and guilt rushing through her heart and head and pain, crashing against the cold hard stone of the crypt walls.

She wanted to call out, she wanted answers, she wanted… her past. Her future.

But no words would form, only groans of paralyzing grief, wave upon wave until her voice was gone, her strength depleted. Her chest heaved as she wiped at her face with her fingertips, surprised at finding her father’s alcove bathed in flickering light.

She stilled her breathing, heard the shift of leather.

A gentle hand on her shoulder, strong arms turning her to face him.

The familiar face of a stranger as he dropped to his knee beside her.

She all but collapsed as Tormund enfolded her, her arms around his neck, her sobs fresh and awkward as she buried her face in his shoulder, weeping as she had as a child, refreshing and right. She had few tears left, yet found them flowing more easily, somehow restoring her strength, the quiet embrace welcomed and returned.

He squeezed her gently as he whispered.

“You don’t have to be alone anymore, little one.”

She gasped and nodded and swallowed for air, and for once, at least for now, felt hope rise in her soul.

Just Arya.