Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dragons had danced. And they had all fallen from the sky. There were so few of them now. Aegon, Third of His Name, was King—and among the snow-tipped trees of the Winterfell godswood, played a little boy of three years. Hair as dark as a raven’s feather. Gray eyes, as gray as the coat of a direwolf. All simply called him Gar.

Gar Snow.

…

There was once a Prince, who rode on a dragon as green as the meadow. Many whispered that of fathers, the Prince had more than one. That his features evidently betrayed a bastardy obscured only by the Throne’s word. He was betrothed, by duty and debts owed, to a fierce Princess—born of sea and sky, a sword in hand.

But this Prince—ever-dutiful, unshakable in loyalty and honor—had fallen for a wolf, a bastard wolf. Love had drawn him in. Fate as well. For her mother’s words rang in his head, as his brown eyes met her gray. For did not his grandsire speak to his heir—her mother, the rightful Queen—of a song of ice and fire.

Was their meeting not mere chance, but fate?

“Aegon took two wives. To all my oaths, I shall remain faithful. My wolf maiden, I shall promise that I shall return.” Unspoken were more than a few words, that both already knew. For our line shall birth a promised prince, born out of love and fate becoming one . For what in any realm could stand against love and fate standing together in unison?

But the Prince never kept his promise, in the end.

…

“What will you name him, Sara?”

Her brother stood before her. She worried for him—his tears might freeze in the cold. But there stood Cregan, always strong and unbending as the Wall, crying . He had been howling, a mad wolf steeped in grief, just a few moments ago. I almost wondered if it was he who was giving birth, and not I. But Sara kept that jape to herself.

For the maesters had informed her brother that she would likely not survive the night.

Cregan had not made peace with that, having lost Jace—and now losing her, so soon afterwards. But for Sara, a guilty relief was all that she could feel. Winter comes for us all. I shall go to where you are now, my Prince. I am coming, Jacaerys.

All men must die, I know. But old gods, I humbly beseech you all—grant enough strength to my failing body so that I might name my son, as I leave him in my brother’s care.

“I shall name him…”

A memory came to her, a good memory. There was a boy and a girl, nestled under the wing of a green dragon. They were in the wolfswood, far away from any watching eyes. “If I had a child, I hope they would bear my mother’s name. Who would fight the whole of the Seven Kingdoms for my name, and my brothers’ names.” whispered the boy. She smiled. But there was hint of falseness in the girl’s smile. For the girl knew not what the boy had meant.

Sara Snow had never known her mother, who had died birthing Lord Snow’s bastard. But Queen Rhaenyra—who some had called “Maegor with tits” among other insults—had loved her sons dearly. They were raised as trueborn issue. Bastards they were not, by her will and her sire’s.

Truth did not matter. Names were blood enough. Love was enough. Supposedly.  But a bastard could only rise so far—and fall to the ground all the same, just as hard. Love could only do so much. Jacerys thought that our hearts were fated, and yet here I am.

“…for a loving mother. His mother. Rhaegar. Rhaegar shall be his name. From his line…a promised prince…promise me, Cregan…my brother…promise me that you will…care for him…”

She was a Snow, of the blood of Winter Kings. And the Kings of Winter held the North—not merely by virtue of muscle and swords, but by respect for their wisdom. For the Northmen remembered best the Kings that stored the most grain when Winter came, the Kings that wisely prepared for what-was-to-come.

Sara had written a final testament—part of her son’s meager inheritance—knowing the perils of the battlefield that was the birthing bed. She was, in that regard, every bit a Stark. Winter had come for Sara Snow, and she was ready to face her.

“…I have written a letter…Cregan…promise me that you shall…let him have it…his birthright…tell him…of what we shared…you, I…and Jace…that he…he is no…bastard…though born of both…promise me, Cregan…promise me!”

With that final command, the uncrowned Princess Consort of Dragonstone had breathed her last.

…

Two men stood in a musty crypt, millennia old. One was old, and the other young.

“You will leave?”

“Aye, Lord Stark.”

“I treated you—Gar, you are my son. Bastard yes, but son no less.”

“ Uncle , I am your nephew. Your true-born nephew.” Cregan’s eyes widened at the disdain that dripped from his boy’s tongue. He would have been more surprised, if not for the fact that Cregan understood Gar—their disdain for uncles. Bennard had tried to deny Cregan his birthright. So had Cregan, with Gar.

With Rhaegar.

“I…I have seen the South, nephew .” It felt so strange to call the boy such, for Cregan. Gar had always been Gar. His bastard. But Gar was not his bastard, not truly. And now Gar knew. And now Gar hated his not-father, his uncle . “There is nothing there, but dishonor and lies cloaked in perfume and song.” Cregan could hear Gar snort at the mention of lies. Hearing that frankly made the Old Wolf feel as if he had been kicked in the balls. “And if you wish to play the Game of Thrones—you ought know full well that it shall only end in either your death or victory.”

“Lord Stark, I do not seek the Iron Throne and I know well enough that I shall live and die as a bastard in the eyes of all men—your bastard, Gar Snow.” Rare was the time that the Old Wolf of the North’s mouth lay agape. But agape it was, enough for a fly in the Bogs to fly through. “Your lie, as your seed, is strong. But before the eyes alone of mother’s gods and my father’s, I shall at least endeavor to live and die as Rhaegar Targaryen. Son of Jacaerys and Sara.”

“You…are you sure of your decision?”

“Aye.”

Cregan sighed deeply. If Gar had been born a daughter, Cregan would have wept then and there. Thankfully, Gar was—by the grace of the old gods—born a boy. Nonetheless, the Old Wolf’s eyes grew moist. Sara. Jace. Did I fail you? Did I fail your son—my son? If I have, I beg for your forgiveness. May the old gods protect him. My nephew. My son.

From the tomb of Rhaegar’s mother, Cregan pulled forth a weirwood chest which bore a striking crest: that of a dragon of three heads chasing a wolf. Opened, Rhaegar saw the entirety of his inheritance. Letters from the father he knew not, the mother he knew not. And eggs, three of them. Vermax’s first and last clutch.

“Remember the song, my blood. What your mother and sire have entrusted to you. Söngur íss og elds.” You may be my nephew, but you are my blood still. You are of my pack, Gar. Always. For the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.

His blood smiled in turn, a sight that had not graced the Old Wolf for weeks. “Of course. The North remembers, always.” And Cregan’s heart leapt. With no one to see, the Old Wolf embraced his blood—his pup—and sobbed. His son allowed a final embrace.

…

Gar Snow had made it past the Neck, and into the Riverlands, when the young man had met his wife. She was a fair maiden, with auburn curls and hazel-brown eyes that felt strangely familiar. But no one had ever taken her hand in marriage, for they said that she was—despite her many virtues—twice-damned; they whispered that Ali was a bastard, and not just any bastard—but a faithless witch’s bastard daughter, conceived through unholy magics. For in the Riverlands, ever pious followers of the Faith whose piety was only strengthened by the savage rampage of the One-Eye’s godless beast, such a woman—no matter how kind or sweet—was walking sacrilege.

Horseshit .

Couldn’t these stupid followers of the Seven see the gentleness with which Ali cared for their children, even for the orphans of the Dance? Couldn’t they see how she sung to lift the spirits of those in their humble village? Couldn’t they witness the ways in which Ali used what she had learned from her gods-forsaken witch-mother to heal those that could afford no maester?

Ali was a saint to these people, yet received scorn as if she were a whore.

So Gar Snow did what no other man in the Riverlands dared to do—in the God’s Eye, before his mother’s gods, Gar Snow took Ali Rivers to be his wife. So it was known in the villages beyond that the bastard witch-daughter had finally wed—to a Snow, under the savage ways and rituals of the North.

…

Sara, their first babe, had purple eyes.

As their babe slept soundly during a spring night, Gar confessed the truth. He laid bare his true name. Rhaegar had feared that Ali would leave him, would condemn him as a liar—as one who swore with false name. Or that his wife’s kind nature would spoil into Southron ambition. But instead, Ali’s eyes remained kind as they always were—kind, even as rivers flowed from her orbs of hazel.

There was an odd joy in his wife’s tears, that Rhaegar could not quite grasp.

Until Ali brought Rhaegar to the God’s Eye. Sara had been left with a trusted friend, a bastard with lilac eyes—the blood of Lys, said bastard had testified—named Lala. Rhaegar had first thought that Ali had intended to swear again their oaths of marriage, this time with his true name. He was, in a manner of speaking, half-correct.

For Ali had simply pointed to the lake and said, “My father is there.” And for some unfathomable reason, Ali placed her lips upon Rhaegar. The Stark in Gar stepped back. Ali flinched. But the Targaryen in Rhaegar burned . Fire seeks fire. Blood, for dragons, can only be quenched by blood. Rhaegar went forward, and his tongue played with Alicent’s.

As dragons mated, so did they. Kin’s flesh against kin’s flesh. For a dragon alone is a sad thing.

With the gods whom the Starks and Strongs of the First Men have long worshipped as their sole witness, Rhaegar and Alicent Targaryen—the last of their respective lines—wed before the old gods at God’s Eye. Aegon the Third of His Name was King and Daenaera was Queen.

For Jaehaera, daughter of Helaena, was dead.

…

“Adventuring again, my daughter? Hiding among the small-folk, again? Truly, you resemble your aunt and grandmother. You are fortunate that I am very understanding—and your father, unable to resist an opportunity to spoil a daughter of his. Such a fierce spirit. If only grandsire could have seen you…”

“Yes, I know. Mother, you never cease reminding me of how you named me after both my aunt and grandmother. Anyways, enough small talk. I bring interesting news—for I saw by sheer accident in the Riverlands a babe with a peculiar shade of lilac in her eyes, with a most fascinating name.”

“…and the name of this babe?”

“Sara.”

“Ah…Sara…”

“Their parents also had interesting names, you know. I overheard them once. See, they were mating like rabbits, as I was about to visit the mother of the babe at night for some herbs—the babe’s grandmother was apparently a witch of all things–and you know how one screams their lover’s name when truly pleased. Their true names, apparently. For always-stern Gar and ever-kind Ali call themselves quite differently in the bedroom. Rhaegar is such a peculiar name for a Snow . Less odd—though still strange—is the name Alicent for a witch-daughter’s bastard. Why grant a witch’s daughter the name of a famed Septa of the Seven?”

“Rhaegar Snow. Alicent Rivers. Seven Hells .”

…

Lala Waters had disappeared in the lives of Gar Snow and Ali Rivers as quickly as her path had crossed theirs—only to appear once more. Their friend had appeared at first sight to be no different, her dress as humble as that of any moderately fortunate small-folk—the sort a petty merchant’s daughter would wear. But the air with which she carried herself was very much different.

And to Gar—who grew up at Winterfell, as if a ghost among the Starks—the way Lala carried herself was plain. Lala was no humble bastard. Lala was highborn, her blood true—but of which House was the question. Lys…Valyria…Waters…the answer was far too unsettling to consider. 

To the startled couple, Lala had handed a letter. On said letter was a seal—the Targaryen three-headed dragon in Velaryon colors, quartered with the sigil of the Hightowers. Gar had paled at the sight, uncertain of the implications. “I shall wait for a response, my niece and nephew .”  Lala winked, a smirk on her face, as she went out of their humble hut.

With his hands shaking, Rhaegar had opened the letter. Alicent was beside him, just as pale and nervous. Together, they read the missive slowly.

Rhaegar and Alicent Snow,

I do not wish to trouble you. Lala has spoken much about the two of you. Let us do away with pretense. I have reason to believe, from what Lala has said, that you might be kin. And that you might both be aware of this fact. Again, I stress that I and my daughter mean no harm. From what I have heard, you both merely intend to live a peaceful life with your daughter.

Children ought not be blamed for their parents’ failings. And there are so few of us left, especially with dragons dying. Iā Targārien mērī iksis iā olvie quba run . I have entrusted Lala with a few golden dragons. Please take it as a gift, from family long lost. Lastly, I offer to you a surer home in the Reach. While I or Lala regretfully cannot openly acknowledge our ties with the both of you—I can, at the very least, arrange a favorable marriage between your children and the children of loyal landed knights sworn to my husband’s house. Your little Sara’s future—and that of her children, your grandchildren—shall be assured.

Your kin,

Lady Rhaena Hightower

A moon later, Gar and Ali Snow left for the Reach. Three daughters would be born to their family—Sara, Nyra and Alys. Each would marry a family of landed knights, sworn to House Hightower.

They would live their lives in want for nothing. Content. Theirs would be a family filled with smile and laughter. But Gar would be often struck by a solemn mood and so would his firstborn daughter, Sara.

For it would be his mother’s namesake that would learn of the song of ice and fire —the song that Aegon the Conquerer had sung to Aenys who sung to Aegon the Uncrowned who sung to Rhaena who sung to Jaehaerys who sung to Viserys who sung to Rhaenyra who sung to Jacerys who sung with Cregan and Sara—and inherit Rhaegar’s patrimony, a heavy patrimony of blood and prophecy.

…

From eldest child to eldest child. Such was the manner in which the song was remembered and passed on. Never again did the heir of such song ever mention their inheritance to their spouse, no matter how beloved. From heir to heir, the weirwood chest was passed—only opened at the moment of inheritance, at the very instant that one generation passed the secret to the next.

It was always hidden from view, the chest.

Slowly, the line of Sara and Jacaerys, of Alys and Aemond—the last descendants of Harwin Strong  in truth, Leonor Velaryon in name and Alicent Hightower in both truth and name—grew in stature. From wedding landed knights, this line continued to marry bannermen more distinguished than the last. Higher and higher, their fortunes went.

Until one lady of this line—who would inherit the song and secrets of Gar Snow—would catch the eye of the heir to the Hightowers. Sara Beesbury would end up as a Lady of Oldtown, Lord Leyton Hightower’s first wife. She would come to bear the first three children of her husband, Lord Leyton: Malora, Baelor and Alerie.

…

Papa had never looked so sad , Malora realized. Lord Leyton Hightower—always maddeningly confident among his peers, said to be light of every feast—was now ashen-faced, a dimmed mood evident on his features. I am sad too, for I know why. Mama is going to die, for the miscarriage was too much for her body.

A miscarriage could make the body bleed too much, and bleeding too much could make mommies die. Normally, Malora would feel proud at remembering what she had read from the big books that her family and the nice acolytes and novices at the Citadel allowed her to read—because even though she was a little girl, she knew far more than many grown women and even many men. But not today. Remembering what she had read about pregnancies only made her sad. If the maesters already know so much, why does mama have to die!

But Malora did not cry. She was the eldest, and mama always said that being the eldest was very important. Mama always reminded her of that fact. Malora didn’t quite understand why mama was so insistent on reminding her, since this was not Dorne and they were not the Martells—it was Baelor who would inherit, not her.

“Malora, your mother is asking for you.”

When Malora left her mother a few hours later, she bore a letter with a strange sigil and a key to a chest.

Lady Sara Hightower died the next day.

…

A young girl grabbed Archmaester Marwyn’s cloak. Said Archmaester was about to let out a colorful curse in Bastard Valryian but refrained from doing so upon recognizing the features of the young girl pestering him. Malora Hightower, the Citadel’s Flower. Weed, more like it . Brat had free run of the Citadel, always annoying (or delighting) novices, acolytes, maesters and even archmaesters with all sorts of questions and asking for all sorts of books.

Making such a girl cry would bring upon oneself the ire of the Hightowers—whose patronage made the Citadel possible and sustains much of it still—and more than half of the gray rats themselves, many of whom mourned the tragic fact that Peramore’s second coming was unfortunately born a woman.

“You are Archmaester Marwyn, yes? The one that the Conclave has charged with the study of the Higher Mysteries.”

“That I am, Lady Malora.”

There was a solemn, serious look to the young lady that Marwyn could not shake himself away from. Suddenly, the Archmaester remembered that the young lady’s mother had passed recently. Always sad, for one’s parents to pass when one is still so young. I suppose I’ll indulge the brat—the girl probably needs the company and the distraction.

“If I may ask for clarification—prophecies fall under the Higher Mysteries, yes?” The Archmaester’s intense sense of curiosity—a trait many a true gray rat of the Citadel shared—was genuinely tickled. Why would a young Hightower specifically ask about prophecy?

“That…they do.”

While small as a young girl, Malora nevertheless craned her neck upwards—and her eyes stared right at the Archmaester’s own. There was a look of fierce determination on the young girl that surprised Archmaester Marwyn. Idly, the Archmaester remembered about Queen Helaena—and her private diary, which the Hightowers had put away in the Vaults underneath the Hightower. Did young Lady Malora have a prophetic vision? Beesbury was descended from First Men…but no…the blood would have been too diluted…but Rhaena Hightower…more recent ancestor…dragon dreams…Targaryens…hmm…

“The Higher Mysteries. Teach me. Everything .”

Chapter Text

In the aftermath of what the maesters had begun to call Robert’s Rebellion, House Targaryen was at its weakest point since the Conquest. Only the reign of Aegon the Third stood on shakier ground. The Targaryens had no dragons—and Rhaegar Targaryen, in wedding Lyanna Stark before the Old Gods, had resurrected a precedent set by the first Aegon and Maegor: polygamous marriage. And while the Faith grumbled, those that stood with House Targaryen during the Rebellion saw an opportunity. A marriage to a King meant a path to the Iron Throne, a firm alliance with the most powerful House in Westeros—and now that a King could marry more than once, opportunities loomed for the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms.

It was the Old Lion of Casterly Rock, Lord Tywin Lannister, who made the first move. Alleging that such was necessary in the name of ensuring order and stability in the Seven Kingdoms, the former Hand of the King offered the hand of his daughter, Cersei. Before the Small Council—so that other loyalist lords are would take notice—the Paramount Lord of the Westerlands brought up the gold of his land’s mines, the wealth of his land’s ports. Unspoken but clearly heard by all who were present—and all who heard second-hand by whisper, gossip and rumor: The Throne is weak, and you need my strength—the lions’ strength.

But the Queen of Thorns had known better. There had been a knowing grin on Lady Olenna’s features, as she watched Tywin Lannister puff himself up in pride before the Small Council. Lords—men—often thought so highly of themselves. Those that thought themselves brilliant (as the one who brought ruin to Castamere clearly did) believed as if their kin were but mere pieces in a game of cyvasse, to be brought against each other and sacrificed at will. Foolishness , the Queen of Thorns had mused at that moment. Pitiful, the folly of men who barely understood their offspring. What Ladies—women—knew better was that one’s kin were not pieces in a game to be dispassionately used , but rather were more akin to flowers in a garden: a garden that needed careful nurture and attention, with flowers that grew with their own peculiar whims and only on soil that was fit for their nature—swayed by guidance and a touch of good fortune, not brute force.

One prunes a flower gently—rather than manhandling it.

Cersei Lannister was beautiful—the so-called Light of the West, they proclaimed her to be. But beauty fades, and men are not so stupid as to only judge on the basis of that alone , Olenna knew. Her many spies had weaved an interesting tale for the Queen of Thorns. A melancholic prince—born in the shadow of Summerhall—who had never once touched a brothel, yet ran away with the young first-born maiden of a Great House? They had muttered that Queen Rhaella had probably swallowed a mountain of books, to have given birth to a boy that some feared to be Baelor the Blessed’s second coming—and yet, so suddenly, the boy-prince who had once long preferred harp and book quickly took to sword and lance. There was, a few whispered, an aging dragon-maester on the Wall—who was forgotten by all, save the Silver Prince. Such an unusual pair had traded many letters, and not just with each other, but also with an Archmaester of the Citadel—Marwyn, who had Valryian steel for links on his chain. An Archmaester for the Higher Mysteries. And in Harrenhal, the Prince of Dragonstone found the Knight of the Laughing Tree, who was apparently no Ser, if certain poutlandish whispers were to be believed…

From the fragments, the Dowager Lady Tyrell had pieced together a peculiar picture. A sullen prince trapped—and driven—by magic and prophecy, who desperately sought for escape in the very same demons which chained him. A lonely boy surrounded by abuse with only books for comfort and company. Such a melancholic prince could offer little resistance against dreams of love, especially when twinned alongside dreams of magical prophecy. Like most men, Rhaegar disappointed his wife with broken vows. But unlike most men, Rhaegar fell for not the promise of younger tits or a firmer ass—for if that were the only or most crucial reason, there were far more alluring highborn ladies south of the Neck than Lyanna Stark, despite her rumored wolfish beauty—but rather fell for the promise of that wonderful thing called honor : the sight of a highborn lady upholding the dignity of her father’s bannerman against disgraceful squires with armor and lance. In short, Prince Rhaegar—now King—was a brooding romantic. Which , sourly thought Lady Olenna upon arriving at this conclusion, rather explained the foolishness of the whole damned Rebellion well enough .

The Queen of Thorns had scoffed at the idea of Cersei Lannister beside Rhaegar Targaryen. As some gray smart-aleck at the Citadel would probably say: one would have better luck mixing oil and water. If the King was a brooding romantic, Cersei Lannister was a ruthless bitch of a lady—the sort that coldly saw the court as a battlefield to conquer. Lady Olenna had no doubt that Cersei would do just about anything to get the prize that all nobles of the Seven Kingdoms sought for—the Iron Throne—and that if the young lioness had her way, every obstacle in her path would go the way of the Reynes. It was plain to all (save Lord Tywin and Lady Cersei herself, both oblivious in their crude ruthlessness) that such a pairing would not do; a vain lioness such as Lady Lannister would evidently have no patience for a man as queer as the King, for all the latter’s titles and power.

And an awful marriage spoiled even the most auspicious joining of dynasties.

Too few highborns realized this. Even fewer understood this.

In some soils, only some flowers can grow. That was a plain truth which many highborn—lost in the inelegant and brusque manner at which they pursued their ambition—failed to properly grasp. To blossom truly, a flower must be carefully tended to. An especially queer lord such as His Grace required a lady consort who could accommodate—and perhaps even match—his peculiar character. And in the Reach, there was a Wisteria that grew on the walls of the Hightower—a tower-flower that would blossom in odd Targaryen soil, laced with the mad specks of prophecy and magic. With that thought in mind, the Queen of Thorns picked up her quill and on parchment began to write.

“Dearest Alerie…”