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Chapter Text

305 a.C.

Daenerys had counted seven days.

Seven days since the surrender of King's Landing.

She could still remember all the sensations she had experienced at the exact moment when the bells began to toll. An almost inseparable mix of joy, anger, sadness, relief... The truth was that even after seven days, Daenerys wasn't sure what had stopped her from ending Cersei Lannister right there.

The Red Keep was within reach of the Targaryen eyes, as well as a word... A single word and Drogon would erase her enemies from existence once and for all… So would thousands of innocents , Daenerys thought, still sick from the smell of smoke and burning flesh. War was always going to be inevitable when it came to the Iron Throne. Those who dared to oppose, must lose their heads, and burn under the fire of dragons.

Daenerys was certain of that, as well as that the common folk should be given their chance to pledge allegiance. Benevolence . A message that would reach not just those hiding behind the walls of King's Landing, but the entire continent. “Generations will sing of how Daenerys Targaryen took back what was rightfully hers”, that had been the first thing Tyrion Lannister had said to her after Drogon reached the ground.

After Mirri Maz Durr, Daenerys could no longer hope for a legacy. Her violet eyes met those of Jon Snow, who was sitting on the other side of the small council room, staring at the black orb in front of him with a certain disinterest. So much had changed, in such a short time... Dany still harbored feelings for him, feelings that had not been assuaged by her latest discovery.

When your womb quickens again, and you bear a living child. Maybe it didn't matter after all... Daenerys could carry a thousand children inside her, it would be worthless if they weren't graced by the Gods with a breath of life. She might be a Queen in her own right, but that was beyond her reach.

“Your grace…” Tyrion called in a slightly louder voice. Daenerys quickly addressed him, his eyes looking tired and beard more unkempt than usual. The taking of the city had not been kind to the Hand, who were solely in charge of all the demands of the wounded and newly taken capital. “About the seats of the Small Council…”

“Distribute them among the faithful to my cause, giving preference to those who were by my side from the beginning” Daenerys said as she confidently turned towards one of her oldest allies. One of those who were still alive . “Grey Worm, I would be greatly honored by your presence at this council as  Lord Commander of the Queensguard. As Tyrion is my hand, so shall you be my sword…” The Unsullied bowed his head toward her, his eyes full of devotion. He wasn't good with words, especially in that language. “As for the position of Master of Ships, I believe that the Queen of the Iron Islands must have some names to indicate…”

“Actually, your grace...” Jon said, suddenly taking all of Daenerys's attention to himself. “If I may… I have a name for this position, and I believe it should be considered.” He said, still avoiding looking directly at the Targaryen, who deliberately nodded. “Ser Davos Seaworth.”

“Your adviser?” Daenerys said intrigued, apparently the old man seemed to be very faithful to Jon, in a very mutual way. Why would it be advisable to dismiss such an ally? Perhaps he already has many allies , Daenerys thought, remembering the feasts at Winterfell. Jon was always surrounded by vassals... Admirers.

“He is not a highborn man, it is true.” Jon said suddenly. “But he is loyal and wise, with years of experience on the seas…” The Queen's violet eyes turned to Tyrion, it would be up to him to decide what to do.

“Ser Davos Seaworth.” The Lannister simply said while wetting his pen over the ink to write the name of the newest Master of Ships.

“The Grand Maester will be appointed by the Citadel, I presume?” Questioned Daenerys seriously, Tyrion nodded quickly. “I believe that the other positions will become clearer to us once we open the city, we are still to recieve the great and small houses to swear allegiance…”

“All in due time.” Tyrion said, flipping a few pages further in his small leather notebook, moving to the next point. “All the wildfire that was below the city is already packed…”

“Packed?” Questioned Daenerys trying her best not to look confused. “I thought I said I wanted it destroyed.”

“Maybe Gendry Baratheon…”

“Gendry Baratheon already has my fullest approval, and so far, he seems to get along very well with the lords of the Stormlands.” Said Daenerys suddenly interrupting her Hand. Until that moment the dispute for control of the Stormlands was balanced. Gendry's legitimization was a way of assuring his loyalty to the newest Queen, but it was enough to plunge his domain into a bloody rebellion. “Keeping wildfire below us, packed or not, is a constant danger… Shall I remind you of the two dragons that now live on the outskirts of the city?”

“You are right, my Queen.” Said the Lannister quickly, his eyes soon met those of Gray Worm, who seemed to express something like: I told you so. “I will ask that all of the wildfire to be neutralized today.”

“Excellent.” Dany said, satisfied. “The walls?”

“The Dotharki are helping in the reconstruction, which has been an opportunity to... Interact with the smallfolk...” Said Tyrion ironically, strangely Daenerys knew exactly what her Hand was referring to. Having ridden for many months at the head of a Khalasar herself, she was aware of the free and untamed nature of her people. Steps had to be taken sooner or later.

“The tumult quelled quickly.” Anticipated Gray Worm.

“Very well, when you can ask Aggo and Jhogo to come to me” She said trying to contain her concern.

“Going back to the dragons , I believe it is important to analyze the Pit reform. We can do something that does not compromise the royal vaults…”

“We've already talked about this.” Daenerys quickly dismissed, even the mention of such an idea was enough to make her furious. “Drogon and Rhaegal will live freely, as is the nature of dragons!” She stated decisively.

“They wouldn't be chained…” Tyrion said, trying in vain to reverse the idea, but his Queen quickly raised her hand for him to stop.

“Any other urgent topics?” Questioned Daenerys drinking some water before getting up. Everyone did the same as a sign of respect.

“Yes, your grace.” Jon said seriously, his eyes finally meeting hers. “Regarding the return of my troops to the North…” He said in a low voice, as if this were a sensitive topic, and perhaps, it really was. Daenerys felt Tyrion's eyes burn against her.

“I believe this is a matter necessary only for the Queen and Jon Snow, don't you agree with me Gray Worm?“ Said the half man quickly removing his sphere from the table, and handing the soldier his own in a clumsy way. “All meetings you must bring it and take it with you, sitting at the table would also be much more polite….” Daenerys could hear her Hand giving instructions to the Unsullied even after the doors were sealed. It didn't take long for an awkward silence to form, filling the room densely. Jon was still on the other side of the room, looking at her with a certain impersonality. Daenerys took a deep breath, her voice caught in her throat… She needed to tell him , she felt that she somehow owed it to Jon.

“You may have your leave” Said with a crystal clear voice, that was a decision of the Dragon Queen. Young Dany, just over twenty years old, would never let her lover go like that... Even if he didn't love her the same way anymore. “But before you go… Well… There's no right way to tell you…” She felt his gray eyes staring at her curiously as Jon took two steps towards her. “I'm pregnant.” She said it simply, the information released just like that, in a quick and clean shot. Dany felt a wave of relief wash over her, as if Drogon's weight were being lifted from her shoulders. “I don't expect you to marry me, I...” Jon opened his mouth but before he could say anything Daenerys cut him off, her voice still shaky. “I don't expect anything from you.”

“How long have you known?” He questioned approaching Dany, his eyes locked under the Targaryen's belly, perhaps for the first time noticing its volume.

“Since the Battle of Winterfell.” She answered exactly. At first it was easy to ignore the morning sickness and the delay in her periods. The war had taken a lot out of Daenerys, it was natural for her body to manifest discomfort in some way. Furthermore, the Targaryen did not trust the northern healers who were faithfully connected to Sansa Stark. Months passed, and Dany struggled to deny the obvious, at least until she was confronted by her Hand. Bloody Lannister . “If I am right, in the next moon there will be four cycles…”

“Dany…” He whispered through a sigh. “We need to get married, as soon as possible...”  Jon said as he placed his hand on her shoulder, his face was full of a mixture of seriousness and concern. “This child cannot see this world through the eyes of a bastard.”

“We don't even know if it will survive...” Daenerys murmured, moving away from Jon's touch. Mirri Maz Durr's words echoed vividly in his mind. As if she were still in that damned tent, across the sea, with Khal Drogo before her… His eyes clouded and strangely placid, lifeless . “I'm cursed.. .”

“But you still told me about the baby.” Said the northerner taking Daenerys's delicate hands with some urgency, rescuing her from her dark memories. “Some part of you still has hope, just like I do…” He took a sudden deep breath. “This baby needs to be born within the bonds of marriage.”

“What if the child perishes?” Asked the Targaryen in a sharp tone. “Will you stay? Will you be my husband?” Asked him haughtily, as if she was challenging him.

“I made you a promise when I bend the knee and still intend to…”

“I'm not talking about that” She said approaching, taking Jon's callused hands and placing them under her waist. Snow's eyes filled with tears before he pulled away from her once more. “Tell me, what did I do so terrible to deserve your disgust?” Exploded Daenerys suddenly pushing him hard. “Am I not worthy of your affection, of your desire?”

“It's not that.” Said Jon staring at her deeply, his eyes sunken and helpless, he seemed to suffer as much as she did. “I do have feelings for you...”

“I am your Queen.” Dany knew where this would all end. She needed to take a deep breath to think straight, Jon was right about one thing. Even in the face of uncertainty, it was her role not only as a mother, but as a Queen to ensure that her heir was born with all possible legitimacy. An alliance between Winterfell and King's Landing would be welcome, demonstrating the loyal nature of a Queen who honors her allies. And it would give Jon back some of his power. There would not be a King in the North, but a Prince Consort from the North. “We will marry for the sake of this child.” She assured him finally exposing her only condition, it would be too much for her to have something within reach of her eyes that she couldn't have for herself. If she did that, it would be for the love of her children, and nothing else. “If the baby dies, you will return to Winterfell, and you will be faithful to me until your last day.”

“What if the child lives?”

“You will be able to see it grow up here in King's Landing...” Answered the Targaryen as if that possibility were almost impossible. As much as she denied it inside, the mere possibility of being a mother again was new and frightening. For the simple fact that Dany wanted that child as she had never wanted anything in her life, more than flying under Drogon, more than sitting on the Iron Throne, more than the house with the red door...

Chapter Text

305 a.C.

It was the hour of the nightingale when the Stark entourage crossed the gates of King's Landing.

The sky was dyed in a pale lilac tone, which gradually mixed with the first rays of the sun, thus forming a beautiful dawn in shades of pink and orange. The city had a pleasant, warm climate, but at the same time, fresh by the breeze from the Blackwater Bay. The typical smell of the city was ignored by Sansa's senses as she held a small handkerchief under her nose.

While riding through the streets of the city, the Stark girl relived part of her memories there. The turmoil that nearly robbed her virtue in the Bread Riots, her father's execution before the Great Sept of Baelor. Much had changed since then, the temple honoring the Seven was reduced to rubble and the streets of the city seemed reasonably calm. The brothels on the Street of Silk were quickly emptying, whores with uncovered bodies prostrated themselves under window sills and balconies, waving goodbye to their clients. The first merchants set up their tents under the street, while the beggars and children got up ready for their occupations.

And at the top of Aegon's Hill loomed majestically, the Red Keep.

Sansa suddenly swallowed hard, the Starks don't do well in the South – Her grandfather, her uncle, her father – They had all perished within the walls of that city, and Sansa had an odd certainty that if she hadn't run away with Littlefinger she would have faced the same fate.

The Lannisters had been purged across the seas, yet the Iron Throne belonged to an unreliable Queen, one of a ruthless and unpredictable nature…. With two beasts at her disposal.

“Arya and Sansa Stark of Winterfell, sisters of the Prince Consort.” Arya repeated impatiently before the castellan. The small entourage stretched out behind her, waiting for the gates to open.

“The council did not report your arrival, I'm sorry Lady Stark.” The immaculate said in response, his eyes looked at them suspiciously. The castle was closed even to the loyalists, the Queen had postponed the oaths of allegiance to her coronation ceremony, which was yet to take place. No surprise, I wouldn't want my vassals shamelessly pregnant with a child conceived before marriage either, Sansa thought with some bitterness.

“Ask Tyrion Lannister, the Hand of the Queen.” Sansa said riding towards the gate. “I'm sure he'll be upset if he finds out he wasn't woken up to see us” Continued in a haughty tone that Sansa usually used when she wanted to impose herself. As the knight retreated toward the Red Keep, Arya rolled her eyes. “With luck when they open the gates our bathtubs will already be full in our quarters”

“Full and cold…” Arya murmured, still in a bad mood. “It's not like we're strangers, Jon is her husband.” She complained in a louder tone, Arya wanted her words to reach the ears of the men who had accompanied them.

When the half-man laid his eyes on Sansa, she could feel her heart leap in her chest. Tyrion was clean-shaven, he looked years younger than he had when they'd married. His golden hair gleamed in the morning light, and his multicolored eyes stared at her casually, drained of any trace of surprise or amazement, the Keep's long staircases seemed to have been enough for him to digest the news.

“Lady Stark.” Tyrion said smiling serenely in the direction of the redhead who reciprocated bowing her head slightly in a sign of respect. Sansa had good feelings for the Lannister, gratitude especially for the attention he had given her when they were married. Every breakfast in the sunlight, every stroll through the gardens, every laugh or joke... It had all contributed on making King's Landing less suffocating, less intolerable. “I am really sorry about that.” He said before ordering to open the gates.

In the courtyard, the entourage was quickly welcomed by grooms and maids. Sansa gracefully dismounted only to see Arya quickly walk towards Tyrion.

“Our brother?” She asked him in an almost harsh tone, the wolf was in a hurry. Of all people, Arya was the most suspicious of Daenerys and the circumstances of the marriage. What had disturbed her the most was the lack of correspondence coming directly from Jon. All the ravens that reached Winterfell were very formal, impersonal, as if it were the same letters for all the nobles of the kingdom received.

“He's resting, spent the night helping the Queen deal with… The difficulties of pregnancy.” The Lannister said gently ignoring the tone used by Arya. “If you wish, Lady Arya…”

“Arya, just Arya.” She interrupted him quickly, her gray eyes staring at him with scrutiny, she didn't trust him.

“Forgive me for my sister's lack of manners.” Sansa said approaching with grace. “We are all very tired, it was a long journey”

“Long indeed.” He sighed as if he was already familiar with it. “I've asked the servants to prepare some of the apartments in Maegor's Keep so that your ladyship can refresh and rest before we broke our fast.”

“That's very kind of you, thank you Tyrion.” Sansa said with a smile. He was offering one of the most prestigious places for both of them, close to where Jon and Daenerys resided...

“It's an honor to receive you, I'm sure Prince Jon will be very pleased with your visit.” The Lannister cordially said analyzing them with a certain pity. Sansa had no doubt, the trip had taken its toll on everyone there. “With that I leave you to be conducted to your rooms, your men will be installed on the adjacent floors.” He said before nodding to a blonde haired maid who hurriedly walked towards them. “Jana is the Queen's head maid, she will take care of you while you reside in the Fortress.” Break. “I hope to see you soon”

“Likewise my lord.” Sansa said compassionately as she stared at Tyrion's back moving away from them.

When the sun was high Jana came to fetch Sansa for breakfast.

A table had been set up below one of the stone gazebos that lined the edge of the gardens, overlooking Blackwater Bay. Sansa was wearing a beautiful dress in shades of blue, her mother's colors, her red hair held back in two braids. Arya accompanied her, the less polished Stark dressed in new riding clothes, lighter to keep up with the southern heat.

Daenerys sat between Jon and Tyrion. She had a blank expression, her violet eyes staring at Drogon and Rhaegal who were flying over the horizon, her hands under the delicate fabric of her red silk dress, caressing her voluminous belly.

Jon only had eyes for his Queen, analyzing her with a worried gaze, he looked the same as ever. Sansa felt her heart suddenly warm, he still looked a lot like the man who had fought the threat of eternal darkness, the man who had fought for Winterfell.

When both approached in a brief bow, the men rose without hesitation. Jon glared at them happily before cradling Sansa, who was closest to him, in a tender, long embrace.

“I missed you so much.” He said as she separated from his sister, his eyes locked in her as if he were trying to capture every change in her face. “Arya…” Said turning to the youngest who answered him with a slap so sharp that it made him gasp in surprise. Sansa felt her face heat up, she knew Arya was a nervous wreck, but she hadn't expected such a reaction… Not directed at Jon.

“Has the air in this damned town made you lose your mind?” She questioned him with a fury worthy of the blood that flowed in her veins. Daenerys and Tyrion exchanged glances, the Hand notably reassuring its Queen. “You were legitimated, got married and are about to have a child, and don't even consider offering a word to your family?” Arya enumerated furiously, her eyes fixed on Jon. “Say something! Has the Keep lost its ravens?”

“It is my fault, good-sister.” Daenerys intervened with a compassionate face. “The contents of these letters…” She had to take a deep breath before continuing, she looked tired. “And the ones that would fly in response could put the crown at risk.”

“Our loyalty is to your grace.” Sansa said taking a step forward, those words had a bitter taste. She felt Arya's eyes on her, her wolf blood boiling. “We would never, ever write something that could threaten the crown…” Sansa assured slowly. “The crown that will one day be placed upon our nephew's head.” Her words had been carefully calculated, changing the subject was the safest thing for everyone there, especially for Arya. “When I found out…” A smile lit Sansa's lips genuinely. Use your emotions to your advantage, in love and politics, that was Littlefinger's advice. “My heart filled with happiness, our father would be proud of you Jon.”

“Yes, a good thing at least.” Arya murmured before quickly sitting down.

“A son…” Sansa continued excitedly, despite everything, Jon deserved more than anyone to taste that joy, even alongside such a... Inappropriate person.

“Or daughter.” Tyrion added with a smile.

“Boy or girl, will possess all the rights of a firstborn.” Jon said satisfied, proud.

“Would it be too bold to ask the names you thought?” Sansa asked in the direction of Daenerys, who kept her distance from the conversation and oblivious to her husband’s almost intoxicating joy.

“Rhaella if its girl, in honor of my mother.” She said in a slightly somber tone. “If its a boy…” The Targaryen took a moment to think, her eyes landing on Sansa's that time with more certainty. “It will be Jaehaerys… In honor of the best King these lands have ever seen.”

“Jaehaerys Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone.” Tyrion said, testing the name under his lips. Something instantly hit Sansa, like a shudder, she couldn't control it this time.

“Forgive me Tyrion… But did you say Targaryen?” She asked him suddenly, an annoyance had flooded her. Jon couldn't have given up something like that… Thought Sansa in disbelief.

“We decided during discussions of the marriage agreement… All offspring that come from our union will carry the name of House Targaryen.” Jon replied simply, which made Sansa even more irritated, her eyes looked at him with disbelief before she straightened up in her chair. He had taken the Stark name for himself, of course... Properly legitimizing it would place him above Daenerys, something that would never be allowed. But still, Sansa didn't understand, how could Jon, raised as a Stark, be so neglectful of his House? He always wanted to be one of us, to be like Robb… And yet he despises us like this? Sansa took a deep breath, pushing her feelings away and putting reason before her, she was still in the dragon's nest.

“Bran isn't here.” Said the red-haired Stark without taking her eyes off Jon. “Would anyone dare say why?”

“There must always be a Stark at Winterfell.” Arya replied promptly almost interrupting her sister, it was her voice that carried one of Ned Stark's mottos. She didn't seem all that bothered by the fact, but still, knowing Arya as Sansa did, she wouldn't pass up the chance to scold Jon. Especially after the last few months of silence.

“Exactly.” Sansa continued. “I assume you discussed the inheritances of your offspring… A second son would certainly inherit Winterfell.”

“Not really, Lady Sansa.” Daenerys said trying her best to contain the contempt on her voice. “I believe that it is not auspicious to talk about inheritances, or about second children that I do not have…”

“Well then…” Sansa muttered, clenching her jaw tightly. “I hope that when the time comes this matter will be discussed taking into account the weight of the legacy of House Stark…” Her blue eyes reached Jon who lowered his head in response. What did she do to you?

“It sure will.” Tyrion intervened diplomatically, while Daenerys waved to the servants so that breakfast was finally served. Savory and sweet pastries, as Sansa remembered… An addition to the Dragon Queen's personal tastes was pronounced in the form of fruit and foreign drinks.

“How long do you intend to stay in King’s Landing?” Tyrion asked before sipping some of his typical Arbor Gold.

“Until the baby is born, if that pleases our Queen, of course.” Sansa said as meekly as she could.

“As long as you want, good-sister” Daenerys grudgingly nodded.

“It will be great to have them during the wedding.” Jon said in Tyrion's direction. “The Gods know how saddened your poor bride was at the prospect of such a…

“Intimate?” Completed Daenerys quickly.

“Small was what everyone was thinking… Small like the groom.” The Lannister said, good-humored as always. Sansa felt her face warm, her mind once again poring over the last conversation she had shared with Tyrion, their hands touching in middle of that long night. It wouldn’t work between us, the dragon queen – the divided loyalties would become a problem. “I'm afraid I didn't announce the event properly, I had hoped to do so when it was already official…” He said to the Stark girls in a careful tone, as if he knew that Sansa would probably think of him.

“I imagine it’s been a lot to speed up these last few months, no one will blame you when the ravens arrive.” Sansa said cordially, covering her feelings with a thin layer of politeness. “Who is the lucky bride?”

“Lady Talla Tarly of Horn Hill.” Tyrion said quickly, as if he was already used to the sound of that name.

"Didn't the Tarly’s fight for Cersei?" Arya questioned sharply, almost inconveniently. “That is, before they were reduced to ashes, of course.”

“Very well pointed out, Lady Stark.” Daenerys corroborated with a cynical smile, before Arya could object to the title the Queen continued to speak. “That was taken into account in our negotiations, the royal pardon and other concessions were vitally important in securing House Tarly’s loyalty.”

“Oh yes…” Jon said quickly. “Little Sam has been legitimized and will be raised in King’s Landing until he is old enough to rule over Horn Hill.

“I hope no one has objected to the boy’s claim… Gendry has faced great resistance among the lords of the Stormlands, at least that’s what has reached the North.” Sansa said deftly, her intention was to probe, she wanted to know any gravity of the conflicts further south.

“We can't compare Horn Hill with Storm’s End.” Daenerys said quickly. “Little Sam will have no problem pledging allegiance to Willas Tyrell… As for Lord Baratheon, well… He's still trying to win the loyalty of his many vassals.”

“The end of the siege of Fellwood was thrilling, I heard…” Sansa continued. “The Dothraki are known for their prowess in combat, the sight of them from the battlements was enough for Lord Fell to surrender… Surrender to meet his end on the edge of a arakh, that's how it happened, wasn't it?

“He surrendered on the condition that his daughters would not be… Raped.” Tyrion answered with regret. “But the damned Fell didn't bend the knee.”

“Never for a Targaryen whore and her named bastard.” Daenerys interrupted, repeating the words scornfully, her eyes reaching Sansa cynically. “Those were the words, are you sure you didn't hear them by now?”

“Dany.” Jon whispered, taking his wife's hand in a soothing way. Sansa kept her expression neutral, it was easy to turn her off the axis after all.

“You're right.” Daenerys said in a tired voice. “Forgive me Lady Sansa, the news of the rebellion has been very stressful, the Kingdom needs peace, the people need to rebuild their homes and feed their children.”

“Peace will come as soft as spring.” Sansa granted, adhering to the Dragon Queen's truce. “Gods are good, before your child is placed in your arms, Gendry Baratheon will take Storm's End!” The Stark toasted, raising her glass with the sweetest look she could manage.

“To Gendry Baratheon!” Tyrion said raising his glass emphatically, everyone followed him, only to turn their attention to the dishes under the table and conversations with less political potential.

______________

After the heated breakfast in the gardens, Arya still hadn't managed to settle her mood. As harmless as Daenerys Targaryen looked pregnant in her delicate silk gown, her nature still stood clear as day before Arya's eyes.

She was a Dragon, born from the seed of a vile man, in possession of the greatest army that ever lived.

And Jon, despite having gone through everything he went through, showed weakness. Later that day, he had confided in Sansa that his only requirement formalized in the marriage agreement was that he will have a voice and decision-making power in raising the children. Nothing concerning House Stark, nothing guaranteeing the North's independence, not even a damn dowry was considered...

What would happen when the Queen got tired of him? When Jon was too incisive or too honorable? Sansa was right after all... The south was no place for the Starks.

Honor was a naive ideal for the serpents that slithered beneath the Red Keep...

Tyrion Lannister without a doubt the worst of them all. Arya watched dizzy as his bride arrived. Young Talla Tarly was a shy beauty, dressed proudly in her home colors as she bowed low before the Dragon Queen as her mother Lady Melessa held the legendary Tarly sword, Heartsbane.

Arya managed not to laugh, despite how tragic everything about the scene had a comic air. She remembered well that beautiful sword of valyrian steel, brandishing furiously in Jorah Mormont's hands as he slashed the Others to pieces. By all appearances, the sword had been returned to its rightful owners, only to be given to Tyrion Lannister, with his young bride.

Like spoils of war , thought Arya as before glancing at Sansa... Sh e didn't understand how her sister could have so much affection for that man. Though he’ d been kind, he’d never done anything really effective to protect her.

“Rise up.” Daenerys said apparently satisfied by the long bow. Something both Sansa and Arya were happy to spare her. “I hope the trip was kind to you both.”

“As gentle as possible your grace.” Lady Melessa said meekly.

“I am happy to hear that” Lord Tyrion took a step forward, his young bride nodded with a shy smile. She didn't seem to fear him, on the contrary, her eyes held a clear expression of duty… And curiosity. “Allow me to escort you to Maidenvault, where your chambers have been carefully prepared.” The Lannister said raising his hand towards the young Talla, who accepted it with elegance. Before leaving, they did not spare the Queen another pompous display of submission.

As Jon helped her to her feet from the Iron Throne, Arya crept closer.

“I would like a word with your grace.” The younger Stark abruptly said. “Alone, if I may”

“I think now is not the best time.” Jon answered decidedly as he analyzed his Queen with apprehension. A mixture of weariness and helplessness stamped on Daenerys’ delicate face.

“I am fine.” She said with a downcast voice. “There is still time before the small council meeting.”

“If you want we can skip the meeting, you barely slept last night…”

“Jon.” Daenerys scolded before disentangling herself from his arms. “I'm fine, I just need to work.” She said before smiling politely in Arya's direction. “Shall we?”

How many meetings had Ned Stark attended as Hand, and how many had it taken to plot his downfall? Arya wondered as her fingers crossed the table, feeling the texture of the rich wood against her skin.

“My brother worries about you.” The Stark girl said as soon as the sound of the doors closing reached her ears. “I dare say he loves you more than he loves himself.”

“I hope so.” Daenerys granted with a polite, sly smile. “Men tend to be more considerate when you're carrying a part of him inside of you, or so Lady Lollys told me.”

“We never exchanged more than a few words during your stay at Winterfell.” Arya said suddenly changing the subject, the Queen's violet eyes followed her coldly, maybe she knew where Stark wanted to go. “And yet, here we are… Part of the same family.” Pause. “I want it to work for Jon, he deserves peace after everything he’s been through.”

“Just like all of us...” Daenerys allowed herself to say.

“I will speak frankly, if you allow me, good-sister.” Arya interrupted her in a sharper tone. “I know my brother is a threat to your legitimacy, and as such I fear for his life.” Daenerys’ words were drowned out by Arya's eloquent voice that continued to reverberate through the room. “Even after he's been stabbed in the chest dozens of times, he's still easily persuaded by a pair of pretty eyes and promises written on paper… Sansa will oppose you.” Arya said just to see the contempt form on the Targaryen’s face. “Yes, she won't give up so easily to protect Jon from his own foolishness.” Pause. “But I don’t… No.” She said firmly before continuing. “I’ve lived long enough to know that Jon will do as he pleases, despite our protests. For that reason I want you to know that I won’t meddle in whatever is going on here...”

“Good…” Daenerys murmured simply.

“But, I still care what happens to my brother at the end of the day.” The younger Stark girl said slowly approaching her Queen. “I hope this concern is taken seriously, as I would not hesitate to slowly put an end to anyone who dares to harm Jon.”

“I would do the same.” Daenerys said seriously, her hands caressing her belly in a protective way.

“Excellent.”Arya said, releasing some of the tension under her shoulders. “Now I would like to talk about the Battle of Winterfell, when I took down the Night King. I believe that my efforts were not properly rewarded…”

It wasn't difficult for Arya to find her way to the kitchens, of all the places in the Red Keep this was the one she was most familiar with. She still vividly remembered walking through those same halls to take her dancing lessons on the lower balconies… Everything seemed so big back then, thought Arya with a mixture of nostalgia and pain.

One of the cooks’ response made her bury those feelings quickly. The Stark wasn't here to dwell on the past, at least not that part of it. Nodding in satisfaction, Arya placed two silver stags under the servant's plump hands before continuing on her way.

The bedroom door was lazily open, from afar Stark could see him lying on the bed. The sun that came through the window illuminated his left cheek, the one that had not been melted under the fire of a brazier.

“I heard that he wrecked your leg before falling off the Keep's battlements...” Arya said, still standing at the foot of the door, Sandor Clegane's eyes reaching her warmly, and slightly surprised. “The Maesters did a good job with the tiny pieces.” The she-wolf said, approaching calmly, observing the trapped leg of her former protector.

“More than I deserved.” The Clegane said, promptly sitting on the bed, his eyes looking at her attentively. “You look well, I hope happy with the rise of your dear brother.” Arya shrugged before taking a seat under a modest chair beside the bed.

“No… But there is nothing I can do about it.” The Stark said analyzing him coldly. The years had not been kind to Sandor, he looked older but luckily for him, no less threatening. “How’s your leg?”

“Bones and flesh already healed, Maester Valarr insists I use the damned crutches so I don’t strain my muscles.” Sandor said with a slight tone of contempt. “But I can already walk very well, if I lean on the other leg.”

“Not well enough to leave this damned town.” Arya intervened.

“Am I being evicted?” Sandor questioned her good-naturedly.

“I have come to offer you safe passage back to Clegane Keep.” The Stark said seriously. “The Queen will provide adequate transportation, servants, and men to take back your property… If you so wishes, of course.

“Someone seems to have gotten into the Dragon's good graces...” He said mockingly, his smile slowly fading before continuing. “Why waste your favors on me?”

“I have more than one.” She conceded simply, as if it was no big deal. “And… Because we’re friends.” Clegane's eyes gleamed in her direction emanating an affection Arya usually received from her father.

“I appreciate.” He said after some time, his voice slightly shaky. “But I don’t see myself going back to that place…”

“I understand.”Arya stated carefully. She couldn’t imagine what Sandor had gone through in his family home, the common knowledge rumors contemplated few tragic episodes, and not the atmosphere of that small fortress. She decided to assume that the mutilation of his body and the death of a sister were enough to mark the place negatively. “I don’t intend to go back to Winterfell either…”

“Why not?”

“I can’t risk my freedom.” Arya said simply, her eyes downcast but determined. “Staying would reinforce my position as a Lady, an unmarried woman of high birth.” Pause. “It will only take one crisis, one conflict… And they will not hesitate to use me as their pawn.”

“You can refuse.” Sandor said quickly as if he wanted to patch the whole situation. “There isn't a person in the world who could make you do something you don’t want to…

“It’s more complicated than that.” The Stark said finally putting a stone on that subject. A long, peaceful silence filled the room comfortably.

“Where then?” Sandor asked willingly.

“The best ship in the Targaryen fleet is being prepared, in a few months I will leave for the west of Westeros.” Arya said with distant eyes.

“Looking for new lands?” Sandor frowned in confusion.

“Maybe… Maybe, I’ll find the end of the world.” The Stark said amid a wide smile.

“When will you leave?”

“When the royal baby is born, two months from now if the Grand Master is right.” Arya replied.

“Great.” The Clegane said straightening up under the bed. “By then I’ll be brand new to travel…”

“Sandor…” Before Arya could object, he continued.

“There's nothing for me in Westeros. Nothing to live for or fight for.” The Clegane said in an almost painful sincerity.

“You could still lead the men left over from the Brotherhood Without Banners, preach a sermon or two.” Arya said deadly serious which made Sandor laugh out loud, when he finally fell silent she continued, now really honest. “When you're recovered, you’ll have your place in the crew… I’m not going to take you from King’s Landing to die on the seas.

“Not before we reach the end of the world.” Sandor assured her like the stubborn old man he was. After a very long time Arya found herself thinking again of the Many-Faced God, she thanked him for sparing Sandor once more.

Chapter Text

305. a.C.

Life in King’s Landing was unlike anything Talla Tarly had imagined.

When her mother limped sobbing to her room to tell her of the deal with the Dragon Queen, the young Tarly felt as if the floor was about to cave in around her. Sold to the killers of my blood, she thought as she conjured up images of her father and brother, always leaning on each other, smiling after the conquest of yet another hunt. Everything they could have done with their lives was turned to ashes...

Her father was a brute man, hardened by life, by war. But he wasn't a monster, not like the Dragon Queen's father, not like the Imp’s father... Imp, half-man, kinslayer.

After the long journey to the capital, he was the one who welcomed her. A man of short stature indeed. Lord Tyrion Lannister was not the handsomest man in all of the Seven Kingdoms, but he was certainly far from the least kind. He dressed pompously and smelled pleasantly, his manners befitted his position… His humor was perhaps a little too acidic for Talla’s taste, but still, he didn't seem to be a cruel or mean-spirited man. And what The most intrigued her: Tyrion didn't seem like a person who would murder his own father.

A lion is a lion, and a lamb is a lamb. Sooner or later true nature asks to come out. At least that's what Lady Melessa told her when Talla voiced her concerns. No matter what she did, the young woman didn't have many options after all, all that was left was her perception, since at a certain point not even her name, or her body would really be hers. While the courtship lasted, Talla tried her best to get to know her groom, to please him...When both were swathed in oaths, and she found herself wrapped in a crimson cloak, lying over the bed of that courteous and strangely intelligent man, Talla began to feel less like a lamb.

As the weeks passed, her mother’s departure ceased to ache in her chest. Instead of grieving her absence, Talla enjoyed sweet mornings with little Sam, cool afternoons with the nobles of the Westerlands, and warm nights in the bed of her lord husband. Tyrion was a capable Hand, a just lord, a kind husband, and a caring lover... When Talla discovered she was pregnant, she wondered what kind of father the Lord of Casterly Rock would be. The answer was, worried. His mismatched eyes looked her up and down before gazing her swollen but still shy belly. He was sizing her up, Talla didn’t need to ask to know.

Every fortnight Grand Maester Valarr came to the Tower of the Hand to see her, his reassuring voice unwavering as he answered each of the questions of her anxious lord husband. Talla listened to them patiently, it was sweet to think that he cared for her, that they got along apart from sharing a bed.

“Is it possible to know if a dwarf will be born?” The Lannister asked casually. Talla managed not to let what she was thinking show on her face. “I read it about from a Maester from Citadel”

“Maester Carson?” Valarr anticipated interrupting him. Tyrion nodded. “That man should have lost his chains a long time ago!”

“There’s no way of knowing then?” Tyrion asked once more. “Unfortunately no, dwarf babies or not are usually born the same size my Lord.” The Mesitre replied in his usual tone, patient and attentive. “But there’s a chance, as soon as I get my hands on it I'll know.”

“I would like to be informed at first.” Tyrion said quickly before escorting the Maester out their quarters. Talla straightened in her chair before returning to her husband.

“I don’t worry about it, I would like you to think so too…” She said almost in a whisper, but the Lannister’s warm hands reached her belly with affection.

“I'm afraid it's not that simple…” Tyrion said smiling at her sadly. His gaze carried something deep and distant that Talla couldn't define even if she wanted to. “In a better world maybe…”

“No matter what happens, a son is a son.” Talla assured, gently squeezing her husband's arm. “It's a blessing from the Mother.”

“It's a blessing from the Mother.” Tyrion repeated, moving quickly away to pour himself some wine. “I wish we could toast to that!”

“Nonsense! I can hold the glass, and my husband can drink from it” Talla said as she took the full glass between her fingers. Her warm brown eyes looked at him with sweetness, before subtly changing the subject. “I know that Maester Valarr advised that we announce it only at the end of the third cycle, but….”

“Lady Melessa will be happy to know.” The Lannister presumed analyzing her carefully. “Just ask for secrecy, at least for now.”

“Of course!” Talla agreed quickly with a smile. “Perhaps she’ll offers to join us in the last few moons, everything tends to get more difficult… But what is a few months of discomfort for a lifetime of joy?”

“I hope you haven't offered the Queen that advice, the last few moons have been disconcerting, as you well know.” Tyrion said trying to pass his evident concern in the form of sarcasm. Daenerys’ situation was similar to that of many women in their last moons of pregnancy, she could not eat much or move easily, she was bloated and in a bad mood. About the Queen, there were whispers from all sides, omens and prayers... The birthing bed had taken many women to the grave in their youthful years. Just like the plagues, there is no distinction between rich and poor, Queens and Farmers. In the end it was a bloody battle between the Stranger and the Mother, at least that’s how Talla liked to think of it...

“No... Lady Lollys takes care of them, poor thing…” She answered with a sadder tone than she intended. Many at court were happy to take Lollys Stokeworth as a laughing stock, the woman having been repeatedly raped in one of the Bread Riots that took place during the War of the Five Kings. Since then she was never the same, spoke nonsense and had mood swings that could make her go from a warm smile to the most compulsive cry in a matter of seconds. And yet, Talla had never seen her be violent towards anyone, even those who mocked her, calling her lackwit, or worse. Lollys was kind to her children, especially her little bastard conceived in the Riots. “Is it true that Ser Bronn intends to dispose of little Tyrion?”

“The boy is a bastard my dear, a constant reminder of the violence suffered by Lollys.” Tyrion said in a warm tone. “Sending him away will be good for everyone, including himself, growing up under the shadow of bastardy is not easy, even more given the circumstances in which he was conceived…”

“He's just a child.” Talla said simply. The boy, like little Sam, was five years old, had red hair and was considered quiet and very polite, Lollys used to proudly call him little lord. Since the boy’s name despite being a clear homage to the Hand, had been given more as a mockery than anything else. “The only person who can make her smile.” Talla continued sure of her words, for an instant she found herself requesting something, her eyes begged for resolution. Her husband was a powerful man, and Bronn was just a lowly knight, a lord by marriage. "Look… I'm not asking to intercede directly, just to keep the boy here, close to his mother… As a page maybe."

“He is too young to be a page Talla! And what you're asking for is not something lesser!” Tyrion said in a more serious tone. “Bronn could easily kill him, he’s done it before… Intervening in any way would put the boy at risk.”

“Gods, I don't even know how you manage to have that man around… At your service!” Talla sighed, trying not to think about Bronn’s low figure and how involved he would be with her husband.

“I never thought you would reproach me, wife.” sneered Tyrion as he left for his third glass of wine. Talla ignored him, leaning back to sit more comfortably in her chair, her brown eyes glaring at him. Why did he always have to slide away like that? “Lady Tanda Stokeworth.” The Lannister said suddenly. “She was the mother of Lollys, a grayish lady, she wasn't very tall…In fact she had the irritating habit of always appearing a few steps behind me, always with the same proposition.”

“Which was?”

“For some reason Lady Tanda believed that Lollys would be the best bride I could have.” Tyrion said with a grim smile. As his wife, Talla knew him as Lord Lannister, the Queen's Hand, the second most powerful man in the realm. She had forgotten that at some point he was nothing more than the Imp. “Believe me Talla, I feel for Lollys, I really do... But the best we can do is let the boy live, the closer he is to Stokeworth Castle or King’s Landing, the more his life will be in danger.”

“Lord Tyrion!” The muffled voice of Ser Davos Seaworth echoed through the thick wooden door of the Tower of the Hand. “Queen Daenerys has begun to feel the first pains of childbirth! The heir is coming!”

______________

Apprehension and hope, these were the feelings Daenerys found herself submerged in during all the months of her pregnancy. They were a constant, while everything around her, including her body, was transformed. However, as the first contractions invaded her without warning, it didn’t take long for the hope to fade, and the apprehension quickly turned into something more dangerous and lethal.

Dany had tried not to get attached to that child. A son or a daughter, an heir… She had felt it grow inside her, become strong enough to kick. At some point Daenerys sang to it, ordered beautiful myrish clothes for boy and for a girl. She spent hours trying to choose the best wet nurse in town… Just to take care of her child.

A child that couldn’t even be born alive... But even so, Dany didn’t have the strength to deny it, she already loved it, as much as she once loved Rhaego.

The contractions came and went in shifting rhythms, sending Daenerys into sharp, lasting pain. From the top of her spine to the lowest part of her hips she could feel her bones pulsing, the muscles in her belly clenching painfully. Trying to push it out.

At that point tears flowed from her eyes without ceasing. Even with body consumed in pain, the Targaryen's mind was enveloped by fear... Two nights and a day had passed since the pain began, her body began to falter, and the blood that flowed through her legs was getting worse and worse. livelier and thicker.

Despite never having been devoted to any deity, Daenerys found herself whispering short prayers to all the gods she knew... At some point she stopped asking for her son, or for her life, all Dany could do was plead for everything it ended as soon as possible.

As the hours passed, and the pain increased, the louder and more eloquent her prayers became.

“You’re doing well, my Queen.” Grand Maester Valarr said with a calm and reassuring voice. Daenerys roared in response holding him tight, she desperately needed to know if he was lying.

“You said that before it dawned!” The Targaryen shouted, resting one arm on the stone wall in front of her. “If I am to die, I command you to tell me!”

“Just a little more your grace.” Valarr continued, still sounding too soothing for Dany’s liking. Without warning, she felt the man's icy hands beneath her skirts. “I can feel the child’s head.”

“What does that mean?!” Daenerys questioned, her mind ecstatic with pain.

“You’ll have to push my Queen, with all the strength that you have…” The Grand Maester said in a more serious tone. In that instant Daenerys felt fear taking over her, what if she wasn’t strong enough? What if… “Gather all the strength you can, and push that child out!” The man said with a more firm than authoritative voice. The Targaryen nodded, even though she felt like she was going to fall apart at any moment, she pushed. Her hands reached out from the wall to grip the frame of her sturdy four-poster bed. “Once more, your grace.” The Maester asked then. With each impulse of strength Dany felt her body weaken, when she was on the verge of collapsing her own voice came to her haughty and implacable:

I didn’t cross the Sea, I fought the living and the dead to die like this, thought Daenerys before pushing one last time. Without warning, she felt a pressure ease under her belly, and the world fell silent for a moment... When she turned her back, everything went back to the way it was before. Under Mesitre Valarr's arms her violet eyes found a strapping, silver-haired baby crying at the top of its lungs.

“My child.” Daenerys extending her arms towards the child. It’s breathing, it’s breathing… That simple realization surpassed any feeling that she’d ever lived. "I did it." She said before sitting panting on the bed, more to herself than to anyone on the room.

“You did it well, your grace” Maester Valarr said as he wiped his hands with clean handkerchiefs. “A healthy boy, congratulations!”

“A boy?”The Targaryen said looking at him more closely, her boy... He was perfect, under her breasts, the little one nestled affectionately. Daenerys took as much time as she needed, counting all the fingers; hands and feet. Mirri Maz Durr shall burn in the hottest hell that exists, thought Daenerys triumphantly. He was perfect.

“We must feed him.” The Grand Maester said approaching the Queen, who quickly repelled him, turning the baby in the opposite direction to the man. It took two days for him to leave me, nine long months for him to grow. He may not need me, but I need him, thought the Targaryen holding her first child tight in her arms.

“Shouldn't my husband see him first?” She questioned him suspiciously. Even with her body immersed in that most overwhelming pain, Dany wouldn’t give him up like this... Not so soon. The Grand Master nodded gently, before walking away.

When the doors opened, the Targaryen didn’t take long to find the gray of his eyes, sunken... and worried. Jon ran towards her, analyzing her carefully.

“Are you well?” He asked promptly, his icy hands wrapped around Daenerys’ face, inspecting every trace of her face. Jon didn't seem to have slept in the last few days, he was wearing the same clothes since the last time they saw each other.

“I will be.” She assured him confidently, eager to ignite in him the same joy that she was burning with. “We have a son.” Daenerys said before feeling some tears roll down her cheeks, this time she didn't hesitate to hand him over… Not to Jon.

“Oh Dany… He’s is beautiful!” The northerner sighed with a proud smile, his strong arms rocked the little prince lightly. “Look at him…” Jon said leaning the boy towards Daenerys, she gasped at the contact. Her little Jaehaerys had his father's eyes. Her handsome silver prince.

Chapter Text

306 a.C.

The days had grown longer after Sansa’s departure.

For little more than a year she had been present at court, often spending hours at Jon’s side while they spoiled little Jaehaerys with gifts and games. Her relationship with Daenerys had had fewer ups and downs than usual. Both of them, for the sake of the Realm, had worked together to organize the coronation. The event was majestic, and even after two months of its realization, it was still talked about, at least that’s what the Master of Whispers, Denys Mallister, reported in the meetings of the Small council. Not that Jon trusted anything the fourth son of the Seaguard Lord said.

“You look haggard.” Ser Davos noticed as he sat down beside Stark, his hands extending a glass of wine towards Jon, who quickly denied it. “It's arbor gold, are you sure?”

“I’m sick of these pompous wines.” The distant Stark said, his grey eyes focused on Jaehaerys, who risked his first steps under the green grass of the Keep’s Gardens, beside him Tyrion Lannister exchanged jokes with his wife who gracefully cradled the couple’s newborn daughter.

“I think that you seem bored with your life.” The master of ships answered turning the cup under his lips. Jon stared at him for a long time, not confirming or denying, hoping he would offer advice rather than mere assertions. “Would you know what is the purpose of our friend’s life?” He said raising his head in Tyrion’s direction.

“Be a good Hand to our Queen?” Jon argued after pondering for a few moments.

“That’s one of his purposes, yes.” Said Davos to then enumerate quickly. “As well as sleeping with his wife, spending time with her, making her laugh… We cannot forget his daughter, that little blonde thing he carries around with such pride.” Pause. “And of course, Little Sam, whom he insists on personally educating, while dealing with the finances of Casterly Rock and the affairs of the Realm… All these things move his life.

“You’re trying to say that I need to get busy? Busier than I already am.” Jon asked him incredulously, his days were as full as Tyrion’s. Jon, in addition to Prince Consort, was a master of coin, a role he was performing while learning.

“You should take better care of yourself.” The old man said turning his gaze to the slender figure that walked towards the Lannister couple. Her silver hair gleamed in the sunlight as did her delicate lilac dress. “Your life is full of obligations, the only pleasure you allow yourself to have is laughter from your boy and maybe a roast venison at supper if you’re lucky.”

“This is not true!” The Stark said suddenly, his cheeks flushed violently.

“What is wrong with you?” Ser Davos asked in a lower tone. “The most desired woman in the Seven Kingdoms is yours, and yet you disown her in this way?” Jon frowned, not understanding. “The servants have eyes Jon, you haven’t been to your Queen’s chambers since she gave birth to the little prince… More than ten moons have passed, you will not harm her.”

“Are there no other matters to discuss? Something really relevant?” Jon asked him irritated still trying to deal with his feelings. He desired Dany, no matter how reluctant Jon was to acknowledge it. Motherhood had caught up with his wife with grace, filling out her breasts and edging her curves.

Her smile could warm the coldest of hearts. The mother of his child was an absolutely extraordinary woman. But still Jon couldn’t help but think that having her the way he wanted would not only be wrong, but something unholy , given the blood bond they shared. Targaryens are Targaryens, but I’m just a northman... I’ve been that my whole life.

“The line of succession is a matter concerning the Realm.” The Master of Ships said incisively. “I hope you noticed the number of young lords arriving at court, the parents of these boys have seen an opportunity in the midst of this… Crisis.”

“I hate this place, no one would dare to do that kind of thing at Winterfell.” Jon assured with disdain. His eyes turned to Daenerys with uncertainty, she had never looked so beautiful… In her arms she twirled their little silver prince. The sound of laughter reached the wind comfortably, Jon couldn’t help but smile when he heard them. “She wouldn’t do that, she wouldn’t give herself to another…”

“I wouldn’t blame her if she does.” Ser Davos said as if throwing a bucket of cold water over Jon’s hopes. “Daenerys is young and beautiful, a Queen in her own right… She deserves to be loved, maybe even have other children besides little Jaehaerys.” That seemed to be too much for the Stark. A baseborn? Impulsively, he got up, leaving the old fool behind, his legs carried him to his Queen.

“Can we talk?” Jon asked her, interrupting the conversation abruptly. His hand gripping Dany’s left arm possessively, who stared at him with some concern. It feels like years since I last laid my hands on her.

“Nyna, could you draw a bath for the prince?” - Daenerys said in the direction of little Jaehaerys’ nurse. “When I'm done, I will watch him sleep.” The young maid nodded in response.

“Supper will be in our quarters tonight.” Tyrion casually said. His gaze surveyed Jon with surprise and strangely satisfaction, oblivious to the way Talla cooed over little Johanna. “You are invited my prince.” Jon just nodded quickly, taking his Queen’s arm in a more gallant way, as both walked side by side… As they hadn’t done for a long time.

“Everything is fine?” Daenerys asked her in a worried tone, her violet eyes analyzed his face looking for anything that justified her husband’s behavior.

“Answer honestly, do you want another child?” He questioned in response, his eyes burning under hers. Daenerys frowned, backing away from Jon’s touch.

“Not yet…” She said, confused. “Where is this coming from?”

“I’m your husband.” Jon said the first thing that came to his mind. Daenerys pulled away, this time surprised by the Stark’s choice of words. “I want you to tell me when you're ready.”

“I thought…” Dany murmured, blushing slightly, she stared at him with a confused expression.

“Each and every child you will bear must be born of my seed.” Jon continued, his tone laced with possessiveness. Davos’ words had pushed him to his breaking point. Daenerys pulled away suddenly, her face now burning for another reason.

“Of course…” She muttered scornfully. “It is not me... All you want is to make sure no one has what’s yours.” Dany said analyzing him with scrutiny, before continuing she offered him a malicious smile. Jon would do well to remember that he had married not a sheep, but a Dragon. “The only problem is, I'm not yours...”

“You are mine and I am yours, until the last of our days.” Jon said seriously, his voice as cold as ice. “I remember my words, I didn’t expect that I would have to remind you…”

“A marriage without consummation is not a marriage.” She teased only to see his eyes flash with the same fury he had aroused in the Targaryen. All she wanted was to hurt him, in the deepest, most painful way possible. Daenerys resented him. For nearly a year he had denied her desire... Fire. She was made of that, like her winged children. Fire and Blood. And Dany was tired of burning alone.

“Do you want to see our son delegitimized?” He whispered dangerously pulling her close to him, centimeters separating them, as well as months of unspoken words. “If I had no honor, I would take you here for anyone to see…”

“Honor?” Daenerys questioned him trying in vain to contain the irony. “An honorable man would never question the fidelity of his wife… His Queen!” She said pushing him slightly, she didn’t care if anyone saw it, the Keep was already full of whispers. “I’m not a whore you ride when you feel like it, Jon, I’m your sovereign.” The Targaryen said in a haughty tone, without hesitating for a moment. Before Jon could answer her the sound of Drogon and Rhaegal’s wings reached them, the wind shaking everything around them. Both were flying towards the sea, where in the distance a majestic ship with white sails projected, its banner displaying a broken sword. The symbol of the Second Sons.

When Daario Naharis reached the sands of King's Landing, Jon felt his stomach lurch all over.

The Stark didn’ t know much about the man, the knowledge of him was restricted to his place of birth and the existence of a past relationship between him and his wife… A pang hit his chest suddenly. Would Daenerys be able to invite a notorious lover to Court? To the place where their son was growing up? At a glance he saw her smile, any traces of the fight that had just taken place had faded along with the crashing waves of the Bay. Almost without hesitation the tyroshi bowed, his gaze lowered in reverence… Everyone across the sea treated her like that. As if they were in the presence of a deity, the Mother of Dragons, the Breaker of Chains…. The princess who was promised.

“Khaleesi.” He said before finally addressing her, his eyes full of devotion. Lust.

“Rise up Daario, blood of my blood.” Daenerys replied with a safe and affectionate voice. “Your presence is a most welcome surprise.”

“I came in the hope of convincing you to grant the wish I’ve been asking for so long.” He said in a suggestive tone and to Jon uncomfortably close. If he understood the stranger’s words correctly, his wife and Daario corresponded.

“I hope you didn’t cross the sea for that.” She simply said with a broad smile. Jaehaerys was the only one who could make her smile like that… What are you talking about?

“I also came to see the little prince.” Daario said with some affection, which made Jon even more jealous, with clenched fists, he was holding back the best way he could. “Jaehaerys Targaryen, I heard”

“I hope he does justice to the first Jaeharys who ruled over Westeros.” The Dragon Queen granted confidently, the boy was her pride and joy… The certainty that her legacy would not fade with time, but would be perpetuated by the ages that would follow.

“A son of yours could not be less than perfect…” The Second Son said with a tender smile and full of ulterior motives. Jon hadn’t even thought, unintentionally, his legs took a step forward. Daario Naharis’ eyes met his…

“Allow me to introduce my husband, Prince Jon of House Stark.” Daenerys said quickly intervening. The foreigner bowed in a sign of respect, not at all worthy of the reverence shown the Queen earlier.

“It is an honor to meet you.” Daario said cordially. “The most powerful man this side of the sea, one of the luckiest in the world”

“I could say the same… I have heard of your many conquests across the sea, Daario Naharis.” Jon said taking a step forward, he would not be ashamed to protect what was his.

“Of course.” Daenerys said putting herself between them, she had captured the real meaning of Jon’s words. And judging by Daario’s removal, so was he. “Tyrion will be very happy to see you…”

“Lady Lannister must have given birth by now, I suppose.” The question clear as day in Daario's words. The matter of this letters shouldn’t always be political after all, Jon thought with some bitterness. He needed to talk to Daenerys alone as soon as possible.

“A girl.” Daenerys answered tenderly. “Johanna Lannister.”

“If I know him well, he must be envisioning a prestigious place for the girl, next to the little prince certainly.”

“They are too young to be engaged!” Daenerys exclaimed her tone protective.

“When the time comes Tyrion will be ready, mark my words!” Daario said good-naturedly. “I wonder what Jorah would say… Tyrion, being a father.”

“I miss him.” Daenerys said, letting herself be affected by the mention of the knight, her teary eyes met the void with longing, as if they were visualizing the figure of Mormont. “Jorah has been by my side since I was fourteen… When I was nothing less than a scared bride, all I wanted was to go home…”

“Until your ambitions turned to the Iron Throne.” Daario said simply, she just smiled before continuing. Jon had never seen her speak that way... The truth was that he knew little about what had happened to Daenerys during her first years of life in exile.

“Oh don’t get me wrong Daario, I admit it, for a long time I faithfully believed that the Iron Throne was my deepest dream. More recently I discovered that despite everything I risked to conquer it, everything I lost... The Throne was not what I was really after.” She said with a sincerity that came to be sweet, for a moment Jon forgot that the tyroshi was there, as if it were just the two of them there. He was looking forward to seeing this part of the Targaryen. “During all my life I passed through many cities, many benefactors…” She said as they approached the entrance of the Gardens. “But before that there was a house in Braavos…A house with the red door is how I remember it, there I had a room of my own, a lemon tree grew in the window that bore fruit on my name days, as if it were for me… The mornings and the nights were always cool, the meals plentiful… The servants were kind and every now and then I could see my brother smile.” Dany said calmly, her words carried not only affection, but also a slight pain… Something that accompanied her since childhood. “Everything changed when Ser Willem died… Our possessions were stolen, the only thing left was my mother’s crown… When Viserys sold it he never smiled again, not really.” The Queen took a deep breath before continuing. “My dream has always been to return home. Here the doors may be golden, but the walls are red… Just like the dragon on the banners draped over each gate.”

“In the end I think that’s what we all want, a home to go back to, a place where we feel loved and safe.” Daario said with a sad smile. Maybe Dany never felt this way in Meereen, not really.

“I hope you can feel this way for the time you spend here in King’s Landing.” Daenerys said in a polite tone, her hand elegantly waved in the direction of a maid, who without hesitation came to them. “Joleen, this is Daario Naharis, an honored guest of House Targaryen, make sure that he and his men are well placed and have everything they need.” She said calmly towards the young girl who nodded with a smile. Even in a castle the size of the Red Keep, Dany tried her best to call those who served her by their own names. “Can I wait for you for supper Daario? Tonight will be in Tyrion’s quarters, he insisted!” The Targaryen said before analyzing it more carefully. “Would it be too bold to ask if you told him of your visit?”

“I may have mentioned it in one of my reports about Meereen.” Daario said, shrugging with a gallant smile. He had barely arrived and Jon couldn’t wait to see the back of him. What kind of man flirts with a married woman in front of her husband? “Khaleesi.” He acknowledged bowing briefly before taking his place next to Joleen.

“What was all that about?” Jon asked irritably, Dany’s violet eyes reached him as before, before Daario’s arrival.

“I could ask the same.” She replied in disbelief. “I have heard of your many conquests across the sea? What did that even mean?”

“I know they were lovers.” He responded defensively. “I wanted him to know. Whatever that man intentions are… I hope they are restricted to duties to the Crown.”

“Daario is one of my most faithful soldiers, I want you to respect him while he is…”

“Did you invite him?” Jon asked in a harsher tone than he intended.

“No, and even if…”

“But do you correspond with him?”

“I don’t owe you an explanation” Daenerys shouted taking a step forward, her violet eyes glowed furiously, daring Jon to contradict her. “Not while you insist on disrespecting me like this.” She said before heading to pass heavy, away from him.

______________

Daario Naharis was still exactly as Dany remembered.

He had introduced himself in a lighthearted manner. He was still handsome, and willingly gallant… W ith a penchant for pleasing whenever possible.

The feeling of having him around was equally painful and rewarding.

Daenerys had many flaws, she was determined to the point of being considered stubborn. Impulsive, and sometimes reckless. But never, ever would anyone dare to say that the Dragon Queen was a hypocritical woman. If Jon dared ask her, Dany would answer with all the words:

Daario’s presence made her feel desired once again...

The looks and banter between the four walls were harmless, when you consider the physical barriers of a political marriage like Daenerys’. But even so, they inflated her ego, in a way that she had stopped feeling for a long time.

Pregnancy had settled on the Targaryen with the gentleness of a three-headed dragon. Over the moons , her body had been pushed to the limit in ways she couldn’t even describe. When at last all the swelling and pain was gone, Dany found herself only a ghost of the woman she had once been. Thin and strangely pale, she tried her best to feed herself between meetings and audiences.

Her fluctuating moods during her pregnancy had given way to a hesitant sadness that accompanied her with familiarity and constancy. In the dark of night, the Targaryen allowed herself to cry in front of Jaehaerys’ crib, telling the little one all the things that troubled her... The rebellion further south, the food shortages in the north, the loneliness that, so overwhelmingly, affected her.

During her pregnancy, Jon has stayed by her side like the faithful husband he promised he would be. His gray eyes followed her wherever she went, his gaze attentive, concerned... As if the most important person in the world was his beautiful wife with silver hair and violet eyes... But when lust overtook Daenerys, he declined, his eyes suddenly apart from her.

He didn’t want to deny her.

It was easier to look away and pretend nothing was happening.

What is wrong with me? Daenerys asked herself again and again… She had changed, carrying Jaehaerys had made her a full woman… And once her child was born, she found herself empty.

The watchful, concerned gaze of once was replaced by a smoldering indifference… Jon was seen at the various S mall C ouncil meetings, and eventually at supper when they spent time with Jaehaerys.

He was running , and Daenerys knew it.

What took her completely by surprise was the conversation they had with the Gardens…

Jon wanted her…He wanted her as his broodmare .

He wanted her like a possession . As a thing , not as the person she was.

If those same words had reached the ears of poor fourteen-year-old Daenerys… There was no doubt that she would have taken it sweetly. He would not hurt her as Khal Drogo had so often done, she was younger, but Jon’s hands though calloused were firm and careful. His possessive tone would perhaps guarantee her the false sense of protection that she felt for a long time with the men who passed through her life.

For better or for worse, Daenerys was not that person anymore … And had denied him company, if he wanted to use her as an object, the Targaryen would do it for the same purpose… W hen she felt like it.

“They lookso beautiful together…” Lollys Stokeworth commented in the direction of little Jaehaerys who risked taking a few steps towards baby Johanna, who was resting in her mother's lap. “So beautiful…” Her tone was distant, as usual. Lollys was the wife of Ser Bronn, one of Tyrion’s servants. She was soft headed, constantly reviled... Yet a companion Daenerys kept in her day. Lollys was just a victim. And keeping her safe as her lady was keeping her from being mocked.

“I can already imagine them when they’re old enough to run…” Talla said with a gentle smile. She was a Lady from head to toe. Despite having an appearance that Dany would consider simple, her mannerisms were delicate, her voice genuine and at the same time careful, polite. The Dragon Queen had burned the young woman’s father and brother, and yet she had never mentioned the event. Not even looked in her sovereign’s direction with anything but dignity and reverence... Could she be trusted? It wasn’t wise to risk it… Not when Tyrion’s advice would do Dany no good. She had given him a beautiful daughter. There were limits to such loyalty, however fervent and unceasing. Still, Talla Lannister didn’t seem like the type of woman who would stealthily kill her, with poisons or small knives... She made sounds whenever she put a baby in her arms, any baby. And she was remarkably faithful to Tyrion, she even seemed to like him... Dany wondered if her own father had considered the same of Jaime Lannister before he impaled him in a push towards the Seven Hells.

“Johanna and Jaehaerys… Jaehaerys and Johanna.” Daenerys said, quickly removing her thoughts. “I hope they can grow up like siblings.”

“My Tyrion must be missing his own…” Lollys said suddenly, her eyes filled with tears and for the first time she seemed to be present. “Gods I miss him so much, my dear boy…”

“Oh Lollys…” Lady Talla said placing her right hand on the lap of the troubled woman. “I know you do… My mom is taking good care of him, insisting he keep writing to Devon and Darlene.” She said in a comforting tone. “Why don’t we go to the Tower of the Hand? Can we read the last letter he sent you once more, what do you think? Would you like that?” Talla asked her with a small smile. Lollys just nodded as tears streamed down her face.

“If you want, I can hold Johanna…” Daenerys said, rising quickly towards Talla. This was a test, one that Tyrion’s wife had masterfully passed. Without thinking twice, Talla handed the baby girl into her Queen’s arms, a common gesture, but at the same time, precise. She was sure about what she was doing. Dany remembered how reluctantly she was to give her boy to anyone but his father. And after a while, the fear spread to certain people, Arya and Sansa, mostly Sansa.

“Thank you, your grace...” Lady Lannister said before going to Lollys’ side, supporting her until she left the nursery. Dany allowed herself to stay there for a few moments, with little Johanna warming her arms. She was so beautiful... How can you not think about having another one? A daughter this time... Daenerys thought with a smile.

“Mhysa.” Daario’s voice broke into the room with familiarity, ghiscari sharpened by her fluency reminded her of Missandei… Dear Missandei. He was unaccompanied, wearing a brown doublet with treated leather details. His countenance was light, as were his steps. “It suits you even more, seeing it as it is.”

“I hope the people of Meereen haven’t forgotten.” Daenerys confessed with a sigh before leaning her head towards the small sofa she was sitting on. Daario quickly joined her.

“The woman who killed the masters and gave them freedom?” Questioned Daario good-humored. “No, no one would ever dare to forget you.” His eyes gazed at her appreciatively, intimately uncomfortable. “Sometimes I think… What would have become of us if I had accompanied you? That boy could have been mine…”

“Daario.” Daenerys warned in a calm tone. It was possible to understand it, what they both had was beautiful, unexpected and intense. But there was never love, at least on the part of the Targaryen… Not like she once felt for Jon. “You know I can’t go back… And even if I could, there wouldn’t be us, not in the way you want.”

“Do you love him?” Daario asked her suddenly, his eyes now stared at his open hands, as if contemplating what he lacked.

“I’ve loved more.” Daenerys answered sincerely. “He is a good husband, honorable and respectful… What can I say, he is the man who gave me that little one.” She said, tilting her head towards Jaehaerys.

“I've heard many things about your life this side of the sea.” Daario started turning to her, his face no longer carried the same confidence as always... Just tenderness. “I know your duty to the Realm, to your boy. I respect it, and admire you even more for that, I didn’t have a mother... Nor a father. You will raise him to be a great King…” Pause. “I just want to say, when that day comes, when he’s ready to take charge of everything, and if you wants to… I’ll be across the seas fighting in your name, awaiting your return.”

“Oh Daario…” Daenerys said instinctively taking his hand in a delicate and confident movement. His devout words dismantled any sense of duty or morals she had within herself. Would her love for Jon ever cease, or would it become so small and insignificant as to make her consider leaving him behind? To love or to be loved? It doesn’t seem fair to have to decide… She thought to herself. “I have no words to thank you for your loyalty.”

“All you have to say is that you’ll consider my offer, when the time comes.” He answered with confidence in his words, while his hands were still attached to his Queen’s.

“Your grace,” Talla said as she entered the small nursery once more, their hands quickly untied. Her brown eyes didn't take long to find Daario. “Captain, what a surprise…” Talla approached in careful steps, if she had noticed something she had disguised it very well.

“Lady Lannister!” Daario said getting up for a courteous bow. Young Talla took a slight, almost imperceptible, step back. There was respect in her voice, but nothing more. “I wondered when I would see you again, your daughter is a true vision.”

“Oh little Johanna is the joy of our days!” She said approaching Daenerys to cradle the little one in her arms once more. “I hope she behaved well...”

“Like a Lady.” Daenerys dismissed quickly. “How’s Lollys?”

“Ser Bronn has collected her, it seems they will return to Stokeworth tomorrow first light” Lady Talla said in a slightly troubled tone. “Something about how the air in this city seems to make her sick…”

“If that were true, I believe we would all be severely ill.” The Targaryen answered standing up abruptly. It was undeniable that there was a mutual sympathy for poor Lollys, something that united them in a certain way… The three of them were mothers. “Such pity… I think I will need the services of Lady Lollys here, in King’s Landing. She is my Lady, Ser Bronn would do well to remember.”

“Perhaps his master can do that.” Lady Lannister said in a tone stamped by subtlety. “Remind him, that is.” She amended finally, not letting go of Daenerys’ violet eyes, which she nodded slightly. Giving her not just the permission, but the command. “Well, with that, I leave you…” She said before bowing nicely. Daenerys took the moment to bid Jaehaerys farewell, before finally handing him over to his wet nurses for the night.

“The Queen and the Hand’s wife as friends, has Tyrion decided whether this is a blessing or a curse?” Daario questioned her good-naturedly, as they walked through the stony corridors of Maegor’s Keep.

“Well, I wouldn’t risk saying that we are friends.” Daenerys said in a careful tone, apparently there was no one else around if not for Daario, and her two blood companions, Aggo and Jhogo. The three to whom Daenerys would trust her life and her secrets without hesitation. But the Keep, as clean as it was, still kept its rats out of sight... There was more to fear than Dennys Mallister’s little birds, there was Sansa Stark, and of course Daenerys would never forget the slender figure of Cersei Lannister, who had never been subjugated by their crimes… The serpent still slithers in the shadows, beyond the sea, or in some hole below me… “Her father and brother fought against me, and refused to pledge loyalty.

“She didn't seem to show a grudge.” Daario said with a fun smile. “Maybe they weren't good for her… Not like you are.”

“In Meereen the masters didn't hesitate to say harsh words when I appeared under their gates, I think that’s the grace of King's Landing… Here people conspire, betray, dissimulate… Trust is almost always shared.” Daenerys said in a calm tone, she was sure of her position, recognizing threats was more effective than ignoring them.

“Do you think Lady Talla would harm you?” Daario questioned her with some apprehension, and with a slight tone of disbelief.

“Do you think I could count on her love?” The Queen chose to answer the question with another one, something Tyrion usually did. “I don’t know if you’ve had experience going to the kennels?”

“No, I didn’t.” Daario said quickly, as if he knew Dany wanted to make a specific point. He wasn’t wrong.

“Well… When I got here one of the things that shocked me the most is the way my people treat their hunting hounds. It is very difficult to find one that has never been beaten. It doesn’t matter how many times you feed them or treat them sweetly, the moment you raise your hand towards it... It knows what to expect…” Daenerys said seriously. “Once beaten, one never forget, I speak from experience.”

“You never hurt her directly.”

“I never hurt any of my dogs either.” The Targaryen continued. “See… No matter how much you give them, I’m not just talking about Talla… I sacrificed a lot to get here, I lost people, Viserion… And do you know how many times I was thanked by the people of the North? Not once. My men crossed the sea and bled to save the Realm, I fought my own son under dark night. And yet, all they see when they look at me is a foreigner... A Targaryen, daughter of madmen, of generations and generations of incestuous...

“They should bow before their Gods thanking for your arrival.” Daario said with some severity. “The priests of the Temple of the Lord of Light herald you as the one who brought the dawn, the princess who was promised…

“None of that really matters.” Daenerys said with some bitterness. “What keeps them from rebelling is fear, and of course love for my husband…

“He doesn’t seem to inspire much devotion, at least that was my first impression.” Daario said ironically, as if he was sorry. “The Prince Consort.” He said suddenly imitating Jon’s voice. Laughter reached the Queen easily, not because Daario had managed to sound like Stark, but because of the unexpected change in his voice.

“Jon knows about us.” Daenerys finally said, her violet eyes inspected the tyroshi, he just shrugged. “Let’s say my husband is not so friendly when he is jealous.”

“I should have invited him to a duel as soon as I saw him.” Daario said playfully.

“Hush.” Daenerys scolded quickly, putting herself in front of her chambers. Daario’s blue eyes sparkled in her direction in anticipation.

“Are you going to invite me in?” The leader of the Second Sons asked in low Valyrian, the language reaching her with as much strangeness as his words. There was more than wanting on the tyroshi’s jovial countenance... Hope.

“I can’t.” Daenerys replied in a calm tone, but no less certain. He nodded, containing a twisted expression of sadness... Would it be love, frustrated desire, wounded pride perhaps? The words from before still floated through Daenerys’ mind as her maids undressed her for the night: When that day comes, and if it is your will... I will be across the sea fighting in your name, awaiting your return.

The opening of the door came as a surprise… Would thoughts of her be strong enough to bring him to her chambers? Even with two of your blood riders at her door?

No. It wasn’t the blue of Daario’s eyes that Dany found as she turned toward the door.

“Jon…” He was wearing a gray wool overcoat, his curly hair was meticulously tied back. Dany could ask him what he was doing there, could throw him out if she wanted... Aggo and Jhogo were behind him awaiting permission from their Khaleesi to close the doors. It’s Jon… A stubborn, stupid voice in the back of her head insisted. There was something about the way he held himself, his eyes…Looking at her like a repentant dog, a fearful wolf. I’m probably going to regret this... The Targaryen before finally nodding to her Bloodriders. “Leave us.” She said in the direction of the maids who bowed quickly before disappearing along with the sealing of the doors. Silence once again descended on the room… Daenerys tried not to think too much about him, who had come there…

“I feel like we need to sort ourselves out.” Jon said finally, his voice sounded choked as if he was thinking too much about what he was going to say.

“Your behavior today… It was unacceptable.” Daenerys said trying not to sound too severe. She was so tired of holding back, of loving him and only being hurt by that feeling.

“I know.” The Stark granted simply.

“We can’t go on like this Jon… Honestly, I don’t know if I can go back to pretending we’re strangers living under the same roof.” Daenerys said without thinking about how that would sound. It wasn’t about holding him accountable, or making him feel guilty. While Jon ignored her, she persisted... And chose to keep loving him, no matter how silly and painful it was. Now Dany could see how willingly she was involved. “I also won’t be treated like something you use and…”

“Forgive me, I know there’s nothing I can say beyond that.” He said cautiously, his gray eyes not leaving Daenerys’ for even a second. “I know maybe this doesn’t make sense… But if I don’t tell you, I feel like I’m lying, and I don’t want… I don't want to hurt you.” His voice weakened for a moment, as if something inside him had cracked. “I was lost and confused, for a long time I felt guilty for wanting you and…”

“Jon…”

“I hated myself for wanting this life with you… Something the Gods offered me with such kindness, even though I knew I didn’t deserve it. And even so, even so…. I neglected you, I made you suffer.” The Stark continued even with a choked, resentful voice. “Today when I saw him… I thought about how I could have missed you, and this feeling… It’s something I had never felt before, Dany. I’ve lost a lot of people, but losing you…” Despite the tears in his eyes, there was something more than agony there… Dany could see the same fury from that morning, gleaming in the firelight. She tried in vain not to think about what it would be like to lose him... What it would be like not to meet his eyes in the middle of Small Council meetings, not bump into his hand by accident during supper, never see him smile again, the way he just smile their son... “My selfishness brought me here today, if you want to send me away and never look at me again, I’ll understand. It took me a long time to realize Dany... But there is no place in this world where I want to be more than here, with you.” Without thinking, almost in a single impulse, Daenerys threw herself against him. How could a damn northerner’s embrace be so warm, all the time? Her kiss was needy and voracious, as were his hands that without warning enveloped her.

“I hate you.” Daenerys murmured as she resumed air, her lips should be as red as Jon’s. Despite the rumble of her harsh words, the Dragon Queen’s hands declare something different... Stripping him deftly and swiftly. “No.” She said moving away in a dangerous tone, without hesitation, Jon let himself be pushed onto the four-poster bed. His naked body was a sight Dany had longed for, his chest still bearing the many scars of her latest betrayal, all in the exact same place… His cock throbbed furiously, and full of desire. Dany hoped he was aching, she knew how much desire could burn when unconsumed...

“Dany…” His hands tried to reach for her, only to be pushed away once more. Quickly Dany sat on his lap, even under her thin linen dress she could feel him pulsing over her intimacy. A groan escaped Jon’s lips involuntarily, it had been so long... His hands returned once more, taking her hips firmly and carefully, deliciously controlling her movements. No… I’m not his to be controlled.

“No touching.” Daenerys warned between teeth, her tone was gravely authoritative. Without even thinking about it, she took her husband’s hands to the bed. “Keep them for yourself.” She ordered leaning on Jon’s rigid chest. There Dany found stability, her movements frantic and carefully strategic, for the first time in a long time that little spot between her legs felt inflated and satisfied, bringing her to ecstasy little by little. Her violet eyes glowed dark with desire, and she refused to let go of Jon, to see him mouth her name, to beg for her... There was justice in that, more than any judgment, more than the fire of dragons... No... Dany would set him ablaze inside out. “Jon…”

“Please…” He dared to ask once more, Dany instinctively pushed before collapsing on top of him, her vision blurring as she found herself freeing him. “Oh Dany.” He sighed as reversed their positions, taking his place on top of her. Despite the urgency of his gestures, there was gentleness in the way he held her. Carefully Jon placed himself under at her entrance, his other hand holding her hips in place. It was obscene to think of how sensitive Daenerys was, so ready. Slowly he entered her, and before he could think too much, he could feel her squeezing him firmly in her insides. A unison groan rippled through the couple. “Did I hurt you?” He asked her still intoxicated by the sensation, his slightest withdrawal disconcerted Daenerys promptly.

“Don’t you dare stop.” She said seriously, her shapely legs hugged him tightly making him go deeper. “Oh Jon.” Another moan escaped her only to be silenced by Stark's skillful and tireless lips. She knew it wouldn’t last much longer… Their climax built into a rhythmic, joint climb. Her legs were still shaking when he bent down to kiss her, this time, calmly and tenderly, taking time to savor every part of her. And then something took him out of that moment, in the same way he withdrew from her, suddenly.

“I… Forgive me.” Jon said worriedly, his eyes carried a certain regret. A pang invaded Daenerys quickly, he wouldn’t do that...

“What?”

“I, I spilled myself into you, forgive me.” He said caressing her chin carefully. And then Daenerys realized his words, an overwhelming sense of relief enveloped her. “We talked about it today, I didn’t… It wasn’t for that reason that I…

“I know.” Daenerys said smiling widely, he was there to stay. There was nothing wrong, how could it be? After what they both just did. “Don’t worry about it… It takes well more than once to conceive a child.”

“Not according to Maester Valarr.”

“Are you really going to bring the Grand Maester to bed, Jon?” She questioned Jon in a playful tone, before once again wrapping him in kisses and laughter.

It felt good to be in his arms again, it made crossing the sea worth it, again and again.

Chapter Text

308 a.C.

Autumn mornings brought with them a rare and unexpected coolness, a salty breeze that cut through the curtains and blew pleasantly against Jon’s face. It was good to remember the hot days in the North, and how mild they could have been considered in King’s Landing. It was good to feel Daenerys’ naked body against his, seeking warmth and protection. Beneath his fine robes, he could feel the curve of his wife’s belly, already swollen with the weight of another child.

Over the past year, their reconciliation had not taken long to bear fruit. Almost ten moons later, the Gods thought it fair to present them with another boy. Robust and healthy-looking, Maekar was Daenerys’ joy. His hair was silver like his older brother’s, but his eyes carried a pale lilac shade. Maekar’s features were rougher compared to Jaehaerys, surpassing him in strength and wit. The little prince was born ready, was what all the nurses used to say.

Children, heirs, princes… Jon had not even considered the possibility of having them. Sometimes he wondered: What would Ned Stark say to him if he were alive? What would Robb, Theon or Rickon say?

In a just world Jon would visit them at Winterfell, he would witness his brothers’ children playing with his, building snow forts and running around weirwoods. In a just world Jon would have had a mother and Rhaegar Targaryen would not have fallen under the Trident without even having the chance to lay eyes on his son. Had he wanted him as much as Jon wanted his own?

Being a father was a joy, seeing a part of yourself, younger and more capable, to grow and evolve was rewarding, it made every Small Council Meeting, every bad day in that stuffy, stinking city worth it. For as long as possible Jon and Daenerys would work to build a prosperous and secure Realm for their boys, but one day they would take over... Jaehaerys at Dragonstone, Maekar at Winterfell, the little one who inhabited its mother’s womb at Dragon’s Bay.

In a while, it would be necessary to let them go, to rise up to the sky’s, as is the nature of Dragons...

“What is my prince thinking?” Daenerys murmured before kissing him on the chin. Her eyes were still heavily closed, and her small hands wrapped around him with familiarity. “I can feel your tension...”

“Names.” Jon replied quickly bringing her closer to him, her hair still exhaling the sweet scent of jasmine from the night before. Lying seemed like a good idea, better than preoccupying her with thoughts of her. “Rhaella for a girl, but what if it's a boy?”

"Well, the options are many, I thought of Daeron, maybe Baelor…” The Targaryen said calmly, her violet eyes now looked at him with affection and expectation. “What do you think?”

“They are good names.” Jon conceded gently before continuing. “During these last few days I’ve found myself thinking about Aemon. I know it’s not the name of a King, but for a while it was the name of the only Targaryen I’ve ever known, the only one I thought I’d ever know.” He said returning once again to the past. Dany rose quickly, eyeing him curiously. “Maester Aemon Targaryen, son of Maekar I, he served on the Wall.”

“Of course! How could I forget… What did he look like? I suppose very, very old…” She questioned him with genuine interest.

“Oh yes… Sam told me that some Maesters believed he was the oldest man in the realm. I remember seeing him get up in the middle of the hall... Everyone shut up to listen to him, he was wise and capable.” Jon said confident of his words, the highest esteem was due to him not only as a patrol brother, but also as a family member. “Once, when I thought of deserting, he told me that all men are tempted at one time or another… He felt desolate that he couldn’t do anything during Robert’s Rebellion, the destruction of his family, the death of Aegon and Rhaenys…” Jon’s voice broke for a moment.

“Our family, Jon.” Daenerys said, swinging his arm in order to assure him.

“Maester Aemon would be happy for our marriage.” Jon said quickly, looking at her deeply. “I once heard him talking to Sam about you, he told him that a Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing... And look, we’re not alone anymore.” He said placing his hands on his wife’s belly.

“No.” Daenerys said smiling at him. “We are not alone anymore.” Her hands cupped his face warmly, while their lips sealed tenderly. Jon would never tire of exploring her, his hands finding their way to the Targaryen’s nightgown, lifting it up enough to expose her hips. “Please.” Dany managed to whisper between kisses, her husband did not hesitate to obey, stimulating her with short and circular movements. It wouldn’t be long before she was ready to receive him. “Jon…”

“Your grace!” The voice of Ser Andrey Dalt, one of the knights of the Queensguard echoed through the their chambers in a muffled and tremulous tone. Jon felt Dany sigh before he glared at her with frustration. “The Hand just got the Small Council together, something about a raven coming from the North.”

“We’ll leave soon.” The Targaryen announced in her most haughty tone. In a quick movement her hands reached the knob on the side of her bed. In a few moments maids began to defile the royal apartments. “Something quick Nyna, and if you can get a doublet and pair of shoes for the Prince.” Daenerys said as she tilted her head towards Jon who was trying vainly to hide under his night coat.

“Anything at Winterfell or the Wall?” The Stark asked after silently contemplating what the few words of the dornish knight could mean.

“It must be important, we didn’t even sit at the table to break our fast…” Daenerys said stroking her voluminous belly under the delicate lysene fabric. The lavender hue matched the Targaryen’s glowing eyes. “Are you ready?”

“Are you, my love?” Jon said as he extended his arm towards her.

Queen Daenerys I’s Small Council was already assembled when their graces walked through the thick oak doors. The whispers died away suddenly, replaced by a long, silent bow. Tyrion stood beside Gray Worm, in his hands slipped a small parchment. Judging by the pallor of his naturally wine-reddened face, black wings had brought him black words, first thing in the morning. Across the room Davos Seaworth eyed Jon with some apprehension, to his right the Master of Laws, Lord Horton Redfort held his hands together regarding them in a contemplative and measured way. While Denys Mallister went through what appeared to be a pile of yellowing letters with Maester Valarr.

The feeling was of complete helplessness, Jon and Dany’s eyes didn’t take long to meet, whatever it was, they would have to find a way to solve it.

“Could someone tell me what happened?” Questioned Daenerys taking her seat, when the spheres were placed on the table Tyrion coughed slightly before turning to his Queen.

“A raven from Winterfell arrived this morning.” The Lannister said simply, his eyes still fixed on the parchment. “Lady Sansa Stark has joined in marriage with Lord Harrion Karstark, ignoring the latest negotiations made with House Buckler.”

“It can’t be true…” Daenerys said, looking at him with hopelessness, while the small parchment was given to her. Jon swallowed hard as he noticed his sister’s delicate handwriting. “Are you telling me that Sansa Stark sabotaged our best chance of putting down the Stormlands rebellion?”

“Yes, your grace.” Tyrion assured with regret.

“I don’t understand why she would do something like that…” Jon sighed in confusion, his sister would never betray him. And in winter we must protect ourselves, take care of each other, because the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives... “It was all right, large sums were sent to the North...”

“As a Master of Laws, I dare say, Lady Sansa did not choose her husband under false pretenses.” Lord Horton Redfort said in a cautious and at the same time firm tone. His statements, although rare, almost always proved to be relevant. “A marriage to Lord Harrion Karstark will produce heirs with some legitimacy, perhaps enough to justify the taking of Winterfell.”

“The son of a Stark with a northern surname, or a Targaryen prince raised in the south?” Tyrion added while sipping some of his wine. “That seems to be the game Lady Sansa longs to play…”

“Jelmōñe live!” Daenerys shouted suddenly. The high valyrian came easily to her, as did the reddish fury that colored her face.

“I hope someone have proof of such allegations…” Jon said instinctively turning to the Master of Whispers who still seemed stuck in his pile of letters.

“I’m afraid our sources at Winterfell were neutralized before then, your highness.” Denys Mallister answered him with a trembling voice.

“How long?” The Targaryen questioned under the end of the table, her tone was deadly serious.

“Your grace?”

“How long did the birds stop flying beyond the Neck?” Daenerys asked once again.

“About five moons.” The Master of Whispers granted avoiding the furious look of his Queen, as if she could turn him into ashes at any moment.

“Five moons.” She repeated trying in vain to contain the contempt in her voice. “Five moons unattended and get this: A treaty that would have saved us from this damned war has been ruined. And now, my council warns me of the possibility that Maekar’s seat may be usurped. Do I need to ask others to carry out your work Denys Mallister?

“No, your grace, please…”

“If you fail me one more time, it will be the last time you fail at anything.” The Targaryen announced firmly. “Did you hear me?”

“Yes, your grace. I beg you to forgive me, I…” The Master of Whispers’ faltering voice trailed off quickly, fading away like tracks in the desert.

“Does Lord Ralph Buckler know about the wedding yet?” Daenerys questioned turning to Tyrion who without delay nodded his head. “And what are our options?” She sighed heavily leaning back over her chair.

“For now, I suggest that the issue of the North be resolved at a future time, when the conflict in the Stormlands has been defused.” Ser Davos said in a centered and careful tone. “In my opinion, this is our only option… There is no more room for truces and negotiations, it is necessary to bring them to their knees, once and for all.”

“How many men can we have without leaving the city unprotected?” Jon questioned quickly in the direction of Gray Worm.

“That’s twelve thousand if we leave immediately, unsullied and dotharki.” The Lord Commander of the Queensguard said. “If we recruit the people of the city and surroundings, it will take a few weeks, but I believe it we can get fifteen, maybe eighteen thousand…”

“We can hire mercenaries, ask for reinforcements for the Second Sons…” Denys Mallister suggested.

“That would take more time, and it would spend more than the crown can afford.” Jon dismissed quickly. “Our mercenary quota is already being spent to dam Volantis’ advance on Meereen.”

“We will go with what we have in hand.” Daenerys said seriously. “Gendry Baratheon still has his army, our twelve thousand men and two full-grown dragons should suffice…”

“I would advise against your participation my Queen.” Mesitre Valarr said for the first time “Short flights in the outskirts of the city are one thing, wearing armor and taking flight midst arrows and smoke is dangerous, especially in your condition…”

“I know.” Daenerys replied firmly. “It does not seem fair that my men are at risk of dying, if I, their sovereign, am not willing to suffer the same.” Her voice reverberated haughtily under the room, the advisors looked at each other in nervousness.

“And leave our children without a mother? Risk the life of our little one before it can even be born?” Jon questioned her in a moderate tone, but no less energetic. He wouldn’t hesitate, not when the lives of his could be put at risk.

“I suppose it’ll be all right if they don’t have a father then?”

“That’s not what I meant.” Jon said before sighing in frustration. All eyes in the room were on them both. “Listen… If you fly, I’ll be so worried I’ll be dead before I even reach the battlements of Bronzegate.” He said with such sincerity, to the point of feeling a twinge in his heart.

“Gendry has warned us more than once about the existence of scorpions” Ser Davos said in a worried tone. “Flying in this scenario is too risky, even for you my prince.”

“Death is certain if we fly then.” Daenerys said apparently defeated. “Do you think our men are enough to defeat them? We have the numerical advantage, not that it meant anything when my brother perished under the Trident...”

“We will win.” Jon said, suddenly sure, the father’s fate would not befall his son… No, something inside him told him: The Gods would not deprive him of the face of his youngest child. “And then, when Gendry is settled at Storm’s End, we’ll travel north to understand why Sansa did what she did, I promise you that.” Stark said in a decided tone.

______________

Under the stormy sky, Rhaegal flew uncertainly.

Its trembling and inconstant wings tried to maintain stability in the midst of the thick rain that bathed the rocky slopes amid the rumble of lightning and thunder. Black harpoons flew, flashing against the sky in fury, gleaming in the light of the fire that dared to pierce Rhaegal’s throat as he roared furiously.

From his back oozed a monumental amount of blood. The exposed wound was still skewered by the metal rod. There was pain, fear and a sense of duty in the air as the dark-colored harpoon pierced his neck with abandon. A firm, calculated blow. The beast tried to neigh in pain, gushing more and more blood, before fatally crashing to earth.

With the brandishing of lightning, Daenerys woke suddenly.

The image of Rhaegal in free fall was still vivid in her mind, with dry lips the Targaryen had no choice but to get to her feet. Her skin crawled as she crossed the cold edge of the bed… It would soon be a full moon since Jon left.

His absence was felt deeply. Like a small wound that never seems to heal. Not until he returns, as promised, Daenerys thought, as she wrapped herself in her thin robe of red silk, embroidered with a dragon spun in gold.

The sky was so different from her nightmare. Clear, in shades of dark lilac, almost indigo… The sun would rise soon. A boon since sleep wouldn’t shake Daenerys any time soon.

Opening the door, Daenerys was surprised to find Ser Edmund Blackwood wide awake under the threshold. He was appointed by Ser Edmure Tully to serve in the Queensguard. Although young, Edmund could be considered agile and willful... Daenerys could not say that she trusted the boy completely, not enough to assign him to her children. No… Aggo left to serve Jon, while Jhogo kept his vigil over the royal nursery.

The Blackwood boy would suffice for now.

“My queen.” He said bowing briefly.

“I would like you to escort me to the battlements.” Daenerys said only to see Edmund nod without hesitation. He moved with rigidity and precision, his hand religiously close to the hilt of the sword that hung beneath his belt. “How have you been adapting to the nights in Maegor’s Keep? Gray Worm told me he never guarded anyone before… “ She asked him calmly, the tension in the boy’s shoulders starting to melt.

“It is an honor to be able to protect your grace.” Ser Edmund said with a smile. “The halls are quiet, cold enough to keep me awake.”

“I’m glad to hear it, I wouldn’t want you to sleep.” Daenerys said good-naturedly.

“I wouldn’t dare.” The boy reassured her confidently. It didn’t take long for both of them to reach the Keep’s battlements. In the distance it was possible to see them flying happily over the city, as if they had been born there, as if they knew that their ancestors also occupied the same horizon. A sense of comfort came over Daenerys as a whole, it was fine… Rhaegal was fine. “Is it true that your grace rides him bareback?” Edmund asked her suddenly, as if he didn’t have enough control to keep the question to himself. When Daenerys faced him, he was already as flushed as the Marks of Dorne. “Forgive me for my insolence...”

“I used to ride like this…” She answered him with a smile. “When Prince Jaehaerys was born, Mesitre Valarr asked me for permission to create a saddle, something about being safer… I don’t like it, but I keep using it.”

“Why?” The knight asked her still blushing, his eyes were shining in the direction of the Targaryen, like someone seeing gold for the first time. “You are the Queen, you can do whatever you want...”

“I’m afraid that’s not true.” Daenerys said in the middle of a long and heavy sigh. Her violet eyes were on Drogon now, both of them knowing where they would be if she could choose.

“Ser Edmund.” Tyrion’s hoarse voice reached Daenerys’s ears as a surprise. “Leave us for a moment, please.”

“My queen?” The boy asked in the direction of the Targaryen who waved him away. Tyrion’s eyes held tears yet to cry, his haggard countenance betraying his hoarseness. The same feeling as before hung over her, an icy, uncomfortable shiver, the horror of the possible death of one of her own.

“What happened?”

“Promise me you’ll stay calm, and that you won’t make any hasty decisions.” Tyrion asked in an almost servile tone. Daenerys didn’t hesitate to shake her head.

“Whatever it is, I order you to tell me.” She said without hesitation, not for a moment. And then what she feared most caught up with her:

“He fell… Jon fell.”

Chapter Text

308 a.C.

Davos could still feel Marya’s tears on his coat.

The last war not only devastated the Realm, but separated them for more than five years. The same war that robbed the vigour of their youth, and five, of their seven children. It was understandable that she cried, that she denied with her head, even when all her lips uttered were words of good luck and encouragement.

Her eyes, despite being affectionate and full of devotion, also carried reluctance. She didn’t want Stannis and Steffon to accompany him, not when Davos was unable to promise that he would keep them safe. This same promise he had failed to fulfill not once, but five times.
The same reluctance mixed with the violet of Daenerys Targaryen’s eyes. Her delicate face remained impassive even with Jon’s most heated promises. She had seen the marks that covered her husband’s chest, and, like him, had fought enough battles to know that luck was an uncertain and essential component when it comes to battle – Luck – It was strange to think how the absence of such a small word would have the power to determine who lives and who dies...
To such an extent, it was not surprising that Davos faced the possibility of not having any more luck left for him. He had gone further than any of his brothers, further than anyone from such a low birth. Davos was Master of Ships, and as such, he sat at the same table as dragons and lions. His Stannis would marry Lady Jane Celtigar, and rule the small fortress of Rainwood. While his youngest, Steffon, was Ser Luthor Tyrell’s squire. One day, if the Gods judged it fair, the boy would take the white cloak, just like his mentor.

Their futures were safe after this last battle, a lord and a knight... Davos had fought with all his strength to assure them of this. A respectable life, and means for them to stay safe. I could die happy, if I wasn’t so selfish , Davos thought to himself while heating his hands, which, at this point, seemed to be frozen in the reins of his horse.

Davos was an old man, the few hairs that dared to appear as soot on top of his head were as white as the snow from the meadows of Winterfell. Even with average skills he had survived not one, but four great battles... No wonder he thought so much about death. His age more than ever was charging the price of a life of abuse, for this reason most mercenaries used to live so little. His hip half a league from King’s Landing was already throbbing with pain, the rest of his body didn’t take long to keep up... It was like having a fever, but without all the weakness that accompanied it, no, he just felt his bones hurt. His knees did not have the same stability, going down and climbing from his mount was torturous, much more than pretending he was fine.

“Maybe you shouldn’t drink more of this, not if you want stay alert.” Grey Worm said before Davos could take the canteen to his lips, which by that time was almost empty. That’s what two cold days on the road required, cloudy senses, deceived pain.

“We are on friendly soil.” Ser Andrey Dalt intervened, the dornish knight also had the habit of keeping his canteen close, in deep and spaced gulps…He was still young, not even turned twenty years old.

“Until we cross the Baratheon camp, this is no man’s land, Dalt.” Ser Luthor Tyrell replied in a cautious tone.

“That’s right.” Davos agreed swallowing dry while keeping the canteen out of his reach. “No more wine.”

“I’ll make the same promise as soon as we’re in front of a fire, with dry clothes .” The dornish replied drinking a little more, even in face of Grey Worm’s disapproving eyes.

“And that’s why we are in seven.” Ser Luthor said in the direction of Steffon who kept quiet as a good squire should be.

“Insinuating something Tyrell?” Ser Andrey questioned, pulling the reins of his horse abruptly.

“What is the punishment for insubordination among the Unsullied?” Jon’s voice appeared haughty, his grey eyes were trapped on Grey Worm.

“Death, my prince.” The foreigner replied without hesitation.

“Same in the Night’s Watch.” The Stark amended seriously.

“It was not my intention...” The dornish began only to be interrupted by Jon, who quickly raised his hand.

“It doesn’t matter, that’s what you did, Ser.” Jon remarked impassive. “I appreciate your oath, the white cloak despite carrying more prestige, it doesn’t seem lighter than black. Your obedience is due to your Lord Commander, whatever he says, even the slightest suggestions, should sound like law to your ears.”

“Yes, my prince.” Andrey Dalt said bowing his head slightly. His tone was servile, as if he had learned his lesson. Davos hoped so, a green boy such as Dalt, would be more than luck to take advantage of Grey Worm’s experience.

The entourage continued for some more time, lulled by the sound of the horses’ hooves under the silted road. The drizzle and the icy wind persisted as a warning... Winter is coming. Yes , Davos thought humorous , apparently every year it arrives now, announced by the mild and orange autumn. Would Ned Stark have twisted his nose when he saw from the Seven Heavens even the simplest farmer uttering his words as something so usual?

The distant smoke that guided the convoy finally became close, around it, tents in shades of dark gray and gold were distributed under a sparse field, whose terrain was strangely regular. Some men were in stand, most of them with a simple appearance, dressed under a chainmail or rudimentary armours.

But one in particular, caught Davos’ attention almost instantly, his blue eyes were recognizable from miles away, as well as the hammer that hung in his hands. Gendry Baratheon did not hesitate to approach, only to be followed by his men. Jon did the same, dismantling his black steed in time to come face to face with his old friend. The bastards of yesteryear, that day, gathered as nobles.
Gendry bowed awkwardly, as did those who served him. A whole camp demonstrated their submission to the White Wolf.

“Arise my lord, and friend.” Jon said in a warm tone, his eyes seemed to inspect Gendry’s face carefully. “The rebellion aged you…” The Stark said unexpectedly in a good mood as he hugged the Baratheon briefly.

“I got married too.” Gendry granted only to be rocked by the sound of laughter. “I’m glad you came.” He continued, in a lower tone this time. “These are Lord Alyn Estermont, Lord Jonas Penrose, and Lord Casper Wylde.” The Baratheon said slowly, indicating each of the nobles who nodded in front of the presentation.

“I remember your banners during our Queen’s coronation” Jon said with some confidence. “Even in uncertain times, your lordship found ways to declare loyalty to the true sovereign.”

“My daughter mentioned the beautiful ceremony, and the great beasts that escorted it.” Lord Casper Wylde said as if suggesting the possible presence of dragons.

“Drogon and Rhaegal stayed in King’s Landing protecting the Queen and the future King.” Jon said, quickly cutting the older man off. “I come with twelve thousand men, dotharki and unsullied, four of the Queensguard: Ser Luthor Tyrell, Ser Andrey Dalt, Ser Gray Worm of Astapor, and Ser Aggo of the Great Sea of Grass. My faithful advisor, Master of Ships, Ser Davos Seaworth.” The Prince Consort continued seriously. Davos partly knew why he was so rigid, Jon understood more than anyone that despite being a Stark, it was not his house that he represented, but Daenerys. Her word was final, there should be no room for questioning it, not by anyone other than Jon himself.

“And yet you dare say that the rebellion aged me, Ser Davos, what did that city do to you?” Gendry said towards his old friend who smiled unreservedly.

“My wife was there too.” The Master of Ships answered with serenity.

“That explains a lot!” The Baratheon said in a playful tone before returning to a skinny boy who had been at his back for some time. “This is Feynor, youngest son of Lord Jonas and my good brother. He will be responsible for organizing the tents for the army sent by her grace, the Queen.”

“In this case, Ser Andrey and Ser Aggo will assist him.” Jon said quickly turning to both, the dotharki nodded quickly, without even thinking. Whereas the dornish boy, well, he seemed aware that this task was more of a punishment than anything else. “Would you mind if we reunite right away?” Questioned Jon without delay. Davos found himself stifling a sigh, a fresh change of clothes and hot soup would make him a much more capable man.

“I thought you would like to rest, but if you prefer it that way… Follow me.” Gendry agreed willingly, as he led them through the paths of the simple camp. The largest of the tents revealed the simplicity of its interior, the only furniture it boasted consisted of an extensive wooden table. Beneath it was the map of the region as well as letters in sloppy handwriting. Ser Luthor and Steffon stood beside Gray Worm, who wasted no time leaning over the table, taking in every detail of the terrain. Ser Davos chose to stay close to Jon, he was there not because he was considered a great strategist, but because of the reasonableness of his advice.

“What is the location of the rebel army?” Jon asked in the direction of the map.

“It is stationed outside Bronzegate, east of the Queenswood” Gendry said quickly. “It numbered about ten thousand men before it split.”

“How so?” Questioned Davos confused.

“Our intelligence managed to see more than half of the men marching south, that was three days ago.” Lord Jonas said in an almost encouraging tone.

“Definitely a trap.” Grey Worm announced.

“They are not hiding or planning to flank us, more than half are gone.” Gendry said removing part of the pins on the enemy side.

“If they wanted to give us Bronzegate, why didn’t they all run away?” Jon asked trying in vain to look for answers in the lines of the map.

“Perhaps they want to delay us and lay siege at Storm’s End.” Ser Luthor pondered.

“If that’s the plan, they didn’t do well leaving the scorpions behind.” Lord Alyn said seriously. “We were waiting for your men to attack, at least that way our casualties will be minimal.”

“How many rebels are currently at?” Davos asked attentively.

“Four thousand men, maybe less.” Gendry said with confidence.

“Disposing of half the army, even being outnumbered… This is madness.” Jon said putting both fists over the table.

“Something it's not right.” Grey Worm agreed.

“The designs of the Gods are more complicated than we can comprehend." Lord Casper said suddenly. "Who knew that even after two hundred years, dragons would be reborn? Sometimes you have to gladly accept what They offer, like when you were brought back my Prince... At times like this, there are no reasons or whys, just facts.

“Before deciding…” Gendry said, overcoming the silence that had ensued. “I think maybe these men are aiming to try to hit me or you. That would undoubtedly undermine morale. If you don’t want to expose yourself...”

“Will you fight?” Jon asked in the direction of the Baratheon.

“I will lead my men, yes”

“So will I.” The prince granted. “But I’ll not lead all my contingent, it will take longer and we’ll spend more resources.”

“But my prince…” Lord Jonas tried.

“My decision is final in this regard.” Jon announced determined. “How many are you?” The Stark asked in Gendry’s direction.

“Three thousand four hundred and sixty-two.” He answered accurately.

“Well then, I will send two thirds of my army to camp at the end of Queenswood.” Jon said haughtily, even in the face of the Lords’ frustration. “If we need them, they will come to meet us.”

“Seven against four thousand.” Ser Davos mused. “It’s a sure victory, and it would block their way to King’s Landing”

“How soon are you ready to attack?” Gendry nodded.

“What do you think, Lord Commander?” Jon asked in the direction of Grey Worm who quickly announced, to Davos’ displeasure:

“At sunrise, we’ll be ready.”

Davos had woken up surprisingly well that morning.

Maybe it was the hot soup or the hippocras, or maybe it was the fact that his two sons were marching in the opposite direction of the battlefield. At least for now, their lives would not be put at risk.

Not that the rebels represented any threat, from a distance it was possible to perceive the fragile stage in which they were left. Their shields appeared to be worn, and their weapons seemed dull and sharpless. Among the men, only two rows boasted cavalry, while the others remained hostages of the muddy ground.

Before Jon allowed the attack, the sound of an out of tune horn carried across the meadows, in front of the imposing bronze fortress. And then the enemy army, without hesitation, came up against the Targaryen troops. The closer they got, the greater the feeling that something wrong was about to happen. The disparity between the two sides went beyond numbers, they appeared to have the worst weaponry Davos had ever seen and his life, as if it were a loss to arm them properly, as if it were a waste to give these men even the slightest chance of survival.

And then the smell came, invading him without warning.

Davos was not proud, but he knew that pungent odor all too well.

Vomit, feces, urine, blood… The worst combination that could reach someone’s nose. Not because of the smell itself, but because of its meaning.

Davos had felt it once, during his smuggling days across the Narrow Sea. He had lost more than half of his crew and nearly perished. The fever was delirious, the lack of control to evacuate reductionist, but the blood... Seeing it leaving your body, day after day, bleeding the rest of your life, that was terrifying.

Up close Davos got a better look at the grimness of their clothes, a damned confirmation that came with the swinging of swords.

“Jon!” Davos exclaimed nervously as he defended himself against a dying man, hot blood splashed over his face as he slit the man’s throat. The red blocked his view long enough for him to be thrown roughly from his mount. “Argh…” Davos moaned unable to feel all the pain his body was giving him. All his energy was focused on his sword that mercilessly impaled a boy of just over fifteen years. His face and blond hair were soaked in sweat... He was dead anyway, Davos comforted himself, trying to get to his feet with difficulty.

“Careful!” Grey Worm screamed appearing among the commotion, pulling Davos up in a single impulse.

“They are sick!” Davos shouted, grabbing him tightly, while trying to remember the name of the disease on the other side of the sea. “It’s bloody flux, they’re sick, you need to get to Jon.”

“Flux?” Grey Worm asked while dodging a runaway horse.

“Pale mare!” Davos said, suddenly remembering, only to see Grey Worm's expression go from confusion to complete horror.

______________

Daenerys swallowed in a failed, desperate attempt to pull herself together.

The news came as grim confirmation.

He had fallen… Like Rhaegal in his dream, like Viserion in life.

Tyrion’s voice echoed muffled even under the battlements. His words were lost in an unsettling hum. Daenerys’ instinctive response was to wrap her voluminous belly as Jon was surely would do. She had to settle down, all she needed the least was men making decisions for her.

No, they would never understand her. Not when the only person who could was in danger, lying unconscious on the edge of the forest, sheltered by a tent somewhere, with no Maesters to fix him, or maids to attend his needs.

The choice was before her eyes: leave him to the mercy of circumstances and keep herself safe, or take a change and risk dying with him. Daenerys knew what her immediate choice would be if it weren’t for her boys, her child just to be born ...

Sometimes nothing is the hardest thing to do. Tyrion had told her years ago, before she could climb Drogon and fly beyond the Wall. Endangering not only his life, but that of her children. All for him... Looking back Daenerys was sure, she had loved him ever since, her honorable northman . She knew exactly what Jon would do if their roles were reversed. You are mine and I am yours, from this day to the end of our days.

“Daenerys, please…” Tyrion begged her, taking her hands suddenly. The Lannister’s mismatched eyes remained locked on his Queen. “Whatever you’re thinking, please, there’s only one moon left for you to give birth...”

“And how many more until I’m ready to fly?” Daenerys questioned in a downcast tone, she was decided. To the end of our days, this the Targaryen had also sworn.

“We can send a small company, they will bring him back as soon as possible.” Tyrion said trying to sound sure of his words.

“Faster than a dragon?” That simple question seemed to be enough to scare the Lannister.

“At least let the council meet so we can decide this together...”

“I am your sovereign and the sick man on the other side of Queenswood is my husband.” Daenerys said haughtily, her voice despite being hoarse still carried the authority of her position. “I command you to summon Maester Valarr, we’ll leave before the sun get high.” She said, turning her back on him, looking for Ser Edmund’s escort.

“Jon would want you to be safe.” Tyrion said suddenly attracting the attention of his Queen. “This illness…”

“It is the doom that has plagued armies since the Dawn Age, it kills three men out of four, I know that. Before you, Ser Barristan Selmy was my Hand and instructed me in this and many other matters.” Dany said in her coldest tone. “I have the blood of the dragon, I won’t get sick.”

“Do you really believe that?” The Lannister asked approaching.

“You dare question me?” Daenerys warned, her violet eyes furiously fixed on the half man.

“Never, my Queen.” He conceded sadly before seeing her walk away in a hurried step.

Even with the sunrise and the offering of breakfast, Daenerys had ordered that Jaehaerys and Maekar not be awakened. The Queen was certain that she would not be able to face them without collapsing, her beautiful boys… Watching them sleep would have to be enough this time, the sound of their calm breathing and the rhythmic rise and fall of their breasts comforted Dany. They would be fine no matter what the circumstances.

In the best of worlds, on one moon they would have their father and mother and another new little brother… Daenerys could only hope so, with all her heart.

It was early evening when the Dragon Queen reached the Targaryen camp in the north of Bronzegate.

The fires were barely more than embers, providing dim and awkward lighting to the meadows. When Drogon reached the ground, Daenerys could hear Maester Valarr throwing himself to the dirt, he didn’t want to be on a dragon without his rider, that was an announced death sentence, even for those who possessed Valyrian blood.

Daenerys had chosen him especially for his silver hair, and for the good name Celtigar, which had survived, like the Targaryens, the doom of Valyria. But the man, judging by the way he vomited in front of Drogon, was more familiar with the earth than the sky.

“Let’s go.” The Dragon Queen said throwing the heavy suitcase near the Maester. “The Prince Consort needs your care.” She said seriously, despite being tired and slightly sore from the flight, Daenerys would go all the way. Jon would come home.

“Yes your grace.” The man staggered to his feet, not quite sure of his steps, but still ahead. The plain encampment emanated a worrying odor, as Daenerys suspected, the disease had spread easily. About twenty men stood nervously on the edge of the tents, their bodies bowed in respect.

“There's no need for that.” Daenerys dismissed quickly. “Where is…”

“The White Wolf is in Lord Gendry Baratheon’s tent, your grace.” A trembling thin boy with brown hair dared to say, his skin was so pale that not even the glow of the fire seemed to be able to warm up.

“Khaleesi.” Grey Worm said appearing among a dozen strange faces. He looked fine, except for the long bandage that covered part of his left arm.

“Take me to him.” Daenerys said suddenly, following him without hesitation. Her back hurt, as expected at the end of a pregnancy, the weight of the armor added to that of her unborn child, made every step, between those tents, painful. At a certain point all her strength seemed to be focused on that, getting to Jon.

And then she faltered, her eyes found fragments of the man she loved so much... His black, wavy hair was loose, sprawled under the humble bed in which he slept stormily. His clothes were stained by the bloody flow, as well as his restless sleep and the hoarse voice that did not belong to him. But what really knocked the Targaryen off her feet was the name Jon so fervently called, over and over again: Dany...

“I’m here, my love.” She said instinctively throwing herself on top of him, her knees seemed to threaten to break when they found the ground, but none of that mattered. “I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere without you.” Dany assured taking her husband’s hot rigid hands between hers.

“Please, your grace, stay away…The disease.” Maester Valarr requested approaching the prince carefully. His intent gaze roamed over Jon with apprehension, fear.

“Do whatever is necessary.” Daenerys ordered, distancing herself just enough to give the healer space.

“It was an ambush, even I couldn’t foresee.” Grey Worm said in a choked voice. “If he hadn't divided the troops, we would have lost more than half of our men.” He said in Jon's direction with a certain reverence. Both weren’t friends, their relationship was based on a mutual and tenuous admiration, the two lived to protect their Queen and everything she stood for. “I failed in my duties, I failed…”

“Oh Grey Worm…” Daenerys said fighting every part of her body that leaned over to envelop him in a tight hug. Her most faithful ally. He had used his freedom to serve her, with his mind, his sword and his heart. Daenerys didn’t have the strength within herself to blame him, how could such a noble heart devise the most base and vile trap? It wasn’t him who deserved the Dragon’s fury... “Your innocence I know like no one else, this guilt is not yours to carry. Those despicable men knew very well what they were doing, and for a while they may think their actions will go unpunished, a sweet mistake... Once Jon recovers I’ll make them pay, for every man who dies here, I’ll kill three of theirs. I swear this to you.

“So it’s true…” Gendry sighed as he entered the tent suddenly, his blue eyes widened, as if the Baratheon couldn’t believe what was right in front of him. “Your grace.” His bow was not even completed due to the Targaryen’s immediate dismissal. “With all due respect...”

“I will not leave here without my husband.” Daenerys announced cutting him mercilessly.

“How long has he been in this delusional state?” Maester Valarr questioned worriedly, his hands groping for compresses over Stark’s neck.

“He fell down yesterday morning, after we burned the last pyre. The heat made the fever worse, or so we assumed.” Gendry said seriously. “The village healer said it’s a miracle he survived yet another morning…”

“Can Drogon’s heat harm him?” Daenerys anticipated visibly distressed.

“I can prepare wet compresses, with a quick flight and hydration there is a reasonable chance that the Prince Consort will reach King’s Landing alive.” Maester Valarr said without hesitation or half words. “I cannot guarantee that he will live even with the best poultices, he needs to stop losing fluids, he needs to eat…

“Do the possible and the impossible, I won’t accept less than that.” Daenerys interrupted him in the midst of a painful contraction. She knew them very well, brief but no less annoying, these pains accompanied her in the last nights before childbirth. Gray Worm instinctively took her arm just in case, his eyes looking at her with concern. “It was just a reflex.” She said trying in vain to reassure him.

“May I examine your to be sure?” Said Maester Valarr quickly approaching the Targaryen, in order to tend to her. “A birth would need…”

“I’m fine.” Dany dismissed it stiffly. “Focus on Jon, he needs to hydrate, right? Soup and water, is there anything like that around here Lord Baratheon?” Daenerys questioned in the direction of Gendry who quickly turned to the exit of the tent.

“If your grace feel any other signs, I’m like you to let me know.” Maester Valarr asked apprehensively. “Whether from childbirth, or the flow…”

“The disease cannot reach me, I have the blood of the dragon…”

“Like the first Daenerys Targaryen.” Maester Valarr said staring at her steadily. “And that didn’t stop Queen Alysanne from losing her first female child to the Shivers.” Daenerys remembered the young princess from Viserys’ stories, as well as Aerea and Maegelle Targaryen… Denial was a deceitful comfort, giving way to other concerns, such as the arrival of the baby and Jon’s health. “Just let me know, I swore to serve the Queen, and so…”

“Then cure him.” Dany asked him almost as a supplication. Jon was still calling to her, as if he was a sea away and not beside her. “Get him ready to take flight as soon as the sun rises.”

“I will do the possible, and the impossible.” Valarr stated determinedly, appropriating his Queen’s words.

Between false contractions Daenerys spent the night awake, her hands remained attached to Jon’s, while her eyes were busy monitoring her husband’s almost imperceptible breathing. The fever had subsided along with the delirium, which allowed him to finally rest...

“I am here.” The Targaryen repeated in a way to assure him. “We’re both here.” Daenerys said as she placed Stark’s hand on her voluptuous belly. “Can you feel it? Our little Aemon... You’ll need to be strong to hold him.” She sighed before surrendering to tears. A lump had formed in her throat, preventing her from speaking properly. The words remained cramped inside her, yet Daenerys felt she must say them, felt she might die if she didn’t. “I... I need you... I don’t know if I can…I just… I don’t want to be alone, please, don’t leave me alone…” She begged him before calling the men to attach him to Drogon’s hot and rough body.

Daenerys did not remember the flight.

The clear, heady sunlight had blurred her vision, and her memories.

At some point her body reverted to the most primal stage of survival. As she dismounted from Drogon beneath the Red Keep’s courtyard, her senses turned to the only person that mattered, her hands dispensing bows and unbecoming servants. Her legs insistently followed Jon’s stretcher, trying in vain to keep up with the hurried pace of the Queensguard who unhesitatingly left her behind.

And then came the first blow, Daenerys could only gasp from the pain.

She knew very well what was coming, her hands went against the skirts of her riding coat. The scarlet confirmation glowed eerily over her fingers.

“The child…” Tyrion sighed in alarm, his eyes seeming to search the corridors of the Keep for a solution. “Jhogo, take her to Maegor’s.”

“I will not go anywhere without my husband.” Daenerys said holding tight to her Ko. “Go call him Jhogo.” She urged with conviction, her violet eyes inquiring seriously. One more contraction hit her making her moan in pain, tears flowed down her easily, as well as the blood on her skirts, which flowed towards the ground.

Chapter Text

308 a.C.

The intense light blinded her in the moment she opened her eyes.

The Dragon Queen’s first instinct was to flinch, even as the numbness crept over her body. Surprisingly, there was no pain or agony, no comfort or relief. Daenerys felt nothing . Her body still seemed to rest heavily, oblivious to any sensation. Sounds echoed muffled and misshapen, making it impossible to distinguish words from mere noises. Her eyes struggled against the bright light that radiated from all sides.

Until, suddenly, she felt him, his big, callused hands gently enfolding hers. A thousand years could pass, and she would still recognize him. With narrowed eyes Daenerys stared at him deeply, enveloped in the pale light of the sun. He was thinner, his face lined with dark circles under his eyes and a long, straggly beard. Jon seemed to carry a tired face, small reddish lines surrounded the gray of his eyes, as if he had cried too much, or slept too little. Maybe both.

It hit her instantly, she remembered flying to Bronzegate to rescue him. The way he called her name still haunted her, the smell of that terrible disease, eating him alive... Daenerys remembered her bravest men tying him to Drogon’s form. And then it all came down to a series of disjointed memories, dreams... the Targaryen couldn’t say for sure. It was like looking at an extensive painting, full of gaps and lacking in finishing. There was blood, of a thick, scarlet kind, seeping through her fingers. The gentle, quivering voice of Maester Valarr cut through by cries of agony, the figure of Tyrion Lannister, whose tiny hands clutched pleadingly in his Queen’s as he begged her to endure a little longer, just a little longer. But at no point had she remembered the baby.

The cruel thought invaded her at the same time that her hands quickly disentangled themselves from Jon’s. She needed to feel him, but the belly that had accompanied her for more than eight long moons was gone... No, it can’t be , Dany thought to herself painfully.

“She didn’t survive.” Jon said in the midst of a hoarseness that did not belong to him. His teary eyes remained locked on Daenerys as they brimmed with tears. “Rhaella.” The whisper ripped through the Targaryen the instant she realized it. My mother’s name, my daughter’s name… Hearing it only added more reality to the pain that seemed to grip her body as the numbness slowly faded.

A girl … Daenerys always dreamed of having a girl… Would she be as kind as Missandei, perhaps as cunning as little Johanna? Dany imagined her running freely through the gardens, silver hair colored by spring flowers… The sound of her laughter . How much beauty would it have provided? How much joy?

The lords of Westeros don’t usually celebrate the birth of a daughter, at least, not in the same way they do in the face of the arrival of an heir. Girls are born predestined, jewels forged to brighten their husbands’ homes. Departure is inevitable, just like the carriage, the farewell… The birthing bed.

But not my Rhaella, no, thought Daenerys, for her I would reserve the highest place in the realm, next to Jaehaerys. Her daughter would be cared for and protected, loved with all her heart, she would never leave her lemon tree behind…

“Where is she?” Dany asked after gathering all the strength she still had, she needed to know… Nothing was more important than that. Mirri Maz Durr’s voice broke into her abruptly, Daenerys still remembering her impassive face as those cruel words pierced her: Monstrous. Deformed. It had scales like a lizard, it was blind, it had a vestige of a tail and small leathery wings like a bat’s. When I touched it, the flesh fell away from the bone, and the inside was crawling with worms and reeking of decay. It had been dead for years.

Daenerys had not even laid eyes on Rhaego, her firstborn… Life on this side of the sea had made her forget, Jaehaerys had made her forget. The Dragon Queen would not make that mistake again… She wanted to see her, no matter what state she was in, the girl was hers, and would always be hers. Blood of my blood , she thought to herself.

“The pyre was lit yesterday.” Jon announced while drying his tears, trying to contain himself for her. They both knew that only one could lose ground at a time. And the idea of not seeing her… The Targaryen felt a sob go through her, the tears already running unreservedly, while the tightness on her chest only increased. “They thought you wouldn’t wake up, and she…”

“What was she like?” Daenerys asked him with a small voice, a voice so different that it didn’t even seem like hers. If only Dany could see her, she would memorize every feature of her face, count every one of her fingers. At least say goodbye. “Don’t lie, I’ll know if you do.”

“Rhaella was… She was small, fragile.” His voice faltered for a moment. “She had hair and eyes like yours, delicate features… So, so beautiful.” Jon said with a distant look as if he was with little Rhaella again. Daenerys hated him for that, even momentarily, he had involved her when all the Targaryen wanted was to have her in her sights. Only once. “She couldn’t resist the second night, she didn’t have the strength to feed…”

“It was the flux, wasn’t it?” The Targaryen asked him even with the answer clear as day. Daenerys had made her choice to fly to save him, she was aware of the risks, and yet, the consequences as they posed were too much... More than she could have expected, even having already lost a child. The pain that gradually spread through her body was nothing compared to the pain of losing such a loved and long-awaited child. A perfect child.

“Dany…”

“Why aren’t you mad at me?” She asked him firmly, and then the gray storm joined the violet. Despite the sadness, Jon looked at her with devotion. “I killed her, our daughter… I did it.”

“Never say that again!” Jon said imperatively taking her hands suddenly. “You went to birthing bed completely ill, you did your best.” The Stark said seriously, as if he intended each of those words. Daenerys did little but shake her head, it wasn’t fair... The weight of that choice was mine to bear. “I know you don’t want to hear this right now, but Maester Valarr said we can still have many sons and daughters, it’s not the end.”

“I don’t want it.” She cut him off quickly, untying her hands from his. Her eyes filled with fury as her mouth turned bitter. How dare you say that? “Would you say the same if it was Jaehaerys or Maekar?” She asked him through tears, her voice broken by crying, by pain.

“None of our children, none of them can be replaced.” Jon retreated as if he was taking an oath. “We are here for them, and that’s all that matters, our family is all that matters.” The Stark told her determinedly. His tone was final, and oddly comforting. Talking about it would only hurt more... The daughter I never saw, never touched, never was, and never will be.

“How are you feeling?” Dany asked after a long and peaceful silence, staring at him for a while seemed enough, Jon was all she needed for now… No soup, no wine, no milk of the poppy… The pain reflected in his eyes would have to suffice, he was the only one capable of sharing that sentiment, or so the Targaryen hoped.

“You black out for five days and ask me how I am?” Jon questioned her with a comforting smile, her warm hands welcomed him again. Dany raised her eyebrows in his direction, as if she expected an answer. “I feel… grateful that you’re alive, I almost lost you…

“I could say very the same thing about you.” Daenerys said, interrupting him with affection. And then the White Wolf’s gray eyes faltered once more, there was shame on his face.

“I feel so stupid, I should have seen this coming.” Jon said between sobs, he looked so fragile, weakened. “It was too good to be true… I…”

“It was not your fault.” The Targaryen told him firmly, even in the midst of pain Daenerys found a way to her husband, carefully lifting his chin. She wanted to promise looking him in the eye. “It may take some time, but make no mistake, they will pay for their actions with fire and blood…

“Not until you’re ready, healthy and whole, once again.” Jon conditioned seriously.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to be whole again.” She confessed to him suddenly somber. “Not when I can only think about what I lost…”

“Oh Dany…” Jon said as he enveloped her in a tender hug, there was nothing more to be said.

The sun hadn’t even risen and Daenerys was already finding her way through the dark passages of Maegor’s Keep. Under light, careful steps she moved along paths she had only recently learned to Maester Valarr had seen to that, as well as many other things, in the time the Queen had been trapped in her bed.

A fortnight until she could walk, two moons until she was finally able to resume all her activities. Little by little, life resumed its rhythm, and what had previously been seen to be out of place, lined up in search of an axis. The sense of normalcy that began to govern the days and nights did little to mitigate the pain that emerged without warning from under the Dragon Queen’s chest. Her sleep was disturbed by the limpid image of a black and silver dragon, whose agonized roar echoed over a high stone wall, while the dawn broke the nebulous dark of the night. Was the beast her final imprisoned symbol of grief? The representation of your lost daughter? Dany would never know, not when she didn’t have the heart to talk about it with anyone, not even Jon.

There could be no life without death... That was an implicit and unconditional term of the nature of beings, be they men or dragons. – Valar Morghulis. – Daenerys more than anyone else should know… H er birth marked by the brandishing of lightning and thunder, salt and smoke. She couldn’t even realize it, but at birth she had already lost... Her family, her home.

The Dragon Queen knew exactly what to do, her plan of action, clear as day: reckoning would be followed by overcoming, I need to put this story behind me, and move on. But the woman, the mother… She wanted the black dresses to come back, and the laughter to stop coloring her halls. Her daughter was dead, and she was never coming back, that... It was forever.

“Khaleesi.” Grey Worm’s voice resounded through the stones like an echo, at the same time, in which the light of his torch seemed to become closer and closer. He had healed his wounds and erased any trace of that cursed disease from his body. The same fate was not conferred to Aggo or Ser Davos... Daenerys could still remember the blank stares of her bloodrider’s many children, as well as Marya Seaworth’s unrestrained, inconsolable weeping. Their deaths will not be in vain, she thought to herself, pushing those images still so vivid from her mind.

“Did you found it?” Dany questioned him abruptly, her violet eyes were locked on the Unsullied with anticipation.

“They are camped north of Storm’s End.” The Lord Commander said without hesitation. His loyalty knew no bounds, as did his devotion. “The disease is still a problem. It’s what has kept them from entering the castle.”

“They’re still sick…” Daenerys whispered, fighting an overwhelming sense of triumph. They are still cutting themselves with the blade they tried so vilely to wield against me. “The fire would work for their relief, I suppose.”

“A quicker end than they deserve, yes.” Grey Worm agreed. “But among the options, it is the best... The few lords who still take refuge in Storm’s End will not hesitate to surrender.”

“I want them to know that I don’t care.” The Dragon Queen said seriously. “I will make Storm’s End a second Harrenhal if there is no surrender.” Daenerys stated determinedly, the Targaryen knew that if she could, the whole continent would burn.

“I received an order, but by force of duty, I feel that I must ask: Are you sure you don’t need us?” Grey Worm questioned seriously, the common tongue sharper than ever over his lips. Missandei would have been be proud, the thought invaded Dany before she could realize it. “I prepared three companies, with an order I can manage to postpone the plan in five days, enough for us to arrive.”

“The council would find a way to interfere.” Daenerys said finally. “Jon…”

“He can fly there as soon as he finds out.”

“I hope that everything will be over when Jon realizes it.” The Targaryen announced before staring at Drogon’s dark contours against the rising sun. As time passed, it became increasingly difficult to gauge how far Dany’s emotions went and the beast’s impulsive behavior began. Without any command reaching the air, Drogon instinctively approached.

The misty morning offered the Dragon Queen the element of surprise she didn’t even know she needed.

As Drogon descended from the clouds, Dany could smell the pungent odor emanating from that populated clearing, and more than that, the unsettling sound of the reverberation of hoarse screams, the rattling of metal settling under the weakness of their hands. Fear. There was a smell of fear in the air.

The figure of Drogon was already remarkably known throughout the Seven Kingdoms, the Black Dread reborn , as it was called. The span of its wings and the fire in its throat were a mere reminder of the strength of House Targaryen. But for those men, those who so imprudently turned against their sovereign, it evoked only one image, the inevitable encounter with the Stranger, the one that a man wants to postpone all his life.

Dracarys. The command passed her lips with haughty certainty, even as heat radiated through h er entire body. They’ve earned it , she thought to herself, the next ones will think again and again before attempt ing against the dragon. For Rhaella, for Aggo, for Davos...

And then there was silence... Amidst the ashes, the smell of smoke and burning flesh stood out. Her enemies erased from those meadows forever, there would be no bodies to mourn or farewell processions. Just as the Dragon Queen and hers had been denied.

Gendry Baratheon’s timid entourage had approached, his blue eyes beholding in shock, once more, what Drogon’s destructive fury could do. It didn’t take long for the gates to open, under the hands of the rebels, flags as white as snow.

It was early evening when Drogon reached the courtyard of Maegor’s Keep.

By the time her feet hit the ground, Daenerys could already hear the murmurs. Despite the night, some servants still ran hastily among the small council members, who were standing by, the uneasiness evident on their faces. But what hit the Dragon Queen almost immediately was the anger and concern that mingled under Jon’s face. His tense body sought to find her, even with heavy steps. But it was Grey Worm who met with her first.

“It’s done.” Daenerys announced in the direction of her Lord Commander. Her eyes then turned to her advisers, the ones she had deliberately chosen to ignore while making her decisions that day. “This morning your Queen led the taking of Storm’s End on behalf of Lord Gendry Baratheon!” The Targaryen called out eloquently, her words heavy with meaning. “There is no more rebellion! Our enemies met the justice of the realm, with fire and blood.” Dany said finally, her relentless gaze found no opponent to match, at least, until the moment Jon found her. The noticeable tension in her shoulders showed over her face. He did little but extend a stiff arm to his wife, the words stuck in her throat like nails… Daenerys knew him all too well.

The walk to their quarters had been long and silent, Ser Edmund Blackwood’s escort not making it any easier. Before he could enter Daenerys dared to speak, her tone as lilting as she could manage, she was so tired.

“I know that…” She tried, only to be ignored. Jon didn’t even seek her eyes, his hands pointed towards the rooms they both shared. Dany nodded as she entered the room. “Alright, are you satisfied?”

“Why? Why did you act behind my back?” Jon questioned infuriated, his eyes gleamed in the direction of the Targaryen, waiting for his answer.

“The council would not allow immediate action.” Daenerys hastened to say. “And what they did… That needed an answer at the height, they needed to pay.”

“I agree with you… But we needed to make this decision together.” The Stark said still furious, his hands clung to Dany’s shoulders firmly. “Have I ever given you reason to believe that I would conspire with the Council to sabotage your wishes? We’re in this together Dany, me and you.”

“Would you allow me to bring justice to those damn pigs?” The Dragon Queen questioned him seriously, disengaging herself from his warm hands. “You wouldn’t hesitate to work with Tyrion to do what you think is right, don’t you dare deny it!”

“Blame me for wanting the safety of the mother of my children.” Jon said without taking his eyes off hers. His voice was wounded. “Why don’t you let me protect you? Why not be content with our children and the Throne?” The Stark asked her in the bitterness of his anger. “Let me take risks on the battlefield, let me be your sword.”

“Sure, because you're really standing out in this field, if I hadn't saved you…” Daenerys murmured as she walked towards the dressing room, wanting to get rid of her riding dress as soon as possible. By this time, she hadn’t even been aware of her words.

“What did you just say?” Jon shouted abruptly, making her turn towards him.

“Nevermind.” Daenerys shrugged only for him to grip her arm tightly. His eyes furiously locked against hers. In the past, the Targaryen would cower in fear, but no... She held on, the respect Jon had for her should be greater than his love. If not... It would be worthless.

“Do you think I wouldn’t be able to finish them off?” Jon questioned her trying in vain to control the altered volume of his voice. He was furious. “You take me for weak in the knees, I’ve killed more than…”

“I needed to do it myself.” The Targaryen blurted out, interrupting him firmly. And then and only then Jon released his wife. “I wanted to make sure they paid.” She confessed as tears run down her red cheeks.

“I’m your husband.” Jon said somberly, his gaze distant for the first time. “I want you to be able to trust, believe Dany me… Among everyone in this palace, I am your greatest ally. I don’t promise to abide by all your decisions, I can’t… But I swear, I will never betray you. Whatever we decide will be together, I swear by the old Gods and the new.” Jon said finally, his tone subdued as his hands sought Dany’s in a silent form of reconciliation. “I will always be by your side, always.”

Chapter Text

309 a. C.

Between icy winds and the intoxicating light of the sun, Rhaegal flew unpretentiously.

That was Jon’s first trip with the dragon, the destination marked on his map had crumbled with the rain that morning. For now, the Stark continued to trust his instincts and the mere records that were still alive in his mind: Harrenhal, The Twins, Moat Cailin, Winterfell. As soon as he arrived at the first stop he would provide another map, one that this time would be kept among many layers of fabric.

Daenerys had spared him no advice, or farewell kisses . A few hours had passed and Jon, like the passionate fool, that he certainly was, found comfort in the last sight of his beloved. Her silver waves were loose shining over the intense brightness of the sun, she still wore her sleeping suits, the delicate silk that Jon was already familiar with. The silk that his rude touch had so often ruined. Her embrace was warm, as well as her kisses, until finally both looked at each other deeply – the inevitable farewell – and the concern clear as the beginning of the day. Did she fear for Jon, for the agreement that would be made in Winterfell, for Maekar’s future, for Rhaegal? The Stark did not find the strength within himself to ask, one certainty led him step by step to his dragon, away from her: This time, he would n’t fail.

It was late afternoon when the God’s Eye reached Stark’s vision. The greenish water lake had an oval shape and considerable size compared to the small island of trees inside it. Weirwoods... Jon noticed as he guided Rhaegal towards the ground, Harrenhal close enough for him to be seen.

However, the dragon did the opposite, its body turned upwards, its wings beating tirelessly, conquering altitude. Jon, in response, sought to impose force, his calloused hands pushed the stems of Rhaegal’s saddle down, while his legs pressed its body as he would with a horse. The commands went unanswered as the blue of the sky diluted in shades of yellow and orange.

“Tegun Rhaegal!” The high Valyrian reached Jon’s lips with shyness, his last resort before the night reached them. If Daenerys were here, she would know what to do. “Tegun Rhaegal! Tegun!” Jon tried once again, the moonlight insufficient even over the clouds. The Stark hoped that Rhaegal would see better, he hoped that it would at least know where it was taking them... All Jon could do was hold on to the dragon, while trying to keep the rhythm of his breath.

The break of the clouds was smooth, similar to the lightness with which Rhaegal’s wings arched. Below them was a river of long length and timid width, further ahead, almost losing sight, two tributaries extended, siding the main branch; the right and the left. They had not gone that far , they were north of Harrenhal, in front of the crossing of the...

Jon felt a shiver run through him as Rhaegal glided towards the ground. The surface of the Trident shining on the pale light of the moon. It can’t be, he thought to himself, pushing away the thoughts that tried to rule him. In a quick movement, the Stark found himself free of the saddle, his feet couldn’t wait to find the ground.

There was not much around them, the meadows of the riverlands had some spaced trees and in the distance, Jon could see the side of what seemed to be the Queen’s Road. He could take a chance and walk towards Harrenhal, a bed and a hot meal would certainly welcome him. His resentful eyes searched for Rhaegal’s in the darkness, only to find its large form lazily scattered on the grass. Jon sighed stretching his arms and legs, he was too sore to walk alone in the dark, at least next to Rhaegal he could feel safe and finally rest. He would sleep on his cloak. Longclaw between his arms, elaborated while groping wooden sticks and loggings on the dirt, a fire would spare him from the cold of that strange night.

The heat that followed scared him along with the abrupt emergence of the flames. Rhaegal had set fire to a fallen tree a few meters from the Stark. The bronze of his eyes remained attached to Jon for some time, as if the it expected some reaction. The Stark took a deep breath, containing all his fury inside him self . He did not expect to quarrel with the dragon, not when he would need him for another three days...

Near the burning tree Jon laid his grayish mantle, his legs lead him in heavy steps to the banks of the Trident, his canteen had been dry for some time, and the thirst burning over his throat... His hands joined in a shell allowing him to relieve himself. Sip after sip, until h is lips felt something between h is hands, like a smooth, rounded stone... Without hesitation Stark brought it close to the fire, the ruby shone in h is hands as a frightening reminder of where he was... It wasn’t any stretch of the Trident, no... Jon was in Ruby Ford.

The last place where Rhaegar Targaryen had been alive. The red jewel that shone between his fingers one day belonged to the armour of the last dragon, at least, before it was broken by the violence of a last fatal blow. On his lips, the name of a woman...

Jon didn’t know how, but there, warmed by the fire of his dragon, under the banks of his father’s grave, he knew... Rhaegar had called for Lyanna.

At the end of the fourth and last day of the trip, the sky was no longer so strange to Jon.

Rhaegal had not questioned any of his commands. The change in the dragon’s behavior had been subtle, and yet enough for Stark to begin to doubt his passage through Ruby Ford. A dream, he thought to himself, maybe he had slept on Rhaegal, maybe... His hands turned to the pocket of his overcoat, only to find the small scarlet gem.

With nothing else to question, the northerner allowed himself to feel gratitude for surviving that moment. The journey had not been easy, but among the possibilities, flying proved to be the most liberating of them. Jon didn’t blame his Queen for preferring Drogon to any ship or carriage. There was more than speed and security in the act... At each of Rhaegal's responses, a sweeping sense of power inflated his spirit. Jon felt more and more connected to him, more dragon than sheep .

The sun was high when they finally arrived, the sight of Winterfell made Jon fill with emotion, a mixed and distant feeling of sadness and longing. His home for so many years… It was strange to think about how King's Landing had little by little, despite all the circumstances, conquered this place in his heart. His two sons had been born in the south, his daughter...

It was not the place he choose to raise his family if he could, it was what he had . And Winterfell, like its high walls and towers, courtyards and woods, had become memory, longing.

Jon chose to land near the Hunter’s Gate, the furthest access to the Winter Village, was located near the kitchens and kennels, and gave directly to a sparse field, surrounded by the wolfswood . Rhaegal would certainly settle down quickly , Jon hoped it would not devour anyone in the meantime, not while he trying to negotiate for Maekar’s future.

By placing his feet on the ground Jon could almost immediately smell the heathers that covered part of the grass. The lilac of the thists very similar to the violet of his wife’s eyes, as well as the floral perfume that took over her apartments whenever she bathed. Before Jon could bend down to harvest them a commotion over the battlements caught his attention. The archers pointed at him, while three riders trotted towards him. Rhaegal didn't take long to react, roaring furiously as the fire radiated from the bottom of its throat. A command... It was the only thing that separated those men from crumbling under the wind.

“Prince Consort.” Said the tallest man among the knights, his hair was long and combined small gray strands with deep dark brown. His equally long beard helped keep his countenance rigid. “We didn’t expect to receive you so...”

“Tell your men to lower their bows.” Jon interrupted him seriously, his tone profoundly haughty. He was not only Sansa’s brother, but the second voice of the Realm. The man did not seem pleased with his words, but even so, he raised his hand in the air, signaling to the archers of the battlements. “Sōvegon Rhaegal!” The Stark ordered while striving himself to stand still. With one only impulse Rhaegal raised to the heavens. The men next to him trembled on their mounts, Jon swore to hear a distant scream echoing from the walls. “Thank you for that, Sor...”

“Lord Harrion Karstark.” The man said dismounting from his horse abruptly. He was older than Jon thought, he seemed to be about thirty years old, maybe older. Without delay he extended his arm towards Stark who quickly accepted him.

“I suppose we are good brothers.” Jon said separating from him, his eyes inspecting the other northerner carefully. He hoped with all his heart that his sister had not joined him out of ambition. Legacy, influence…Everything could be forgiven, but usurpation, theft? No... That would lead them to the fire. Jon knew his wife well enough to know.

“A horse to his highness.” The Karstark said in the direction of the boy to his right who quickly gave his mount to Jon. “I’m sorry for the lack of a proper reception, we expected to receive you in a fortnight, maybe more...”

“I don’t appreciate such demonstrations.” Jon said quickly riding the white castrated horse, finding no help but to notice the good appearance of the animal. “We’re family, the only thing I would expect from my sister is a place at her table... I never thought I needed to ask for a more conscious posture on the part of her men. My men.”

“Your Highness?” Harrion asked him trying in vain to contain his annoyance.

“Rhaegal and I are no threat.” Jon said seriously, clearing his throat. “The North is known for its unquestionable loyalty. This guards should have faith in our Queen. She would never send us to burn her most faithful subjects, family members.

“With all due respect, my prince…”

“Jon, good brother, you may call me Jon.” The Stark said interrupting him abruptly.

“If I may speak frankly, Jon.” Harrion started with rigidity, his firm posture as they trotted slowly towards the castle. “You talk about family and loyalty, but your actions speak for themselves… Bring it here? Sansa and I will not be intimidated.”

“Do you want to talk about actions?” Jon asked, doing his best not to show his annoyance in the face of such an affront. After what they did, they should beg me to intercede in their names, he thought with you in the midst of the internal revolt. His tone remained constant and serious, his face calm as he had trained in his many days in King’s Landing. “My sister had a duty to fulfill to the Realm, an agreement with House Buckler that was ruined in favour of your union to her. Lives were lost on a whim, hundreds of men.” Jon completed letting anger overwhelm him at the end of his speech. My daughter.

“If you came here to take her, duty implies that I use force.” He warned the Stark staring at him deeply, his hand rested subtly on the wrist of the sword. Jon needed to recognize the honour in Harrion’s words. For all intents and purposes Sansa was his wife, what was done, was done.

“No. I didn’t come for this.” Jon conceded. “I seek reconciliation.” He finally said disassembling his horse. The Karstark did the same, just to be face to face with his good brother, his eyes shone in restrained fury, and at the same time visible. “Return the horse to the boy, he would not like to stay out of Winterfell, not with Rhaegal flying around.” Jon said handing him the reins of the animal, his tone did not carry arrogance, as the prince only communicated the obvious. “And do not worry! I know Winterfell like the palm of my hand.” Jon said finally, his grayish eyes ran through that stretch of the castle with a certain nostalgia. How many times have he and his brothers accompanied their father during his many hunts? The noise of the kennels transported him even if momentarily to those days. When Jon was just a bastard, when he still had a living father and all of his siblings still were still over the same roof.

It didn’t take long for Jon to find him.

His unique silhouette stood out in the middle of the Godswood . Covered in wool and fur, Bran remained seated in his robust wheelchair. His blue eyes stared deeply at the long and melancholic face carved over the change of the huge weirwood . His red hair was longer, covering his shoulder s

“Jon.” Bran said still with his back to his brother, as if he had felt his approach. “I knew you would come…” His hoarse and gloomy voice reached Jon’s ears like a whisper.

“Me too.” Jon sighed receiving his younger brother in a tender and brief hug, which was quickly reciprocated. Under the thick clothes the prince consort managed to feel him, thin, thin as Jon had never seen before. “Aren’t you warm enough?” He asked in his kindest tone, the worry was already bubbling on his chest, the realization that four long years had passed.

“I’m fine.” Bran dismissed quickly, involving himself again between his furs. “Why did you take so long?” He questioned him before the White Wolf had time to oppose.

“Daenerys, and the little ones…” Jon answered honestly. “Did something happen?” He asked trying in vain to contain the concern of his voice. Bran was so different... His appearance, his behavior. It was like he returned to his older self, but at same time… He didn’t.

“I’m so, so sorry for your daughter.” Bran said suddenly, his voice choked while a lonely tear crossed the extension of his face. Three months and the crows had not even flown yet, so Tyrion had instructed, the name of the princess as well as her birth had not been widely publicized. Even so, Stark felt compelled to know.

“How?” Jon asked before finally realize it. The three-eyed raven.

“Everything that happened, and everything that is happening…” Bran said as if he had heard his brother’s thoughts. “It used to be like this before the Night King... But now… I only have access to what it allows me to see. Pieces, fragments... Past, present, and future. I wish I could understand...

“Bran.” Jon said taking his shoulders in an attempt to comfort him. He seemed confused, disturbed even… Maybe he had seen too much. “Is there anything you want to tell me? I’m not just talking about the visions…” The duty forced Jon to ask, he needed to know. “Have Sansa and Harrion treated you well?

“A silver sun and a three-headed red dragon, both on a black field.” Bran dismissed, his tone deeply serious. “The fruit of this union will return the North to the Starks.”

“A marriage between Karstark and Targaryen?” Jon pondered surrendering, even momentarily, to his brother.

“This is the only way, peace between the kingdoms must be ensured by blood.” Bran said in an almost prophetic tone. “I’ve tried to convince Sansa, she doesn’t listen... If the offer comes from you...”

“Sansa has no daughters to…”

“Yet.” Bran interrupted seriously. “Sansa has no daughters yet.”

“How can you be so sure of that?” Jon questioned abruptly, his mind still found it difficult to adjust everything Bran had told him. “If what you saw was just a piece...”

“What can be better than peace?” The sincerity with which Bran inquired left him speechless. All Jon hoped for was that his children could enjoy this peace when they grew up. In the end, nothing could compete against it.

The conversation with Bran, no matter how disturbing it was, provided Jon with at least one confirmation of what he was already thinking of doing. He knew that a marriage, despite meaning a lot, was not enough to mend part of what had been damaged. But among the options it seemed a good way to make amends, to ensure peace… At last.

“Sansa…” Jon said finally finding her under the small hall. Despite carrying the surname Karstark, it was the colors of her father’s house that she sported in her delicate dress. But what really caught the attention of the prince consort was the small, but noticeable, swelling on the base of his sister’s womb. Bran’s words were starting to make sense.

“Winterfell is yours, Your Highness.” Sansa said coldly before bowing slowly. Her husband mirrored the movement in the best way he could, his manners seemed to be as rude as his oratory.

“You don’t have to bow, not in that state.” Jon said taking a step towards you. She looked as rigid as Harrion, her impenetrable, impassive countenance. “I missed…”

“My deepest apologies for your reception earlier today.” She cut him off simply going to the banquet placed before them, slightly exaggerated for the four places available. “I asked the maid to prepare a dinner worthy of your highness...”

“Sansa, look at me.” Jon ordered in the most moderate tone he could get, his grayish eyes found Sansa’s icy blue. “You know why I’m here. You know I have many reasons to be resentful, and even so, I came...”

“In the name of your Queen.” Sansa said suddenly, her voice full of contempt.

“Our Queen.” Jon corrected without delay, the redhead snorted in response. “The north would do well to remember. After everything she sacrificed for us...

“Pray tell, what she lost.” Sansa snorted, for the first time walking firmly to meet him, his eyes stared at him furiously. “The North lost more than she could in a lifetime and we are still trying to get to out feet! You would know if you were at least trying honor the name that you carry.”

“I didn’t turn my back on a commitment that would save thousands of lives.” Jon said seriously. “You have no idea what it cost us, what it could have cost.”

“You came to punish me.” Sansa finally said. “Don’t let our supper stop you from doing what you came to do.” In calculated, but no less gracious movements, Stark took her place at the table. Jon sighed before doing the same, standing in front of his sister.

“Maekar will be Lord Protector of the North and Lord of Winterfell.” Jon said simply. “I came to remind you. There can be no doubt about that.”

“The little bastard?” Sansa asked him in confusion. Her tone, even if feigned, was enough to ignite Jon in his deepest and scarlet fury. He hated that word, and all the stigma that came with it. But worst of all, it was to hear her associated with her own son’s name.

“What? What did you just said?” Jon questioned getting up abruptly, his hand instinctively close to Longclaw. Harrion Karstark did the same, his posture, however, more protective.

“Maekar.” Sansa said in a restrained tone. “The second child that was born to the Dragon Queen, nine months after the visit of her former paramour... What was his name? The old bard of the Winter Town used to say the name in such a funny way...

“Daario Naharis.” Harrion granted still rigid in his position.

“That’s right!”

“Maekar is my son.” Jon roared dangerously serious. He remembered the possessive anger that had dominated him the moment he saw the tyroshi disembark on the dark sands of the Black Water. Over time, Jon found himself harboring a certain gratitude for that man…For it was on the day of his arrival that he and Dany reconciled. And throughout his stay until his final departure, there was not a day when Jon did not possessively sleep next to his wife. This rumor was not only evil, but unfounded. “To assume anything else is betrayal. To our Queen, to me as your brother.”

“You’re right! I shouldn’t give listen to such rumors.” Sansa agreed promptly. No spark of regret or recognition in your voice. Jon knew her too well to know that there was no honesty in her words, only dissimulation. “If the little prince will rule over the North...”

“He will.” Jon said cutting her impetuously. “I thought a lot about how I would negotiate... But with every sentence that comes out of your mouth I feel like I can’t trust you.”

“Jon…”

“You are pregnant and will be a few times more, at least that’s what Bran assured me.” The Prince Consort said simply. Even sitting, Sansa’s tension became noticeable, as well as that of her husband. “Your first daughter will have the honour of becoming Lady of Winterfell, and Maekar’s lady wife.”

“It is not auspicious to talk about the marriage of children that I do not yet have.” Sansa said quickly, her words mirrored those said by Daenerys years before.

“You are not in a position to deny me, not after what you just said, after everything you did…” Jon said brutally serious. “I believe you are having difficulty understanding me sister, so I will be as clear as possible: I wish peace between our houses, that our children can unite and end this stupid rivalry once and for all.”

“Do you expect the North to accept a Prince Targaryen as its Protector Lord?” Sansa simply questioned, finally sounding like herself once again.

“They will accept if the current ruler does so.” Jon replied analyzing her deeply. “Maekar will adopt the surname Stark when he reaches proper age, as you suggested before he was born…”

“House Stark would be restored…”

“Bran assured that this marriage would bring peace between the North and the South.” Jon finally said finding hope in the look that Sansa had genuinely offered him: Reconciliation.

“I will need guarantees, a formal agreement.” Sansasaid finally.

______________

Lady Talla’s voice resonated sweet over the stony walls of the royal nursery.

Next to her, young Darlene Stokeworth silently embroidered flowers in shades of yellow and lilac, her late mother’s favorites. The song in that sad moment was equally gloomy, and until then unknown to Daenerys’ ears. Among sweet melodies it told the story of a young northern woman, whose maidenhead had been stolen by her own uncle, and her life, cruelly reaped by her own brothers. Oh Danny Flint you will never escape the fate that the Gods wrote. Daenerys wondered how Talla could not only believe, but educate her daughter in these Gods...

The Gods who took Talla and Lollys to the birthing bed on the same day, and yet judged it fair to take the life of one, and let the other live to see her first male child. There was nothing fair in Darlene and Devon’s tears, let alone the pain that poor Tyrion Tanner will carry for the rest of his life, too far to bury his own mother. Daenerys fought against the tears that insisted on coming down to her, in her arms little Devon sobbing panting.

Just imagining that the Targaryen could expose her children to such suffering… Occasionally the choice and its consequences came back to haunt her: the sacrifice of a daughter, the abandonment of her brothers in favour of a father. Daenerys loved Jon with all her heart, that would never change. H er days and nights were due to h im , every laugh, every fight, every touch. Jon was hers in all his failures and triumphs. But if there was another Bronzegate , Dany would choose his children.

Jaehaerys and Maekar were her legacy, the emerging future that grew day by day, with health and robustness. They needed more than guardians, they needed a mother. And that Daenerys would never risk. Her boys would have everything she never had, the safety of a home, and the non-negotiable love of their Queen. Both would guard the north and the south, as it should be, ice and fire together.

“Good job Darlene.” Talla said in the direction of the girl, who nodded before cling into tears. The Lannister without hesitation welcomed Darlene in a tender hug. Her body was still fragile by childbirth, and yet, she had been willing to help the little orphans. Meanwhile, her newborn son rested in the Tower of the Hand, assisted by his grandmother Lady Melessa Tarly. Daenerys knew she shouldn’t, but she envied her in a way, Tyrion’s wife seemed to have a maternal talent, almost natural. Something that had arrived a little later for the Mother of Dragons. “Oh my dear, your mother would be so proud of you…” She said without turning her eyes away from the thin shroud that both had embroidered together.

“Thank you for helping me Lady Talla.” Darlene hiccoughs before diving once again into her compulsive crying.. Lollys was known for many things, for the circumstances of Tanner’s birth, for her marriage to Ser Bronn, for her fragile and volatile behavior. But no one, not even a soul, dared to mention the love and devotion with which she raised her children.

“Sh-sh…” The Lannister whispered moving her body slightly back and forth as if she were nesting the girl. Her hair was black and wavy like her mother’s, her height was advanced for a girl just over seven name days... It was difficult to say, but in a few years, she would certainly pass Lollys.

“My Queen.” Ser Edmund Blackwood said appearing abruptly in front of the door, his tone low as the situation required. Daenerys still found it difficult to recognize, but she had learned to like the boy, the loyalty and admiration of his eyes reminded her of Missandei. “The Hand requires your presence.” Daenerys nodded promptly, little Devon had slept on her lap, his face was still red and wet by the tears he had shed. The Dragon Queen found no problem passing him gently into Nyna’s warm embrace.

“What happened?” Daenerys questioned when she joined the White Cloak, leaving the mourning room behind. “Are Jon and the children alright?”

“The Grand Maester did not receive any more ravens from the North.” The young man said safely, he had probably been informed. “The princes are fine, under the vigil of Ser Jhogo, your grace.”

“Very well. An urgency regarding the Realm then?” The Dragon Queen asked while walking hurriedly. “Something relevant enough for the Hand to consider calling me before gathering the Small Council.”

“Lord Tyrion asked you not to be alarmed.” Ser Edmund said contrary exalted. It was strange to think about how the lad, just five years younger than Dany looked more like a boy than anything else. “Drogon set fire to one of the Unsullied, the man did not die, but the dragon remains in the Pit threatening anyone who comes close…” Daenerys swallowed it dry, trying in vain not to think about the poor little ghiscari girl who had been burned by Drogon... She didn’t even remember her name.

What do dragons eat anyway? Whatever they want.

Dany had already imprisoned them for this, for simply following their nature. Get whatever they want, whenever they want. She hoped it would be something isolated, an accident, a misunderstanding... Daenerys knew she would not have the strength to imprison them once again, let alone peace to live their days, knowing that Drogon and Rhaegal fed themselves at the expense of the people of the city. The people she had chosen years ago to protect.

“After Lady Lollys’ burial, ask the Grand Mesitre to see the men.” Daenerys said finally thinking about something she could effectively do. The Blackwood nodded with a small smile as if trying to comfort her. In the right steps he had gently led her to the courtyard, where Tyrion was already waiting for her, his clothes were of a darker shade of crimson.

“My Queen.” The half man said bowing quickly. Without hesitation Daenerys followed him to the sumptuous carriage that was already waiting for them. The Targaryen did not appreciate such means of transport, if only she could ride around the city... No, it was very risky. It is when we forget that the snake finds it way to emerge from the shadows, she thought to herself. Cersei had been a lioness before crawling like a worm wherever she went. “I suppose Ser Edmund anticipated part of the problem.”

“Drogon… It has done this before, fed on a child in Meereen.” Daenerys said darkly trying in vain to contain the anguish that threatened to take her in its entirety.

“It usually eats the sums that are put in the Pit.” Tyrion said suddenly. “Maybe the guardians are putting less, since Rhaegal is far away...”

“Maybe.” Daenerys nodded quickly. Taking for herself any excuse that spared her son from guilt or judgment. “Drogon couldn’t stand being hungry for a long time.”

“No one will get hurt, unless it gets too close.” Tyrion said seriously, thus dissolving part of the restlessness that disrupted her thoughts. The trip continued lulled by the rampant rhythm of the carriage that seemed to withstand the rugged streets of King’s Landing well.

The Dragonpit was a decadent structure, its doors sealed for more than a century had been opened for the ceasefire. And, judging by what Tyrion had contacted her, it were often opened for food to be put before her winged children.

Daenerys had no love for that place. The walls remained scorched by the fire of her house, the same fire that had killed the last of dragons. The confinement had deprived them of all their potential, and the war exterminated once and for all their chances of continuity. And yet, it was ironic to think that Drogon and Rhaegal had become so fiercely attached to that place... The construction that symbolized, at the same time, the rise and fall of House Targaryen.

Upon entering through the heavy iron doors, Dany saw it almost immediately.

Its hot body lurked at the entrance to the caves as if it kept something. The same protective posture it had when it came to its mother. Daenerys did not know much about their origin, but judging by the legend that M aester Valarr had shared years before, h er dragons came from a litter of Dreamfyre, stolen in the times of Rhaena Targaryen. Maybe its was guarding it , the dragon that gave its life, and that found its end there. Maybe Drogon had finally realized its existence...

“Khaleesi.” Grey Worm said appearing in the middle of the columns, his skin was covered with ashes, just like his white mantle. “Drogon doesn’t seem to be hurt…”

“No.” Daenerys agreed quickly, she would know if it was. In a quick and decisive movement she gave the first passed in the direction of the dragon, and almost instinctively their eyes met. The red staring carefully at every step that Daenerys insisted on taking. As the distance got shorter, the stronger the heat that enveloped it on all sides. The increasing tension until Drogon finally moved, its paws took momentum before it could flap its long wings away from there.

Part of the heat dissipated in the air, but not all. At the beginning of the cave there were still small sparks attached to the ground, and around them, two artifacts that Daenerys did not take long to recognize. “It can’t be…” The thought reached her lips as her eyes had difficulty believing what they saw.

“Eggs?” Tyrion asked perplexed, his little hands approached as quickly as they sought to move away, both had burning touch. The first was black as coal, if it weren’t for the weight and its scales, it could go unnoticed. The other was coated with a striking terracotta tone, its rough surface like Drogon’s scales. “They are hot... Almost like fire.”

“A sign.” Daenerys said finally. The realization filled her with pride and satisfaction, for the first time that day, she felt her heart light. “It’s two eggs, for two princes...”

“Jaehaerys and Maekar will be dragonriders, just like their parents.” Tyrion said as if he were talking to himself, his hands trying in vain to feel the eggs, still amazed by the heat they both emanated. The fascination alive like a flame in your eyes. “Valarr needs to see it.”

“We need to protect them.” Grey Worm said finally.

“You’re right.” Tyrion agreed promptly. “We don’t need chains, but it will certainly need a place.”

“I’ll take them to Keep.” Daenerys announced holding them carefully. The familiar warmth on the touch of her skin. “Drogon trusted me.”

“They won’t be eggs for long.” Tyrion said in the direction of his Queen. “You don’t have to decide now, I just want you to think of the Pit as the place that Drogon chose to lay its eggs. It felt safe here.” Daenerys finally nodded, her violet eyes going through those ruins with a gentler look than before.

“Rebuild the dome. No chains.”

Chapter Text

309 a.C.

The days and nights seemed short when there was so much to study.

Septon Barth’s words found meaning in reality, with each page Valarr regretted not having properly pored over these readings during his many years in the Citadel. He was busy studying the birthing bed, his specialty, along with sutures and alchemy. Perhaps he shouldn’t be that hard to himself, after all, his heavy chains had been put to good use during the five years he was in Daenerys Targaryen’s service.

If Valarr was lucky, he would have some time before the eggs finally hatched. Drogon and Rhaegal were impressive in their own right, ferocious creatures that teetered between enchantment and terror. Their eggs, hot as coals, were just a reminder that the age of dragons was just beginning. And the Gods recognized Jaehaerys and Maekar as successors to that legacy. According to Barth, clutches of two eggs used to be quite rare… Rare enough to mean something , Valarr thought.

The opening of the doors seemed to be enough for his attentive gaze to leave the eggs. Ser Bronn carried a crying baby in his arms, whose fine blond hair and crimson cloak were enough to identify: Martyn Lannister. Behind the mercenary, Lady Talla walked hurriedly, her worried expression at odds with the determination on her husband’s face. Valarr was already familiar with the dynamic, more than he wanted to be .

“Hand the boy over and leave us.” Tyrion finally said to the relief of his poor wife, who didn’t even hesitate as she moved towards the little Lannister, taking him into her arms, with care and urgency. Ser Bronn handed it over quickly before beating a hasty, sure-footed retreat. The mercenary’s visits were almost always short and punctual. He was a simple man, just nodding to anything Valarr told him, when he treated Darlene for her cold, when he patched up a small cut on Devon’s chin, when he informed the men of Lollys’ death. Bronn’s reputation, despite being infamous, guaranteed him a position in the Court, and although he did not agree, Valarr was forced to recognize it.

“How could you?” Talla asked on the verge of tears, clinging to the baby with affection, trying in vain to silence his crying. The little one had been born healthy, his birth much faster and messier compared to that of his older sister. “I am his mother.”

“And I'm the father, he’ll see the Maester when I say so.” Tyrion said simply, his tone impassive. “He won’t stop crying, I need to know if there’s something wrong…” Valarr quickly nodded, approaching Talla carefully.

“There’s nothing wrong.” The young lady said, skillfully moving the cloak aside so that the Maester could inspect it. “He’s just a fussy baby, just like my brother Dickon…” Despite the crying, the boy seemed fine. Even a fortnight after his birth Martyn had already gained weight. He could face some discomfort after feeding, as is very common for some babies. But Valarr would not give Tyrion another reason to torment his wife, he knew all too well what Talla was forced to endure, with the Lannister’s almost tireless obsession with heirs. A small bleed during her last pregnancy was enough to keep Talla bedridden for months.

“The little lord seems well enough. If I could recommend something, it would be the same as what we have already given to Johanna, warm compresses for his belly when he is stiff, no teas for now.” Valarr said slowly, once again covering the little Lannister whose mother promptly nodded, attentive to the hidden meaning the Maester’s words.

“Nothing that our servants haven’t already done.” Talla nodded before she finally said goodbye. Her pleasant tone even lulled by Martyn’s incessant crying. “Thank you, Grand Maester.” With careful steps she left, ignoring Tyrion and any authority he thought he possessed. Valarr thought about saying something, he didn’t feel confident in saying that they were good friends, years of coexistence couldn’t be translated into that. But there were rare times when both were on opposite sides. Reasonableness was what permeated their relationship, and Valarr was not willing to risk it. “Martyn seemed as healthy to me as little Johanna.” He chose to say it finally, which seemed to please Tyrion, even if momentarily.

“I know that’s not what you meant to say.” The Lannister conceded. His mismatched eyes suddenly swept across the study, as if searching for something. “I don't see wine…” If the Hand drank less, the crying of his only heir wouldn’t bother him so much, thought Valarr, turning to the small shelf next to the window, where a dusty bottle of Dornish Red rested forgotten. Before he could touch it, his attention was stolen by the greenish silhoutte that cut through the twilight. The sound of its flapping wings was nothing compared to the roar that reverberated throughout the city.

Rhaegal was back. Jon Stark was back.

The prince consort had been received with joy.

Although brief, his absence had been widely felt, by the Queen, the court, and the council. Valarr would not deny it, he had a certain admiration for the White Wolf. Jon was a firm and constant presence, his moral code sharp and, like his loyalty to his Queen, non-negotiable . He loved her, that was clear. Most men would hope that their wife would meet a quick end on the birthing bed, or perhaps a fall from a horse, a sudden illness. Anything to usurp a woman’s birthright. Daenerys Targaryen had chosen well, the Stark certainly possessed his father’s sense of honor and duty.

Their reunion was marked by a sweet, mutual tenderness that Valarr had only seen between young lovers. The Stark’s gray eyes carefully analyzed every feature of his Queen, while her hands roamed his shoulders, his chest, his back. As if they weren’t safe during the time they were away. A few words were exchanged, until finally the council was convened. Love would give way to politics . When the spheres were placed on the table, Jon’s voice caught the council’s attention.

“Lady Sansa and I came to an agreement.” He said in a slightly encouraging tone, in his hands a long parchment that the Stark didn’t take long to unroll. Tyrion without hesitation took it for himself, his mismatched eyes traced the paper with attention and interest. “As soon as Maekar reaches the age of majority, he will take the Stark name for himself. One of the daughters my sister will have will join him in a ceremony that combines the Old Gods and the New.” Jon announced confidently, his eyes attentive to his Queen’s reaction, whose mere mention of Lady Karstark was enough to make her bitter. Whispers quickly filled the hall only to be silenced by the prince consort’s harsh and haughty tone of voice. “The dowry will be paid in small parts until the marriage, which will only be consummated when the bride reaches the age of majority.”

“Fifty thousand gold dragons.” Tyrion said suddenly, handing the document to Lord Horton Redfort, who promptly accepted it, his eyes narrowed like raisins. “My sweet Johanna is worth twice that.”

“It’s a fair dowry, for a bride who yet doesn’t exist.” Valarr conceded, busy observing the sharp exchange of looks between Jon and Daenerys. The Targaryen’s violet eyes reflected inquiry, while her husband’s held a deep, irremediable certainty.

“If it were for gold, we all know who the Prince Consort should turn to…” Denys Mallister said without even looking away from the Queen’s Hand. Tyrion’s desire to secure a position for his golden daughter within the Royal Family was well known.

“Bran confided in me that a marriage between the Karstark and Targaryen houses would end the disputes over the North.” Jon said before Tyrion had the chance to respond to the provocation, his gray eyes, still fixed on his Queen, as if only she were there. “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

“What if Lady Sansa has no daughter?” Questioned the Master of Laws, still attentive to the lines of the marriage contract, as if that mere possibility had not been foreseen.

“Bran assured me…”

“Forgive me my prince, but how could Brandon Stark predict Lady Sansa’s offspring?” Horton asked, finally handing the document to the Grand Maester.

“He…My brother…” Jon swallowed, the words rambling over his lips with uncertainty. “I know you may not believe it… But Bran has, I mean… He carries with him a power, a very ancient power, he can see what happened and what could happen. His visions helped in the fight against the Others, and will help secure peace.” Jon finally stated, his voice, despite being insecure, exuded honesty. What followed was the most complete and inviolable silence. Valarr didn’t know exactly how to feel about this, he had been educated from a very early age about the faith of the Seven, in the Citadel he had discovered natural knowledge and part of what is considered magic. Much had been documented, and among the overwhelming majority, the culture of the Andal people stood out... It was all that the Citadel had. The ancient knowledge, of the Children of the Forest, of the First Men, had long been discarded. If there really was a power like that, north of Moat Cailin, Valarr couldn’t say... Maybe it was a distant story, like Others once were.

“Your Highness, I hope you understand that it is not my intention to question the role that Brandon Stark played in the Great War... But it wouldn’t be very strange, if he, Lady Sansa’s brother, was using his... Abilities to benefit her in some way.” Lord Horton said carefully, but at the same time, firm. His words were heavy, fueling the legitimate anger that clouded the Dragon Queen’s face.

“My brother saw peace, between the Targaryens and the Starks.” Jon replied through his teeth, his tone haughty and irreproachable. “I’m talking about the same man who served as bait for the Night King, without him, none of us would be here. So yes, I vouch for him, and, for my sister.”

“If Bran saw peace, and if Sansa really intents to fullfil this promise, I see no reason to oppose it.” Daenerys said finally, her voice safe and rational, just like her words.

“I agree, your grace.” Tyrion said seriously. “But I believe that the additional conditions to the contract are excessive, as they directly influence this Council.”

“What else did she ask for?” Daenerys asked, shifting in her seat, clearly uncomfortable.

“Voice in the appointment of the new Master of Ships and in the appointment to the Queen’s Guard.” Lord Horton said before Valarr’s reading could even reach this part, Tyrion and Jon’s silence were confirmation enough.

“And who did Lady Karstark indicate?” The Targaryen asked in a tone that sounded dangerous, as if Daenerys expected the worst, as if she was prepared to act if that were the case… After what her good sister had done, Valarr had no means of recriminating his Queen. Her trust in the Starks and what their house symbolized, at this point, resided only with the Prince Consort.

“To Master of Ships Ser Marlon Manderly, and to Queensguard, Ser Podrick Payne.” Valarr said, reading the document quickly.

“I have known Podrick since he was a boy, his loyalty is exquisite, I believe he deserves this position.” Tyrion said, alternating his gaze between the Dragon Queen and her Lord Commander.

“As for this Ser Marlon Manderly?” Daenerys questioned. “He didn’t even come close to the list that this council considered for such a position.

“Ser Marlon is Commander of the White Harbor garrison, has years of experience with naval defense and is extremely honest.” Jon replied, coming to the defense of his compatriot.

“If I may say so, your grace, northern allies would be very well appreciated at court…” Valarr said confidently, if Lady Sansa was planning something, Dennys Mallister’s little deaf birds were more effective in the South than in the North. And if that were the case, Ser Marlon would fall easily.

“Very good.” The Dragon Queen agreed reluctantly. “In addition to the dowry, were any of our conditions met?”

“All male children that Sansa has must be tutored in Karhold from the age of eight.” The Stark said decisively, the council whispered in approval. “Just like Maekar should be in Winterfell.”

“What?” Daenerys questioned, shaking her head negatively, eyes shining furiously in the direction of her husband. “Please tell me you didn’t do this…”

“Prince Maekar must be handed over for guardianship after his eighth name day, it is in agreement, your grace.” Valarr said carefully, he had seen many mothers separated from their children in the Citadel. Poor lovers, prostitutes, girls young enough to doubt they were mothers… There would almost always be a better place for bastards, with the family of the Maesters who conceived them. Some of the those women cried profusely, clinging to their little ones as tightly as they could mark their love with their hands, as if that moment would last longer if they did so. Others simply handed them over after a brief goodbye, sometimes without even sparing a final goodbye. In rare moments it was possible to see the same look that clouded Daenerys’ violet, an irremediable denial.

“EIGHT YEARS?” Daenerys shouted, getting up furiously, her reaction was enough to make the Master of Whispers shrink protectively in his seat. Lord Tyrion made an opposite maneuver, projecting his body forward, his lips searching for the right way to intervene. “How could you negotiate with my son’s life?”

“He is my son too.” Jon replied, immediately standing up, his posture imposing enough to make Gray Worm stand up abruptly and immediately. To the left of his Queen, the Lord Commander stood strategically between her and her husband.

“This is a common practice, your grace.” Lord Horton said suddenly. “And in this case, it was not only expected, but necessary.”

“Necessary?” The Targaryen asked in the midst of her fury. “He would be a hostage in Sansa’s hands, if she doesn’t decide to kill him first, my boy!”

“This is a very serious accusation.” Jon intervened, opposing energetically.

“Something that should not be disregarded, my prince! Sansa Stark was untrustworthy, what guarantees Sansa Karstark is different?” Denys Mallister said further inflaming the discussion. The Dragon Queen kept her gaze locked on her husband as she tried in vain to control the labored rhythm of her breathing. Valarr anticipated, standing up discreetly. She didn’t look well, paler, her eyelids seemed to be struggling to stay open.

“Lady Karstark is not stupid, she knows that if something happens to the Prince, fire will fall from the sky.” Tyrion said promptly dismissing the Mallister. The desire for peace was already distant, it was the threat of an armed conflict that, once again, was on the table. It was at that moment that the Dragon Queen faltered, falling towards the ground.

In the distance, Valarr could hear them, their screams echoing furiously through the thick oak door. The Queen’s sword and her prince consort. One devotedly and unconditionally fought to protect her from the man who he said had hurt her, while the other demanded his right as a husband to be by her side and make decisions on her behalf. Who was right? Valarr couldn’t know.

Daenerys Targaryen was all that mattered, her steady, deep breathing, her eyes closed heavily, her face pale and asleep. By then the reason for her fainting was clear enough. The suspicions of Jana, one of the Queen’s many servants, were supported by Maester Valarr’s notes. Six moons since Daenerys had lost her daughter, six moons without her bleeding. Puffy dresses over her shape, high sensitivity, and an abrupt change in her habits. And Valarr took so long to realize… Maybe he’s getting too old.

The Maester took a deep breath, saving one last look in the direction of his young Queen, she was old enough to be his daughter…So young, and how much pain hadn’t she already endured in her brief life? Women are fragile like flowers, made to perish at the slightest winter wind. This was one of the many sayings of his time in Oldtown, one that Valarr even before meeting Daenerys vehemently opposed. Before his legs could carry him to the door the Maester could hear his Queen take a deeper breath, the violet of her eyes finally returning to color her delicate face.

“My queen.” Valarr sighed, approaching Daenerys carefully, judging by the confused expression on her face she would still need some time to return from wherever she was.

“Maester.” Her voice reached him weak and anxious, her eyes then roamed the rooms, finally realizing where she was. “The meeting…” Daenerys said, sitting down quickly, there was urgency on her face.

“All this can wait.” Valarr said in his most appeasing tone. “You must eat, my Queen.” He continued, while signaling Maester Wyman to place the thick soup that had been prepared in front of Daenerys. She looked at him in response, her face pale, lost. “If you intend to reign to protect those you love, you must eat. This I ask as your humble servant.” To her surprise, the Dragon Queen nodded, swallowing hard before facing the thick soup.

“Jon?”

“He is outside and knows that your grace is fine.” The Maester granted careful, while she explored part of that meal, her slender fingers holding the spoon with determination. “Waiting for your permission to enter, when you are ready.”

“I never…” She tried to speak, her choked voice betraying her nervousness. “Why?” She simply asked him, her eyes moist, to the point of overflowing at any moment. Valarr knew almost immediately what she was talking about.

“Jana confided to me that your grace did not eat this morning, and that you have frequently skipped some of your meals.” The Maester said in a restrained and concerned manner. “And today’s meeting... I suppose it hurt you deeply, more than it would under other circumstances... I have reason to believe your grace is waiting for another child.”

“No.” Daenerys said simply, her soup was quickly forgotten. Her head shook in the negative as tears ran down her face without relief. “I don’t want to, please, Maester…”

“I know it’s a lot, especially after a loss…”

“You don’t understand.” She intervened, the Targaryen urgently pulling him by the arm. The gesture alone was enough to disconcert him. “I can’t go to the birth bed. Jaehaerys and Maekar need me, I can’t risk it…” Her voice broke abruptly, Valarr managed to feel something inside him break painfully. He had seen her run through the deadliest plague the world had ever seen to save the man she loved. Daenerys was willing to die for Jon, and there before his eyes, in the same way, she despaired of living, not for herself, but for her children. “I want you to prepare me Moon Tea.”

“I cannot, at this point I suppose it would put your grace’s life at risk.” Valarr said promptly. If she wasn’t in danger he would never consider denying her, he would take the secret to her grave if she asked for it.

“A greater risk than the birthing bed?” The Targaryen questioned him with a weak smile.

“I have seen many young women bleed to death due to the late use of the potion, and I will not lead you to that same end.” The Maester said firmly. “After this child, I will be grateful to provide you with Moon Tea every morning you wish.”

“How can you be so sure it’s too late?” She asked in his haughty tone, the Dragon Queen returning to her senses. “You two!” Daenerys said in the direction of the assistant maesters, Wyman and Kywell trembled on their legs. “I wish to hear you! You must be as knowledgeable as the Grand Mesitre. How do you know? How do you know I can’t drink anymore?

“Your belly, your grace, is swollen enough for the child to already have three complete cycles.” Kywell said that despite being afraid, he remained faithful to what had previously been established. “The symptoms also correspond to the estimated time.”

“The Grand Maester speaks the truth, my Queen, it would be a risk.” Wyman agreed, bowing his head as a sign of respect.

“What if I ordered you to do so?” Daenerys questioned seriously, her violet eyes stared at the men in her rooms with determination.

“Kywell and Wyman are free to do whatever they wish.” Valarr said simply, his voice firm and sure of every word that crossed his lips. “I swore an oath to serve you, and if you so order me, I will be going against the most basic principle of that vow, the preservation of the life of my Queen. If you so wish, I will withdraw from my position and accept the fate that my brothers of the Citadel assign me.”

“What if I burned you before I had the chance to leave to Oldtown? I could do that…” The Targaryen said without even wavering, her eyes still fixed on him in defiance. And then Valarr understood, he took a deep breath before finally answering her.

“My Queen would still be alive and I would die serving her as I swore I would.” The Maester replied sincerely. He didn’t know if he was willing to die, but he certainly couldn’t risk the life of the Queen he had so tenderly learned to love. Daenerys nodded, heavy tears streaming down her delicate face once again. The fear showing through her evident sadness, she didn’t even remember her last birth, if she did she would certainly want to put an end to everything as quickly as possible. Valarr couldn’t say what made her survive.

“Very well.” The Dragon Queen finally conceded. “I trust what they said to me, and I hope that none of our words fly outside these rooms.”

“Of course, my Queen.” Valarr said, bowing deeply, his promise found meaning in the honesty and honor of his oath.

“Now, I would like a moment alone with my husband.”

______________

It was late at night when he finally saw her.

Daenerys was pale, her violet eyes puffy as if she had been crying for some time. A terrifying sadness appeared on her face, and the anger that dominated her earlier was no longer there. Jon hoped that she had understood her decision, or at least thought about it as the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and not as the boy’s mother.

Jon knew it would be difficult to convince her, Maekar was her pride and joy, her image reflected in its most absolute perfection. A baby of just two years old, who would one day have to rule over the harsh and inhospitable North, raising him in King’s Landing was a recipe for future mutiny. Jon knew that even blood loyalty knows its limits, even more so with the recent rumors. There could be no doubt. Maekar would need all the legitimacy he could get.

“I’m with child.” Daenerys told him simply, her eyes fixed on her hands in despair. Jon nodded, approaching her instinctively, unable to contain the joy that had arisen within him. But before the Stark could touch her, he noticed her flinch away from him.

“You’re not happy.” Jon realized with a sigh “Dany… I need you to talk to me.”

“I love you.” The Targaryen said truthfully, her eyes remained fixed on him in an inseparable mixture of sadness and affection. “But I can’t hand over my son, I won’t.”

“Daenerys, you need to listen to me, otherwise we will put Maekar in great danger.” Jon said seriously. “The North is too wild to accept outsiders.”

“He is your son.” Daenerys intervened abruptly, her eyes pleading. “Ned Stark’s blood runs through his veins.”

“We both know that’s not the whole truth, Sansa…”

“If she dares…” The Dragon Queen roared in warning, her voice wavering and dangerous like flames. “If Sansa ever questions Maekar’s legitimacy, mark my words Jon, my men will march to the North and only return with her head. I don’t care if she’s your sister, our family is the priority, our sons. There can be no middle ground, not in this.

“She will be loyal.” Jon confirmed, his faith alive in the signed contract and in the last goodbye he shared with his sister. Sansa more than anyone else sought the restoration of House Stark. “She will take care of Maekar as her own son, I am sure of it.”

“Just like her mother raised you?” Questioned Daenerys, that hit him almost immediately, she knew how much the figure of Catelyn Stark had hurt him in his childhood. All the indifference, all the contempt… “Maekar will go to Winterfell when he comes of age, after his marriage to Karstark girl, the girl who doesn’t even exist!”

“Dany, please, be reasonable…”

“If you ask me one more time to dispose of my son, I swear I will send you away.” Daenerys said abruptly, a lone tear cutting down her left cheek with abandon. Her voice is lofty and deeply serious. “I already chose you once, I won’t make the same mistake again. If you decide to leave us, I will suffer, and live the rest of my days as a widow. But my boys will continue to be the most important thing to me.” Jon felt the air escape from his lungs. He had given his word to Sansa, signed a document in front of witnesses... Bran’s words came to him as heavy as Daenerys’: A silver sun and a red three-headed dragon, both on a black background. This is the only way, peace between the kingdoms must be ensured by blood. Marriage alone would have to be enough, Jon would not have the strength to dispose of his most precious possession, something he had always wanted even before he knew what exactly it was.

Jon questioned himself a lot since discovering his origin, and for a long time he followed the same advice he had kindly offered to Theon Greyjoy. He was a Stark and a Targaryen.

A dragon who dressed as a wolf and grew up among his cousins, clothed in honor and northern values, whose blood heat boiled with the intensity of the Fourteen Flames. That night, Jon had finally discovered, first and foremost, he was Daenerys’ and his children. His honor could crumble in the mud before he allowed any harm to befall them... Words were wind, and papers were food for the fire... But dragon’s blood was thick and hot.

One day Maester Aemon had told him: honor comes easily when there’s no price to be paid. And Jon, of all people, wasn’t willing to take any chances.

Chapter Text

310 a.C.

Daenerys had woken up early, earlier than she would have liked.

The sky was still dark when she heard him outside her door. The small voice that woke her up almost immediately couldn’t go unnoticed, not in a million years. But Dany was so tired… And still couldn’t believe that she had actually managed to sleep, not when every part of her body was sore and no position seemed capable of pleasing her back and hips at the same time. The Targaryen moved lazily, searching among the many furs for Jon’s warm arms. Her voice reached him softly, he was also tired. With Daenerys spending half her time between naps and hot baths, the Small Council demanded more and more from him. Her noble northern husband…

His gray eyes met hers in the dim light, without even thinking twice he nodded, getting up promptly. Before Jon opened the door, the Targaryen heard the clink of Longclaw being drawn. How careful can this man be? She thought before sleep dominate her senses again, while the whispers about the door became increasingly distant.

“Come on, lad.” The sound of the sword being placed next to the bed woke her up once again. Candlelight illuminated the room at the same time the lilac of his small eyes met the violet of hers. “He had a bad dream.” Jon informed while pouring some water.

“Maekar.” The Dragon Queen whispered, wiping the huge tears that ran down the little prince’s face. He wasn’t one to cry, the mere sight was enough for the Targaryen to feel a pang in her heart. “What happened, byka mēre?”

“Mu-ña.” Maekar managed to say through sobs, his sweet eyes watched her with pain and apprehension.

“Hey, you’re doing fine, here…” Jon said, bringing the glass to the boy’s lips while stroking his back comfortingly “Whatever you saw, it can’t hurt you now.” The Stark assured, his voice firm yet sleepy.

“You would never hurt me, wouldn’t you muña?” Maekar asked, taking the glass away from his lips. Daenerys did not hesitate to take his little hands into hers, this assumption was enough to bring her to a verge of tears.

“I would never hurt you, byka mēre.” Dany stated warmly and irreducibly, her words heavy as the truth. The Realm would burn before she neglected her family. But hurting them directly? This was one of the few things Daenerys Targaryen found herself unable to do.

“See? There’s no reason to fear.” Jon said, taking the boy in his arms with affection, as if he could protect him from everything, even from his own dreams. “Why don’t we all sleep together today, hm?”

“Like wolves?” Maekar asked him, suddenly hopeful, the lilac in his eyes brighter. Daenerys managed to see Jon smile widely before he finally answered the little one, his voice choked with pride.

“Yes, my son, just like wolves.”

When the Dragon Queen awoke again, she felt the weight of Jaehaerys against her.

That was the first time her boys slept in her bed. E ven though Dany felt heavy and painful heavy and painful, the Targaryen found herself unable to resent it, this was a type of memory she would like them both to have. A moment of affection, a sweet childhood memory surrounded by love and meaning. Dany wanted them to remember her, even though she was bloated and didn’t look much like herself.

She felt full all the time , the pain in her back radiating through the rest of her body without warning, and without relief . Her breasts were as sore as her feet, and her taste buds wobbled like a child’s. Every now and then the Targaryen could feel it kick repeatedly, as if it were going to open her from the inside out and take flight towards the sky . Jaehaerys’ pregnancy had been easy compared to the torment in which Dany found herself submerged.

“Soon we will need a bigger bed.” Jon’s voice reached her, soft as that cloudy morning. His gray eyes looked at her with affection and concern. “I should have asked them to come back…”

“No.” She quickly dismissed his worries, offering a weak smile in reassurance. “I’m glad you let them stay.” Daenerys said while analyzing them carefully, their thick silver hair, the delicate features that made up every part of their faces. “How did we make something so perfect?”

“They inherited the beauty and stubbornness of the same person.” Jon said, smiling widely at her, only for Daenerys to feel her cheeks burn. “Sometimes, I find myself thinking, maybe the Red God gave me my life back just so I could be their father.”

“We wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for you. None of us.” The Targaryen said truthfully.

“Drogon and Rhaegal…”

“They wouldn’t have flown to the North if it weren’t for you.” The Targaryen had to swallow hard before continuing. “I said many things that I regret, things that were not true… I want you to know that of all the people in this world, there is no one I trust more…”

“You’re not going to die.” Jon said, cutting her off quickly. He knew her too well to know, as the moons passed, the closer and more real the inevitable confrontation became. At this point there wasn’t much to do, other than say goodbye, to finally face the fear in the eyes.

“I hope you’re right, I really hope.” Daenerys said, smiling sadly at him before the tears came. “But with every step I take, I feel my death sneaking up behind me…” Before Jon could interrupt her, she continued, her voice inconsistent but precise. “The pain, I try to deal with it, but now… It’s too much. More than I believe I can handle.”

“It’s normal to feel this way, especially at the end…”

“This is my fourth time, Jon… I know what it’s like, and I can tell you, it’s nothing like what I’m feeling.” The Targaryen stated firmly, containing the tone of her voice as much as she could.

“I don’t know how, but I know we’ll be fine, you’ll be fine.” Jon said finally, his voice sure as were his words. “You are the strongest person I've ever known.”

“I could say the same about you.” Daenerys extending her hands until she could find her husband’s chest. On her fingers she could feel the texture of Jon's scars, and his beating heart beneath it. “Won’t you forgive me?”

“When you present me with our fourth child.” Jon said, getting up carefully so as not to wake the little ones. “This time I'm sure it’s another boy.”

“Don’t be too surprised if I lay an egg, or if it’s a dragon…” Daenerys said with the little good humor left in her. Jon was already up, wrapping himself in his heavy gray overcoat. “We’ll soon find out.”

“Not before I ask Jana to draw you a bath.” The northerner said, not sparing his wife a goodbye kiss. In her heart Daenerys knew, he had forgiven her long ago.

______________

Jaehaerys and Maekar’s silver hair shone brightly against the flames of the fireplace.

Their eyes remained fixed on Lenny Roxton’s slender figure. A distant cousin of the Lord of the Ring who had given up everything so he could become a Bard. While wandering the green plains Lenny had earned his keep, trading verses and sweet melodies for shelter and food. During the war, he found himself in the good graces of the generous Willas Tyrell, a benefactor who did not hesitate to send him to King’s Landing upon learning of the absence of jesters and singers at court. Daenerys showed gratitude at the time, but it was the little princes that the simple-looking bard ended up winning over. On his lips the Dance of Dragons took shape and depth , the tragedy of a house, the decline of a dynasty.

The Bard had his ears, but Jon’s eyes were still locked on his wife. The Targaryen was oblivious to the situation, all her attention focused on the small brazier next to the balcony . Its flames threatened to go out, little by little, as the winter winds stubbornly crossed the windows. Jon still remembered that feeling, the fear that the Others might return. Every year the Realm went on alert, and every year spring arrived... But it’s not winter that she fears , the Stark thought, observing his lover’s voluptuous belly.

“What are you thinking about?” Jon whispered just so she could hear him, her face reached him lighter, despite her obvious tiredness.

“I wish summer would last forever…” Daenerys said, sounding hopeful for the first time, her violet eyes shone towards their children with devotion. “May we stay young, and our children continue to wield wooden swords and shields.”

“And no harm would come to them.” Jon conceded, sipping his wine briefly. That was a sweet dream, one that would be fatally shattered as the years went by. “Gray Worm believes Jaehaerys is ready for steel…”

“He is five years old.” Daenerys quickly intervened.

“And one day he will be a man.” Jon replied without hesitation. “He will need to be prepared for Longclaw.”

“A swordsman must be as good as his sword.” Daenerys said, looking at the blade at a glance, its cable grenades seemed to face her directly. Her words evoked those spoken by Jon in their first year of marriage. “And I still think you train too much.”

“I need to be sharp.” The Stark simply conceded. “Or do you want me to join our court? I can spend my mornings under the stone gazebos, between conversations and glasses of wine.”

“Nobody wakes up that early to gossip.” She intervened as matter of fact. “I wish you would stay longer in bed… By my side.” Daenerys continued, smiling lightly at him, her tone suggestive. “Maybe closer to me.” The Targaryen’s delicate features turned into a pained expression, her hands instinctively found their way to grip her hips.

“Dany?” Jon asked promptly, eager to confirm that she was alright.

“I need you to get them out of here.” The Targaryen panted, trying her best not to attract the attention of the little princes to herself. Her face contorted as tears crossed her. The pain threatened to escape through her lips, as well as the thick liquid that was already wetting her skirts.

“Whatever you need.” Jon conceded, quickly rising to his feet. Before turning to the children, his gaze caught Gray Worm’s, a nod was enough to let him know. Maester Valarr’s presence was necessary. “It’s time. The bard will sing one last song in your chambers.” The Stark announced haughtily towards the boys. Jon knew them well enough to know that his words shouldn’t leave room for other interpretations or contours. It needed to be precise and direct, Jaehaerys and Maekar already found too much relief in the shortcuts that Daenerys gave them.

“But Lenny is still in the middle of The Dance!” Jaehaerys complained angrily, only for the youngest to follow him:

“Aemond and Aegon…”

“I said it’s time.” Jon repeated, trying in vain to contain his nervousness. Before they could open their little mouths to interrupt him, he added, more authoritatively. “Now.”

“Yes, my prince.” Jaehaerys murmured, getting up reluctantly. His chin lifted proudly in defiance. Jon wouldn’t have time to punish him, no matter how much he was tempted, his attention was completely focused on the expression of pain that clouded Daenerys’ face. “Come on, Maekar.”

“Byka mēre!” The Dragon Queen called in a small, choked voice. “I need to say goodbye…” She said trying in vain to hold back her tears.

“Muña, what happened?” Maekar asked quickly, taking his place in front of Daenerys, concern visible in his small eyes.

“It’s the Dragon.” Jaehaerys said without hesitation, pointing towards his mother’s swollen belly. “It wants to leave, like Lady Lollys…” The realization was as clear as a day, Jon swallowed hard at the same time as tears began to flow down Jaehaerys’ rounded cheeks.

“What do you mean?” Maekar asked, still confused, the pale lilac of his eyes shifting between Jon and Daenerys, looking for answers. “How? How will the dragon…”

“Are you going to die? – Jaehaerys questioned with painful, raw sincerity… Terror came to consume Maekar who jumped and grabbed Daenerys’ skirt, who did little but moan in pain.

“Your mother won’t die!” Jon shouted irritably, Maekar’s eyes, still full of uncrying tears, found him hopeful.

“Jon maybe…” Daenerys began, her voice trailed off before she could continue. Unspoken words floated around the room and Jon was the only one who could understand them, even if its didn’t even reach his ears: We need to prepare them for the worst, what if... What if?

“How can you know?” Jaehaerys asked, petulant like the little dragon he was. Jon sighed before finding his answer, he knew whatever he thought wouldn’t be good enough. How could I know?

“I never gave your mother a command, and see… She is my Queen.” Jon said simply. “Today for the first time, I will do it. Not for me, but for your own good.” He continued looking at her deeply, his voice as eloquent as he could, it made her smile, even in the midst of pain. What he wouldn’t give to see Daenerys Targaryen smile once again? Every day, until the end… “I forbid her to die.”

“Do you prohibit it?” Daenerys asked before being rocked by another contraction, her tone amused. “As my lord and husband?” She confirmed, smiling at him once again. Both boys followed the conversation seriously, as if their mother’s life really depended on it.

“Yes.” Jon agreed. “It will be like I said, you, my Queen, will need to find a way to return to me.” The Stark said with a sad smile, the possibility of losing her was like being stabbed in the chest again and again. He tried not think about it, it would not be helpful to cry in front of the children, Jaehaerys and Maekar needed his strength, at that moment, more than ever. “And you, little princes, must leave for your quarters, Lenny will light the way, won’t you bard?”

“Yes, your highness.” The boy nodded without delay.

“Bide your goodbyes.”. – Jon said, taking his place next to Dany, holding her arm as if he could take part of her pain for himself, as if he could reassure her that everything would be okay.

“Promise you’ll send for us?” Jaehaerys asked after hugging her carefully, his gray eyes shining towards her with apprehension.

“I promise.” Daenerys said without hesitation. “You two will be my first guests.”

“When the dragon comes out, can I keep it?” Maekar asked, genuinely curious.

“You already have your egg.” The Targaryen said sweetly, her violet eyes fixed on the boys as if she memorized every feature of their faces, as if she feared never seeing them again. “Sleep well, byka mēre.”

“Good night, muña.” Jaehaerys said, bowing slightly before heading after the poor bard. Jon hoped there weren’t songs about commands, and the birth of dragons… Not when the people could accept such tales as truth. Maekar would have imitated his brother’s movements masterfully if it weren’t for the wet kiss he placed on his mother’s cheek.

“You could have promised everything would be okay, instead of commanding…” Daenerys commented, standing up quickly, her hands clinging to her hips as if she were seeking support. “Help me, I need to go of this dress.” The Targaryen said turning her back, facilitating access to the knots that tied the dress so carefully to her shape.

“And you could have made it clear that it is not a dragon, but a baby.”

“I already had babies! This is a little monster, it can only be…”

“Dany!”

The birth lasted for an entire night.

And for Jon, that had been the longest night of his entire life.

Ironically more lasting than the night that fell over Winterfell. At least when the armies clashed, Jon knew what to do. Longclaw’s hilt was familiar as was the weight of his armor, the movements of his arms and legs unthinkable as he moved through the crowds, dividing himself between attack and dodge. From the courtyards of Winterfell, Castle Black, to the Lands of Always Winter, b lood seemed to follow him wherever he went, the fighting as natural as the rhythm of his breathing. The constant euphoria clouding his senses, no pain could reach him, not as long as he had the ability to stand on his ankles.

But that battle was not his to fight. Sometimes nothing is the hardest thing to do.

Despite all the advice, Jon had refused to take his old quarters, no... The least he could do was stay. H is vigil, as excruciating as it was, was nothing compared to what Dany was enduring. Despite the whispers, Jon knew he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

His eyes, no matter how tired they were, remained attentive as his ears glazed over to the terrible symphony that was being woven inside the royal chambers. “ Get it out of me! ” M idwives hurriedly rushed in with clean cloths and hot water, Jon remained, watching these same articles being thrown out covered in blood. “ It trying to kill me. ” Time passed slowly, accompanied by Daenerys’ disturbing screams. Nothing like other times... That night fear had joined anger, setting those corridors on fire with the fury of the dragon. It wasn’t as if the Targaryen was fighting to bring the child to life, her fight, on the contrary, seemed to be against, against the child . All h er forces committed to getting rid of it . “ Its killing me .”

Jon found support in Gray Worm’s concern, in the hot drink Joleen had handed him. In the Old Gods and the New, in the Lord of Light who had once given him back his life. In his own wife, and in the strength she unquestionably possessed within herself…

When the night seemed darker than ever, the break of twilight came, the indigo sky crumbling like diluted paint, in shades of lilac, yellow and orange. The arrival of dawn partially alleviated that unsettling feeling, as if the night that surrounded them was eternal, the gloom was all they could see between the flames. Still, the terrors of the night remained alive in the Dragon Queen’s agony. But not before it was also possible to hear a child’s cry.

“Get him out of my sight.” Daenerys shouted, her voice broken by yet another scream of pain. “Now!” Before Jon could even rationalize, the doors opened with a single, rapturous sound. Jana trembled on her legs as her cold hands tried in vain to lull the stormy cries of the child in her lap. A red cloak wrapped around what appeared to be a baby’s robust body... Jon tilted his head forward with apprehension, his eyes reluctant for the first time, a little monster, a dragon... But what he found beyond that delicate cloak immediately reassured him. He’s a baby, he’s just a baby. His white skin was slightly reddened from the incessant crying, but what really caught the Stark’s attention was the thin layer of black hair that covered the child’s head. For the first time, the blood of the First Men had surpassed the Valyrian.

“A boy, your highness.” The young servant managed to say before handing him to Jon. He was handsome, his features delicate like those of the Silver Prince, but still distinct and familiar... Even though he was small, Jon could already see part of himself in the boy. His cries reverberated through his chest with strength and determination, while Daenerys’ screams remained. “It won’t take much longer, my prince.” Jana said, trying in vain to hide her uncertainty as she hurriedly returned to the rooms.

“What is happening?” Jon asked towards Gray Worm, his voice lost midst so many screams. His arms tried in vain to lull the baby. “Why is she still… Why?”

“Jon!” Tyrion exclaimed, appearing in the middle of the corridors, behind him the figure of his wife stood shyly, her brown hair braided intricately back, like the style of the ladies of the Reach. “I came as soon as the news reached the Tower of the Hand, what is it?”

“A boy.” Said Jon, still overwhelmed, his eyes fixed on the wooden door with apprehension. “But she… There’s something wrong, I need to get in there…” The Stark said impulsively, taking a step forward, Gray Worm blocking his advance. Daenerys had forbidden it. Any man who was not a Maester was not welcome during childbirth. His beloved’s voice reached him sweetly, despite the bitterness of that day. If you ever see me like that, I know you'll never touch me again…

“The same thing happened when Martyn arrived.” Tyrion dismissed hopefully. “After the baby, comes the amnion, right Talla?”

“Oh… Yes husband.” Lady Lannister agreed quickly, her brown eyes hovering enchantedly over the baby. Jon allowed himself to feel the momentary relief of those words, relieving even a little of the tightness in his chest. “May I?” Talla asked as if she hadn’t been able to contain herself. Jon felt compelled to accept, handing him over carefully. “See Tyrion, he is so beautiful…” Talla sighed, taking Jon’s seat so that her husband could see him.

“And as noisy as Martyn.” The Hand of the Queen granted, looking at the baby carefully. “What’s this one’s name? Aegon?”No. That’s my name, the name of my dead brother, the name of many others… Jon thought, still torn between facing Gray Worm, or waiting... He honestly didn’t know if he could wait any longer. “Daeron?”

“Aemon.” Jon replied abruptly.

“Like Aemon, the Dragon Knight?” Talla asked while her arms rocked the baby boy in a rhythmic rhythm, calming him little by little, until it was only possible to hear the rhythm of his breathing. Until suddenly, he started crying again, only this time his cry did not resonate alone, but in accordance with that of another baby. Jon had to sit down before he hit the floor. “There are two…” The doors opened after a few moments. It was Maester Valarr who carried the other baby, and for the first time in a long time, there was silence.

“Daenerys?” Jon asked, standing up almost immediately, his gray eyes looking at the Maester expectantly. He knew what he wanted to hear, and his heart clung to it as it pounded in his chest. Jon needed her, more than the Realm, more than the children. I am hers and she is mine, from this day one, until the end of my days.

“The Queen is no longer in danger.” Valarr quickly informed. The Stark nodded allowing himself to breathe, the relief sweet as the victory of a war, the most visceral expression of triumph. “The children will be fine for now. The boy was born strong, but the girl needs to gain weight... I’m hopeful that she will do.” The Maester said, tilting the little girl towards Jon. Her black cloak matched that of her minutes older brother, as did her hair. For a moment the world fell silent and Stark allowed himself to analyze her deeply. Gods be good, he thought to himself in wonder, she has Rhaella’s features and… Arya’s small nose... But nothing could prepare him for the moment the little girl looked at him in return. Her small eyes were a dark shade of indigo, or deep purple. As proclaimed in the songs, as described in the books… Exactly like those of Rhaegar Targaryen.

“My sweet, sweet girl.” He whispered midst of his enchantment. She was a delicate little thing, his daughter… How did we make something so perfect? Daenerys had asked him earlier that day. And there, that beautiful baby girl, Jon found himself lost... Not even if he lived a hundred lives could he pay back the Gods for that moment. “She is…” The Stark whispered, smiling widely, he was at a loss for words. The little girl managed to combine the most beautiful and delicate features, each part of her evoked a distant, sometimes dark past, but in her form was overshadowed, as if she had not been born midst her mother’s pain. There was light in her eyes, an indigo glow that seemed to pierce through him. As if Jon could see, even if for a moment, at all those who came before him. The beginning and the end. Death and rebirth... “Did Daenerys have the chance to see her?” Valarr's expression became careful, his usual docile gaze turned kindly towards the prince.

“Although the birth was short, it was very difficult, perhaps…” The Grand Mesitre had to swallow hard before continuing. “Perhaps the Queen may need some time, until she is ready to get to know them…”

“The things she said…” Jon began.

“I had to administer a minimum amount of Milk of Poppy, it was just a side effect, nothing compared to the pain.” Valarr explained, sure of his words. Jon trusted the Maester, against all expectations Daenerys had survived four birthing beds, all at Celtigar’s side. “I suppose you have already chosen the names…”

“Aemon…” Jon said, indicating towards the baby on Lady Talla’s lap, before finally turning to the little girl in his arms. “And Lyanna Targaryen. “He concluded, trying in vain to contain the pride in his voice. Even after five children, the Stark still found himself marveling at the overwhelming feeling that took him the moment he laid his eyes on them. A pure and visceral, unconditional love.

Chapter Text

310 a.C.

Jon had passed out over the nurseries while the newborns were feeding.

Apparently not all babies are born with the full capacity to feed themselves. This, according to the wet nurses, was something that had to be learned. For some, the ability was given, the instinct was enough, as if they were born knowing… Something that Maekar and Aemon had quickly mastered, and Lyanna needed to improve if she didn’t want to meet the same fate as her late sister. Just thinking about it made Jon feel his vision narrow and air escape his lungs, the horror paralyzing, as if the weight of a horse were placed on his chest. As if the Stranger was deciding who he would take first: the father or the daughter.

His second watch had been short, his body had betrayed him the moment he allowed himself to sit on one of the nursery beds. They would soon need to expand it if they intended to accommodate all of their children. It was good to have them around, sometimes the Stark would wake up late at night, the Queen’s absence marked by the icy trail of the sheets. She was always in the same place, watching over their children dreams, as if the sound of their breathing was her most precious melody.

And maybe it was. Jon had seen many things throughout his brief life, but by far the most disturbing had been the image of Rhaella, his beautiful girl, well formed, with all her toes and fingers, perfect for all intents and purposes… But i cy and pale. Dead . Sometimes Jon silently thanked the Gods for sparing Daenerys from such a sight, he still didn’t know what had prevented him from going mad. There is no reason that can explain, or feeling that can be translated into words. Jon knew that image would stay with him until the end of his days, just like his little girl, destined never to be.

Lyanna’s crying had woken him in what appeared to be early afternoon, judging by the angle of the sun against the windows. Gyda rocked her carefully, trying to calm her cries as she tied her breast back into her dress. She was a short, plump woman with slightly graying black hair. Her dark and strangely docile eyes analyzed the little girl as if looking for any sign of discomfort.

“My prince.” The poor nanny said, bowing awkwardly when she noticed the sudden awakening of the northerner.

“She is fine?” Jon asked almost at the same moment, his grey eyes looked at her apprehensively, while his left hand bowed. “Was she able to eat?”

“A little, the princess is still learning.” Gyda responded promptly, calming her little by little, until it was possible to place her on the wide cradle next to the window where Aemon was resting deeply. “She prefers the warmth of her brother’s arms than any of us.” The wet nurse explained with a small smile before sitting down next to them, her foot rocking the base of the crib in a calm and considered rhythm.

“They shared the same womb, it wouldn’t be fair to deprive them of each other’s company.” Jon conceded, observing them with affection. While Aemon slept heavily, the little sister snuggled against him, sometimes reaching for him with her small hands. “Where are Jaehaerys and Maekar?”

“They left early, summoned by the Queen.” Gyda said without hesitation. Jon chose not to know about Aemon and Lyanna, Valarr had made it clear that Daenerys would need some time before he could see them. She needed to recover, first of all, rest, hot and fatty broths, long naps...

“I would like to be informed of the princess’s nutrition, if she shows any sign of weakness, do not hesitate to call Maester Valarr, he will know what to do.” Jon said, still without taking his gray eyes away from the little ones.

“He visited them earlier, the Grand Maester.” Gyda said abruptly at the same time as her shoulders projected tensely. “He placed two hot stones on their cradle, I heard them saying they were eggs, your highness…” That was enough to capture Jon’s attention on the nurse, his face contorting into a divided expression. The Stark had already heard about the tradition established during the reign of the first Jaehaerys, dragon eggs for blood heirs... But he didn’t know if he appreciated the gesture, especially without having been consulted beforehand. “Lord Tyrion gave him leave.” She defended herself quickly, her expression fearful as her eyes refused to meet Stark’s piercing gray storm.

“I suppose you were reluctant to wake me.” Jon conceded, trying in vain to contain the anger in his voice. “Next time, don’t hesitate to send for me.”

“Yes, your highness.” Gyda said, projecting herself forward ready for another bow that was, in the same way, dismissed by Jon, who spared no time, returning once again to observe his two beautiful babies, bumping into each other in the crib as they certainly used to do inside their mother’s womb.

The path to Maegor’s was full of bows and congratulations, the court was celebrating. The arrival of twins supported by the well-being of their Queen in such a difficult winter was considered by many to be a good omen. For the return of a gentle spring and a prosperous summer. Jon couldn’t deny it, even if he wanted to, his face showed all his pride and happiness. Daenerys and the children will be fine. That was what mattered, that was all that mattered.

The voices of Jaehaerys and Maekar echoed through the corridors excitedly and breathlessly, while the thick wooden doors of the royal chambers were ajar. Jon frowned as he entered the room, which at first glance seemed too crowded, especially for a woman who had just given birth.

Near the door, Jhogo stood, serious and alert. With a brief wave he acknowledged Jon’s entrance, who did the same, grateful for the Dothraki’s presence. His loyalty was as fierce as Grey Worm’s. Beside him, Ser Andrey Dalt leaned disinterestedly against the wall. Princess Arianne Martell’s nominee was not as impressive as her letters intended to claim. The boy was skilled, an excellent warrior, yes. But he needed much more to honor the white cloak that covered his shoulders, his visits to Silk Street, although rare, were remarkable. Dennys Mallister’s little birds flew back and forth looking for bastards, Jon knew which way the dornishman would go if one was found.

Running through the apartments, Jaehaerys and Maekar fled from a direct collision, dodging between walls, tables and sofas, until inevitably their wooden weapons came together. The elder preferred the grip of a sword, while the younger found the familiarity of the arakh appealing between his small fingers. Jon couldn’t say he disapproved, the Dothraki were his people as much as his mother’s. The way they fought lacked technique, but not voracity.

“Ouch!” Maekar complained upon receiving a direct blow to the hand, the arakh hitting the ground at the same time that Jaehaerys raised the sword in front of his brother’s chin. Jon swallowed hard, they hadn’t noticed his presence. “You cheated!”

“And you died.” Jaehaerys mocked, quickly lowering his sword, his posture erect and strangely familiar. Jon felt only the impulse to step forward, to educate them properly as Grey Worm seemed to fail to do. Maybe the rules on the other side of the sea were different, maybe... And then Maekar sniffled, holding his right hand through tears. “Hey…” Jaehaerys called, his hand going towards the youngest’s shoulder, comforting him. “Nobody cares about rules during war, you should have attacked when you had the chance…”

“The best warriors are those who behave with honor and dignity. Especially during battles.” Jon finally intervened. His tone deadly serious, he had already had his share of wars in a lifetime, his inquisitive gaze met an unarmed and embarrassed Jaehaerys. “Maester Valarr told you how they killed my brother Robb in the Twins, didn’t he?” He asked only to see the boy swallowing hard. “Do you think war exempts us from our role as hosts? Do you think the Freys found justice in their actions?” The Stark questioned seriously, his voice deep enough for the boy to start sobbing, tears threatening to overflow from his eyes. “What happened to them? What is the reward for those who act in bad faith?”

“I-I…” Jaehaerys sobbed, the words seemed to walk uncertainly across his lips.

“All the Freys of the Twins were extinct.” Maekar replied abruptly, his eyes still filled with pain. “Murdered with cowardice.” The little boy said taking front of his brother, his voice as merciless as his father’s, he could be as cunning as Tyrion himself. The brief, almost imperceptible mention of Arya was enough to destabilize Jon even if momentarily, there was no honor in his sister’s actions, but the Stark, despite himself, found justice in them.

“Ser Andrey escort the princes back to their duties, I am sure there is still much for them to learn.” Jon said finally, his eyes glued to his children as they moved away, their hands despite being occupied by weapons, also found a way to lean on each other. Before the doors closed, Jon could hear Jaehaerys whisper:

“I’m sorry…”

In the winter we must protect, look after one another.  Maybe that was what mattered most after all, Jon would never admit it. He will raise them to be honorable men, mindful of duty, as Ned Stark had done to him. Life and circumstances will take care of the rest, shaping their character.

A few more steps took him to the intimate area where they used to sleep, the curtains were open allowing the afternoon sun to enter, illuminating the room as a whole. Daenerys stood on the bed, her pale face staring deeply at the figure of Tyrion, who was sitting on a chair next to her. In his hands, his fearsome leather notebook, where she used to write down the reports for the many meetings of the Small Council. Fury rose to Jon’s face, perhaps he slapped him with the artifact.

“You should be resting.” The Stark said abruptly, his voice, despite being worried, revealed his irritation. Daenerys’ eyes met his quickly, her expression not taking long to soften. Even though she was tired and very hurt, all she did was smile, as if she had been waiting for him, as if she had been longing to see him.

“It is true.” Tyrion conceded, retreating. Jon didn’t even spare him recognition, they both would still have to talk for long hours, about the type of training that Grey Worm was offering the boys, about dragon eggs and nurseries.”

“How are you feeling?” Jon asked, approaching carefully, his right hand did not hesitate to find Dany’s face. She was so pale, her face tired and slightly worried. She was good at hiding it, but Jon was even better at knowing her.

“I’m alive.” The Targaryen said, mirroring her husband’s movement, her delicate hands caressing Jon’s chin. “I missed you, the boys too… Did you see them?”

“I asked for them to be escorted back to their duties.” Jon said as naturally as possible, he didn’t want to worry her, he didn’t want her to make an effort to even think about it. She needed peace to recover, and as long as it was possible, Jon would be her guardian.

“Why would you do that? They study so much, more than they should for such young boys.” Daenerys said, clearly disappointed. “You are too hard on them…”

“Do we need to talk about this now? After the night we had?” The Stark asked sincerely. When it came to educating them, their vision was radically different, more so than Jon thought possible. Daenerys sighed in resignation.

“Where have you been?” She asked him softly, changing the subject. “Don’t tell me you claimed your old quarters…” Daenerys continued playfully, Jon felt the smile come to him before finally answering her.

“I slept in the nurseries, I was worried about Lyanna…” The White Wolf said only to see Daenerys’ face transform, she no longer looked at him, no… It was in the view of Blackwater Bay that the Dragon Queen found refuge. Maester Valarr had said… But at the same time, Jon hadn’t understood him, at least not entirely. “Dany, look at me, please.” And so she did. His violet eyes, despite being teary, carried fire within them. “What happened in there? They are just babies, I saw them…”

“Lyanna is not a good name.” Daenerys said simply. That statement had caught him off guard, Jon swallowed hard, trying to keep himself balanced. The name... My mother’s name. “She is a Targaryen, she will be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Our children must bear good Valyrian names, I told you that when you suggested that Jaehaerys be called Robb, why…”

“What did you say?” Jon questioned, shaking his head in the negative, his wife’s words had crossed him quickly, more than he had been able to assimilate, but one sentence remained hammering in his mind. A deception, probably something that reached your ears the wrong way. “Did you say Queen? I-I don’t… Jaehaerys is our heir, which…”

“He will need a wife, when the time comes.” Daenerys said as if it were obvious. A wife? Jon almost immediately felt a sudden discomfort, he had to get up, he didn’t know if he would be able to face Daenerys, not without venting part of his fury on her. “Jon?”

“T-they are siblings… And a wife? She’s just a baby, and so small... They will have a big age difference.” The Stark said worriedly, only he knew how much it had cost him to accept the kinship he shared with Daenerys. But the idea that his own children would get involved with each other, he would never dare look at Arya or Sansa with these eyes. It wasn’t like the northman had been raised alongside the Targaryens.

“Sixteen years is a big age difference…” Daenerys said only to be reprimanded almost immediately, Jon’s grey eyes looked at her stormy and sharp. Khal Drogo, Hizdahr zo Loraq, Daario Naharis… These were forbidden names, especially when alone, especially when the subject concerned their children. “She will be educated for this. We are Targaryens, Jon. Dragonriders, we must preserve the blood, mixed as it is, we must do our part.”

“Are you saying… Are you saying this because the twins were born like me?” Jon asked her coldly. “All this indifference because they were born similar to their father?” He wanted to understand. Whatever it was, from the simplest to the most nefarious reason... In his eyes, both were nothing less than perfect.

“It’s not that.” The Dragon Queen rebutted defensively, her eyes avoided her husband’s deep and inquisitive gaze.

“So what is it? They are our children, as much as Jaehaerys and Maekar…” The Stark said confused, and then the idea came to him, it crossed his lips before he could think much. “Some would say that Drogon’s eggs were intended for them, Maester Valarr and Tyrion tested this hypothesis earlier today...”

“What?” Daenerys shouted furiously, the red of her house quickly coloring her face. There was fury in her eyes like Jon had never seen before. “And you, of all people, allowed such nonsense? Drogon entrusted them to me! For our children!”

“Aemon and Lyanna are…”

“A third son and a girl!” She brutally interrupted him.

“Jaehaerys and Maekar don’t even care about the eggs… What harm would it do to let them stay in the nurseries?” Jon asked sincerely. Didn’t the idea seem so absurd, a clutch of just two eggs followed by the birth of twins? It seemed to mean something to me.

“You don’t understand... The eggs need to be separated, so that Jaehaerys and Maekar can build this bond. This is a question of legitimacy.” Daenerys said, worried for the first time, her hostility had been diluted at the mention of her boys, her beautiful boys. Jon was her greatest ally, she seemed to remember. “All the Kings of the Age of Dragons were dragonriders, the Realm will be attentive… Any sign of weakness…”

“Our Jaehaerys is strong, with or without dragons, he will be respected.” Jon said, suddenly assuring her, he didn’t know why, but he hoped his biased heart wasn’t mistaken. “If we marry each of our children well, Jaehaerys will have the support he needs… Maekar with the North, we can trade Aemon between Dorne and the Reach, and while our Lyanna… Well, Gendry had a son, born during the rebellions…

“Gendry owes us loyalty for all generations to come, and is furthermore linked to us by blood, through Princess Rhaelle’s marriage.” Daenerys said simply, her gaze distant as if she was thinking deeply about her loyalties. “Tyrion is Lord of the Westerlands, and a good Hand. Willas Tyrell is smart, and has proven himself loyal, with a certain propensity to please whenever possible...”

“After what Cersei did to his family, the ease with which Willas bent the good knee doesn’t surprise me…” Jon said sincerely. He hoped they could count on Highgarden’s loyalty, their cultivation and storage capabilities were impressive as was the strength of their armies. “The Martell’s were grateful for Ser Andrey’s position here…”

“By the Martell’s, I think you mean Princess Arianne.” Daenerys conceded with a smile, it was good to see her coming to her senses. The fury slowly fading to give way to the beautiful Dragon Queen, as lethal as Drogon itself, but cunning and rational. “And then there remains the North, with Sansa under her rule, the Vale with her cousin Robin Arryn, and her uncle Tully of Riverrun…” Daenerys said worriedly, Sansa’s loyalty was still a question for her. Something that whether or not divided Jon, how he wanted things to be, and how they really were. “I think we need more children… More than I can carry.” The Targaryen said, seeking the comfort of his arm, as if the warmth of his skin was enough to make everything disappear. The Realm, the Great Houses, the Iron Throne… Only they would remain, and nothing else.

“I wouldn’t ask that of you, not after everything we’ve been through.” Jon said seriously, his grey eyes looked at her with devotion. “Maekar, Aemon and Lyanna will have to be enough…”

“Maekar and Aemon.” Daenerys said finally, without a serious tone, and fatally non-negotiable. “Jaehaerys will need Lyanna.”

“I don’t feel good about this…” Jon said sincerely.

“I know.” The Targaryen granted taking his hands in reassurance. “But… Look at it this way, if Lyanna become Jaehaerys’ wife, she would never need to leave…”

“We still have many years until that comes to pass.” Jon intervened, avoiding thinking too much about the matter. “Your parents… They were unhappy, weren’t they?”

“I suppose it wasn’t easy to love him, not after Duskendale and all the madness that followed… They say he killed, and with his body full of ash he raped her repeatedly, for everyone to hear…” Daenerys said distantly, trying in vain contain the sadness in your voice. “But Jaehaerys isn’t like that, he would never…”

“No.” Jon agreed, ruling out that possibility. His son was impetuous, yes… But crazy? He wouldn’t burn people, not for fun at least. “But contempt can be as dangerous as violence… Aegon IV would not have done what he did if he loved Naerys.” Jon never thought he would consider this, and here he was, saying these very words. “If Jaehaerys and Lyanna are not compatible, we will back down. She will marry a respectable lord, and while he… Well, even if I fly away to Asshai, I will return with a bride of the blood and a respectable family.” The Stark swore seriously. Peace has fine contours, a sudden movement and both would get involved and another long and exhausting campaign... Jon knew very well what the conflict in the Stormlands had cost them.

“Very well, I don’t see why not agree…” Daenerys finally said before being invaded by a long yawn. Stark felt a smile come to him easily. How adorable could his wife be?

“What time did Tyrion come to bother you?” Jon asked, caressing her face carefully.

“I summoned him.” She said defending the Lannister. “He arrived a little after the boys... I don’t know how you managed to sleep, Jaehaerys and Maekar were furious because of the babies’ crying.”

“I was exhausted.” Jon said, simply enjoying that moment for a few moments, the way the sun passed through Daenerys’ silver strands, burning even slightly the apple of her cheeks. Her violet eyes brewing something, full of light…

“I’ve been thinking... What do you think about renovating one of the rooms in the Maidens’ Vault? So Maekar and Jaehaerys can keep their quarters, and sleep peacefully.” Daenerys said concisely, as if she had already analyzed the situation carefully. Jon frowned before finally answering her.

“The twins are very small, they need to be close to us, to the White Tower, to Maester Valarr.” The Stark said, letting some of his concern show even momentarily. “Lyanna needs to feed…”

“I heard all about it.” Daenerys quickly dismissed. “We can allocate one of the assistant maesters there. Ser Podric can take charge of their protection... We both know how much I would appreciate him away from us...”

“It seems that it’s not just him who you seeks distance.” Jon said, analyzing her firmly, only to see her moving away once again. “If only you could see them…”

“Why don’t we decide this tomorrow?” Daenerys asked with a tired smile. “We can break our fast all together, Nyna can bring them to be introduced to Jaehaerys and Maekar, formally this time...”

“Dany…”

“I can make you happy tomorrow, as soon as the sun rises…” She promised in a pleasant tone, as if she no longer wanted to think about the future, or the present that inhabited the nurseries. “For now all I want are closed curtains, warm blankets… And you, maybe just you.”

“Tomorrow.” Stark agreed, taking his place next to her.

Chapter Text

315 a.C.

The journey to King’s Landing had been marked by warm nights on the side of the road, by the bumping of the carriage, and by the various memories that emerged as the party advanced... Sansa remembered the rare smiles that Robert Baratheon’s extravagant posture managed to elicit from her father. She remembered Arya and Jeyne Poole, Lady’s soft fur on her fingers and how she ran comfortably across those same plains.

Little Catelyn reminded her of herself, her brown eyes looked at the world with the same wonder and sweetness that Sansa had once known. Cat was born on a cold winter’s day, her arrival a pleasant surprise... The daughter she needed, the daughter whose life she had so recklessly bargained for. The Gods had not been so generous with Sansa, Catelyn was her only girl, succeeded by the stormy birth of Karlon, the heir that Harrion wanted so much.

Sansa liked to think that her father would approve of him, even given the circumstances of their abrupt union. The Stark still remembered the tight wedding dress, the hasty promises before the old weirwood, and the cold letters that flew throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Breaking the agreement with Buckler was a fair price for the legitimacy of a son. In the end, Karlon had been born into the bonds of marriage and Sansa had secured a good husband.

Harrion managed to balance his qualities and defects very well. His years as a hostage in the Riverlands had hardened him, he was wary and very, very protective. Like many northerners, he had his reservations about the free folk. Whenever Sansa met with Tormund, he remained at his wife’s right, promptly guarding her. His fierce gaze never wavered for an instant.

The Stark swallowed hard, daring for the first time to look beyond the litter’s thin curtains. Her eyes had avoided the view of the city for too long. She was fed up with ghosts, and to her utter helplessness, King’s Landing was full of them. If Harrion knew better, he would have more to fear than men beyond the wall... Danger lies in the most unexpected places. This Sansa had learned like no one else.

She knew that the Dragon Queen had refused to hand over the boy.

Jon had written to inform her, and yet nothing had been said about Karlon’s stay at Winterfell… Her only boy. He was a difficult child, naturally aggressive and stubborn. In certain lights Sansa found him similar to Rickon, and sometimes, she allowed herself to see a little of herself. As a mother she tried her best, raising him with firmness and compassion, and sometimes found success, breaking through the anger of her thoughtless actions. A warm hug could sometimes calm him down, alleviating the hard face and the serious tone of his voice. The truth was that her firstborn needed her, more than little Cat ever did… Harrion and the others lacked tact, patience. His first instinct was to respond violence with violence. Sansa couldn’t imagine how Karlon could grow up in Karhold, his upbringing divided between Alys’s husband, Sigorn, and the old, resentful Cregan... The boy would become yet another object of contention. Sansa wondered if there would be anything left of him after all, as Karhold was already wasting away from countless conflicts.

The Stark kept her efforts focused on Winterfell, on good coexistence with the free folk, on maintaining the winter town, on dialogue with the small and great houses. There was a time when Sansa resented Jon… A dragon dressed as a wolf. It was the gray cloak he dragged proudly over the dirt as he obeyed the dragon’s whims . H is consideration extended to the North through tax reductions, and occasional letters that he dared to address to h is sister. Sansa answered them with bitterness... The mouth that dictated reconciliation and words of good luck was the same one that once uttered lies and defamation. Sansa would never forget the look he had given her years before, narrow and dangerous ... Even in the glow of the fireplaces, it was not the fire of the dragons that Sansa saw, but rather the boiling of the wolf’s blood that ran strong through Jon’s veins. Maekar is my son, assuming anything else is treason .

Could Sansa Stark be a traitor? Liar, manipulator, traitor. Her father had been a traitor, his head torn from beneath the feet of the Great Sept of Baelor… His terrible crime? The truth. He had acted with honor and announced the truth, his people had paid the price in blood and suffered the consequences. History had finally exonerated him, but at what cost? Robb dead, Rickon dead, Bran lost... The Stark house was one step away from a succession crisis, and Sansa tried in vain to balance the scales. She had outlived Joffrey, Cersei, Littlefinger, Ramsey…

She had learned from her mistakes, and more than that, from the mistakes of those who came before her. Karlon or Maekar. The North would be in charge of deciding, the weight of the choice as well as its consequences were too heavy. This certainty had been haunting her for some time, but when she saw them she couldn’t be more certain...

Drogon and Rhaegal were bigger, their thick scales glistening against the sun as they flew over the city, which, by now, was crowded. The streets and roads filled with guests, it was not only Prince Maekar’s eighth name day they had come to celebrate, but ten years since the Dragon Queen had ascended the Iron Throne, the first woman to do so successfully.

Close to Rhaegal flew the smaller ones, their names acclaimed throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Sansa found no difficulty in distinguishing them. The fearsome Bloodfeather did indeed live up to his name, his reddish scales shone in contrast to the gold that colored the bones of his wings and spine. It wasn’t hard to imagine him terrorizing the city, cutting through the sky like a bloody feather. His brother, on the other hand, was majestic in a way Sansa never thought she could consider, Silvernight had scales that mixed black and silver, like a darkened and intensely shiny metal.

Rising in rebellion against the Targaryens meant facing them in the open ground… Sansa had seen them fight enough to know that if she dared to oppose it, it would not be the price of blood she would pay, but rather that of fire. And even if Sansa was lucky, when everything burned down, she would only have one son left, one she hadn’t even learned to control, while Daenerys had three healthy boys, and probably two dragon riders.

At the front of the entourage Sansa was able to see them.

Respectfully aligned, the White Wolf and Red Dragon banners opposed each other. Daenerys remained at the center of the family, her upright posture betrayed her undeniable pride. Her silvery blonde hair, as usual, was tied into a long, elaborate braid, while her body draped comfortably over the delicate cut of black and red silks, rubies, and gold threads. She didn’t look like she’d aged a single year, Sansa swallowed hard at the realization. To her right the tallest of the princes stood, judging by his resplendent appearance, that must be the beautiful Jaehaerys... The boy was as handsome as the songs claimed, but not enough to say that he looked like a girl, that Sansa could not deny. But there was something about the way he carried himself that betrayed a certain arrogance. The way he smiled at the bows, lifting his head back, away from the smell of horses and the sweat of travelers. On the Queen’s left side, almost as if completing the third head of the dragon, Sansa saw him... How is it possible to recognize someone she hadn’t even met yet?

Maekar was a stout boy, his silver hair was pulled back, and was a little longer than his older brother’s. He certainly hadn’t inherited his brother’s delicate beauty, his chin was more masculine, as was his nose, decidedly aquiline. If Maekar rode a dragon, he could make the north free for Cat, and for the children they would have… If only he were delivered. Sansa would make him a Stark... It didn’t matter if he was Jon's or the tyroshi’s.

The prince consort stood next to the tall and centered boy, his serious expression softening with each demonstration of loyalty presented there. Sansa felt a sad smile escape her involuntarily, he reminded her of their father. In three years, Jon would be the same age as Lord Eddard Stark was when he met his end, under the blade of his own sword.

Next to the White Wolf, his perfect image shone in the figures of Aemon and Lyanna Targaryen. The boy with black, wavy hair held his head high as a sign of respect, despite the obvious tiredness on his face. While the girl… Gods, the girl was as beautiful as Jaehaerys. Her delicate face evoked her mother’s beauty, but even so, it brought with it something that Sansa couldn’t quite define, even from afar it was possible to see a part of Jon in her. Her black, wavy hair was loose, except for a thin braid that fell down on her left side, decorated with silver beads. The young princess was not dressed in the traditional black and blood red, nor in the pale gray of the Starks. But rather with a beautiful purple dress, whose bust was decorated with silver threads, which embroidered, formed the image of two dragons meeting, under the skirt tiny amethysts shone against the summer sun. Lighting up the girl’s gaze even more, whose deep indigo, despite being distinct, was very reminiscent of Jon.

Sansa took a deep breath, turning to little Cat with concern. The girl was wearing a simple traveling overcoat, its moss-green tone contrasting beautifully with the copper tone of her hair. It was far from ideal for the sharp and inquisitive gaze of a Queen, and future good mother. Finally, the Stark swallowed, her hands gently smoothing Cat’s messy hair. She might not be as well-dressed as Lyanna Targaryen, but she certainly owed her nothing in the way of beauty. Once they were accommodated, they would have access to the most elaborate dresses, which combined northern fashion and light southern fabrics. Sansa had taken care of this, even before leaving for King’s Landing.

“Mama…” The girl whispered anxiously. Her brown eyes darted fearfully between her mother’s face and the flapping curtains of the carriage. “What if they don’t like me? And if the Queen doesn’t...”

“I will take care of the Dragon Queen.” Sansa assured, smiling confidently at her daughter. She was so little, barely six years old, and she already had to worry about that kind of thing. In a certain but yet gentle movement, Sansa lifted the girl’s chin towards her. “All you need to do is behave with decency and dignity, keep your head up, and only speak when spoken to.”

“Yes, lady mother.” Catelyn nodded, looking away, as if she didn’t want anyone to see her on the verge of tears. Sansa, on the other hand, held her tightly. The blue of her eyes stuck with the brown of hers.

“I raised you well, Cat.” Sansa said sweetly, her tone more reassuring than she had intended. “Trust me.” The Karstark girl smiled sadly before hugging her tenderly. Before Sansa could let her think too much she reached out with her right hand from the carriage. The sunlight reached them at the same moment, relentless and direct, just like the watchful gaze of Daenerys Targaryen. “My queen.” Sansa said, bowing deeply, as she knew it would certainly please the dragon.

“Stand up, good sister.” Daenerys said softly, her violet eyes were fixed on Catelyn with some care. Closer, Sansa was able to see the dimension of the youthfulness that the Dragon Queen emanated. Her slender silhouette, as if she hadn’t given birth less than three years ago. Maybe the milk baths had worked for her, Sansa thought bitterly, her second pregnancy had given her a few layers of skin under the base of her abdomen. These had not disappeared along with her voluptuous belly. Not with the help of potions, or milk baths, or any diets.

“Sansa.” Jon said quickly, opening his arms without reservation. Sansa almost immediately felt guilt invade her. Her brother’s gray eyes shone affectionately, oblivious to the lies Sansa had so recklessly fomented. Maekar might not be his son, but what if he was? Jon believed he was, Sansa remembered bitterly. “I missed you, Gods… How I missed you.” Hr said amidst the warm hug. Jon no longer smelled like heather and soap. But rather with valenciana and geranium oil, flowers that used to perfume the baths of the most fortunate southern nobles.

“Six years.” Sansa conceded, her hands returning to wrap around her daughter’s shoulders protectively.

“Six years and so many changes.” Daenerys said, smiling gently in Cat’s direction. “I was very anxious to meet you, Lady Catelyn.” She completed genuinely. The Dragon Queen looked pleased, something Sansa could hardly say she expected. No. The Stark expected her daughter to be analyzed, her hips still undeveloped, her front teeth slightly separated... Cat has her own beauty, that will grow, and flower. Sansa was sure of it.

“I could say the same, your grace.” The girl relied with a shy smile, which made Daenerys lose her breath, even if momentarily. Her offspring remained attentive to the dialogue that took place. Maekar maintained a neutral expression while his eyes remained fixed on Cat. Jaehaerys tried in vain to hide his disinterest, sighing up every now and then. Aemon breathed heavily, he seemed to boil inside his black robes, while sweat ran thickly across his forehead. Lyanna, on the other hand, smiled widely in the direction of both of them, while her deep purple eyes interspersed the attentive dynamics that were woven between her mother and her aunt. Sansa well remembered what it was like to be the only girl in a large house. Arya was not a good companion, and certainly baby Rhaenys didn’t even count as such.

“I suppose they are tired from the long journey.” Jon said, apparently satisfied with the mild interaction between his wife and his sister.

“As we certainly have been waiting for so long.” Jaehaerys murmured loud enough to reach Sansa’s ears, and unfortunately Jon’s, whose serious expression was enough for Lyanna and Aemon to straighten up. Maekar didn’t even bother to move.

“Lady Sansa I ask that you forgive Jaehaerys’ words.” Daenerys quickly intervened. “The sun has been cruel, even to dragons.”

“Definitely.” Sansa conceded, offering the Silver Prince a plain smile.

“I personally asked our servants to prepare one of the largest apartments in Maegor’s.” Jon said, trying in vain to hide his displeasure at his eldest son’s last words. “We were hoping to welcome Harrion and Karlon too.”

“Harrion is at the rear of the entourage.” Sansa quickly clarified. “I believe there will be other opportunities for Karlon to join his cousins, there is no doubt.” The Stark said in the lightest way she could. Bringing her firstborn to the dragon’s nest was reckless, especially with the volatile behavior that Sansa was still struggling to tame.

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, after all.” Daenerys conceded, looking deeply at her rival. As much as Jon refused to properly see it, that had been the genesis of their relationship, no matter how many marriages or truces were negotiated. A tapestry can be stitched again, but it will never be the same.

“Bran is the Stark in Winterfell.”Sansa said quickly, her tone not at all affected by her good sister’s insinuation. Her response seemed enough to please the Dragon Queen, who did not hesitate to open the way for them to finally enter the Keep.

______________

The Karstarks had conveniently been installed almost at a minimum distance from Jon and Daenerys. Their accommodations were worthy of the kindred of a royal prince, not only in terms of comfort, but mainly, of vigilance.

The Red Keep might be the home of the Dragon Queen, but filled with strange faces as it was, it was as dangerous as a foreign land. At the very least, she wanted to make sure that all of her good sister's activities were not only tracked, but documented. Casual conversations, private audiences, reunions... As if the son’s absence wasn’t strange enough.

One thing Daenerys could not deny, her future good daughter was a true delight. Under the shade of the orchards Catelyn Karstark walked timidly, beside her the grayish figure of a Septa stood, constant and irremediable. Despite being young, Sansa’s daughter already emanated a delicate and feminine energy. Her copper hair, as vibrant as her mother’s, matched the light brown that shone in her docile gaze.

Maekar had measured her well when she arrived, but since then he hadn’t even spared her a word. Too busy training with the sons of the great lords, that is, when he wasn’t stalking his younger siblings. Daenerys tried not to blame him, Aemon and Lyanna, undisciplined as they were, needed someone on their back whenever possible.

Apparently Ser Podric Payne and Septa Maelle weren’t enough to stop them from slipping through the stables just moments before the Karstarks arrived. Their completely ruined clothes had to find quick replacements. Lyanna had convinced the old Septa to ignore the dress code, taking the lilac that so flattered her eyes. While Aemon found himself trapped by the black and red velvet doublet, which he usually wore on milder days. No wonder he was sweating like a pig, Daenerys thought, watching them in the garden. Now wearing lighter clothes, the boy was able to smile, with his eyes blindfolded, he tried in vain to reach the voice of some of the little ladies who surrounded him, among them Lyanna stood, laughing like a foul-mouthed corsair, running around the circle.

There was a time when Daenerys would blame herself. What kind of woman doesn’t love her children equally? It was three moons before she finally managed to set her eyes on them. Aemon and Lyanna, Lyanna and Aemon. They could have killed her… Sometimes Daenerys thought they were really trying. Everything she remembered from the night they were born was hazy, and stormily disturbing. There was blood everywhere, the sound of swinging swords combined with the roar of dragons, like a second doom. The pain incapable of being diluted, even with the most potent dose of milk of poppy that Dany had taken in her life.

The feeling of incapacity arose every time the Dragon Queen laid her eyes on them, especially as babies… What harm could they both potentially do? If Jon, Septa Maelle, and even Talla Lannister spared so much of their days accompanying them. Would Daenerys be so blind as to not see such wonder?

And then, like an answer, came Rhaenys.

An oversight during the last royal tour. The Targaryen didn’t remember exactly, but somewhere between Storm’s End and Sunspear, moon tea had become indigestible, inconvenient. She had taken the risk, and somehow, no matter how afraid she was, the news had reached her sweetly, surrounded by a deep sense of certainty. Something the Dany had never felt with the twins.

The pregnancy had been peaceful, almost pleasurable, Daenerys would dare to say. Sleep came easily to her, and discomfort was minimal, which allowed her to carry out her duties with the council until the end. The birth was painful as expected, but extremely quick, and when the little one was placed in front of her, Daenerys felt the same again. That was the overwhelming love she so fondly remembered, so strong that it hurt. Blood of my blood, bones of my bones. She thought, analyzing the fine contours that drew Rhaenys’ face. Jon was categorical in stating that the little girl, in certain lights, resembled Rhaella, but nothing that did justice to the resemblance that Lyanna unquestionably presented. Daenerys would never tell her husband, but she didn’t think the twins looked like their father, at least not in the way many insisted on announcing. Strangers, was the first thing Dany thought when she saw them, they don’t even look like mine, or Jon’s, or from anyone else. Perhaps they came from the darkness that threatened to consume everything that night. In the end it was a comfort to think that she, somehow, had foreseen what a headache they would become.

Daenerys took a deep breath, abruptly, pushing away such thoughts. They were Targaryens, they might not be the most appealing, but they were still hers. And when the time came, they would honor their duties as such. Aemon across the Narrow Sea, and Lyanna, sitting obediently beside Jaehaerys. Since she was little, Daenerys made a point of reminding her, she should be grateful to have him as her betrothed, the most beautiful among all the Seven Kingdoms. The silver prince was well liked, he drew waves among the lords of the court, and sighs among the young ladies.

The Targaryen1s biggest fear regarding her firstborn was still the future, despite being intelligent, he didn’t have much appreciation for studies, or, for the arts of weapons... Jaehaerys liked poetry, ballrooms, history and with exceptions, a bit of geography. It was no wonder that Jon devoted so much of his time and effort to the boy. So much so that there was barely time left for Maekar or Rhaenys.

A light knock echoed through the apartments, the sound enough to transport Daenerys back to the comfort of the balconies, and disturb even momentarily Rhaenys’ sleep.

“Yes?” She asked promptly, her violet eyes still fixed on the garden, whose summer breeze gently suffused the royal apartments. The perfume of the few foreign flowers that had grown on that side of the sea engaged her senses, diluting part of the city’s characteristic odor.

“Lady Sansa Karstark would like a moment.” Jana’s voice echoed in response, it was one of the few that entered her cycle of trust, and had remained there over the years. Jana was one of the children of the faith orphanage, when she became old enough, she opted for maid service to the mantle of silent sister. Her talent and dedication guaranteed her a position, she was not well versed in letters, or well born. But her loyalty was sharp, as was her devotion. “If it’s not inconvenient, of course.” Jana added seriously, the statement almost made Dany smile. I’m surprised it took this long.

“It’s not a nuisance at all.” The Targaryen dismissed in her usual tone. “Please ask her to come in.” She said simply, only to hear the doors creaking in a single movement. Sansa’s footsteps resounded for a while until Daenerys finally managed to see her. Her dress had a high, rounded neckline, almost non-existent, and was made of a light fabric mixed in shades of white and blue. The Tully colors. How convenient…

“My queen.” The Stark said, bowing deeply, in the same way as she had done in the courtyard. Maybe she was pretending, maybe she was actually considering being loyal. Daenerys didn’t know how to feel about this, but she really wanted it to work, if not for them, or for Jon, at least for Maekar and Catelyn’s sake. For the future they would build together.

“Why don’t you sit down?” The Dragon Queen asked after a few moments. “I suppose you have something to tell me, something urgent enough that you chose to come without your protector.” The words came to her confidently, bold as she intended them to be. The wolf offered a smile in response, like someone who swallows bitter medicine and still has to pretend to be accustomed. Her blue eyes hovered affectionately, if only briefly, over Rhaenys.

“It wasn’t the love for politics that brought us together, if you ask me. Harrion would rather duel than…”

“Jon.” Daenerys simply cut off. “I was talking about Jon.” Sansa didn’t do a good job of containing her shock, her face turning to the gardens. “Karstark and Targaryen. Bran may have predicted it, but he was the one who decided.”

“I suppose you don’t approve.” Sansa said, reclining comfortably against her seat. This idea seemed to please her. Of course, the more divided it is, the weaker a house becomes. “Was it my sweet daughter who didn’t please you?” She asked in a tone of false innocence.

“Cat is exactly what I expected from her.” Daenerys conceded, rocking little Rhaenys carefully. The Targaryen was determined to contain her anger, she didn’t know how long she could handle Sansa’s beating around the bush. “And I don’t usually judge children for the sins of their parents.”

“I know that my actions were unjustified, but within what was agreed, I have fulfilled my obligations.” Sansa said finally, her eloquent tone breaking the air in the room unexpectedly.

“The new agreement, you mean?” Questioned Daenerys, interrupting her firmly, if her gaze could burn, the violet fury would have already consumed Stark completely.

“I’m sorry for that.” Sansa said unexpectedly, her voice choking as if her throat struggled to vocalize those words.

“I hope you are, truly.” The Dragon Queen said with honesty, almost painful. “Your brother almost died, our first daughter was lost… This is not something that your gold, or a good daughter can repair.”This conversation had been playing in her mind for some time, the day they would finally meet face to face. The Targaryen needed this before she allowed herself to believe in the promises of peace, her trust in Brandon Stark was no longer as unshakable as her husband’s. But Sansa’s response had taken her by surprise in every way, her face contorted into an expression of shock as her unquestionably wet eyes refused to meet hers.

“I… “ The words yet to be said tumbled through Sansa’s lips with imprecision. There was nothing to say after all, there was nothing she could do. “I didn’t know, I swear…”

“You can’t change the past, none of us can... And yet, my husband, stubborn as he is, chose to repeat the same mistake.” Daenerys said seriously, her eyes looked deeply at her. “Your Cat will join my Maekar, and if you go back, this time there will be no treaties or negotiations. If your son raises a claim against mine, Winterfell will burn, and all of you with it.” The Dragon Queen finally swore, her voice serious and at the same time restrained, heavy by the content of her words. Rhaenys rested in her warm embrace, oblivious to everything that was happening. “I know you want independence, I’m not a fool… But know that as long as a Targaryen sits on the Iron Throne this will never happen.” Daenerys managed to see her good sister flinch even briefly from her harsh tone.

“I don’t intend to despise this new chance.” The Stark conceded carefully, her voice breaking as her eyes were strangely focused on the centerpiece, more as if she was looking at herself than at the furniture.

“So, can I consider that we are on the same page?” Daenerys asked her suddenly, her tone a little softer this time.

“Catelyn and Maekar will get married as soon as she comes of age.” Sansa meekly stated, swallowing hard, her teary eyes finally meeting those of her Queen.

“Excellent!” Daenerys said satisfied, trying in vain to shake off the sudden feeling of pleasure that had invaded her upon seeing Stark shaken. “Now, I believe you came to ask me something.”

“It’s about my son, Karlon.” The redhead began, bending her body forward in a docile, and strangely humble way. “I know that you did not find pleasure in the idea of parting from Maekar, and I ask you to think about how the prospect of parting with Karlon hurts me deeply...”

“Jon told me about your request.” Daenerys said compassionately, really considering, even if for a moment, the possibility of granting what Stark had so humbly asked of her. “But I can’t set a precedent for doubts…”

“But…”

“Your heir, as well as all your male children, must grow up in Karhold.” The Dragon Queen continued irreducibly, her firm voice met the reluctance of her good sister, who insistently shook her head, her blue eyes threatening to burst into tears. “You will still have your girl, think I could ask for her here in King’s Landing.”

“You have everything.” Sansa said suddenly, as if she hadn't been able to contain herself. “And yet you fear that my son will usurp yours.” She said like a wounded animal that is reluctant to recognize its defeat. “I wonder if the rumors hold some true…” The last sentence reached the air like a whisper, something that Daenerys didn’t immediately understand. Something in the Stark’s tone made her ask, for the first time, confused:

“What rumours?”

“About your Maekar, and the tyroshi” Sansa said in a painfully suggestive tone, as if a dagger had gone straight through her heart. Daenerys felt her cheeks burn with intensity, her throat dry as her eyes filled with tears. Tyrion had told her about this nefarious rumor, a joke he had heard on one of his many visits to Silk Street. A joke that ended in the darkness of the black cells. “Jon didn’t tell you, did he?” She completed Stark in a raw and deeply cruel way. The Dragon Queen swallowed hard, in a last moment of control she found herself placing baby Rhaenys onto the crib kept next to her seat.

“Get up.” Daenerys ordered simply, standing up without ceremony. Her wet violet eyes risked a single tear as they remained disturbingly open, staring at Sansa in a strangely cold and dangerous fury. “This is for my husband.” She said, delivering a hard blow towards Stark who had fallen against the sofa before she could even stand up completely. Her blue eyes shone scared, her face would be pale if it weren’t for the red mark that colored her left cheek. “And this for my son.” She said, hitting her harder, in exactly the same place, marking her so that the red of her face matched her hair. Sansa had kept her head down, only to be lifted violently by her arm. Daenerys was stronger than she thought, stronger than she expected to be. “I should rip out your tongue for this, and give the rest of you to Drogon.” The Stark swallowed, her eyes hard as ice. “Believe me, if I hear it, once again… It won’t be you, but your precious son.”

“Jon wouldn’t allow it.” Sansa said, raising her chin in a sign of challenge. Daenerys thought about hitting her once more, her hand as much as her heart were longing for it.

“Jon wouldn’t like it.” The Targaryen corrected, pushing her towards the sofa. “Do you really think he would walk through the flames to save you? My husband may be foolish enough to advocate for you, but he is not stupid… Family comes first. Jon would take your head and everyone you love if it meant the safety of one of our children.”

“So will he be the one swinging the sword?” Sansa questioned, standing up again, her eyes locked with the Queen’s in a silent clash. So it was a blade she was hoping to find?

“I’ll spare him of that.” Daenerys conceded firmly. I could burn you myself, wipe your existence from the face of the earth... No, she thought more calmly, killing the messenger doesn’t make the message any less true. Tyrion was right after all, killing her would mean giving relevance to the rumor. “Your punishment, however, will be equally painful. I know, because I’m a mother myself... I would rather have any part of my body ripped off than have one of my children away from me.” Sansa swallowed, the blue of her eyes clouding with the weight of her tears. “Karlon will not go to Karhold at the age of eight, he will go as soon as my ravens reach Winterfell. Catelyn must be looked after by her mother’s family in Riverrun.”

“They are my only children…”

“And think about what you would do to someone who questioned your legitimacy.” Daenerys asked him seriously. “You know it’s little compared to what you truly deserve.”

It was early evening when Jon entered the royal chambers, the room was cool due to the breeze that dared to invade it from the extensive balcony. The few candles that had resisted the wind lit the room lightly. Daenerys sat where she had been all afternoon, Rhaenys had been sent back to the nurseries, while her mother tried in vain to shake off the nefarious thoughts that had almost taken over her that afternoon. Two jars of wine were already clouding her senses, when Jon’s silhouette reached her violet eyes, she sighed, sharing rooms with her husband wasn’t always such a positive thing.

“You didn’t go to the banquet.” The Stark state seriously, his tone did not contain reprimand. He was well groomed, even from a distance his gray doublet looked so soft...

“No.” Daenerys confirmed simply, she was angry with him, she would not allow the wine to make her forget. He had chosen not to tell her the whole truth, and that had only given ammunition to the enemy. Maekar’s future good mother, the woman who hold the place he would one day rule… Dany felt her head throb for a moment, would it be too late to reduce her to ashes?

“Sansa told me about her last decision.” Jon said, approaching, his gray eyes glittered against the candles with apprehension.

“So now you tell me what she says to you?” The Dragon Queen asked, unable to contain herself.

“What do you mean by that?” TheStark asked in response, his confused expression only inflamed Daenerys even more.

“Of course she wouldn’t say everything.” The Targaryen said, standing up suddenly feeling sick. Her legs carried her to the balcony railing, where the cool air allowed her, if only for a moment, to calm her senses. It wasn’t long before he came up behind her, his large, warm hands caressing her back comfortingly.

“I want to understand.”Jon whispered, his voice painful… Lost. “It’s not in you to be cruel, at least tell me what she did.”

“I don’t know if I’m capable, just thinking about it makes my stomach turn.” Daenerys said, fighting in vain with the tears that threatened to break out in her eyes. “Insinuations about Maekar’s paternity…”

“Oh Dany…” Jon said, trying in vain to comfort her.

“Didn’t you think these rumors might interest me? The boy’s mother, your Queen!” Daenerys shouted pushing her husband who, without waiting, had his body projected in the opposite direction, away from her.

“I thought you would kill her if you found out.” The Stark justified without hesitation, his tone as firm as the steps that took him back to his Queen.

“I could.” Daenerys admitted, looking deeply at him. “But I didn’t.”

“No.” Jon agreed, taking his hands to his wife’s waist.

“Do you still think I was wrong to take her children away?” The Targaryen questioned sincerely, for a moment it felt good to know his opinion, to feel his warm touch on her body. “Do you still think I’m cruel?”

“No. You did what was necessary.” Jon said seriously. “Now I see, all the chances we gave her… If it’s not for love, let it be for pain, let it be fear. I don’t want you to suffer anymore because of this, I know I won’t. Maekar is mine, and anyone who questions this shall face the wrath of our house.”

“Fire and blood.” Daenerys said, hugging him tenderly. How long she had waited for those words, and how long he had been reluctant to say them.

“Fire and blood.” The Stark agreed, on his lips the words of his ancestors, his wife, and his children.

______________

In Asshai the earth was purple, the days were gloomy and the nights long, and deeply dark.

All the food that reached her table, even a simple jar of water... It had to be bought with a handful of coins under the fetid black water port, nothing could originate from that nefarious place. As infertile as my insides , Cersei thought, trying in vain to contain the bitterness that threatened to overwhelm her. The damned old woman had already told her, no matter how many years passed, the Lioness continued to hear her, her voice distant and ghostly: And when your tears drown you, the valonqar will wrap his hands around your pale throat and strangle you to death .

It was inevitable not to think about it, the last piece left to reach the ultimate end. Her children, her three beautiful children had been lost, the land had claimed and returned them to dust. Their crowns will be of gold, and their shrouds will be of gold. Sometimes Cersei saw them in her dreams, small and innocent, even in Joffrey it was possible to find some trace of kindness. If only Cersei could go back... She hoped the whore with thorns would be burning in the deepest hell, along with her children and grandchildren. If he had one last regret, it was not having eliminated the Tyrells once and for all. Her house should have met the same fate as the Reynes. Highgarden converted to rubble like the Sept of Baelor.

And then there remained the Dragon Queen… Aerys’s last daughter, the unlikely younger sister who resided across the sea. Over her skirt, Tyrion ruled and ruled, as Hand, as Lord of Casterly Rock... What a joke, thought Cersei as she roughly brushed the golden hair of the girl in front of her. She could be her daughter, she was old enough for that…

Cersei still remembered the day she welcomed the girl into her arms, a find in that terrible place, her golden hair very similar to that of a true Lannister. The only thing she didn’t like was the absence of a member between her legs, a claim, albeit false, that she would have more power with a man. This Cersei took for granted.

Jaime wasn’t too difficult to convince, tired after a long campaign his eyes lit up once again. P athetic , s he thought at the time. If only he knew that the girl’s real father had sold her to Cersei for two silvers , while her mother resided deep in the dark waters of the Jade Sea. Maggy had said three, and three were… That only Melara Hetherspoon’s corpse and Cersei would ever know.

The remainder of the royal treasure stolen during their escape had guaranteed them a small property. A comfortable mansion, made of sticky black stone, but with a greenish garden near its stables… A reminder of what awaited them on the other side of the sea.

Jaime strenuously opposed the idea, but as little Elinor grew, the concern for her future became more urgent. And with each passing year Cersei remained vigilant, when the right opportunity presented itself she would be ready. Her green eyes would not waver before the valonqar, her destiny was set, and as the daughter of Tywin Lannister, Cersei would not hide from it.

Chapter Text

322 a.C.

The Grand Maester’s room had tall shelves, full of thick, well-preserved books. Martyn wondered if even in a single lifetime the old Celtigar had had a chance to read them all.

His dear preceptor’s desk was remarkably empty, as were some of the potions in his glass cabinet. In his chair, old Archmaester Feydor snored somewhat steadily. The man, like Kywell, had a long beard, was strangely thin and his bony face was marked by several warts. Scars of smallpox, Martyn had heard his sister whisper to Amarei Banefort as the poor man turned his back.

Feydor had come to court with the prospect of helping with the birth of the new royal baby, and well... It was no exaggeration to say that Lady Emersande Hayford was weak of mind. Making her old maester ride for half a day on a muddy road for a job he wasn’t even called for? The man had barely managed to correct Lyannas first lessons without falling asleep, let alone staying a day and a night, waiting for Queen Daenerys to push out yet another dragon.

Martyn had not seen his mother go to the birthing bed, but a few years ago he saw her losing a baby… Her belly, swollen for a few moons, had emptied in a living torrent of blood, her face as pale as he had ever seen it. Lady Talla remained bedridden for days, the fever had reached her relentlessly enough for his lord father send for a priest in Stoney Sept. Martyn remembered little of those days, exhausted, he would wake up and sleep under a small armchair next to his mother. She would need someone when she woke up, not a maid or a butler, a familiar face, a face that would light up when it met the brown of her eyes. Aemon came to meet his friend whenever he could, but it was Lyanna who dedicated most of her time, her small, soft hands intertwining with Martyn’s in a comforting way. Some days the princess read beautiful poems in High Valyrian or Ghiscari, other times she sang, her lute as tuneful as her delicate voice. When Lady Talla finally woke up she told everyone about the songs that brought her back to life.

Martyn tried in vain not to look at her so intensely, he wanted to spare himself the embarrassment of being noticed. The sun that broke through the windows enveloped her dark brown hair in a reddish aura, as if she were surrounded by fire. Her dress was made from bust to skirt, of the most delicate light pink silk, its sleeves decorated with arrangements of myrish lace. Her face was firmly turned towards the windows, enchanted by the flight of the beasts that colored the horizon. Martyn knew her too well to know, Lyanna adored them, the way they flew high and unattainable, the beauty of their rough, glistening scales, the way they fiercely fed. The Targaryen princess sighed before them, as Johanna would certainly do before a kitten.

It took Martyn a moment to realize that she had turned towards him, her deep purple eyes flickering between him and the sleeping archmaester. Aemon remained oblivious to the situation, perhaps too focused on his thick accounting notebook, one of the tasks that the Prince Consort had assigned to him, so that he could learn the role of Master of Coin.

“He stopped…” Aemon said abruptly, turning to the skinny figure of old Feydor, whose snoring no longer resonated throughout the room. Lyanna’s smile fell instantly.

“Do you think he died?” The princess questioned, standing up apprehensively, still unsure of how to act. Martyn and Aemon almost immediately did the same.

“Why would he die? He seemed fine a few moments ago…” Martyn asked her, torn between approaching the man or maintaining his position close to the door.

“He is old.” Lyanna said as if it were obvious. “Horton Redfort died the same way, hugged by the Stranger in the middle of his sleep…”

“Maekar told me that young Lady Redfort rode him too fast, blowing his heart into a thousand pieces.” Aemon said without taking his violet eyes off the archmaester, as he dared to take a few steps towards him.

“You shouldn’t believe everything Maekar says, you know how mean he can be when he wants to.” The Targaryen girl said quickly, her tone not at all horrified by her brother’s speech. There was nothing Martyn and Aemon talked about, or did, that she didn’t know. Lyanna might be sweet and feminine, but she was equally perceptive and intelligent, her faith didn’t stop her from seeing the world with a certain practicality, even if Septa Maelle didn’t approve. “What are you doing?” The young princess asked before Aemon’s hands touched old Feydor.

“Seeing if he’s alive?” The prince said simply, responding to his sister’s concerns with a calculated dose of sarcasm. In a single movement Aemon shook the maester’s chest, which, disturbingly, received no response. The man stood still, his pointy chin curved toward his chest, his eyes tightly closed. “Nothing. He doesn’t move...”

“See if he’s still breathing.” Lyanna suggested, taking a step forward, but it was Martyn who placed his right hand close to the old man’s face, close enough to feel a slight and almost imperceptible breath of air. “And then?” The princess asked him fearful.

“He is alive.” Martyn announced, suddenly happy, he hadn’t enjoyed the maester’s brief maester’s lesson, but not enough to want to see the poor man dead. Aemon had allowed himself to sigh, relieving even briefly the tension in his body, while Lyanna moved closer to feel Feydor’s breathing for herself.

“So it’s…” Aemon’s voice was suddenly cut off by the ringing of the bells. The sound had reached them louder than the roar of dragons, piercing the windows, shaking the bookshelves... Violently waking the old Archmaester of Hayford. His blue eyes opened startled by the abrupt interruption of his rest, his dry throat faltered as the words skated across his tongue. The royal baby had been born. Not that the news reached the children imediatelly, they were scared by awakening of the apparentely dead man. Lyanna jumped up and was the first to retreat, her hands deftly pulling them away. Aemon had not hesitated to free himself, his step faster, he made his way through the corridors, while Martyn guarded the princess’s left, ignoring Ser Podric’s requests for calm who tried in vain to reach them. They even tried for a few moments to contain their laughter, the shock of Feydor’s sudden awakening mixed with the relief of seeing him alive was enough to take them, with red cheeks and wet eyes, to Maegor’s.

The door to the anteroom leading to the royal apartments was wide open. An invitation to the nobles of King’s Landing, who festively occupied its interior. In their hands full glasses and while they decided whether to smile or whisper to each other. When the trio entered the room, what followed was a joint movement of reverence. And then Martyn saw them, his remarkably short father standing next to the Prince Consort, while his mismatched eyes remained fixed on the door that led to the Dragon Queen’s inner chambers. Johanna did her best not to roll her eyes, albeit discreetly. She served as Lyanna’s lady-in-waiting, not that she appreciated the role or the princess’s presence as she should. Lady Talla, in the opposite movement, smiled with sweetness, her brown eyes fixed on her son at all times, attentive to her posture, to the gold of his wavy hair, to the greenish eyes that smiled at her in response. She was the only one in the Tower of the Hand who not only appreciated her heir’s friendship with the twins, but encouraged it.

“Dear father.” Lyanna said, bowing with precision in front of the Prince Consort, whose smile was enough to make Martyn hesitate, his father had never smiled at him like that, not that he remembered. The White Wolf as he was called, was gentle and extremely strong... The best swordsman in all the Seven Kingdoms. Martyn had seen him train the crown prince, his fury unrelenting even in front of his son. Maekar was trained by Jhogo, which was also exciting to see, less because of the superiority of one of the participants, and more because of the equality of the match. It wouldn’t take long for the future Lord of Winterfell to surpass his father. “The Queen?” The princess asked, leaning slightly towards Jon, giving him a soft kiss on the cheek.

“Your mother will be fine.” The Stark said, holding his daughter’s shoulders to reassure her.

“Do you already know what it is?” Aemon asked, taking a step forward.

“A boy.” Jon said with a tight smile. Four sons and two daughters, honor and joy, the prince consort seemed worried about the amount of honor that the Gods decided to grant him. “Have you seen Jaehaerys, or Maekar?” He asked in a lower voice, low enough so that only they could hear.

“No.” Aemon said simply.

“No, not since dinner.” Lyanna said to the displeasure of her father, whose gray eyes turned hopefully to the Lannister boy.

“I didn’t see them, I’m sorry, your highness.”

“That’s fine.” The Prince Consort conceded. “But if you have any idea where they…” The sound of the doors breaking had cut his voice with dexterity. In the arms of Jana, the most faithful servant of the Dragon Queen, the little prince cried intensely, his body wrapped under a light cloak that it mixed the colors of the Targaryens and the Starks. “Thank you, Jana.” Jon said grateful, taking the baby in his arms. Before the blonde could return to her Queen’s chambers, Martyn heard her whisper in the direction of the Prince Consort.

“She still calls for them, what do I say, your highness?” Jana’s soft voice met Stark’s hard face. The joy of welcoming another son quickly resume to give place to a stern expression. They’re talking about Jaehaerys and Maekar, Martyn thought immediately. The Queen wanted to see them, not that they were around to be summoned.

“Tell her I’m coming.” He said simply, clenching his jaw before turning to the nobles present there, his face a little lighter. “My good lords and ladies, the Gods thought it fair to bless our Queen with another son. His name is Daeron of House Targaryen, Prince of Summerhall!” Jon announced firmly, his haughty voice carried a certain pride and was met by the excited chorus of his nobles and many raised glasses. The reconstruction of the Targaryen summer fortress had not been undertaken haphazardly after all. Martyn wondered if the works would finish in time for the no longer little Daeron to move there. Renovations are expensive and take too long, but reconstruction? I hope it’s a girl this time. At least that was what the young Lannister had heard his father say once. “Would you like to meet him?” The Stark asked towards the twins with affection.

“Yes, please.” The Princess quickly said, taking a step forward, her arms raised towards the child in anticipation.

“Sit down first.” Jon indicated, trying in vain to contain the smile that threatened to break out on his lips. His careful hands handed her the baby with certainty. Little Daeron looked like Rhaenys when she was little... Silver hair and rosy cheeks, gracefully plump. Martyn found himself smiling too, the idea of having a child had never crossed his mind, not before seeing her holding one.

“Hi Daeron, it’s me. Your sister, Lyanna.” The Targaryen girl said, watching him carefully. Daeron was no longer crying, and his small gray eyes were looking at her curiously as he cuddled up to her.

“He has Jaehaerys’ eyes.” Aemon noted, keeping a certain distance.

“Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?”Martyn asked genuinely.

“This is stupid.” The prince replied directly. “He won’t even remember.”

“Maester Valarr told me he might remember us, from when he heard our voices in the belly.” Lyanna said quickly cutting off her twin brother, who did little but roll his eyes.

“You know a little about everything, don’t you?” Aemon said good-naturedly, approaching them quickly. “I’m Aemon, your brother as well. And I... I welcome you to our house.” The boy said, holding the baby’s small hand, shaking it slightly.

“He’s huge.” Lyanna commented, suddenly shocked, as if realization had invaded her. “No wonder she screamed so much…” Before Martyn, or Aemon, or Jon could answer her, the room erupted in laughter. As if everyone had suddenly gone silent and the princess’s voice reigned supreme, at an opportune moment. Lyanna’s delicate face had turned red before she knew it. Johanna stepped forward, her voice rising with laughter.

“I suppose your highness can't wait to have your own princes and princesses, as many as the Silver Prince wants.” The Lannister said with an unchanging smile. Martyn’s sister was a beautiful young woman, golden hair and brown eyes, tall and with delicate curves. She was smart, and when she wanted to, she could be sneakily wicked. Lyanna swallowed hard, moving away even a little from the baby. She didn’t seem to appreciate the idea, marriage, children... Jaehaerys. It hadn’t even been two moons since the princess had blossomed and the Realm lived for days, ignorant of that fact. Aemon, whose single door separated his chambers from his sister’s, took care of the bloody sheets. While Martyn helped her, stealing women’s cloths from her mother and sister. Lyanna didn’t need to marry Jaehaerys, not while she was just a girl.

“We still have time before it comes to that.” Jon Stark said seriously, his tone reassuring as his hands prepared to take the baby boy back into his arms. She smiled at him in gratitude, a weak, sad smile. Martyn almost immediately felt a pang in his heart. He hated seeing her like this…

“We should go now.” Aemon said quickly, his eyes burning cold on the silhouette of Johanna Lannister. “Archmaester Feydor promised us another lesson.”

The afternoon began to fade on the horizon as the three friends made their way through the dimly lit passages of the Red Keep. Aemon led the group, deftly holding the candle that guided them through the darkness. This had all been his idea, from covering the bed with pillows to putting Septa Maelle to bed early. Lyanna had stolen the servants’ clothes in the morning, something too brown or dark for them to be recognize.

This wasn’t the first time Martyn had left the Keep.

The three of them had done this a few times over the past few years. Trips to the fish market, the city port, the Dragons’ Pit, and sometimes taverns. Street fairs were Lyanna’s favorite, seeing the city lit up, while watching the plays of the various troupes of mummers that passed by, her mouth full of laughter, bread, fruit, cheese. Aemon, on the other hand, preferred the old tavern in Eel Alley, close enough to the Red Keep in case any misfortune happened to them, close enough to Amber… Martyn remembered her, from the night he became a man. As they crossed the street, there was a brothel, with high walls, built of yellowish stone bricks, with doors and windows decorated in what looked like dull, antique bronze. Tyrion had even introduced her to his son, a woman of medium height and slightly robust, a Dornish beauty. Her eyes had earned her the name, as they were an almost magnetizing amber. Martyn remembered the way her father had held her by the waist, saying he wouldn’t give her to the boy yet, as he himself still had so much to enjoy. Martyn remembered crying in the lap of the prostitute who had been assigned to him, he was sad, disgusted and angry. For the first time in his life, he had felt anger towards his father… If he no longer loved his Lady Talla, he owed her at least some respect.

Bertha has held him the entire time, her arms thick and welcoming as she watches him with concern. She had dark, curly hair and warm, brown eyes, like Martyn’s mother’s. Bertha did calm him down, only to strip him naked and make him a man. At least that was what she had said, what his lord father had said… But Martyn hadn’t felt that way. No, he was confused, because even though he felt good, there was something very strange about letting himself be touched by Bertha. She wasn’t his wife, she was older and no matter how delicate she tried to be, her touch was abrasive and hasty. Her body was large compared to Martyn’s, who must have been just over ten at the time. He had grown up a lot since then, but even so, he wouldn’t want to see her again... And he didn’t understand how Aemon could have any kind of relationship with Amber.

Martyn knew who he would choose for himself if he could, in the dim light he tried in vain not to look at her. Her thin pink dress had come off her without difficulty, beneath her simple white petticoat, it was possible to see the curve of her slender waist, the abrupt growth of her breasts... Lyanna didn’t even remember the toothless girl from years ago, with a flat chest and an easy laugh. Those were good days, they could both walk hand in hand, climb on top of each other and roll around in the grass. Lately nothing was appropriate anymore, no... Everything about Lyanna already accused, she was a woman, and soon she would be a wife, Jaehaerys’ wife.

Aemon shifted between them, oblivious to the new contours of his sister’s body, oblivious to the excitement that had colored Martyn’s cheeks and uncomfortably tightened his trousers. He was good at that, pretending not to know, and knowing more than anyone.

“Martyn.” He said abruptly, his violet eyes seriously. “Your hair screams Lannister gold. Wear the cap, it will save us some problems,”

“Why not the straw hat?” Lyanna asked, rummaging through the cloth bags in frustration. Apparently they only had these two options. “I got the clothes, I should choose….

“I don’t mind changing.” Martyn said quickly, there wouldn’t be any hassle, after all.

“We already talked about this. Your hair is long enough to show through the cap.” Aemon explained. “We don’t want anyone to notice, do we?”

“No.” The young princess agreed promptly, wrapping her wavy hair inside her hat. She was dressed in a long blue cloak, brown trousers and shirt, brown as autumn mud. “How am I?” She asked, finally addressing Martyn, a playful smile played on her lips as she approached him.

“Like the stable boy.” The Lannister said abruptly, consumed by a lapse in honesty. Lyanna was still beautiful, as she always would be… But her clothes were exactly the same as the ones the copper-skinned stableboy who had helped her was wearing earlier that day. “I thought you had gone to the laundries, why…”

“Ser Edmund was there... If he saw me we would be ruined!” Lyanna said, quickly defending herself. “So I had to ask Haggo, he didn’t have much…”

“I suppose he didn’t ask questions. What did you give him in return?” Aemon asked quickly.

“A dragon for the clothes, and a kiss for his silence.” The Targaryen girl said with a shrug, only for her brother to laugh. Martyn did his best not to show his discomfort, as it wasn’t his place to even feel it. He would do well to remember.

“I imagine he must have felt like a prince.” Aemon said in his most ironic tone as he checked the bag they were taking once again. It was his responsibility to deal with the gold, as he was the only one who had the means to acquire it easily. Sometimes as a favor from his father, but mainly for the business he did with some merchants, usually in the name of the Master of Coin, at least that was what Aemon allowed himself to say to Martyn.

“Don’t make fun of him.” Lyanna said, taking the cap and carefully placing it on Martyn’s head. His entire body shivered at the princess’s soft, gentle fingers, which worked to hide his golden curves.

“You don’t need to do that.” The Lannister whispered in her direction, admiring the concentrated expression on her delicate face. Lyanna smiled at him in response, taking her time to finish with the cap.

“I know.” She conceded warmly before walking away with a single step. Aemon stood between them, his violet eyes watching the interaction with an air of curiosity. The torch was already warm in his hands, illuminating more than the candles had potentially done so far, while the worn cloth bag hung unassumingly on his shoulder.

“Can we go now?” The prince prompted, taking front of both of them. Martyn and Lyanna did little but glance at each other briefly, before following him down the dark paths they had long since memorized.

The smallfolk littered the city streets with joy. Under the light of the torches, the merchants’ tents took on new shades and colors. There was music everywhere, at every corner a new melody, whether in the strings of a harp or the tone of a lute, in the voice of a singer or in the lively chorus of the staggering drunks who insisted on remaining at the party.

It was an ancient custom that, like many things, had been revived with the restoration of House Targaryen. Just like the nobles, the smallfolk had the day to celebrate the arrival of the new heir and the good health of their queen. The people loved her, it was true. Their protector, the beautiful Targaryen who had freed them from the nefarious rule of Cersei Lannister. It was difficult for Martyn to conceive of the idea that she was his aunt… His distant, promiscuous aunt, who had once shared a bed with her own brother. The nobles of the Westerlands used to say that Martyn looked like him... He had once heard Lord Foote say that perhaps Jaime Lannister still snuck under the Keep’s columns, at least long enough to place his seed in Lady Talla’s belly, and then disappear into the shadows of anonymity. That insinuation was enough to drive the man back to Nightsong, Martyn still remembered his mother’s wet eyes at those words, the scarlet fury that had colored the face of the Dragon Queen and her Hand. Martyn sometimes remembered the episode and of the enormous shame he had felt, for himself, for the poor man whose drinking had made a complete fool.

Lyanna had convinced them to go to the big bonfire that was happening in the Fishmonger Square, she had heard one of the chambermaids comment about the puppet theater coming from Braavos, their play would be the one about the Long Night, or as bard Lenny had kindly nicknamed it, the Song of Ice and Fire. Aemon had other plans however... Before they could continue along the River Row, the trio took a short break under the old tavern of Eel Alley.

Under the wooded hall the Bear and the Beautiful Maiden resounded in a single chorus, while a circle of young peasants crossed the hall dancing happily. The tables that snaked along the crooked walls were very busy, men and boys interspersed, their cheeks already pink from the alcohol as they sang, following the rhythm of the song. Some women crossed the room, serving beer to their most frequent customers, while others were well guarded by a number of protectors. Wives, daughters, maybe whores... Martyn couldn’t say.

“Here.” Aemon said, depositing what seemed to be some coins in Lyanna’s hands, his violet eyes attentive to the movement of the room, to anyone who could observe them. “Amber is waiting for me upstairs, I won’t be long…”

“She will never be your wife, you know that, don’t you?” Lyanna impulsively asked, pulling her brother’s arm in response, bringing him closer. The frequency with which he visited Amber was increasing more and more.

“No.” Aemon replied, unaffected by his sister’s worried words, his eyes returned to hers firmly. “She’s a whore. That’s all she is to me.” He said factually, as Tyrion Lannister would certainly say... But his tone somehow seemed to want to appease her sister’s heart. “There’s enough for a few beers, a good roast if you feel hungry. I won’t be long...” Aemon said assuring her, his hand overlapping hers with affection, before he let go, submerging himself between dancing bodies, heading to the second floor. For a moment, Martyn wished that Ser Podric were there, that he would guard him while he was alone. Aemon might be a good fighter, but still, he hadn’t even reached his fourteenth name day yet.

“I would like to understand…” Lyanna said, extending her arm towards the Lannister who quickly accepted it, taking it carefully for himself. Even over those rough, smelly clothes, her hands were soft and his face pleasantly mild. “Why does he come back if he doesn’t love her? He must feel good...” The question was as clear as a summer day, Martyn took a deep breath, trying in vain to think, as he placed some copper stars in the hands of the innkeeper, who hadn’t even spared him a glance, before serving them two mugs full of beer. “Did you feel good when…”

“Yes… I-I felt it, yes.” Martyn felt his entire face heat up, as if he were made of hot coals.

“And yet... You didn't come back to see her.” Lyanna continued drinking from the mug lightly, as if it were the sweetest Arbor Gold.

“No, I didn’t.”The Lannister replied simply. “My father paid her... A-and of course there’s nothing wrong with that, but I... I’d like to be touched by someone who really wants to do it. For someone that I want.” He said, avoiding the princess’s deep and attentive eyes, her hands went to his shoulder, sweet and comforting.

“That’s…That’s very... I wish Jaehaerys thought so.” Lyanna said, sighing, this time she drank deeply, as if she was looking for the bottom of the mug, as if she wanted to shake off the commitment that had haunted her since she was old enough to remember.

“Do you love him?” Martyn asked before he could think properly, maybe he didn’t really want to know.

“In the same way I love Aemon and Rhaenys, how one day I know I will love little Daeron.” Lyanna said with a sad and distant smile. “Not like I need to love a husband… Devotion, obedience and subordination, I would rather die than give that to him, to any man.”

“Don’t say that, please…” Martyn said quickly, his hands pulling her close to him. “I hate that you feel this way, but Jaehaerys’s hug is better than the Stranger’s… As unhappy as it makes us.” The last sentence went through him before he could contain himself, it had caught her by surprise, her deep purple eyes turned to the Lannister, bright and curious.

“Would it make you unhappy? See me married to him?”

“It would make me unhappy to see you unhappy.” Martyn said simply. It was the truth, not the whole truth, but for now it was enough to warm Lyanna’s heart, her delicate face watched him continuously, lighter. How beautiful could she possibly be?

“You are a good friend.” The princess stated firmly, her expression carried a certain melancholy, something almost imperceptible, but which Martyn felt like a a pit in his stomach. “And I hope you get your person… Someone who wants you as much as you want her.” She said before turning all the beer against her lips, moving away briefly so she could wipe off the foam that had stuck to her upper lips, like a white mustache. “Can we dance?” Lyanna asked at the same time that she answered herself, taking Martyn’s half-full mug and placing it next to hers under the counter. She wasn’t doing a good job of disguising her identity, the clothes and hat served the purpose of blending her into the place, but the way she carried herself, light and graceful, wouldn’t take long to draw attention.

“Walk more stiffly, like a man would.” Martyn suggested pulling her close to him, their hands intertwined before they could let go, joining the circle in careful steps. It was a simple dance, a walk around the room, while rotating with alternating partners. There was a girl among them, she seemed to be the same age as Johanna, if not older... And the other boys seemed to be related to her, judging by the same shade of brown that colored their curly hair.

The most delicious moment of the whole dance was when Lyanna fell into his arms, no matter how used to her he was, feeling her on top of him made him nervous, clumsy... He was worried about holding her in the right way, not showing his feelings, analyzing whether she was doing a good job of passing as a boy. The beer had made him lighter, light enough to fall toward a table.

The circle continued without them.

As Martyn tried to get up, his mind was still spinning as he noticed his wet robes, the smell of beer clinging to his skin, Lyanna’s hat against the floor as she divided her efforts between getting up and putting it on. There were a lot of angry eyes turned in their direction, but one of them alarmed him almost immediately... Its owner was a tall man, who even sitting down seemed to surpass Ser Andrey, both in size and strength. He didn’t appear to be much older, he had a sloppy beard and his skin was covered in a shiny layer of sweat... He and the others who accompanied him, there must have been four, five, Martyn had counted seven... They were all wearing the golden cloak. For a moment it seemed that this would be the end of their adventures beyond the thick, reddish walls of the Keep. They would be handed over and punished, Martyn could already feel the slaps his father would give him and every day he would be deprived of the company of his friends.

“Stupid boys!” The taller man shouted, getting up from his seat in a furious display, Martyn did his best with the courage he had, pulling Lyanna close to him.

“Forgive me, Ser.” The boy said quickly, as it seemed they hadn’t been recognized. Not that it dampened the galloping rhythm of his heart.

“I should give you a beating!” The man replied, pulling Martyn hard by the collar of the tattered shirt he was wearing, only to push him back to the position he occupied. This will do whatever they want, Martyn wondered if they would listen if they needed to reveal their identities. “I’m soaked! My companions lost their drinks, how do you plan to fix that, hmm?”

“Two deers.” Lyanna said in a purposefully thick voice, the hat hid her face as much as she could. The men at the table looked at each other before finally one of the younger boys stood up, his copper skin and long hair betraying his undeniably Dothraki origins. “That’s all we have.”

“And how did two douchebags get such a sum?” The young man asked, approaching with constant steps, until he stopped abruptly, some distance away from them. His eyes carried a different shine now, before Martyn could think, the Dothraki had shot forward quickly, taking Lyanna’s arm tightly. Not her, no, Martyn thought as a terrible feeling threatened to overwhelm him. “Just look what we got here...” He said, removing her hat with his other hand, the princess reluctantly threw herself in the opposite direction, resisting the iron grip of that strange man. Her deep purple eyes were silently fixed on him, in open defiance. While her black, wavy hair was gracefully loose, exposed for anyone who wanted to see. “Now we know how she got the silver, a beautiful girl should keep her earnings, right?”

“We insist.” Lyanna said grittin her teeth as she pulled away from him forcefully, she had not retreated behind Martyn, but had remained standing proudly, her hand was open, with the cold coins, extended towards them.

“We can be good for you, you know...” The older man said, his tone full of ulterior motives was enough to inflame Martyn. He was terrified, it was true, but no less disgusted. “The skin business is difficult…”

“She is not up for negotiation, take the silver and we will move on with our lives.” The Lannister said with the authority he had as heir to Casterly Rock, but certainly not as the poor boy he was trying to pretend to be. Courage had suddenly flooded him, in a way he had not been able to contain.

“Or what?” Questioned another, standing up, he was thinner and had a hard face, his rigid and calculated posture screamed danger. Martyn thought of himself, of the dagger he still dangled beneath his cap and how he wouldn’t have time to get it in his hands before they reached Lyanna, thought of what she might be thinking, thought of Aemon… Aemon. He had finally emerged among them, his posture more relaxed than Martyn had believed.

“I hope it can cover the inconvenience.” The Targaryen prince said, throwing a small leather bag on the table of golden cloaks, and then another, and another... The noise of metal enough to steal the men’s attention, the lust faded from their faces as greed took over. His fingers, which hurriedly tried to open the small bags. The trio, in silent and indisputable agreement, came together to find a way through the room, marching silently towards the door. His departure, until then, unnoticed.

Aemon had once again taken the lead, running at a sprint as his eyes seemed to frantically search for something. And almost as if he had made up his mind, his steps quickly took him to one of the knights who stood in front of the establishment’s door. The man wore simple clothes, was bald and had a beard dyed red, which contrasted with the dark tone of his eyes. He must have been a foreigner, perhaps from Myr, or Tyroshi… The people on that side of the sea had a certain fondness for dyes. His body was relaxed as he fed his gray palfrey a small, slightly yellowish apple.

“How much for the horse?” Aemon asked, his voice carried a rush that was uncharacteristic for him.

“It is not for sale.” The clearly foreign man replied, as if he doubted they could pay.

“Two dragons.” The prince said, raising the coins towards the man who had come forward, genuinely interested. But something made him return to his position, his dark eyes took a moment to look well. The anxious way Lyanna oscillated between following her brother and the tavern door, as if something terrible was about to happen. Martyn’s rigid posture as he breathed deeply, trying to suppress his worries, at least trying.

“It’s a good horse…”

“Four, and I know it’s worth half that.” Aemon said as an ultimatum. One that was quickly accepted – the reins for the gold – Not a bad offer after all, not when Martyn had spotted the gold cloaks marching furiously towards them, their heavy bodies leaving their mark on the land. The tallest one led the group, his skin as red as the markings of Dorne, while his eyes remained fixed on Lyanna in a disturbing way.

“We need to go!” The Lannister said alarmed, only to see Lyanna’s slender form climbing on her own on the palfrey, her hands comforting the animal’s neck. Aemon kept his attention on the ropes of the mooring, while his gaze wavered in the direction of their persecutors. It wouldn’t take long for them to get there. “We need to go, we need to go now!” Martyn said, taking his place behind the princess, wrapping his arms firmly around her slim waist. As Aemon had finally found a way to untie the knots, in a single movement he handed the reins to Lyanna’s eager hands, only to climb nervously over the horse’s back. With the three mounted, the young princess did not hesitate to act, guiding the palfrey in an abrupt and urgent sprint. As much as the twins loved to argue about the superiority of their abilities, there was no time for that. In an uncertain curve, the palfrey’s hooves swayed before they managed, in what seemed like an eternity, to right themselves, Lyanna’s legs clenched her form dexterously before she continued unhindered beyond the River’s Row.

Martyn could still hear them further back, their voices mixing with the sound of horse s’ hooves, the music that filled the streets, the protest of the masses at the rush. The Fishmonger Squar e was illuminated by a show of brilliant lights that burst in the wind like starry embers, while puppets of silk, wood and paper moved high, an icy dragon with blue scales stood against the black and frightening form that should resemble Drogon. Below them, actors danced with their blunt swords, falling over a pile of fake bodies, oblivious to the presence of not just one, but two heirs of the blood .

The square was full and with the stage before them, and the golden robes at their rear, there was nowhere to go. Martyn had heard her hesitate, at least for a moment, her feminine body becoming tense, before leaning forward determinedly, toward the stage. The Lannister hadn’t even had time to properly analyze the course of actions, his hands clung to her, keeping himself in position, as he let himself be carried away by that terrible sensation, the unpredictability mixed with the delicious instinct of discovery.

The palfrey’s body rose violently backwards before reaching the stage in a single leap, trampling over the scenography, the large paper puppets, and the mummers who controlled them. Shouts followed, as did the disorderly escape of the audience, who, frightened, tried in vain to move away from the uproar. Lyanna remained firm, the tension fading as they advanced to the other side of the square, which, to the trio’s relief, was emptier.

Martyn looked back before letting the euphoria wash over him, the confusion ha d thrown the golden cloaks off their trail. We did it . He thought, his belly still cold from the adventure, while his youthful face contorted into delicious laughter. He felt grateful, excited, and deeply relieved. The trio had escaped unharmed, their identities safe.

The naturally docile mount found relief in Lyanna’s commands, which more calmly led them to a corner beneath the base of Visenya Hill. Martyn didn’t need to see her to know she was smiling too.

“I can’t believe we did it!” Lyanna said happily dismounting, her eyes shone deep and vibrant, like the beginning of a night. “I’m shaking…” She said, smiling genuinely at him, while her arms reached out seeking the Lannister’s support.

“We should drink as many beers as you want for this!” Martyn said, spinning her delicate body his hands, overcome with the same joy. Her dexterity saved them, her courage and drive.

“Stop! You’ll have to carry me if I don’t stop!” Lyanna said while laughter crossed her cheeks with a red shade. Her hands rested on the Lannister’s shoulders, which gave him easy access to take her into his arms, swinging her higher. “Martyn!”

“Where then?” He asked just to see her smile once again, heavenly beautiful, happy.

“How far can you take me?” Shedared him in response.

“Put her on the ground. Put her down now!” Aemon suddenly shouted, approaching with heavy steps, his voice choked and painful. Martyn complied, confused, he would never touch her inappropriately, never…

“Aemon, it was no big deal.” Lyanna said, placing herself between them, protectively.

“I entrusted her to you!” The Targaryen boy said, pushing her slightly to face Martyn, his violet eyes bitter on his friend. “Just to return for a company of guards perching around her?”

“A setback.”

“Did you just push me?!” Lyanna asked, once again resuming her position, the flammable nature of her temper easy to ignite.

“Do you have any idea what they could have done if they had laid their hands on you?” Her brother asked seriously, with an almost inseparable mixture of sadness and anger. “If you had known, you would have been careful as I asked.”

“Turns out we were careful.” Lyanna replied proudly.

“Of course! Drinking until you fall on the ground, like twofucking idiots!”

“It wasn’t like that…” Martyn intervened, placing himself between them.

“Where is your hat?” Aemon continued, ignoring him, his violet eyes burning intensely on his sister. Both were more similar than they allowed themselves to recognize…

“I lost it.” The princess assumed it without hesitation. “But that’s no excuse for shouting at Martyn, or raising your hand against me.” She finally said, her incorrigible voice reaching them, hard and factual. Lyanna had always been different from them, her body thinner and delicate, and even now when that was becoming more and more evident, Aemon had never treated her differently, not until that moment. “We got away with it, can’t you be happy about that?”

“We barely did it.” Aemon said, touched by what he had just heard, but still resentful. “Do you have any idea what they could have done?” Aemon asked dejectedly, his tone almost hurt. The possibility that haunted him didn’t even take an instant to settle, heavily, on Martyn’s heart. And immediately he decided, he couldn’t bear it...

“Aemon…” The Lannister asked, he didn’t want to think, he didn’t want to hear.

“No!” Aemon interrupted seriously, while Lyanna tried in vain, between confused looks, to understand what they were saying. “They would have raped her, repeatedly, violently…” The Targaryen continued, his voice choked, furious and saddened. Martyn felt his stomach turn, and his skin cold with the sweat of that hot morning. “And when, when they finished…” The prince’s voice had broken, choked, deep in his throat. Fat, salty tears rushed through him abruptly, as he tried in vain to push them away under the impulsive touch of her hands.

“Aemon.” Lyanna whispered, fighting in vain against the current of tears that threatened to overwhelm her in equal measure. In an urgent, and equally warm, movement, she enveloped him in a tender and lasting hug. Their black hair mixing together, as if they were one. Martyn liked to think that he had built a special bond with both of them. But the truth was that he would never have what they both had. Lyanna and Aemon were not just siblings in the most common sense of the word, they had been born together, hand in hand as Septa Maelle liked to say. “I wouldn’t let them, not without fighting first…” She said, slowly moving away, the expression that clouded Aemon’s face, lighter and more contained. “And I know that if you could, you would defend myself… As Martyn did.”

“I heard him.” Aemon said, turning, even if slightly, towards the Lannister. His expression carried an apology, even if his pride prevented him from verbalizing it properly. Martyn nodded simply, grateful for the many times his friend had done the same for him. The nature of the lion was not so different from that of the dragon after all.

Chapter Text

322 a.C.

The dawn heat had faded into a mild, cloudy morning.

There was little left of the festive bonfires that lit up the night, if not for piles of burnt wood, fatally charred. The white smoke that filled the streets was fueled by the fine drizzle that dampened the muddy path. The smell of wet earth mixed with the ashes, with the smell of piss, of ale, of sweet breads that were just leaving the oven.

Luthor couldn’t say he enjoyed being there, not after spending an entire night on his horse’s back. Gray Worm and the boy’s father had been very clear, the Tyrell should only return in possession of the handsome runaway prince. Whatever it takes, as soon as possible.

Escorting him was a good thing, at least in the beginning.

Jaehaerys had a strong personality, that was true... Full of himself, his petulant and answering manner came out in the company of the White Wolf, while his affable and political side found strength to grow in the love of his mother. He had no talent for chivalry, or for studies, and as reprehensible as it seemed, Luthor didn’t have the strength to dislike the boy, at least not for that reason. Jaehaerys had good instincts, never in all ten years of attendance had he done anything to hurt or harm anyone. The Silver Prince had his wants and tastes well defined, and when he desired something, he was relentless in his pursuit. As expected of the nature of dragons.

All the problems started when his interests came together with Maekar’s. The second brother, the black shadow that hovered over his shoulders, covering, manipulating. Luthor wondered how the chubby prince of old, sweet for all intents and purposes, had become such a snobbish and evil figure. Maybe it was the rumors, maybe the bitterness of seeing everything that could be his destined for someone else... Dalt covered him up on his many outings around the city, his white cloak stained by his prince’s mistakes and misdeeds. And that wouldn't be a problem, not with Gray Worm oblivious to what was going on, not as long as Jaehaerys remained close to Ser Luthor’s eyes.

The knight was only sure where they were after his second lap around the Street of Silk.

The elegant figure of Sor Andrey Dalt’s sand steed stood before the mooring. Its lustrous black fur shone even in the face of that opaque and cloudy day, its slender and swift form barely used in the ups and downs of that fetid city. Judging by the way he was huffing tiredly, they had just arrived. Chataya’s. Luthor had passed by at least three times last night alone. He was already familiar with the glow of the colorful stained glass windows, the wide stone turret that rose over the corner, and the infamous scarlet lamp. From a young age, the Tyrell had never had a taste for brothels, they were always too expensive, and they almost never boasted the company he wanted to share. But as the Silver Prince’s sworn shield, it was almost natural to know them. Chataya’s, Eel Alley, Blue Pearl…

The white wooden door adorned with iron carvings stood open, and beyond it, the brightly colored and beautifully tapestted hall was remarkably empty, if not for Dalt’s presence. He didn’t look tired, or lost, or relieved... Sitting on a wide, comfortable armchair he did little but smile in the direction of Chataya's beautiful daughter, Alayaya, or as Maekar preferred, Yaya. She must have been thirty years old at most, not that anything about her appearance gave it away. Her slender body was wrapped under a light golden silk dress that left her back bare, and her small breasts strategically exposed. She had handed Ser Andrey a cup before turning to the second white cloak who had entered the establishment.

“Sor Luthor.” The woman said with a courteous smile, approaching at a calm and relaxed pace.

“Would you like something to drink? I believe the young princes may take their time…”

“So they are here.” The Tyrell said firmly, his eyes hard on the form of his sworn brother. Alayaya still stood between them, the jug heavy in her hands. “Water, if I don’t abuse your good will.” He said in the most polite way he could, sitting opposite Ser Andrey, who continued, making every effort to ignore him. “You will kill your horse if you continue riding it with armor.” Luthor provoked, he was tired of being left behind and remaining silent.

“I could run the risk of getting hurt if I don’t use it.” Andrey replied simply. “What is worth more Ser Luthor, the life of the horse or the man who rides it?”

“It depends on the man we are talking about.” The Tyrell conceded coldly, his brown eyes fixed on the dornishman. The answer was in the air, he felt it hovering, passing through his lungs.

“I think this is the first time we’ve agreed on something.” Dalt said in his most false courtesy. Not that Luthor had any patience left to play, everything had been consumed by the night. “I’m afraid that won’t make us friends after all…”

“I will speak frankly, and know that I will do so for the last time.” The Tyrell began, his voice dangerously serious as his eyes remained fixed on Ser Andrey’s relaxed form. “Whatever you’re trying to do, you better stop. Jaehaerys is my responsibility. It’s not the first time he disappeared under your protection, but I hope, for everyone’s sake, it’s the last.”

“Are you jealous?” The dornishman asked, smiling at him mockingly. “Are you afraid that I will steal him from you?” He asked, projecting himself forward in defiance. His venomous insinuations at least for an instant served its purpose, inflaming him, only to make him chill with realization. Dalt aimed to replace him. It was only a matter of time before Maekar’s departure to the North, and consequently for his relocation. The most obvious position would be to take one of Ser Podric’s twins, but of course it was not the favor of a future consort or a third son that Dalt wanted. When closest to the heir, closest to the rank of Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

“One more word, and I will tell the prince consort everything I know.” Luthor shouted through his teeth, his hands wrapping around Dalt’s neck firmly, ready to steal his air.

“I suppose you know a lot then.” Andrey dared, his dark brown eyes carried an excited and equally evil glow. “But no more than me. Imagine how horrified the noble Jon Stark will be upon learning of your appetites…” Luthor felt the strength drain from his hands, his throat suddenly dry as he tried in vain to put the pieces together. He had fought for so long, years and years of denial, suffering. And even when he had finally decided to embrace the questionable nature of his impulses, they had both been careful. Dalt couldn’t know, at least... “I can destroy you, and the one you love.” He added, pushing a shocked and corpulent Luthor away, at the same time as the sound of a door opening broke through the brothel hall. The figure of Maekar Targaryen had reached their eyes, his pants were still loose, while a white shirt awkwardly covered his body. In front of him, under the doorstep, a young woman stood, her form different from the robust prince, she could not have been more than ten and three. Her black, slightly wavy hair was messy, her deep, tear-filled eyes stared at him apprehensively while her trembling hands offered him a black cloak decorated with red dragons. There was something strangely familiar about her, but that Luthor couldn’t quite identify. Her disturbingly young appearance, the fear that clouded her dark eyes, the red that covered her lips, her wrists, her neck.

“Do not look at me like that.” The young prince said, his tone of voice sweet at the same time that, in a sudden movement, he wrapped his hand around the back of the girl’s neck. Luthor heard her cry, the prince’s fingers long enough to wrap almost completely around her throat. “You deserved it.”

“I-did it, I deserved it.” The girl gave in, projecting her body fearfully backwards, keeping her eyes closed, as if she expected to be hit, as if she knew that the lilac color of Maekar’s eyes still burned on her. The grip on the girl’s neck eased as the tension in the Targaryen’s shoulders released, in a contrary calm movement, he leaned forward, kissing her on the cheek. Luthor wanted to know if Maekar was seeing her, if he had even felt the taste of her tears on his lips, the way that her youthful face was contorting with fear.

“Go to sleep.” He said simply before pulling the cloak towards himself harshly. The girl bowed before being once again swallowed by the darkness of the room, away from him. “What is the sex of the child?” Maekar questioned suddenly, turning towards Luthor, his posture unperturbed. As if the Targaryen knew he was there, as if he had seen him, even without having laid eyes on him. "The doubt has been eating at me since I heard the bells."

“A healthy boy. Daeron Targaryen.” Tyrell responded promptly.

“Daeron.” Maekar repeated as if testing the name under his lips. “It’s a good name, for a good Targaryen prince... Tell me, Ser Luthor, does the boy even look like a Targaryen?” He asked, taking a step forward, his lilac eyes shone for the intrigue.

“We will soon meet him, and your highness will be able to draw your own conclusions.” The knight preferred to say, he had barely laid eyes on the boy, and even if he had by hook or by crook, every son the Dragon Queen would have would be a Targaryen, no matter how similar the child was to his father. Maekar just smiled at him in response, a cynical and very brief smile.

“You’re funny Ser, you think you can assume what I should or shouldn’t do.” The prince said, sitting down in one of the armchairs arranged in the room, his right hand familiarly went against a silk rope that hung in the corner of the room, pulling it lightly. “I will forgive you for the consideration that my dear brother still has for you.”

“That was precisely not my intention, your highness, I am sorry that you understood it that way.” Luthor said in the most moderate tone he could manage, his mind disgusted as the words crossed his lips by the force of duty.

“That’s not what I understood, that’s what you said, Ser.” Maekar cut in before addressing the slender and elegant figure that had entered the room once again. Alayaya handed a small ceramic cup into Luthor’s hands, while her eyes remained docilely fixed on the Targaryen’s haughty figure.

“How can I serve you, my prince?” She asked humbly, her careful voice governed by the velvety accent of the Summer Islands.

“Your mere sight does more than some will ever do in a lifetime.” Maekar said gallantly, his hand extended towards her. “My brother?”

“In the turret manor.” Alayaya granted, her hands intertwining the prince’s warmly.

“With the Willow twins, I heard!” Maekar added, suddenly excited, pulling her close to him firmly, making the prostitute’s delicate body fall onto his lap. “Do you think you can write a song about it?” The prince questioned in a lower tone, making her laugh deliciously, while he wrapped her with care. Ser Andrey remained static, oblivious to their movements. While Luthor was torn between keeping up with the scene and preserving their modesty. How fast can him oscillate? Affability, violence… The Tyrell felt sorry for the young northern bride who waited for him at Winterfell. “The girl you found did well if you ask me, a little too whiny for my taste… A virgin with rough hands, was it difficult to find her?”

“She cut potatoes for us.” Alayaya said casually. “Would it please you if we kept her separate?”

“Teach her how to use her mouth.” Luthor heard him say, only to feel his stomach turn. “That would please me, it would please me very much.” The sound of footsteps emerged from the staircase, at the top of which Jaehaerys descended unpretentiously, his hair noticeably disheveled, as well as his fine robes. His carefree figure had sagged the moment he laid eyes on his sworn shield.

“Ser Luthor.” He said, descending more quickly, his gray eyes looked at him worriedly, the Tyrell would dare say terrified. “Is my mother is fine? Is she…”

“The Queen lives, and she gave another son to the Realm.” The white knight responded quickly, the handsome prince sighed before finally smiling with relief. “She awaits you at Maegor’s.”

“Of course she does.” Maekar mocked, slapping Alayaya’s bottom lightly, making her stand up promptly. “We’ll be back in a while, tell your mother not to forget what dragons are made of.”

“We would never forget.” Alayaya said, bowing in a servile way, and that nothing matched the natural elegance of her form. She had opened the door to let them out, smiling sweetly as if one of the Seven Gods had just left her home.

____________

Jaehaerys had felt guilty seeing him there.

Standing over the door like a dog that had found its way back on its own. Not that he had thought of it first, no... The first thing that came to him was the image of his dear mother, dead, on the birthing bed. The Queen is dead, long live the King. Jaehaerys was not ready, not to part with her, and certainly not to take her high, sharp seat on what seemed to be the highest point in the world. Sometimes he dreamed, always when he felt sad, frustrated or alone, the same dream. He already knew what was going to happen, not that it lessened his suffering.

Beneath the Iron Throne his love sat, unchangeable, unreachable... Jaehaerys tried in vain to climb its narrow stairs while the blades, the same blades that dared to oppose his most powerful ancestor, cut him without relief, on his knees, on his feet, in hands, everywhere. His father’s harsh voice resounded loudly like a dragon’s roar, making him dizzy.

Do you think you are worthy? Maybe I’ll put another in your place, maybe I’ll take it for myself. You are weak, too weak... Blackfyre and Longclaw, do you know what they have in common? You'll soon find out.

He had never said those words to his son. No. But Jaehaerys could feel them hovering between them, every time he failed to wield his sword correctly, when he fell into the courtyard mud, pathetic and unarmed, when the words danced across the paper and Jaehaerys couldn’t read them properly. Always when his father’s gray eyes, the same ones he had, looked at him with disapproval. The prince consort had high expectations, as high as that damned iron chair, which Jaehaerys insisted on climbing. Injured, he felt the heat of the torches cooking his wounds, while the blood seemed to boil against his skin. And when he reached almost the top, close enough to properly see, it was not his beloved who sat on the Iron Throne, but a dark figure, dark as he had never seen. And in a quick blow the darkness embraced him, cold as a fall.

“She wouldn’t die, not on the birth bed.” Maekar said as if he were reading his brother’s thoughts, the high valyrian made his voice different, deeper and more serious. “She’s too tough for that.”

“That’s not how it works, and you know it.” Jaehaerys replied simply.

“I hope this is the last one. Seven Gods, seven children.” Maekar said thoughtfully. “It’s much more than most people can manage…”

“Seven?” Questioned the Silver Prince, pulling the horse’s reins with a grimace. Maekar, Aemon, Lyanna, Rhaenys…

“Seven Gods, seven children.” Maekar repeated before his older brother had the chance to properly count. “Rhaella belongs to the Stranger.”

“Rhaella… I wonder what would have become of her.” The Targaryen said, resuming the rhythm of the ride. The sound of hooves under the beaten earth, mixing with the hot iron solidifying in the water, the firm and constant hammering of the blacksmiths, that was the ballad of the Street of Steel.

“She would’ve been your Queen, isn’t that obvious enough?”Maekar asked annoyed even if briefly. “Maybe… Maybe you could have loved her...”

“No, not like Beths.” Jaehaerys said with a sweet smile on his lips. It had been some time since he had last seen her, her fine black waves, whipped by the strong harbor wind. Not even her lord husband’s depressing brown color had dampened her beauty. “I heard that her brother went to the laundry, asked to prepare the clothes, maybe she’s coming back after all…”

“I thought you had just had your fill…” Maekar said with a playful smile. “With Anika and Anya, is that it?”

“It’s different with her.” Jaehaerys said, his voice light and at the same time full of longing.

“I’m not recriminating you, but have you ever stopped to think that you will soon have to get married?” The second brother questioned in a more rational voice than he had agreed. “The black dragon will soon bleed, and your Hunter…” Nicknames kept them safe, names are names, in the common tongue or in high valyrian. Not that Jaehaerys liked hearing her name refereed to her husband’s surname, Bethany was much more than that. “She has children, Jaehaerys. And the husband will not accept an annulment, the High Septon would never grant it.”

“Hunter is an old man.” Jaehaerys said with a shrug. He wouldn’t kill him, not with his own hands, he didn’t have the stomach or capacity for it. But he would pay for someone to do it, as much as it took, all his loved one had to do was ask. One word, and Harlan Hunter would be enveloped by the Stranger before he knew it.”

“A lot can go wrong.”

“Well, what do you propose then? And why…”

“Believe it or not, brother, but I care about you… And a woman, especially her, is not worth the headache.” Maekar said, raising his hand slightly, his expression calm even in the face of Jaehaerys’ reproachful look. “If the black dragon doesn’t please you, look for someone else, someone acceptable…”

“She is acceptable.”

“She is old and married. A gentle adjective not to say, used.” Maekar said and for the first time he sounded like himself. The Silver Prince felt his face heat up, his hands sweating under the horse’s reins... He would have punched him if they hadn’t been mounted, he would have lost the fight, but not without defending her.

“You’re treading on thin ice, brother…” Jaehaerys warned.

“The lion’s daughter is a good option.” Maekar continued. “Age, beauty, gold… And she’s too smart for her own good.”

“Not smart enough to close her legs.” Jaehaerys said with a shrug. Johanna was pleasant company. It was true. The obvious choice if one existed. But just like Lyanna, she would never be Bethany Blackwood.

The Red Keep was noticeably emptier, the festive atmosphere had faded as the nobles of the court found themselves secluded, while the servants hurried to finish their tasks. Jaehaerys would sleep for a day and a night once he reached his quarters, he was tired from the conversation with Maekar, tired from Anya and Anika, tired just thinking about the things he still had to do.

The path to the apartments of the Dragon Queen and her consort was silent, all there was was the sound of the princes’ footsteps and their shields behind them. Grey Worm was ready, his face attentive and watchful and as always he did not hesitate to greet them. Jaehaerys didn’t intend to cause Ser Luthor any trouble, he would let him know later.

Under the anteroom, the figure of the White Wolf stood, sitting heavily on the sofas. The light from the window illuminated him and shone on Longclaw’s bastard blade, which the prince so zealously insisted on polishing. Valyrian steel cut easily and yet, as long as Jaehaerys could remember, he had never seen his father cut himself. His hands were always firm, certain... He used to clean the sword when he was nervous, caution almost always calmed him down. But it was the fury of two tired eyes that Jaehaerys met when the Stark finally saw them.

“Where? Where were they?” He questioned, standing up in a single impulse, the sword placed abruptly on the coffee table, the sound of metal enough to make the silver prince flinch. His gray eyes scanned his sons for signs, and then, suddenly, his face contorted into an expression that Jaehaerys had become accustomed to. Disappointment.

“In a tavern, my prince, on the Street of Silk.” Dalt said, his voice too low and uncertain to please the White Wolf’s silent fury.

“I know what's on Street of Silk, Ser Andrey.” Jon Stark said, cutting him off impetuously. “Leave us now.”

“Do you? Really?” Maekar asked him with false curiosity. “I wonder, what would my mother say?”

“Don’t you dare mention her!” Jon shouted, pulling him by the collar of his cloak, Jaehaerys felt breathless just thinking about it. “Not with the smell of your whores still on you!” He said pushing him back to his place. Jaehaerys didn’t need to see to know, Maekar tended to keep his jaw clenched when contradicted, his eyes piercing. “Not when you should be here, supporting her, your mother, your Queen!” Stark’s voice broke into a tired sigh, as if he was searching for the strength to continue. “You are two grown men, princes of the blood. I’m tired of waiting for you to act accordingly. Our enemies whisper behind our backs...”

“I’m the son of the dragon, do you think I’m afraid of whispers?!” Maekar questioned, taking a step forward, dangerously close to his father. “We are two grown men, yes… And we have needs.”

“Your duty is greater than any desire you may have!” Jon said, taking a step forward, his face contorted with anger. “What good do your whores do for the Realm?! An insult…”

“Who else could Jaehaerys train with?” Maekar said, interrupting him abruptly, his sarcastic tone already betrayed that his next words wouldn’t please. “Lyanna certainly isn’t yet…” Jon’s hand reached him faster and more furiously than he could have predicted, his only reaction was to stagger back, stunned. When he raised his head, Jaehaerys was able to see the extent of the damage printed on Maekar’s face, the reddened left cheek, as well as his lower lip, which had a not very deep cut. “I suppose that is your duty…” He dared, the lilac of his eyes meeting the gray storm of his father.

“And I will continue to do so until I fulfill yours.” Jon Stark said implacably, without wavering for an instant. “Never, ever, talk about your sister in this…”

“My boys.” Daenerys’ voice appeared faintly from some distance away, her pale and weakened form finally revealing herself in the anteroom. Her hands clung to the stone wall, seeking support, stability. “My dear beautiful boys…” Her violet eyes shone with his most absolute devotion.

“Muña.” Jaehaerys sighed, heading towards her, even if unintentionally mirroring his father’s movement. She was pale, too pale.

“You should be resting.” Jon said, his tone lighter in front of his wife, who did little other than smile at him.

“I know I know.” The Dragon Queen dismissed gently without taking his eyes off Jaehaerys, her affectionate expression had made him feel guilty. How much pain she had endured and for how long, and yet she had dragged herself out of bed for the possibility of seeing them. “But I wanted to see my boys, and look, they are here, I have all the time in the world to rest.”

“Dany…” Jon intervened.

“Jon.” She said, her tone firm enough for him to give in with a single sigh. “Now come on, aren’t you looking forward to… Maekar, what happened to your face, what…” All she had to do was lay her eyes on him, a glance was enough for her to see. Her tired face quickly turned bitter, anger swept across her cheeks, making them hot, while her eyes remained fixed on her second son. “Your lip’s bleeding!”

“It’s nothing.” Maekar dismissed with a shrug, moving his face away from her reach.

“ Nothing? It’s far from nothing!” Daenerys said, leaning on her son. “Did you see that?” The Queen questioned towards her husband, who shrugged in response, his eyes fixed on Maekar’s figure.

“I fell when I was training.” The younger brother revealed, Jaehaerys swallowed hard in the same way as his brother had certainly done with the truth. He was good at it, better than the Silver Prince ever had been.

“You fell?” Daenerys asked once again, still not convinced.

“Yes, muña.” Maekar confirmed with conviction. “A stupid mistake, it won’t happen again, I promise.” The prince finally said bitterly, his eyes fixed on the figure of his father.

“Daeron.” Jon promptly said, raising his arm towards Daenerys, who graciously accepted, going, as the Stark wanted, away from their children. Jaehaerys swallowed hard, following them, while trying in vain to make eye contact with Maekar, if only he had held his tongue in front of his father… “He’s awake, lucky for you.”

“At least he wasn’t born a simpleton, like Aemon and Lyanna.” Maekar commented next to the crib, his comment quick to narrow Stark’s eyes. The boy was chubby, and pale like their mother, his features were difficult to read... Jaehaerys hadn’t met many babies to have any reference. But he looked healthy, breathing deeply and without difficulty, that was good enough.

“Don’t be mean.” The Dragon Queen said seriously. "The twins may not look like you, or me, but they look like their father. It is the blood of the first men, the same that runs strong in your veins.”

“Aemon and Lyanna. Have they come yet?” Jaehaerys asked, diverting the subject, at least that was what he expected.

“As a second doom of Valyria, I thought they would bring my chambers down.” Daenerys said good-naturedly. “Not that little Daeron minded, I’m sure he’ll be a rabble-rouser like the others. Nothing like you two, and sweet Rhaenys.”

“He has your eyes.” The Stark said abruptly, he was referring to the grayish tone that colored his eyes, and Jaehaerys’ too. As strange as it sounded, it seemed like this was the first time they had both allowed themselves to see each other. Jaehaerys had been able to feel the affection in his gaze, as he kept his hands on his wife’s shoulder. Everything should be much simpler, when it was just the three of them. “The nose and cheeks too…”

“Don’t you want to hold him?” Daenerys asked with a smile. “You’ll need to know when you get your own.” Jaehaerys had initially hesitated, projecting his body, even if imperceptibly backwards. He wanted to have children, as many as the Gods saw fit to grant. But none that came from Lyanna, none that were born of duty imposed by the Iron Throne. If one day he had them, his princes and princesses would be born from the womb of his beloved. If they were born simpletons, as Maekar said, it didn’t matter to him if they inherited their mother’s black hair or eyes. Jaehaerys longed to see his Bethany in every part of the children they would have.

“Excuse me, your grace, your highness'.” Ser Edmund said after opening the door in a single movement. He had the same dark hair as his sister, he wasn’t as handsome, but he had a decidedly pleasant appearance. He was the one who escorted his father wherever he went. “Forgive the intrusion but Lady Stark has just arrived in the city.”

“What? What is Sansa doing here?” Questioned Daenerys, embracing little Daeron protectively, her violet eyes fixed on her husband in search of an answer.

“Lady Arya Stark, my Queen.” The Blackwood continued.

“My sister?!” Jon asked, genuinely surprised, his face turned to excitement. “She’s alive, Dany! After so many years, after…”

“Go to her.” Daenerys said, shaking her husband’s hand to encourage him, smiling broadly at him. By now Jaehaerys already knew, that was the joy of seeing someone you love happy.

Chapter Text

322 a.C.

The Gullet jutted out a few miles away, the sway of the sea and the punishing rain made visibility difficult. Thunders crossing the sky, illuminating in the distance the stony barrier that prevented them from advancing towards the Blackwater Bay.

Below deck, Arya stood, her orders interrupted by the falling rain, the jolt of lightning above the crew. The Stark was doing his best to guide them through the rocks, aware that any unexpected movement would mean hitting the shore in pieces. This, she had learned the hard way possible, with the Queen’s Pride sunk in the tumultuous waters of the Jade Sea.

Her voice became louder and more eloquent as they advanced, the rain thinning out as the dawn broke golden against the horizon. All that was left of them were wet clothes and a dense, freezing fog. In the distance Arya could see them; Tall, the slender towers of the keep stood pale, their red grayed by the fog.

She took a deep breath, leaning firmly against the parapet. I’ll be fine, everything is going to be fine. Her wounds from the last battle throbbed, as if the only thing keeping her collarbone in place was the tight bandage that wrapped her from her bust to her neck. Her left ankle was swollen: And why wouldn’t it be? The damned cane remained resting on the doorstep, she thought, trying in vain to ignore the pulsing pain that radiated over her, as her bones shook from the cold.

“We will anchor here.” Arya announced in a hoarse, but no less authoritative, voice. Her first quartermaster, the tyroshi Jasper Wyden nodded before shouting a command in low valyrian to the sailors at the stern of the Sweet Farewell. He even tried to offer her his arm, but Arya almost immediately denied him. Her pride was still greater than the pain that overwhelmed her.

After half a dozen lonely and painful steps, she finally reached her cabin.

The rooms were narrow, and somehow cozy. Under the wall next to the bed, there were maps and maps of the places Arya had been. On a tray, crystals and other trinkets protruded, some simply purchased, others won with the price of blood.

While undressing she managed to get a complete view of her deplorable situation, her bandages were wet and with small signs of bleeding, her body was full of bruises that would make the Warrior himself shudder. Seeing herself didn’t do much, if not worsen the underlying feeling of weakness that threatened to take over her. But before she could think about changing any bandages, the Stark felt her body give way in a sudden, irresistible fall.

“Mother…” A familiar voice whispered, close enough that Arya could feel his breathing. “Are you well?” He asked her anxiously, while his sweaty fingers searched for his mother’s shoulders.

“Seven hells!” The Stark shouted at the abrupt touch. She was as sore as she had ever been. Mortified, the black-haired boy turned away from her, his blue eyes staring in amazement. He was suddenly so pale, as if he had been cornered by the wildest of beast. “What did you think you were doing, boy?” Arya questioned as she supported herself on her elbows to finally stand up.

“Wyden wanted to come in here, the city’s navy… And you…” Ed enumerated breathlessly, while running over the words… And their meaning.

“Help me get up.” She simply said, trying to calm the boy, she knew what it was like to be thirteen years old, and not have any clarity about what could happen. Arya leaned on the boy as she put on her boots.

“Your bandages…”

“I’ll be fine.” The Stark woman assured firmly and at the same time warmly. A knock on the door made her hastily put on a long leather overcoat. “Go to Sandor.” She indicated her without even hesitating “Stay with him until I call.” Arya said before leaving the cabin, ignoring her son’s muffled protests. Ed was a good boy, he would obey her, she was sure of that.

“Captain.” Wyden said upon seeing her, his tone grateful and equally surprised. “The royal navy expects us to pay port taxes, a quartermaster sent.”

“Of course they do.” She said as if that possibility was already part of her plans.

The crew waved as Arya ascended the deck, most of them looking as battered as she was. Their oily, disheveled hair... Perhaps the idea that the glorious Sweet Farewell was evading taxes wasn’t so ridiculous.

“Is it true then?” Questioned the young steward trapped under the central mast of the vessel, his uniform was black with details in blood red, the colors of the Dragon Queen. “Are you the Captain Stark?”

“It depends on who asks.” Arya answered simply, as she approached slowly with the support of her cane.

“Ser Lyman Gerard of the Navy of Her Grace Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen.” He said irreverently. “Your ship was seen anchored in an inappropriate place, clearly a…”

“Define inappropriate.” Arya said, suddenly cutting him off, her eyes followed him dangerously. Clearly? Wyden did well to tie up the insolent man, she thought with a smirk.

“Too close to the Red Keep. Smallfolk must dock at the central docks, as well as pay taxes owed to the Crown.” The young steward said as he fidgeted under the ropes that tied him so firmly to the mast.

“I suppose that many of the Queen’s guests anchor here… To take advantage of the entrance through the river.” Arya said with a mischievous smile that spread more and more. The steward’s face went through expressions of confusion, fear and, for that matter, anger.

“If you plan something against my Queen, you must say it right now, I promise you will be spared.” Lyman said, trying to sound threatening. Maybe he would have been, if he had some soldiers around him. The crew burst into laughter, Arya choosing to lean closer before giving him a cynical smile.

“Says the little boy trapped in the mast of the fearsome ship that crossed the world.” She mocks, the sound of her voice was accompanied by more laughter. “If we were really a threat, you would be dead by now.” She said, only to be followed by a dark silence, which remained for a few more seconds, before Arya continued. “You asked if I was Captain Stark, and yes… I am.” Pause. “I am Arya Stark of Winterfell, sister of your Prince Consort, and aunt of your future King.” She announced, only to be rocked by shouts of approval. The steward seemed frightened, perhaps due to the punishment he would receive for his insolence or the ominous realization that an infamous captain was so close to the power of the Iron Throne. “Now… Be a good boy, meet with your superiors, tell them that the Sweet Farewell will not pay any tribute, and that she will be stationed wherever I judge best.” Pause. “Don’t forget to also inform the Queen and the Prince Consort of my arrival, I have been at sea for twenty years, I hope to be welcomed once again into my family.”

“I will carry your words to the Red Keep, Lady Stark.” The boy said determined.

“I’m not a Lady.” Arya replied simply, trying to contain her irritation. “Answer me Ser Lyman… A thin boy like you… Do you know how to swim?”

“Of course I do!” He responded abruptly with a certain arrogance.

“Very well then!” Arya said, sure of her decision. “Wyden, be so kind as to untie the young steward.” As soon as Ser Lyman was free from the ropes, Stark did not hold back in ordering. “Throw him overboard, let him swim to his superiors, and let him not forget the words of his good Captain.”

Sandor’s steady breathing helped a little to alleviate the growing worry that threatened to take over Arya’s heart completely. She had avoided him since he fell asleep, she didn't know if she had the strength to see him, not like that. Sandor Clegane had been many things since she’d known him, but fragile wasn’t one of them.

During the attack, a spear hit him, with precision, between the shoulder pad and the breastplate, in the gap in his armor. The wound had not healed, but had spread, swollen in shades of red, green and purple, filled with blood and pus. Arya was surprised to know that he still managed to eat , even though it was the thinnest soup she had seen in her life. No matter how weak he was, Sandor refused to back down. His forces, scarce or not, persistent. He would fought until the end, and that was the only hope that a Stark cultivated within h erself.

The boat was taken over by his bulk, while Arya and Wyman continued towards the coast. Her eyes were cloudy, but she could see them in the distance anyway, in what seemed like a long, hurried procession. The majority of the contingent was made up of naval officers, their weapons displayed in a clear and dubious expression; respect and caution. Among them, Jon’s figure stood out, haughty and gray. As the boat advanced, more and more details revealed themselves to Stark’s attentive gaze. Tied back, Jon’s hair showed the passing of the seasons, its brown waves, illuminated by rare and striking silver strands. His features had hardened, but the warm, wary spark that lit his eyes remained permanently the same. Jon reminding her of her father, of Robb, Rickon, Ed.

A long restrained face and brown wild hair. Arya thought about calling him Jon. She hadn’t chosen to have the boy, not directly. But for better or for worse, the Stark had nurtured him, generated him, and with all her strength she had brought him into the world. It seemed just fair; naming a beloved brother after a son who was expected to love just as much. And there was also Eddard... Ed. Jon would certainly be kind to the boy, he knew what it was like to live under the shadow of bastardy, forever a stain, a mistake. But what Arya feared was precisely how he would see her after that. She didn't care about others, but for some reason, it was important that the gray glow in those eyes still remained the same.

Arya hadn’t forgotten her cane this time. Her appearance, deplorable as she was, already helped to embarrass her in a certain way. She didn’t intend to fall when she bowed to her brother, oh yes... He apparently was still Prince Consort. And Arya would need all the support she could get, not just for her, but for Ed and Sandor as well.

With all the composure that her weak form allowed her, her legs submerged under the icy waters of the bay. T he y wouldn’t get any far, not with the bottom of the boat stuck in the sand. H er boots struggled against the rocking waves, against the force that seemed to pull them heavily downward. Stark focused on the cane , on the distance that stood between her and her brother. That’s when she saw him, quickly, and without hesitation, run towards her.

“Arya!” The hoarse and choked voice reached her ears, different… And yet comfortably familiar. His strong arms envelop her, receptive and cautious. In his eyes there was no contempt, but a tenderness that intensified into stormy concern.

“That’s not what I planned.” The Stark said using a smile, in a failed attempt at comfort. It felt good to have him there, and for the first time in a while Arya allowed herself to be weak, her knees giving way involuntarily. “Jon…”

“You’re safe, you’re home now.” He said finally, assuring her as she hope he would. “Maester Valarr will look after you.”

“Sandor… Take care, take care of him.” Arya only had to sit down for a moment, her legs hurt, her arms hurt, her vision was blurred, but nothing that a few moments couldn’t solve. It was all she needed, a moment, just to catch her breath, to fell the ground beneath her feet. At least that’s what she thought before the darkness swallowed her, in a dense black wave.

The murmur of a song brought her back.

A sweet, unfamiliar melody that resonated pleasantly against the stone walls.Arya was alive, she could feel it in the pain of the wounds, in the heat of the furs that enveloped her.Her eyes met the night darkness beyond the silhouette of the windows, but which gave way gently to the light of scattered candles.The room was large, and judging by the outline of the furniture, very well decorated.Next to her, over what appeared to be a wide and comfortable armchair, stood the unlikely source of that beautiful song.Her violet eyes fluttered in surprise, while in a quick but no less careful movement, she returned the delicate form of what appeared to be a baby to the small crib prostrate next to the bed.Her eager hands then returned to the side table next to Arya, offering what looked like a glass of water.The Stark tried not to think about their frightening proximity, about how a pillow combined with the strength of those delicate arms could mean death.

“Drink, it will do you good.” Daenerys’ voice reached her firm and warm, it reminded her of her mother. And in a lapse of judgment, Arya allowed herself to ease the thirst that burned in the back of her throat. If she was going to kill me she wouldn’t do it like this, the Stark comforted herself quickly. No, from what she knew of Jon’s wife, she was clearer in her offenses and affections than anyone could be. Maybe that’s why she avoided conflict with Arya for so long, they both always played it clear. But until then, people change, the sea has made Stark more suspicious, cautious. And only the Gods could tell what six children and almost twenty years in the capital had done to the Dragon Queen. “Grey Worm, please inform the Grand Maester.” As she moved the glass away, Daenerys seemed to notice the wolf looking back at her. Her delicate features had matured, her youthful beauty gave way to something feminine and striking. She also didn’t look like she had the body of a woman who had just given birth.

“You are the last person I expected to see.” Arya said sincerely, that made her good sister smile, even if slightly. Her violet eyes stared back at her, unfazed, aware the Stark destructive potential, and yet, confident.

“Jon needed to sleep.” She justified simply, her hands gently shaking the cradle. “And this little one, well, he sleeps all day, and stays awake at night. He did the same when he was inside me.”

“Another boy then.” Arya said, the question implicit in her statement. She knew about Jon’s children, all of them, their names were known far and wide. During one of her resupply trips, she had even seen a play about the Long Night, whose ending was very well marked by the birth of five children, a bad joke about how Daenerys I faced the birthing bed almost every year, something that intended to make her unworthy by it. It was no surprise that the play was based in the Port of Volantis.

“Daeron Targaryen.” The Dragon Queen beamed proudly. “If you knew, why didn’t you write back?” She asked suddenly, her expectation very well diluted on the delicate contours of her face.

“The answers wouldn’t reach me, and besides... It would be risky, you have many enemies, in the Stepstones, in Volantis.” Arya said half-honestly. Yes, that was a good reason, she wouldn’t risk her son’s safety over correspondence. Everything she needed to know about Jon was public knowledge, he was fine, and just like his father he had five beautiful children, three boys and two girls. All healthy, all alive.

“Are you going to blame me then?” The Targaryen asked with a white, unchanging expression.

“Why are you here? Really.” Arya chose to ask. She hadn’t lived at the court of King’s Landing, she didn’t know how to mask her emotions or play with words. Frankness would be her weapon as long as she could wield it.

“Your sister has caused me a lot of trouble over the last few years.” Daenerys said, her violet eyes fixed on Stark’s form. Arya didn’t know anything about this, and yet she wasn’t surprised. Before leaving she had warned her about this. Sansa will oppose you. “She learned the hard way, but not before tarnishing something important to me.” The Targaryen took a deep breath before continuing, her eyes fixed on her good sister. “Will you be a problem, Arya?

“I don'’t intend to be.” The Stark declared seriously, she was telling the truth. At least not for you, my Queen, she murmured wryly, her voice ringing in his head.

“And can I trust what you say? In any word that comes out of your mouth?” Daenerys questioned energetically. “You threw one of my officers overboard, after years, years… Jon missed you! More than that, for a long time he mourned for you.” Arya felt tears moisten her cheeks She hated herself for putting him through this, and Sansa… We are the last of the Starks. That was true, at least, before Ed was born.

“He would do the same if he were in my place.” Arya replied without hesitation. “Writing would not only put my life at risk, but that of my son as well.” She stated firmly, her gray eyes reached the Targaryen’s in a common understanding.

“Why now?” Daenerys asked with a sigh, leaning back in the comfort of her seat.

“The sea almost took my life, it almost left my boy an orphan.” The Stark said with some bitterness. It had taken her a long time to see it, years, and the truth had stood clear as day before her. “The sea… Out there, it’s a cruel world. Either you are weak or you are strong, big or small... The weak ones don’t survive. I’m lucky that Ed lasted this long.

“He did not leave Sandor Clegane’s side, not even when Maester Valarr examined him.” Daenerys said lighter, assuring her good sister in a certain way. “Express orders from my mother and Captain, he said.”

“He is healthy?” Arya couldn’t resist asking.

“Just like the lice in his head” The Targaryen replied simply, which made the wolf smile sideways. “Maester Valarr will take care of him, and whatever you and Sandor need. You are welcome to stay here for as long as you want.”

“This is not my place.” Arya said before she could think properly.

“Stay until you are strong enough to continue heading North.” The Dragon Queen proposed, her tone harsher this time.

“That’s not what I meant.” Arya amended quickly, her voice heavy with the truth. “I’m grateful for your offer, I really am, and I’ll stay here until Sandor and Ed settle down. After, I will follow my own path.”

“Jon will try to persuade her to stay.” Daenerys said as a matter of fact.

“I can’t stop him from trying.” Arya replied simply, which made the Targaryen nod, her right hand still rocking the small cradle beside her. Silence gradually filled the room, before they both knew it, all there was was the crackling of the fireplace, and the sound of the cradle rocking. The darkness of the night no longer reigned so intensely, and the light of a cloudy dawn now illuminated them completely.

“He slept.” Daenerys announced, her tired eyes turned softer to Arya, as if the image of little Daeron still dominated her senses. “I will ask Jon to come to you.” She said before standing up calmly, her arms wrapping the newborn with tenderness, and with every step that the Dragon Queen took there was the hesitation of a cat, the care of a mother.

“Daenerys.” The Targaryen’s name had reached Arya’s lips like a new and foreign language. She needed to ask, she wouldn’t have peace if she didn’t. “Protect my boy, as I know you protect yours. If you ever earn his loyalty, you will have mine for life. I swear on my honor as a Stark.”

“We will take good care of him here, you have my word.” Daenerys said finally, her voice, despite being low, had certainty. A certainty that Arya would carry close to her chest every day, until her boy became a man.

The crew, almost entirely, had been hosted in the Maidenvault.

The fortification was an annex to Maegor’s Keep, far from the great halls and gardens, far from the whispers and scheming that used to consume the court of King’s Landing. Those walls, contrary to what Arya expected, offered her comfort, and a relative feeling of quietness, privacy.

Jon’s presence, although silent, was a comfort. His gray gaze occasionally found his sister’s fragile form, analyzing her with tender and genuine concern. His strong arms supported her as she risked a step or two down those hallways. Arya could feel the tension beneath his broad shoulders, unspoken words seemed to surround them, resonating in an inaudible echo. All there was was silence, broken by the sound of cold footsteps against the stone tiles.

“She prefers the Seven, my youngest.” Jon said abruptly, his voice soft as his affectionate eyes reached for the first time the small white stoned Sept beyond the windows. She was exactly as Arya imagined, her delicate silhouette matched the pastel pink of her silk dress. Her hair was a decided mix of gold and silver strands that shone in the sun, held back by a net of pearls. Beside her the gray and composed figure of a Septa stood. That image reminded her of Sansa, of Septa Mordane, of that fateful summer. Arya wondered if Jon could see it too. “Rhaenys.”

“I know who she is.” Arya answered before she could properly think about what her words implied. Almost twenty years of silence. He no longer looked at her, his contained expression was now focused on his daughter. “Two girls.” Arya chose to say affectionately, her fingers exerting light pressure on her brother’s arm, attracting his attention. “Just like our father.”

“I think about him sometimes.” Jon said with almost painful honesty. “What I wouldn’t give to see him, to hear the sound of his voice. Ask questions and listen to whatever he had to tell me. Just one more time.” Arya nodded, the feeling was reciprocal, even if part of her feared the contempt for the way of life she had chosen for herself. “He always managed to say the right thing.” That made Arya smile, the pain of absence mixed with nostalgia, the bittersweet joy of happy moments that would never happen again.

“He would be proud of you.” She said sincerely. “Prince Consort… Few men have the sense of duty necessary for this role.”

“I gave up my name, his name, at the same time as I claimed part of an inheritance.” Jon said firmly, his eyes now fixed on Arya, lost, tumultuous. In search of redemption, relief, absolution.

“Winterfell is rightfully yours.” The Stark responded without hesitation. Sansa herself had put the possibility on the table while Daenerys was still carrying Jaehaerys inside her. “For the blood our parents shared, for the blood you shed to win it back.”

“If that’s the truth. Where is the right of Sansa’s heir?”

“In Karhold.” Arya said abruptly. So that was what Daenerys had been referring to as far as creating problems. “Your wife is the only Queen I know, she has heirs. All the children that Sansa bears are not hers, they are Harrion Karstark’s heirs.

“What about your son?” Jon asked seriously.

“Ed is a bastard. With no father, no name, no lands or titles.” Arya replied simply, the truth reached her throat harshly. Recognition was the first step towards acceptance. “Yesterday I made an agreement with your Queen.” She felt compelled to say. “Whatever the issue between you and Sansa, I have no interest in participating, all I hope is that Ed is protected, and well taken care of.”

“You... You won't stay.” Jon said, perplexed by that observation.

“No.” Arya declared firmly, her mind somewhere between Pentos and Volantis. “I have unfinished business on the other side of the sea.”

“The boy will need his mother.” Jon said abruptly, his voice heavy with understanding. He more than anyone knew what it was like to be a motherless bastard.

“He needs food on his table, a warm bed, someone really prepared to teach him how to read and write.” Arya said restrained, if she thought too much about all the things she had deprived her son of, she would fall apart. Ed was a good kid. Better than most could be. “He had me for thirteen years, he will survive…”

“And will you?” Jon questioned harshly, his eyes now shone with saddened fury. “Do you even intend to return?”

“I do, and I will.” Arya responded impulsively. The truth was that she had barely made it to shore, she was injured, and if it took any longer she would be dead. The scratches were exposed, as if Jon’s eyes were a mirror. She could understand his fear, not that he could do the same for her. “I’ll come back as soon as I sort everything out.”

“Arya whatever you got yourself into, I can help, Daenerys…”

“Take care of my son. Keep him safe.” She cut firmly. “This is how you will help me. Believe me, only I can…”

“Your Highness.” Both had not noticed the slender presence of one of the white cloaks, his tanned skin and brownish hair betrayed his identity. He had aged, as expected. His Dornish accent was audible as was the relaxed way in which he carried himself.

“Dalt.” Jon acknowledged, visibly bothered by the interruption.

“Sandor Clegane woke up, the Grand Maester thought it pertinent to let you know.” He said unchanged, his voice constant and emotionless. Which radically contrasted the joyful expression that lit up Arya’s face. We’ll all be fine.

“I need to see him.” She said without hesitation, if Jon didn’t take her there, she would gladly limp along her old cane, up corridors and staircases.

“You could get hurt, it’s a long walk there.” Jon said as his sister continued to project her body forward anxiously. “Alright.” He sighed, giving up. “One step at a time.”

Grand Maester Valarr’s room was exactly as Arya had imagined it.

An organized mess that extended from the books and potions on the shelves, to the wide counter in the center of the room. The heat from the fireplace reduced to faint embers, while a blade still glowed scarlet over a pile of coal. Through thin white curtains, Arya heard him, his distant voice broken by coughing. She needed to see him, her arms untangling themselves from Jon’s as she limped to Sandor’s direction. The urgency was greater than the pain that emerged from her body.

Maester Valarr was watching him from a distance, and it didn’t take long for him to notice the Stark’s presence, bowing slightly downwards. Sandor was awake, his eyes half open, staring at the windows before they finally found her. A relieved sigh passed through him, his face covered in a thin layer of sweat, he was pale, as pale as she had ever seen him. Tears now moistened his brown orbs, running down his tired face. Sandor was still bloated, the nakedness of his body hidden by a thick woolen blanket. Arya hadn’t noticed until she got closer, but the veins on his right arm stood out, like protruding black roots, running down his shoulder and into his neck. This was bad, it seemed very bad.

“Sandor.” Arya sighed, leaning over him, worry taking over her senses. And then she saw it, the place where Clegane’s left arm should have been, the wide wound filled with pus and swelling, now no longer carrying red or yellow, but black as dead flesh. “I… I’m sorry.”

“A poisoned arrow.” Sandor said, his eyes carried a singular sadness, tears crossed him silently, while he kept his attention on Arya. “It’s just a matter of time…”

“No.” Arya said simply, her vision blurred as if she were submerged, and perhaps she was, in her own sea of grief and regret. If she could go back, she would do everything differently, for him, for herself.

“I brought you here, Maester…” She turned to the figure under the corner of the room, her eyes full of expectations finding no comfort.

“I’m really sorry Lady Stark, but…” Valarr said with the regret that the situation demanded of him. Arya found herself putting her hands over her ears, as if she didn’t want to hear any more, as if she couldn’t believe what she had just heard.

“One less name on your list, remember?” Sandor said, his hand, the only one he had now, taking it in a way to assure her. That’s no fair, you’re not the Hound anymore. “You don’t need me to get the others. You and Ed will be fine.”

“What can I do for you?” Arya asked sincerely, she didn’t want him to suffer, any more than he already had. “I want to help, please let me help…”

“I left you a letter, recognizing Ed as my own.” His hoarse voice brought something new, a last wish. Foreign as it seemed to see Sandor saying those words, a part of Arya expected them. “He is a good boy, he can do something for that place, something better. When he is old enough, ask the Dragon to legitimize him, the Maester was my witness.”

“Sandor…”

“I love him as such, you know that.” Clegane said firmly. “Promise you will do it, promise and let me die in peace.”

“I promise.”

____________

Ed loved his mother.

He loved her so much that he hated her when he saw her leaving.

Her recovered body hugged him one last time, her affectionate eyes finding him as her lips moved in repetitive motions. Not that he could hear anything, his form remained frozen in front of the dark waters of the bay, reluctant to believe... She was leaving him behind, and in the process taking everything he knew. The ship where he grew up, his clothes and treasures, all the people he loved, Wyden, Joleen, Ian...Sandor was the only one left, his body lay next to the White Sept, under six feet of disturbed earth, which the grass already struggling to cover it up once again.

With the end of his stay in the Maiden vault , Ed was taken to the lower floors of Maegor’s. Not so close to the Dragon Queen’s chambers, not so far from the kitchens. That was good, less surveillance, more cover for a possible escape. Ed had not been born for the life of a lord, he was Ed Waters, not Ed Stark, never Ed Clegane, as he had wished for so long. Chivalry and books would do nothing but make him a literate sailor.

As soon as he moved in he was inspected, his body rubbed so hard that the soles of his feet came loose, leaving the boy bedridden for a week. His brown hair was shaved with a sharp knife, a clear retaliation for the lice that used to cling to it. The green of his robes replaced by gray. His mother’s colors. Not that he had any right to use them, anyway.

This week had given him time to think, the solitude of his rooms made his plan reverberate loud in his mind. He could try to reach his mother, work his way as a sailor to Braavos. Old friends wouldn’t deny to help, not when Ed was willing to pay the price. The question that remained was how to leave the Keep, he thought about risking one of the gates, poorly dressed and bent over, perhaps he could pass himself off as a worker. Perhaps…

“Ed.” A male voice called, whose figure soon appeared. The boy stood up abruptly, struggling to maintain a respectful facade, his feet feeling sensitive on the roughness of the carpet. “I couldn’t come earlier, I hope you’re feeling better… Your feet?

“Much better, your highness.” He answered quickly, his gaze steady on the Stark’s imposing form.

“Uncle Jon.” Reminded the Prince Consort lightly. “I’m glad that you are fine.” He said before walking subtly around the room, as if analyzing him, until his eyes finally reached his nephew once again, genuinely tender. “I would like you to feel at home here, as much as possible... That’s what your mother wanted for you.” Ed tried in vain to bite away the expression that crossed his face. And what about what I want? “Every year before winter, we host the Queenswood tournament. I would like to participate, but to do so, I need a squire. I would have recruited one of my sons, but Jaehaerys and Maekar never aspired to such a role, climbing straight into the knighthood, Aemon has no appreciation for the title, and Lyanna, well... She begged me more than once to arm her.”

“She wants to fight, like my mother.” Ed said as a matter of fact, already aware of the direction of that conversation.

“Yes, and she will do so in due time. But you see, the duties of a squire require more than Lyanna’s delicate hands can sustain.” The Stark said seriously. “In addition to training, you will have to polish armor, chain mail, swords, spears, and shields. When we travel, my horses will be looked after by you, brushed and fed. You will arm and disarm me, do you think you can take on this responsibility?” Ed swallowed hard, he had already heard about pages and squires, and he would certainly be able to handle it, the work was no heavier than anything he did aboard the Sweet Farewell. But something still disturbed him, the call of the sea, still trapped over him. “Unless you don’t want to stay.” Jon said simply, his understanding attracting Ed’s attention, who looked at him defensively.

“A bastard for a squire, aren’t you bothered they might make fun of you, uncle?” The words passed through his throat without much docility. This made the Stark smile, as if appreciating the sincere fury that had finally revealed itself.

“I don’t mind if you don't.” The Prince Consort said, his voice firm and yet light. “I may be Jon Stark now, but all my life I’ve been Jon Snow.”

“You could choose anyone, why me?” Ed asked, his curiosity stronger than him.

“We are family.” Jon declared simply, diluting part of his nephew’s plans, pushing them aside, even if briefly. Family. As if he had finally realized, being there was not a sentence, but an opportunity. It doesn’t have to be just the three of us. Two. He needed to at least give this a chance, whatever it was. “Come on, if I were you I wouldn’t waste any more of my free time in this room.”

“Where will we go?”

“I want you to meet someone.” He announced, tilting her head towards the boy’s boots, thrown in a corner of the room.

Ed hadn’t gone out much since his mother left.

Those corridors, despite not being completely foreign to him, caused some uneasiness, belonging to a world that until recently Ed was not part of. He had heard of kings and queens, of jousts and battles, of dragons and the marching dead. It wasn’t strange that he thought so much about his mother, about the life she had stolen when she left him. Maybe Ed should give his uncle a chance, he seemed willing to try more than his nephew could even imagine.

They both walked silently, side by side. Jon dared each step with confidence, nodding briefly to the bows of those who crossed his path. Comfortable in his own skin, as if he owned the place, as if he were the man who had ordered where every stone should go, from the towers to the walls. Jon was a skilled warrior, his mother had told him that much. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to stay until the training was over. Sandor had taught him a thing or two, and Arya… Well, she had taught him how to fall to the ground, like a cat, more precisely.

“How did you know?” Ed asked, curiosity suddenly invading him. “That I didn’t want to stay. How?”

“Aside from your boots and bed, the room was very tidy, with almost no signs that you had been there or that you intended to stay.” The Stark said simply, his gaze returning to the boy before he continued. “And I saw how you looked like when she left. I know it wasn’t easy…”

“No, it’s not.” The boy said, cutting him off quickly, accelerating his pace in order to avoid the subject. From the side he could see him, nodding deeply, as if he understood the cue, taking the lead in silence. As they advanced, a distinctive ballad reverberated in the distance, Ed knew it from one of the many traveling troupes that crossed his path, a melody that described the legendary battle of the redgrass field, the final act of the downfall of Daemon Blackfyre. Verse after verse braided the red dragon’s strategy, on one side, Baelor Targaryen led the dornish forces, with spears in hand, violently pushing the black dragon’s troops against a shield wall led by his brother, Maekar Targaryen. The hammer and the anvil, that was the beginning of the end, the grass forever stained with blood on both sides.

“Lenny Roxton, our bard.” Jon said, gently pointing towards the singer sitting under a bale of hay, whose voice reverberated consistently throughout the yard. The place no longer seemed so spacious, the mud mixed with the gold of the bales, with cloth targets held up proudly. And from two opposite sides Ed saw them, he had already shared their presence, even if they hadn’t been properly introduced. “The hammer is my son, Aemon.” The Stark said, his voice full of pride. In the prince’s hands he brandished a steel sword, as he led two other boys forward, spears in their hands. Aemon possessed an appearance that mirrored his father’s, if not for his perfectly symmetrical face and the amethyst glow of his eyes. To his right stood a chubby boy whose clothes featured three intertwined spirals, in green, blue and red. His blond hair was wet with sweat, as if he had been playing for a long time, his heavy breathing contributed to the reddened apples of his face. The other younger one had black hair and sported a golden chalice held by a goat. Ed wanted to know what those symbols meant, since he arrived he had found himself lost in them, all he knew was the wolf and the dragon. The lion too, his mother hadn’t spared stories about them. Lannisters, despicable creatures... It wouldn’t be easy to associate this with the presence of the blond boy ahead, his golden waves moving as he wielded the wooden shield in the opposite direction. If Ed could, he would bet all his gold that the boy’s eyes were green. “Martyn Lannister, the anvil… I think he would benefit from some help?”

“Me? I wouldn’t dare.” Ed said, taking a step back. He had never done that… How would he? What if they didn’t want him there, what if the four of them got together to make fun of him? It wouldn’t be too difficult, bald as he was. A sailor bastard left behind on dry land. Pathetic. “It would ruin my clothes.” He lied defensively, shrugging.

“You can also be the black dragon.” Jon said, pointing to what appeared to be a huge target wrapped in a dark cloth. Ed didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on the interaction in front of him, the epic song escalating as the boys’ screams grew louder and louder. - I see. Nobody wants to be on the losing side.” The Stark said, still standing next to his nephew, he didn’t want to pressure him, not yet. When the bard’s voice had ceased and his fingers were no longer touching the lute, Ed was able to hear, cutting through the air violently, the sound of an arrow. And suddenly all eyes in the courtyard found the black target skewered by the reddish arrow. On the other side, under a pile of bales was the skilled archer. The boy looked to be around Ed’s age, his black hair was pulled back, his right cheek was covered with mud... Like the birthmark that covered the face of the one who killed not one, but two of Daemon Blackfyre’s children. Another of the great bastards, the Bloodraven.

“Who is he?” Ed asked genuinely, his uncle would teach him how to wield a sword. But he certainly wouldn’t mind asking the boy for some archery tips. He didn’t look arrogant, not covered in mud like he was.

“Lyanna!” Jon shouted, his voice deeply serious as he marched with heavy steps towards what was actually not a boy, but a girl. Ed had heard of her, the eldest daughter, her beauty revered on this side of the sea.

“It was a clean shot, you have to admit!” The princess said so that everyone could hear her, her father’s arm wrapped firmly around her at the same time that the boys in the courtyard burst into applause and excited shouts. “What do you think?” She asked towards her friends while the prince consort seemed to silently reprimand her, taking her with one hand, and the bow with the other. He wasn’t exerting force, that was remarkable, Lyanna was allowing herself to be taken.

“We’ll talk about it later.” Jon declared, throwing the bow in front of Aemon’s feet, his tone firm before he took her away, leaving Ed behind along with an aura of tension.

“That was cool, but we have to go now.” The chubby boy said before walking away awkwardly, taking the younger boy with him, who followed him without much justification. Ed approached, even though he wasn’t sure why. His hands went against the bow, the noble wood appealing against his fingers, in high relief the shape of an A stood out.

“Is she going to be fine?” The Lannister boy questioned, approaching with anxious steps, his greenish eyes showing apprehension. “Aemon?”

“She should be in Septa Maelle.” The prince replied, taking the bow for himself, offering a grateful look to Ed. “Cousin, it’s good to finally meet you.”

“I am really sorry about that” Ed said sincerely, his eyes lowered in shame. “I think… I think he wanted to introduce me to you.” His voice had broken in his throat. “It’s all my fault.”

“No, it’s not.” Martyn said, gently assuring him. “Lyanna is smarter than anyone I know, she saw him. Maybe she was trying to prove something…”

“She deserves training as much as any of us.” Aemon said, irritated for the first time.

“From what I saw, she doesn’t need much help with the bow.” Ed said, turning once again to the scarlet arrow above them. A clean shot, she was right. “Do you think your father…”

“Never.” Aemon replied promptly, as if he was expecting a question from one of the two. “He may scream, but I highly doubt he will.” Ed nodded, that was good... At least Lyanna wouldn’t get beaten for hitting a target, the idea in itself seemed unfair. “Where are you going?” The Targaryen asked in Martyn’s direction whose legs were moving quickly away, looking rather determined.

“The kitchens.” Martyn replied. “She’ll appreciate a treat once he’s over.”

“Do you like strawberry cake, cousin?” Aemon asked. Ed couldn’t tell, he had never eaten that. But he was strangely inclined to try. “It’s Lyanna’s favorite.”

Chapter Text

322 a .C.

Johanna tried in vain to concentrate on the needlework on her lap. Her mind troubled by Jaehaerys’ sudden absence, her ears muffled by Septa Maelle’s deep, irritating breathing.

The gray woman reflected the decay of her age, hunched posture, soft voice and gentle eyes. She should be in the Starry Sept, between prayers and fasting, waiting for the day when Stranger would finally collect her. Not in King’s Landing, demonstrating her fickle incapacity.

Lyanna was a mess, slipping through the old woman’s fingers whenever possible. Night walks, clandestine training, and finally, her flowering hidden for at least four moons. Without even knowing it, the Septa was in Johanna’s hands, a whisper enough to put her in a carriage heading back to Old Town. It wasn’t a question of if, but when. Who knows how things will turn out? If Lyanna wouldn’t be sent away with her…

It wouldn’t be easy finding a way into smallfolk heart’s, not with Lyanna so close. They loved her. The image of a kind girl wearing fine dresses enough to impress those of Flea Bottom. She had good taste, Johanna recognized that, expensive fabrics and foreign lace, scented salts and essential oils. Not that it did much to hide her plain, simple appearance. Johanna wondered how much longer it would take for the court lickspittles to recognize it. Lyanna was nothing more than a slovenly monkey, draped in silken robes, whose eyes vaguely recall the glory of ancient Valyria. It didn’t take long for Johanna’s greenish gaze to roam the princess’s sumptuous apartments, anger filling her lungs as she remembered her rooms in the Tower of the Hand. The various steps she would have to climb at the end of that day.

“When you get married… When you’re old enough!” Jon Stark’s voice reached the rooms like a heated statement, which distantly resonated through those thick stone walls. The lion’s daughter rose silently, calculated steps taking her to the wall closest to the door. Her ears thirsty for more.

“Aemon received the bow when he was just eight! I’m good at it, you saw it…” Lyanna replied implacably.

“I said no!” Declared the prince consort, his voice closer and more incisive.

“I’m as capable as…” She intervened anyway, daring to cross him.

“Lyanna!” The Stark shouted suddenly, as if his eyes were burning cold over his daughter. Even over the door, Johanna could feel it.

“You smiled…” Lyanna gave in to sadness all at once. “You smiled before getting mad”. He hesitated, and then the Targaryen continued, stepping over him like the foul-mouthed girl she was. “You looked at the arrow and then at me, and you smiled… Why?” The unsettling silence was the cue for Johanna to move away, casually sitting on the armchair, the stupid old woman still asleep. “Papa...”

“Go to your room!” He ordered, in a deep and severe tone, but no less moved. Lyanna was his weak point, his favorite. That was clear to anyone willing to see. The door had opened with a single bang, waking up the Septa.

“Oh gods, what happened to you?” Still drowsy, she got up, her arms raised towards the door. The princess was filthy, mud covering her hair, face, and even the ragged clothes she wore. Fat tears ran down her youthful face, while her breathing faltered. She was about to fall apart. “Sh, sh… I’m going to care of you.” The Septa continued comforting her, not even caring about the mud that had stained her clothes. “Have a bath prepared.” She whispered in the direction of Johanna who quickly obeyed, repeating those same words in front of the servants, while her ears remained fixed on both of them. “Can you tell me how you got dirty? Or what happened to your dress?” The old woman asked her lightly, only to be answered by a tearful sob. “A bath and a good night’s sleep. Everything will look better in the morning, you’ll see.” In heavy, hot buckets, the copper bathtub was gradually filled. As Lyanna’s crying became lower, until limited itself to silenced tears streaming down her reddened face. Her muddy clothes were the first to come off, Johanna took her time, separating the dirty robes from the smallclothes, throwing them in a secluded corner of the room. “Ready?” The old woman asked, extending her arm to the girl, helping her into the bathtub.

“Thank you.” Lyanna simply said, sighing lightly, the warm water relieving the tension of her body.

“No need for that.” The Septa smiled complacently, her hands working carefully on the tangle of brown locks, bathing the princess’s head with the help of a small basin. Johanna didn’t take long to take the girl’s hands, brushing them firmly, up and down, side to side, eliminating the dirt beneath her nails. Before she could finish, Lyanna pulled her hand away, only then could the Lannister saw the white tips of her nails in total contrast with the red of the princess’ fingers. “Careful, Lady Johanna.”

“Forgive me.” The Lannister girl grudgingly conceded. “I’m not used to this service, to any service, in fact.” Lady in waiting, an honor according to the mother’s enthusiastic words, for the father, an obligation, an opportunity. He expected Johanna to inform him of every slip, every blemish, every mistake... And she did during the beginning, at least until she realized that the Hand’s greed would do little to help her achieve her goals. Because it was the means that made them disagree with each other.

“Find something comfortable for the princess, something warm.” The old woman replied, her wrinkled hands taking Lyanna’s, inspecting them for further damage. “If you want, I can ask them to bring a tray, I’m sure the Queen won’t mind…”

“It wasn’t her.” The princess said simply. Clashes between Mother and the Maiden were more frequent than the Septa would like to admit. “My father, he… I don’t understand.”

“What, sweet girl?”

“Aemon lent me his bow…”

“Lyanna!” Septa Maelle exclaimed, slightly scolding her, shocked by what the princess had just said. How foolish can she be? Johanna thought, the princess’s robes in her hands, as her senses remained attentive to the conversation, her presence hidden behind a pillar.

“I got them! I got all the targets, and when we were playing, I hit Daemon Blackfyre!” Lyanna completed enthusiastically, apparently very impressed with her skills. A monkey with a bow then.

“A Blackfyre! In King's Landing?!”

“No, Septa! It was a joke, a black puppet that we had to take down, Aemon was Baelor Breakspear; Martyn, Maekar Targaryen. And I, Lord Bloodraven!”

“A bastard! Now I understand where the offense came from.” Septa Maelle nodded in a thoughtful tone.

“Sometimes I think that bastards and girls are not that different.” Lyanna responded impulsively. Maybe it was true, but certainly not for a princess of the blood. “Papa was proud of me, I saw… His eyes smiled at mine. For a moment I thought…” A sob abruptly cut her voice, joined by a silent cry. “He took the bow out of my hands, said that when I get married I will be able to train... Jaehaerys would never allow me to try.” When? When would they get married? Johanna hoped that it would be a long time before she could finally take Lyanna’s place. “I don’t understand how he got angry so quickly…”

“There’s no need for an understanding! Swords, spears and arrows… They are different messengers of the same lord, they bring death, destruction…” The gray woman said, suddenly gloomy. “You are a young girl, the very image of the Maiden as many say... And one day, the Mother’s mantle that will hang over your shoulders. Women are given the gift of life, to nourish and preserve.”

“Visenya Targaryen would disagree with you, Septa Maelle.” Lyanna said as a matter of fact, which was enough to draw a hoarse laugh from the old woman’s throat.

“I would see her give me to the beasts when I told her that her lineage did not prevail, but that of her younger and delicate sister.” Replied the old woman, not at all bothered by the girl’s words.

“In the end, I don’t think she would mind.” Lyanna said, shrugging her shoulders. “Visenya must have loved her very much, despite all things, blood is blood.”

“A sister or a brother is not the same as a son. You’ll learn that soon enough” The old woman said finally. Johanna had heard enough, her hands called the servants by the thin silk rope next to the bed.

“I’ll ask them to take the dirty clothes, we don’t want the stench to take over the whole room.” Johanna said without even thinking, the lie crossing her lips with ease. She had places to go, things to do.

“Thank you, Lady Johanna.” Lyanna said in what seemed like a really genuine gesture.

“Once again, forgive me for my lack of tact.” The Lannister added according to her facade, her voice docile and servile, at the same time as she bowed deeply.

“There’s no need to apologize, I know you’re doing your best.” Oh, you have no idea, little monkey. Heading out, Johanna collected the dirty clothes, quickly discarding them in front of the door, keeping only the princess's undergarments with her.

In hurried steps Johanna left Maegor’s behind, she could not risk running into Bronn or any of her father’s guards. Covered in a long moss-green cloak, the Lannister crossed the battlements alone, going down the stairs until she stopped in front of a small, semicircular tower, with a squat appearance. She hated that place. By the door, Little Sam proudly stood, a hot torch on his hand. His pale hair was slightly wet, and his eyes as cold as ice didn’t take long to find her.

“Where is he?” Johanna tried not to sound so irritated, as if walking to that wrenched place wasn’t absurd enough.

“The door is open, you’ll find him there.” The Tarly replied, shrugging his shoulders. His posture indifferent despite the blood they shared. Johanna swallowed hard, looking ahead. She had never dared to go beyond that first door, what was a few steps away was a path that no one would ever want to take.

“If something happens…”

“I’ll save my tears for you, cousin.” He told her, opening the door abruptly.

“Fuck off.” Little Sam could be a bastard when he wanted to. Johanna continued, avoiding looking inside the cells as much as possible. She knew they were there, she could sense them, silently watching her. The upper floor was intended for ordinary prisoners, to huddle there, waiting for Gods know what. At the end of the corridor, the Lannister’s green eyes met the light of a torch untouched by the bars, shining from within. It isn’t a cell, Johanna realized as she quickly entered the room, sealing the door behind her.

“You’re late.” Maekar noted with a mocking smile on his face, standing up in a single impulse. Johanna felt her face burn, she hated him before, and even more, for what he had put her through. “Don’t be ungrateful, we both know you wouldn’t like the black cells much more.” The prince approached her, pushing her hood back, giving him a full view of her long golden hair. “Did you bring what I asked for?” The Lannister nodded, as she handed him Lyanna’s smallclothes. The prince’s took the fabric without hesitation, quickly bringing it to his face, eagerly smelling it, far for being satiated. Johanna held her breath, trying in vain to contain the sickening discomfort that had invaded her. “You condemn me. Because we are brother and sister?” Maekar asked imperturbably, the lilac in his eyes thirsty for an answer. Johanna looked away before answering, the old saying clouding her thoughts: Every time a Targaryen is born, the Gods flip a coin and the world holds its breath.

“She is a girl still.” The Lannister chose to tell half the truth. One that wouldn’t inflame him, at least not completely. “Just a girl.”

“Lyanna is already a blossoming woman, she could give me children if I wanted so.” He said, sitting down again, reclining comfortably on his wide chair. Johanna swallowed, taking a step forward. She wasn’t there to talk about the princess.

“Listen, I have done my part with excellence so far.” Johanna was not proud of her alliance with Maekar, but among the possibilities, he was the only channel she had for Jaehaerys. The only one who was willing to help her, for the right price. “I haven’t seen Jaehaerys in a few days, I need to…”

“Being his wet nurse hasn’t been easy!” Maekar shrugged only to make her narrow her gaze. “I convinced him to stay today, he might call for you... But don’t get too excited, the Hunters are on their way to King’s Landing. The good news is...”

“Good news?!” Johanna shouted, slamming both fists against the table, her face closer to Maekar. That was a tragedy. “That Blackwood whore!” The Lannister walked away, anger clouding her senses all at once. She’d had months to get him into his good graces, and now with Bethany back…

“Shut it!” Maekar stood up scolding her. “Denys Mallister’s little birds may be deaf, but the dungeons certainly aren’t!”.

“Kill them all, rip out their tongues for all I care!” Johanna responded instinctively. She would pray day and night that the Stranger would find that damned woman, on the way down the Valley, on the Queen’s Road, that she would fall into the deepest hole and that the worms would consume her. Jaehaerys would mourn her loss for a while, but not without glimpsing the obvious: Without Bethany, Johanna would stand, more evident than ever. “You need to find a way, you need to… Soon.”

“Do you really think I care? You or Bethany can duel for Jaehaerys’ cock, as long as Lyanna…”

“One whisper and the dragon will push the marriage. The affair with that whore, or Lyanna’s menses, feel free to choose!” Johanna turned to him implacably, the threat sharp in her words. “If I fall, I’ll take you with me.”

“How dare you?” The Targaryen prince questioned, approaching dangerously, the flame of the torches shining bright against the lilac of his eyes. “I should drag you down the stairs, put you on the easel, stretch this petulance out of you, break a bone or two before returning you to that freak my mother calls the Hand.” Maekar had made his threats, looking deeply at her, sure of every word. He had cornered her in that dark room, away from any and all help, except for the presence of Little Sam just a few steps away. How disappointed would Lady Talla be to know that Johanna wouldn’t trust her cousin with even a pin? In the end she only had herself. Her father faithful to his own ambitions, and her mother caught up in the shine of her beautiful golden boy.

“Do it. But know I am the best choice, the only choice that it is. Bethany will be the end of your plans. No matter how biased the Queen is, your father will oppose it, and the entire council along with him. All of them led by the freak.” She said firmly, it wasn’t impossible, but Bethany’s chances were minimal, compared to the possibilities that the Lannister had with her. That seemed enough to make him swallow hard.

“And what would you have me do?”

“I don’t know. I gave you everything you asked for, and so far the most you’ve done is insist that he stay away from the Street of Silk.” Johanna said finally. She was tired of giving, and getting nothing instead. She needed something solid, now more than ever. “What is the good news?”

“He doesn’t know the Hunters are coming.” Maekar offered.

“Yet. He doesn’t know yet.”

“Alright, I can think of something bigger… Something definitive, if it pleases you.”

“Yes, definitive, yes.”

“But I’ll want something in return, something equally big.” The Targaryen prince clarified with smirk that made Johanna’s stomach turn. “At the right time, Dalt will come to you.”

The sunrise was what marked Jaehaerys’ total ecstasy.

Johanna couldn’t help it… A wide, unreserved smile suddenly came to her. He called for her, his sloppy handwriting undeniable in the torchlight.

Below her, between her elegant legs, the silver prince was illuminated by the first rays of the sun of that cold morning. My dragon, she thought, admiring him in his complete satisfaction. But her ears, nor her heart, were ready for what came next. His seed was still warm inside her when she heard him lazily say.

“Beths…” His eyes were closed, while her hands still held the Lannister’s waist tightly. The young woman’s smile quickly faded, just as it had appeared. Her legs slid away from him, away from his bed. Her joy turned to ashes before she realized. “Johanna.” Jaehaerys dared to call her by her name, as he usually did when they were alone. But the lion’s daughter didn’t bother to address him, all her concentration was focused on holding back the tears that stubbornly flowed down her cheeks.

“If you knew how much I love you, if you knew the things I would do for you…” Johanna felt the words empty her like an unleashed blood. Her trembling hands worked to wrap her nakedness, as if the thin nightgown were slipping off her. “You wouldn’t dare hurt me like this.”

Before he could reach her, the Lannister headed for the small door behind the golden screen. Through the narrow stone galleries Johanna’s body moved with familiarity, while her mind and heart remained fixed on the crown prince. That name echoed, again and again, Johanna felt it burning in her ears.

Beths. Bethany. What could that simple little thing from the Riverlands have that she, a lioness of the Rock, wouldn’t have? Harlan Hunter’s wife was short and thin, mother of two boys, she smiled shyly and carried herself modestly. Her face was small and extremely ordinary, her black hair and brown eyes completed her rural look... Even after so many months apart, she still remained attached to him, as Johanna had never been able to.

But that didn't change the fact that the Lannister was running out of time. Johanna was seventeen years old, already past her time to get married. She could lose her heart, but she wasn’t so inclined to let the crown go, not after having glimpsed its shine from so close..

The search for suitors had been postponed at her request... If there was any chance of making her queen, her father silently supported it. Even if it meant breaking Jaehaerys’ engagement with the monkey. A sob went through her as she reached the door to the Tower of the Hand. Sadness crumbled inside her, only to give way to anger.

“Leave us.” She heard her father say quickly, his voice serious and haughty, his eyes fixed on her as the servants without reservations emptied the hand tower. “Another long night, I suppose?” Tyrion said as he emptied his cup without much difficulty. Johanna swallowed, carefully approaching.

“I’m tired.” She stated simply, hoping that the docility of her voice would please the Hand’s ears. Her mother still remained focused on the plate in front of her, ignoring her daughter as best she could, Johanna knew all too well what Lady Talla Lannister thought about all that.

“You’re crying…” Tyrion noticed, he suddenly took the cup away, placing it over the table, his tone was still restrained. “Did he hurt you?” Those words made Lady Talla turn to the girl with a worried, horrified look.

“No.” Johanna assured quickly. “May I go now?”

“No.” Tyrion denied incisively, his eyes moving from his daughter to a small cup placed on the corner of the table. “You need to eat… and drink your tea.” He said seriously. This was not just an order, but also a pretext, he wanted to know what happened.

“Alright then.” The Lannister girl murmured, sitting next to her mother without much grace, at this point she didn’t care of what they thought... Johanna quickly helped herself to a small piece of blueberry cake, the jelly always took away the bitterness of the moon tea.

“The Maiden’s Day will be in a fortnight.” Talla said casually, breaking the silence. “I already embroidered a cloak for Lyanna, she chose red velvet and garnets from the Summer Islands…” Lady Lannister continued, her tone was especially affectionate. “If you want, I can sew yours…”

“Johanna would expect no less.” Tyrion said quickly before his daughter could even nod. “It is customary for the maiden’s mother to do so, as you have done all these years.”

“Of course.” Lady Talla said, uncomfortable by her husband’s harsh statement, her lips slightly twisted as if she were trying not to retort. “I was about to ask if our daughter has any ideas...”

“A roaring lion, gold on crimson. You still remember our house sigil, I hope.” Johanna asked, unbothered with her mother’s impertinence, who did little other than swallow dryly.

“Certainly something special, this will be your last year of walks, flower garlands and candles for the Maiden.” Tyrion said in a more serious tone. Inquisitory even. “I hope you are managing to find your way into the prince’s favor…”

“Do you really want to talk about him?” Johanna questioned, visibly inflamed by the mention of Jaehaerys.

“What happened? You usually come back radiant after you visits…” The Hand asked, genuinely concerned.

“Visits! Oh Father Above, I've heard enough!” Lady Talla said, standing up in disgust. As if she were somehow superior, too good for her daughter. Johanna would remember that.

“Joan?” The Lannister insisted, ignoring his wife’s morality.

“You’re not going to give up, are you?” She asked, finally getting rid of her false courtesy. “Well, do you want me to tell you all the details? All the positions in which he…”

“Johanna!” Talla warned before she continued, there was something dangerous in the way her brown eyes looked at her daughter’s. She would never look at Lyanna like that, ever. “At least respect these walls.”

“I hate you. I hate you both!” Johanna shouted before running away from that damn room. She didn’t want to think about Jaehaerys, about the wonderful night that Bethany Blackwood’s ghost had destroyed. And above all she didn’t want to think about everything she had done to have him, and all the things she was still willing to do.

Chapter Text

Lyanna could swear she had heard something, someone.

Distant footsteps sneaking through the darkness of her chambers — between the bed and the hearth — gently stirring the thin curtains of the vestibule.

Sleepy, the princess sat up, abruptly pushing away the thick furs that enveloped her, focusing on the silence that followed. Her blurred vision tried in vain to catch the stealthy silhouette she imagined wandering in the shadows. The fire that had warmed and illuminated the room earlier in the night now glowed with faint orange embers, distant enough not to bother her swollen eyes. The night’s chill quickly envolved her, cold enough to make her reclaim the covers once more.

Perhaps it was the wind, perhaps a dream, she thought, letting herself fall back onto the bed, gazing at the shadows and contours of the vaulted ceiling above her. Lyanna thought of the lavish apartments above hers, the resting place of her lord and father. The princess was still resentful of how he had treated her, grabbing her by the wrists, dragging her through the corridors, sending her to her room like a disobedient child. Tears welled up before she realized it, flooding her eyes like salty lakes, spilling over her cold, reddened face.

Lyanna was no longer a child. From one spring to the next, she had blossomed in every way. Her father and the others might not know about her moonblood, but her growth was evident to anyone who cared to look. Her body had acquired angles and curves previously unknown, her voice had changed, even her scent… Everything about her screamed that Lyanna was now a young woman. And her father was treating her exactly as he should—as the broodmare she was destined to be.

Princess of the Blood, future Queen. Pretty names to sugarcoat what they expect of me, she thought, swallowing hard. Jaehaerys would have his mother’s throne to rule, Lyanna would be left with a bed to lie in. Forever trapped in the same city where she was born, without friends or the freedom to do as she pleased. Her future awaited her just a flight of stairs away, while everyone she knew, everyone she loved, was destined to leave. Aemon would rule the cities of  Dragon’s Bay, an ocean away, as if he and Lyanna had never been one. Sweet Rhaenys would blossom too, her only sister, gentle and innocent in every way… Shipped away like cheap merchandise, as a bride or a septa. And finally, her oldest friend, the one who had endured the comings and goings of winters and plagues. A brother in all but blood; Martyn Lannister would rule at Casterly Rock, high on a mountain by the Sunset Sea. A place remotely beautiful compared to the foul and decaying King’s Landing, far too distant to save her from the lust of men, from tedious banquets or inconvenient guests; far too distant to ask her to dance when Aemon was too tired; to make her laugh, or send her sweets and gifts when he couldn’t.

Lyanna rose once more, embracing the cold as she staggered to the hearth with its sparse embers and ashen logs, stirring it with the poker. She was tired of harsh truths, of being seen and perceived as an accessory, as something to be taken or possessed, molded to the service of the Realm, to the service of men. Though the blood of the First Men prevailed in her appearance, she was a Targaryen, from her whims to her unyielding determination.

Before the dawn broke red against the indigo night, Lyanna had donned her riding attire and, on her own, braided her long black hair into a heavy plait. The princess needed no handmaidens for this, nor did she wish to disturb Septa Maelle’s sleep. The fruits laid out with water in the corner of the room would suffice, at least for breakfast. Lyanna wrapped them in a black shawl — pears, plums, and apples — as she opened the door in one swift motion.

“Princess.” Sor Podrick’s voice rang firm, his blue eyes surprised to see her so early in the morning. “It’s still early.” He said lightly, bowing with familiarity. “Is everything alright?” He asked, taking a step forward, his care turning to concern.

“Perfectly, Sor Podrick.” Lyanna replied promptly, keeping her feelings at the bay. “I wish to visit the Dragonpit.” She announced, just to see her sworn shield’s mouth open in protest. “We’ll return in time for my lessons. When the sun is high?” She proposed, watching Sor Podrick’s face soften in resolution. He was a reasonable man, and she was singularly persuasive.

“When the sun is high.” The knight repeated, stepping back to let the princess take the lead. Lyanna thought of inviting Aemon, Martyn, even Rhaenys, but for some reason, she didn’t. Perhaps because she didn’t consider herself good company at that moment, or perhaps in an attempt to grow accustomed to the loneliness that would follow their departure someday. Among the corridors and staircases, the servants hurried, carrying buckets, trays, and linens. They noticed her, bowing whenever they passed her and her faithful white cloak. “May I ask what roused you so early from bed?” Sor Podrick asked from behind. The princess waited until he caught up to answer, indigo meeting blue.

“I’m not sure yet.” Lyanna sighed. A shadowy figure, open windows, a terrible future… “I think I need to stop thinking too much, for a change.”

“And how would dragons help with that?” Sor Podrick inquired, genuinely curious.

“Nothing else matters when I’m in the pit.” Lyanna said with a hint of nostalgia, wishing she could visit them more often. “They don’t see me for what I am, or what I have…”

“They might still mistake you for food if you’re not careful.” There was caution, and there was fear. Lyanna would rather live among dragons than in a world of men. The hungry gaze was a trait of men; dragons, fortunately, preferred sheep.

“Fear not, Sor Podrick. I have the bravest sword in King’s Landing by my side.” The princess said in a flattering tone.

“Perhaps the bravest.” The white cloak conceded, making way for Lyanna to reach the courtyard. “But certainly far from the most skilled. That title is well held by your lord father.” The girl merely nodded, the indigo in her eyes meeting the same muddy courtyard from which she had been forcibly dragged. Sor Podrick stayed by her side, cultivating the silence until they reached the stables. “Septa Maelle told me what happened.”

“Do you think me foolish as well?” Lyanna did not hesitate to ask.

“I cannot say what I think.” The knight warned in an equally neutral tone. His duty was to protect her; opinions were the weapons of the great lords and ladies of the Realm. “Only the truth.” The white cloak said sympathetically. He had been trained by a woman, so it was no surprise that he supported her, even if his support lacked the strength of her parents’. “The Prince Consort loves you deeply, as does the Queen.” Sor Podrick said after a moment. It was true; Lyanna could feel it in the knot forming in her throat, in the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. Not enough to let me be who I am, a voice whispered within her. “Parents make mistakes more often than they admit, with nothing but good intentions. They only want what’s best for their children.” And what if there’s more than one child? What if one child’s benefit comes at the cost of another’s unhappiness? Sor Podrick likely had no answer to these questions. Like Lyanna, he had no children. Truth was his only weapon, fragile and sharp as dragonglass.

“With all due respect, do you believe Jaehaerys is what’s best for me?” The young woman asked with a coldness she didn’t know she possessed, momentarily silencing her sworn shield. “I understand your silence. Truth ceases to matter the moment it becomes inconvenient.”

“Forgive him, Lyanna. Your father loves you more than anyone.” Sor Podrick said honestly, unbothered by her tone.

“He already has my forgiveness. He just needs to ask for it.” Lyanna said resolutely, stepping confidently toward the half-open stable door. She stopped suddenly upon seeing him again, lying among bales of hay, his golden skin already glistening with sweat so early in the morning, his brown eyes opening in a startle, both embarrassed and affectionate. He rose, sleepy and clumsy, only to offer her a bow laden with rough simplicity. Haggo was the gentlest of the stablehands, his fondness for animals well-rooted in his Dothraki origins. He had been her first kiss, wet and hurried. Full of excitement, fueled by the fear of being caught, by the choice to do it anyway. Lyanna knew, that attraction was destined to be what it was and nothing more. She was a princess of the blood, and he a lowborn orphan, a mere stablehand. Yet the kiss had made her feel something deliciously dangerous, something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

“What are you waiting for, boy?” Sor Podrick asked. Apparently, both had frozen, lost in their hidden encounter.

“This way, your highness.” Haggo said, bowing his head and quickly guiding them through the stalls. As they advanced, the neighing of a horse became audible — the most rebellious and primal sound of resistance, the force of nature opposing the stubbornness of men. Curiosity quickly enveloped Lyanna, leading her toward the animal. It was a sleek black stallion, already saddled, resisting its rider’s persistence. The seemingly unknown knight tried in vain to keep the horse in check. His clothes bore hoof marks, his hands red from attempts to grasp the reins. The boy didn’t seem much older than Lyanna, a thin layer of hair covering his head, as if he had recently shaved it.

“What are you trying to do?” The young princess asked curious and vaguely annoyed.

“To ride.” He replied simply, still focused on his endeavor, daring another unsolicited approach.

“Have you done this before? It doesn’t seem so…” Lyanna asked, feeling Sor Podrick’s constant presence behind her, his hand instinctively resting on his sword.

“There aren’t many horses where I come from.”

“And where is that?” The girl asked.

“I grew up at sea, my lady.” He turned to her at last, the realization hitting her like a stone.

“Cousin Ed.” Lyanna said, averting her gaze for the first tine, ashamed she hadn’t recognized him. Yes, her mother had ordered his head shaved — lice, as Lyanna recalled.

“Princess.” Judging by his clumsy curtsy, the young man shared the same feeling. “I beg your pardon, I…”

“We’re kin. There’s no need for that.” Lyanna granted kindly, stepping closer to the boy. The softness of her words surprised him. “What do you need?”

“I don’t think I’m cut out for this.” Ed sighed, staring at the palms of his hands, stepping away from the unruly stallion. “A squire who can’t even mount a horse, What a joke…”

“Don’t be hasty, boy.” Sor Podrick finally said. “You’ll find a better mount, I’m sure. One without an owner, preferably.”

“What do you mean?” Lyanna asked before Ed could speak for  himself.

“I have reason to believe this horse belongs to Lord Samwell Tarly.” Sor Podrick replied, stepping closer to the animal, which responded by rearing up in defiance. Lyanna felt a shiver run through her as she noticed the white scars on the horse’s thigh. The princess had been there when it was broken. She remembered its frantic jumps, its endless neighing as it tried to throw off its rider. Little Sam was relentless. Two days under the summer sun, being thrown up and down, one hand on the whip, the other on the reins, both feet firmly in the stirrups; the horse’s grunts of pain accompanied by the cheers of his many friends. Jaehaerys and Maekar included.

“It must be a mistake, Ser. The prince himself gave it to me, as a welcoming gift.” Though the knight’s tone carried no accusation, Ed replied with fearful sincerity. Lyanna didn’t need to know him to sense the truth in his words, just as she didn’t need to ask to know — the cunning to harm someone gratuitously, anyone… That was typical of Maekar. Not to mention his close friendship with Little Sam.

“He’s right.” The princess was quick to explain, her eyes steady on her cousin so he would understand, so he would believe her. “I’m sorry to say, but you’ve fallen into a trap.” Ed was quiet for a while, his eyes static, as if his mind were navigating hypothetical and dangerous paths.

“Why?” He asked simply, still adrift.

“There might be a reason, but usually, it’s because he can.” Lyanna said numbly. Maekar had treated her with disdain for as long as she could remember. He was malicious, with a propensity for violence. It was wrong, but the princess couldn’t wait to see him leave for the North, even if it meant the unhappiness of others. “Come, I’ll bandage your hands.”

“I couldn’t possibly…”

“Haggo, bring clean cloths.” The princess said simply, extending her hands toward Ed, inviting him to relent, which he did, stepping closer with timidity. “Your skin hasn’t broken. You’re lucky.”

“There will be discomfort, but nothing that will hinder you.” Sor Podrick added firmly, making way for Haggo to hand the cloths to Lyanna. “The Prince Consort won’t be pleased…”

“Will you tell him?” Ed asked, uncertain of what to expect.

“Duty compels him.” Lyanna said, repeating what might as well have been Sor Podrick’s personal motto. Countless times she and Aemon had heard those same words. “The bright side is that Maekar will think twice before trying anything.”

“That’s not very comforting.” Ed said, smiling for the first time.

“I know.” The girl conceded, finishing the bandages, careful to keep them firm but not too tight.

“Thank you for telling me, for… well, for everything.” Ed said finally, looking at her with a mix of gratitude and hesitation.

“Don’t thank me yet. I want to introduce you to someone.” The princess replied with a half-smile.

Lily had the confidence and experience that Ed lacked.

Her slender form moved gracefully through the crowded streets of King’s Landing, navigating the ups and downs with ease, even under the uncertain commands of her rider. She was nothing like the imposing black stallion he had been given. Lily was gentle, delicate, and, as her cousin had pointed out, patient. Ed was still getting used to handling the reins, the height of the horse, and the constant flow of people and carts that surrounded them as they climbed the hill. Sor Podrick led the way with authority, clearing a path for them, while other gold cloaks completed the escort, managing the frenzy of the people at the sight of their princess.

Lyanna greeted them in return, waving gracefully while maintaining control of her mount. She reminded him of his uncle—her readiness to welcome him, her sharpness in action and guidance, her unyielding sense of justice. It was ironic that the kindest Targaryen Ed had met so far bore no Valyrian features. She wielded a bow like a man and shared her horses with bastards.

“Is King’s Landing everything you expected?”

“It’s very…”

“Smelly.” The princess interrupted, dodging a group of merchants. “You’ll get used to it, unfortunately.” She assured him.

He fell silent for a moment before finally sighing.

“It’s been difficult.” Lyanna slowed her pace, sensing the weight behind her cousin’s words. “I know how to row, tie knots, raise and lower sails, I know the best route from here to the Jade Sea, but I can’t even find my way to my own room without getting lost… I don’t know how to behave at the table, how to read or write properly, how to wield a lance, ride a horse, or even wear armor.”

“What stopped you from running away?” The girl asked, her eyes eager for an answer.

“I don’t know, exactly. But I feel like this might be my chance to be part of something.” Ed replied honestly, if not for his parents, then for himself. In the end, the sea would be his last resort. “I can’t give up, not without giving it my all.”

“Whatever you need, whether it’s little or much, if it’s within my power, consider it done.” The princess said without hesitation, with an ease that embarrassed him. She had already done so much for him.

“Why?”

“Well, for a number of reasons.” Lyanna said with a smile, her voice warm and light. “We share the same blood. You’re honest, and you’re trying, so why not help if I can?”

“I have nothing to offer.” Ed said without meeting his cousin’s eyes.

“Says the boy who can sail to Asshai.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” The princess said before urging her horse forward. Lily quickened her pace, and Ed followed, already more confident in his saddle. They trotted toward the top of the hill where the Dragonpit stood, its imposing dome rising against the gray morning sky.

“Where exactly are we going?”  Ed asked.

“We’re here.” Lyanna replied, leaning forward toward the pit. “I assume you’ve already seen them. The dragons.”

“Not so close.” The young man said, forgetting his earlier insecurities. It was impossible not to see them, their vibrant scales cutting through the sky, their massive forms casting wide shadows that darkened parts of the city, if only momentarily.

“They’re magnificent.” Lyanna beamed, genuinely happy. “You’ll like it.”  She assured him as they passed through the gates. Sor Podrick dismounted to thank the gold cloaks for the escort, while the princess took the lead, exchanging a few words with what seemed to be one of the pit’s keepers. Ed understood some of what they said; the Valyrian dialect he had learned from corsairs and sailors echoed in the princess’s words and those of her servant. Like a mysterious melody, lost in translation, revealing itself in small fragments carried by the wind.

“Gaomagon ōtor ipradagon dōron?” Ed ventured in the best Valyrian he could muster. The man in robes looked at him incredulously, almost shocked, while the princess smiled, pleasantly surprised.

“Nyke gōntan daor gīmigon ao ȳzaldrīzes valyrīha, lēkia.” Lyanna said as she handed their mounts to a younger keeper.

“That’s because I don’t, cousin.” Though he understood her, Ed didn’t feel confident enough to continue. That single phrase had drained him of all the composure he thought he had.

“And yet, you’re still better than the crown prince.” The young woman replied with confidence, but what truly struck Ed was the bittersweet nature of her comment. After all, it wasn’t exactly a compliment.

“Maekar?”

“Jaehaerys.” Lyanna corrected promptly. “Maekar is a second son, though he sometimes forgets that.”

“That makes you the third child, and the first girl.” He said, more to himself, trying to understand her place in the line of succession.

“Jaehaerys came first, then Maekar, then Aemon and me, Rhaenys, and now Daeron.” The princess said naturally, not at all bothered by her cousin’s apparent lack of knowledge. “Aemon told me about you, and so did Martyn.” Lyanna said carefully yet casually. Ed had avoided mentioning their encounter a few days ago, and she apparently hadn’t noticed his presence, so it made no sense to bring it up. Ed didn’t want to embarrass her by admitting he had witnessed her father’s reaction to an innocent jest.

“Good things, I hope?”

“What can I say? You made a good impression, cousin.” The princess replied simply, honesty in her voice. “I'm sorry I saw that. Apparently, my father believes archery is something I should refine after my marriage.”

“I don’t see how one thing has to do with the other.” Ed said, confused, sensing within himself that this was just a flimsy excuse from his uncle to protect her, from what, exactly, the young bastard couldn’t say. “Not that my support is of any use to you, anyway.”

“Believe in me, cousin. It makes me feel some sanity.” The princess said with good humor.

“The stands are ready.” Sor Podrick announced as he approached, taking his place at their rear. Ed tried not to hesitate as they walked toward the dragons’ sanctuary, keeping his eyes on the ground, his feet moving at a steady pace, reluctantly matching Lyanna’s rhythm. Beyond the small courtyard, two bronze doors gleamed, wide enough to admit at least three dozen men. Inside lay what Ed understood to be an arena, lined with stands, its sunken center accessible through openings that seemed to lead to a series of caves. On a rock in the middle of the arena, two of the beasts fed, oblivious to the group’s presence.

“The red one is called Bloodfeather.”  Lyanna pointed to the dragon in question, its crimson scales matching its name, resembling the glow of bloodstained rock under the sun. Beside it, a beast of equal size fed, its scales a blend of black and a distinct gray, shimmering like silver. “That one is Silvernight.”

“Eating sheep on the rock.” Ed said, alluding to what he had said in Valyrian, before Lyanna could respond. The arena was filled with the sound of the dome opening, its fragments unfurling to make way for the vibrant morning sun. “How did they build something like this?”

“Maester Kywell is an expert in construction. He and the Hand oversaw the rebuilding of the pit. A structure that allows the dragons to come and go as they please.” Lyanna explained, her eyes fixed on the arena. The light had caught the dragons’ attention. Bloodfeather snorted disinterestedly before turning its fangs to the charred sheep. Silvernight, however, took the open dome as an invitation, ascending into the sky with a single powerful beat of its wings, its roar echoing like thunder. Ed trembled in his seat, while Lyanna watched in awe, the wind tousling her hair, the smell of burnt flesh spreading through the arena.

From one of the openings, sheep began to emerge, frightened and running desperately across the arena. Ed counted fourteen before Bloodfeather made its first strike, its throat glowing like molten iron as it burned the animals alive, tossing them into the air before attacking the next.

“Bloodfeather has this habit.” Lyanna commented, as if speaking of a child playing with its food. “Silvernight won’t touch anything it has defiled. That’s why they get along so well.”

“Is this safe?” Ed asked, his voice trembling with concern.

“The arena is their space, the stands are ours.” Sor Podrick replied without losing his composure. “The keepers know how to handle them.” Before Ed could feel any relief, a black shadow swallowed the light that had illuminated the pit, as Drogon and Rhaegal descended into the arena, the beating of their wings e equally loud. Ed recognized his uncle’s dragon almost immediately — Rhaegal, with its green scales and wings adorned with the same bronze as its eyes. Its behavior was no different; without hesitation, it advanced toward some fleeing sheep, cornering them with its scorching fire. Drogon, on the other hand, turned to Bloodfeather, charging at it with a menacing roar, driving it away with the spread of its wings. The smaller dragon snorted, violently seizing one of the sheep before flying into a cave, disappearing into the darkness.

Ed couldn’t help but shiver at the ferocity with which the dragons fed. Drogon and Rhaegal moved with a familiarity that only companionship could bring. They were there, in a structure built by men, eating with the fury of natural predators. The smell of burnt flesh and smoke began to fill the air, making the space even denser and more threatening.

When the dragons finally finished feeding and the arena was cleared, Ed felt relieved. He didn’t even mind the noise of Drogon and Rhaegal’s departure. Lyanna was ready to rise when Silvernight returned, circling the stands with grace, as if finally noticing them. This made the princess smile, and instead of sitting back down, she walked to the edge of the stands, the indigo in her eyes meeting the eternal night in Silvernight’s. The dragon, as if understanding the gesture, landed before her, its neck extending beyond the arena, barely encroaching on the stands.

The air around them seemed to grow heavier, thick with tension. Sor Podrick stepped forward, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword tightly. His eyes, usually calm and confident, now shone with a mix of fear and urgency.

“Lyanna!” His voice echoed through the arena, louder and firmer than usual. It was the first time he had called her by name in Ed’s presence, and his tone carried an authority he rarely used with her. “Come back here. Now.” He didn’t shout, but each word was sharp, like a blade.

She didn’t hear him. Or perhaps she chose not to. Silvernight watched her, tilting its head as if recognizing something in her. And Lyanna, without hesitation, reached out her hand.

“No!” Sor Podrick’s voice exploded, this time without restraint. He moved forward but stopped abruptly as the dragon’s keepers suddenly emerged from the shadows like ghosts. They carried iron-reinforced wooden staves, their expressions hard and alert. Two of them positioned themselves between Lyanna and the dragon, while others surrounded the area, ready to intervene.

“Step back, Princess!” One of the keepers, a tall man with graying hair, spoke in a hoarse but firm voice. “He may not be as docile as he seems.” Lyanna didn’t respond. Her eyes were fixed on Silvernight, and her hand continued to reach out, slowly and deliberately. The dragon snorted, hot smoke escaping its nostrils, but it didn’t retreat. Instead, it leaned toward her, its massive head drawing closer.

“Lyanna, please…” Sor Podrick was just a few steps away now, his voice soft, almost pleading. He reached out but didn’t dare touch her, afraid of provoking an unpredictable reaction from the dragon. “This is madness.”

“He won’t hurt me.” She murmured, more to herself than to him. Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, but filled with unshakable conviction.

The keepers exchanged nervous glances, their staves steady but hesitant. They knew any sudden movement could provoke the dragon, and no one wanted to be responsible for unleashing such a beast.

“Silvernight…” Lyanna whispered, her hand now just inches from the dragon’s scaled neck. The air seemed to still, time slowing as everyone watched, frozen.

And then it happened. Her hand touched the hot, rigid scales of the dragon. Silvernight didn’t move, didn’t snort, didn’t roar. It simply watched her, its black eyes reflecting her image—small and fragile, yet incredibly brave.

“By all the gods…” Sor Podrick murmured, his voice trembling as much as his hands. He didn’t know whether to feel admiration or anger. Ed felt both.

The keepers slowly retreated, their faces still tense but now also filled with silent reverence. They had seen many things in the pit, but nothing like this. One of the men, the youngest, crossed his arms over his chest in a gesture of respect, his eyes still wide with astonishment.

“Kirimvose, Silvernight.” Lyanna said, her voice soft but clear. She gave a slight bow, as if thanking a creature that could reduce her to ashes in an instant. The dragon snorted once more before taking flight with a powerful beat of its wings. The wind from its movement made Lyanna step back, but she kept her balance, her eyes still fixed on the sky.

Sor Podrick finally approached her, his hand gripping her arm firmly. “What were you thinking?” He scolded her, his voice now a mix of relief and fury. “You could have died, Lyanna…”

“I touched him.” She interrupted, her eyes still shining with ecstasy and disbelief. “I touched a dragon, Sor Podrick. Did you see?”

“I did.” He replied, his voice softer now but still laced with concern. “And may the gods be good, I never want to see something like that again!” The knight said, wiping the sweat from his brow. “You are a princess of the blood, Lyanna. Your life is not your own…” He spoke more calmly now, his words firm but carrying a hint of the affection he seemed to feel for the young woman. And for the first time, Ed saw the princess’s unshakable determination waver. There was a hidden sadness in her gaze, a resignation he couldn’t decipher.

“I know.” She finally said, her voice barely a whisper.

“Nothing that happened here today should reach anyone's ears.” Ser Podrick said firmly, his eyes searching, thinking about the implications of what had just happened. His hands pulled the princess's arm seeking her attention. “I need you to promise me, both of you.”

“I promise” Ed said quickly, eager to end it all. 

“Lyanna.” The white cloak asked once more. “No one can know, for your own good.” The young woman nodded for the first time, her wet eyes consciously scanned the arenas.

“Never, never from my lips. I swear.”

Chapter Text

Whitened by a layer of thick clouds, the midday sun cast a diffuse light over the muddy yard, where a chill mist still hung. Aemon struggled to keep his balance, his feet sinking into the mire with each backward step, as he dodged the morningstar that cut the air with a sinister whistle. The weapon was an extension of Jhogo. Each impact a reminder of his power: torn flesh, shattered bones. The Dothraki wielded it with calculated control – violent to intimidate, restrained not to kill.

Aemon dodged with caution, and when necessary, defended himself with his old wooden shield, a relic from years of training. Its iron rim remained intact, but the centre was riddled with deep grooves, and with each new impact, the cracks in the wood deepened, threatening to shatter it. The brutal force of the blows echoed up Aemon’s arms, freezing his guts and forcing him to swallow the metallic taste of fear. The young prince was agile, but the treacherous mud under his feet slowed his movements.

A dry crack cut the air. The morningstar struck the shield with a splintering noise – the wood split from top to bottom, releasing splinters that flew like darts. Without thinking, Aemon threw the remains of the equipment to the ground, before the shout could even escape his lips:

“Enough!” The young prince panted, his hands quickly finding support on his knees, keeping him from falling to the ground, his lungs burning as he tried in vain to recover his breath. “Enough…” He pleaded once more, still wrapped in the sensations of the fight, when Jhogo’s hand found him, landing heavily on his shoulder.

“Very good.” The Dothraki said simply, his hard eyes upon the prince revealing a shadow of pride, something distant and almost imperceptible. “You will be able to choose your weapon. Tomorrow.” Jhogo completed before turning his back on him, leaving Aemon to swallow the humiliation. Choose. The word stung. Ser Podrick had allowed him to wield a sword from the first day – Jhogo had confined him to endless dodging.

“Sword.” Aemon spat, still breathless, his eyes fixed on the guard with obstinacy. He had made him train for months, without sparing him any explanation or indication of where the training aspired to take him. “Like when Ser Podrick trained me.” The prince said in broad provocation, perhaps he was angry at being pushed to his limit, perhaps for having his protector replaced by a knight loyal to his mother. Jhogo did not even furrow his brow, his strong legs carried him back to the prince, dangerously close, his eyes watching him coldly, as if waiting for any sign of hesitation, regret.

“Podrick did a good job.” The Dothraki conceded, his voice laden with an accent already familiar in the court of the Dragon Queen. “I’ll do better.” He said before marching away, sparing Aemon his escort. Despite understanding all the reasons why Ser Podrick had been assigned to Lyanna, Aemon still resented it. Not the knight, nor his sister, but the haughty voice that had given the order.

“You really do hate him, don’t you?” Martyn commented, replacing his muddy boots with clean ones. Bronn hadn’t been particularly gentle with him either, his hands trembling like leaves in the wind.

“As if training at the worst hour wasn’t enough already.” Aemon complained, walking over to his friend, standing erect so the servants could remove his armour, his muscles still aching.

“The sun didn’t beat down so much today.” The Lannister conceded, standing up, his voice carrying a conciliatory lightness.

“No.” Aemon agreed, breathing deeply, taming his fury. “Summer’s over.”

“I hope it’s sunny for the tourney.” Martyn said optimistically. The retinues would leave in three days, rivers of carts, litters, and horses. Nobility and servants, all excited for the Queenwood Tourney and its ostentatious prizes.

“I see…” Aemon softened his tone, a mischievous smile emerging. “Baths in the lake, roasted venison, embracing Lyanna while you dance.” He said in a teasing tone, despite knowing full well the nature of his friend’s feelings. It was risky to say love, but it seemed close to it.

“We are good friends, that’s all.” Martyn replied, blushing to the tips of his ears.

“Keep telling yourself that, it might become true.” The prince shrugged, and with a gesture dismissing the servants. Their silence was guaranteed, no one would be interested in juvenile daydreams, least of all the feeble and inept Master of Whisperers.

“I see her as a sister.” Martyn said with all the confidence he could muster, which wasn’t much. Lying for him was like riding backwards: inevitably disastrous.

“In our family, that’s rather a requirement, you know…”

“Gross!” He replied, moving away with revulsion, closing his eyes as if the image of Johanna Lannister had invaded his mind.

“Your secret is safe with me.” Aemon conceded finally. He knew Martyn well enough to know his good friend would never let his feelings put Lyanna in danger. He would swallow them, keep them locked away inside himself, even if his eyes betrayed him, Martyn would never dare utter the words, never risk losing her.

“Let’s go.” The Lannister’s voice reached him, hoarse, his eyes misty with a gleam that Aemon unfortunately understood, the dull ache of desiring the unattainable. “Maester Valarr must be waiting for us.” Before the weight of guilt could settle in Aemon’s chest, a roar cut through the air, followed by the metallic screech of the gates opening in a violent invitation. Like a torrent, the retinue burst into the courtyard: soldiers brandishing weapons, armour grooved with mud and eyes burning with weariness, forming a security cordon for more important figures who had not yet entered. It was the banner, however, that captured Aemon’s gaze – five silver arrows arranged in a fan, like claws ready to tear the brown field that supported them. A symbol he knew not just from his heraldry studies.

“Shett?” Questioned Martyn, scratching his blond hair as if cleaning foggy spectacles.

“Hunter.” Aemon said without a shred of doubt.

“Royce.” When the carriage approached and the doors opened, not even Martyn could defend his point.

“Hunter.” The Targaryen prince repeated, full of himself. He knew that family well: Harlan Hunter, a third son just like himself, ascended to lordship under a cloak of suspicion. They whispered in taverns and halls that his position was not inherited, but won with treacherous dagger thrusts – one to his father, sick in bed, another to his two older brothers, drunk on a night hunt. Blood pays for titles, Aemon thought, but stains eternally.

And then there was Bethany Hunter, Bethany Blackwood when she was still a maiden. Harlan’s wife was like a muffled symphony resonating amid her husband’s silence. Younger sister of Ser Edmund, of the Kingsguard, she carried the melancholic beauty of her lineage: black hair that cascaded down to her waist, waving like rivers under the moon, eyes so deep they seemed to swallow the light, contrasting with her alabaster skin, almost translucent. Gentle where he was austere, radiant where he hid in the shadows, Bethany was the living antithesis of Harlan. Even their children danced in this duality: the older girl, of an age close to Rhaenys, had inherited her mother’s charm with the father’s cutting angles, and a restless brilliance in her manners – a smile too wide, words sharp as daggers. The heir, no more than six years old, clung to his mother like a silent extension of herself, whispering secrets only she could hear, as if they were two spirits sharing a single soul.

“Bethany, dear.” Ser Edmund stepped forward with long strides, enveloping his sister in an embrace that transcended courtesy. The intimacy between the two was almost visceral, a bond that defied even the unwritten rules of the court. Siblings, Aemon always found the whole situation rather curious, how cats from the same litter could be so different from each other, and yet echo distinct parts of their parents. “Edwina, Alec.” Edmund inclined his head to his niece and nephew, in a greeting that carried more duty than affection. Edwina returned it with a theatrical curtsy, while the younger one hid his face in his mother’s skirts, like a frightened pup.

“My prince.” Harlan Hunter’s voice cut the air like a blade sheathed in silk. He turned slowly, as if he had felt Aemon’s presence long before seeing him. Before the prince could respond, the imposing figure of Jon Stark caught his eye, taking the front with firm steps. Hunter’s retinue bowed in unison, mechanical reverences from those already tired of serving a lord whose power smelled of iron and ashes. In the end, it was not Aemon whom Harlan had seen.

“That was quick, Hunter, quicker than I imagined.” Jon Stark shook Harlan’s hand with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Aemon knew that gesture well, full of the cynical courtesy of King’s Landing, empty in terms of trust. The Hunters’ presence at court was no mere chance – it was convenient to keep Harlan close as a hidden dagger, useful, but dangerous. Especially now, Aemon thought, with the seat of Master of Laws empty.

“All you need to do is ask, your grace, I remember saying that.” Harlan returned the handshake with equal force, his voice laden with an icy courtesy. Aemon watched the man’s fingers contract slightly, like claws ready to bury themselves in his father’s flesh.

“Lady Hunter.” Jon said, nodding his head slightly towards Bethany, who curtsied again, her face a veil of serenity, contrasting with the tension of her servants. “I hope you had a good journey.” Jon conceded genuinely. “I have ordered the east wing prepared for your family. Rest, and honour us with your presence tonight, the Queen insists.” That was enough for Harlan’s eyes to glint like embers blown by the wind – an invitation, an order, an admission to the intimate circle of power.

“The honour will be all mine.” Harlan raised his chin, pride inflating his chest like a peacock displaying its feathers. Beside him, Bethany stroked Alec’s head, who was whispering something in her ear with the urgency of a deadly secret. The lord, however, remained motionless – he seemed to be holding himself back from intervening, almost as if he knew his response to the situation wouldn’t be good enough for the prince’s eyes.

“I shall trouble you no more.” Jon retreated with cordiality, making way for them to cross towards the bowels of the Red Keep. His grey eyes did not delay in finding Aemon’s, as if he had been waiting for the right moment to approach. The relationship with his father was cordial at best, wrapped in a mutual and silent understanding: of all the children, Aemon was the one who needed him the least. Jon Stark had more responsibilities than he could bear – more than any man would be capable of managing. Since the death of Lord Redfort, he had accumulated the titles of Master of Coin and Master of Laws, guaranteeing him not only a double vote on the Small Council, but an influence that extended far beyond the chambers he shared with the Queen. Reaching every corner of the court, intertwining in schemes with almost all of the Seven Kingdoms. Such power, however, exacted its price: a mountain of endless work, parchments to be completed, decisions that never ceased. It was in this sea of obligations that Aemon found his opportunity. When the city’s accounting was handed to him, he embraced the task with a dedication that surprised even the Prince Consort – who, of course, had never fulfilled the promise of instructing him. Not that Aemon needed it. Years of study under Maester Valarr had given him enough clarity to decipher the books on his own. And, with free time and presence at the harbour, year after year, the results improved, as did the flow of gold that, discreetly, was diverted to his personal coffer.

“I saw you training earlier, impressive.” Although addressing both Martyn and Aemon, Jon’s eyes remained firm against his son’s, shining with distinction. “Do you think it was wise to provoke Jhogo like that?”

“He started.” Aemon replied simply, unshaken by the authority of the questioner. Martyn shifted uncomfortably, uneasy with the tension.

“I would like to speak with my son, alone.” Jon said without sparing a single glance for the Lannister boy. Perhaps he had heard Aemon’s insinuations, perhaps he was exhausted from political banter.

“Of course, your grace.” Martyn said before bowing and beating a retreat, leaving them alone. Probably grateful to have been dismissed. Aemon did not blame him for his discomfort, there was no denying it, even knowing his father and his deep devotion to the family, some degree of tension still hung between them.

“For some time, I have been noticing your work with the books.” He said finally, like one who hesitates to give a compliment. His grey eyes lowered, scanning every detail of his son, the only boy who had inherited his colours. “I wish I’d been more present.”

“I’m grateful for the opportunity." Said Aemon without hesitation, quickly drawing his father’s attention. He was not one to complain, the fact was that, as a third son, little of his parents’ energy had been bestowed upon him. From a very young age Aemon realised there were two paths to follow, ask for crumbs or move on, availing himself of the blessings of high birth, and through them build his own path.

“Numbers tend to be merciful, when one learns early.” Jon said with an almost imperceptible smile. “What did you think of the young Hunter girl?” He inquired casually. Aemon swallowed dryly. When it came to his father, nothing was devoid of meaning.

“I didn’t pay her any mind...” Indeed, there wasn’t much to notice, Edwina Hunter had a simplistic countenance. Pretty enough, but her birth far from adequate for a prince of the blood. Marriage for alliances was essential for maintaining power within the family, Aemon understood that. But in the near future he would be sent to lead over Dragon’s Bay, a far-off territory beyond the Narrow Sea, whose control under the Iron Throne depended only on the distant, but still living memory of a people of his conquering Queen and her three dragons. The leader who would go there upon turning sixteen, however, was a Westerosi prince, with dark hair and eyes that shone nowhere near the violet of his mother’s. Without a dragon, or a large army... Aemon’s hopes of keeping his head firmly on his shoulders resided only in his skills, and the possible promise of marriage to some local of relevant nobility. A bride from a minor house of the Vale of Arryn, was just another neck to worry about...

“When the time comes, can I count on your most respectful attention?” Jon asked in a neutral tone, and surprisingly attentive to his son’s countenance.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Aemon mustered all his strength to say politely. Even if his request was ignored, he needed to try.

“And why is that?”

“Harlan Hunter is a kinslayer.” The young prince said simply. Therefore, cursed in the eyes of the Gods and men. Septa Maelle’s voice reached him with the hardness of steel. There was no middle ground for the Seven-Pointed Star, nor for the noble and unalterable Jon Stark.

“Rumours concerning a series of misfortunes...” The Prince Consort in his most credible tone.

“Misfortunes that aligned to elevate his position.” Aemon interjected, not believing his father.

“That was many years ago, truth or not, we can never know for certain.” The Stark conceded with firmness. “But what I know, is that Harlan Hunter was the first lord to come down from the Vale to swear allegiance to your mother.” That was also many years ago, Aemon thought with acerbity, anger slowly filling his chest.

“And that makes him worthy of a place on the Small Council, and worse, joining our house?!”  Aemon said without controlling the tone of his words. “A lapse in judgement!”

“You don’t have to like, or understand my reasons.” The Prince Consort said firmly, taking a step forward, his tone negotiable and dangerous. “But you will do as you are bid. Marry whom I deem acceptable.”

“As you wish, master.” Aemon murmured; both had reached opposing camps. Jon clenched his jaw in an expression of displeasure. “If that was all, I ask permission to go about my day.”

“Actually, we haven’t yet spoken about your involvement in the little incident with your sister and the bow.” The father said with rigidity.

"Incident?"

"You know exactly what I’m talking about."

"What do you want me to say?" The young boy questioned, raising his hands in defence.

"The bow was yours." The accusation hung in the air, laden with disappointment. Jon knew Lyanna’s stubbornness, just as he knew the son who idolised her blindly.

“Everything that is mine is my sister’s, and everything that is hers is mine.” Aemon maintained a firm, defiant gaze. Jon Stark’s expression closed off, patience ebbing away to give way to coldness.

“Lyanna could have hurt someone, gravely, fatally.” The Prince Consort said in full conviction. “Does everything that is yours include your irresponsibility?”

“We both know it was a clean shot, she hit the target!” Aemon argued, defensiveness mixed with a certain pride for his sister. “Lyanna wanted to learn, and she learned on her own.” That was a half-truth. Aemon didn’t like the idea of diminishing his sister’s achievement. A bow and some instructions hadn’t made her an expert marksman; that was purely the combination of her sharp eyesight and her unalterable, convicted persistence.

“You encouraged her, gave her the weapon and turned your back while she shot at a target that not even you, with your training, could hit with such precision.”

“But she hit it!” Aemon said firmly. "And she would hit it again if given another chance."

“Lyanna has other priorities.” Jon said leaving no room for opposition, his voice concise, but those were not his words... No, Aemon thought bitterly, those were the words of a mother, who fears for the place of her inept son. “I want you to use the influence you have over her to guide her, not to feed her impulsiveness.” Jon took a step to the side, looking at the mud of the yard where, hours before, his son had been subdued. “Lyanna doesn’t need an accomplice who gives her weapons in secret. She needs a brother who protects her from herself and the consequences of her actions.” A traitor, then. Thought Aemon, clenching his jaw firmly. “And you... need to learn that true loyalty sometimes requires saying no.” Jon sighed, for the first time in that conversation demonstrating the profound weariness of an overloaded father. “You are forbidden from being near Lyanna unsupervised. And as for the tourney...” He paused, measuring the impact of his words. “You will not compete in any of the events.” Aemon swallowed the tears that came to him almost immediately – that would have been his first year in the initial competitions.... He had trained so hard for that moment.

“As my prince commands.” The young boy, his voice restrained, formal, and distant. The defence he had woven for himself and his sister, transformed into bitter resignation.

“Right.” Jon nodded, a short and final gesture; he didn’t seem at all satisfied. Deep down, Aemon knew, all of that was the voice of Daenerys Targaryen overshadowing his father’s senses. In her eyes, what could be Jaehaerys’s greatest strength was a reminder of everything he would never be. “If the arrangement with the Hunters goes well, you will have time to get to know the young Edwina. A privilege that few youths of your birth possess...” He said more lightly in a tone of reconciliation, but that made Aemon hate him – if he needed consolation, it was a sign his father had noticed the stubborn tears threatening to break through his composure. Without another word, Jon Stark turned and walked towards the Keep, his cloak dragging through the mud, a silhouette of authority and solitude against the diffuse light of the day. Aemon stood there for some time, the void of his father’s departure filled by the roar of his own thoughts. He looked at his hands, still trembling slightly from the fatigue of combat. Behind him, the Hunter banner still fluttered, silver arrows on a brown field.

_________

Fortnightly, the great halls of the court of King’s Landing opened to receive the complaints of the people. Merchants, farmers, and traders gathered restlessly, bringing with them the smell of mud, sweat, and fish. The source of their disputes was almost always the same: possession, be it of land, goods, debts, or women. Small, despicable things... Beneath the authority imposed by the Iron Throne. At least that’s what Jaehaerys thought. As the heir, many were his obligations, including attending the tedious and petty audiences.

His mother presided with the dignity of a ruler beloved by her people, just as far as was possible, firm and impetuous most of the time. Jon Stark, her consort, and recently, Master of Laws, was, however, more merciful. His absence was noticed by the smallfolk present, and felt in an aura of tension and doubt. For Jaehaerys, a deep goblet of wine and his thoughts remained. With each case judged, part of the annoyance he felt for being there was released, the end ever closer, possible. Ser Luthor guarded him with firm and immobile eyes, as if afraid the crown prince would disappear from one moment to the next, between the candle smoke and the murmur of the crowd – unfortunately there wasn’t much space for that.

A familiar shadow burst through the side door, its form and outline growing sharper with each approaching step. Jon Stark entered without fanfare, his presence imposing a sudden and respectful silence that spread through the court like a ripple. He approached the dais, ignoring all gazes, and leaned in to whisper in Daenerys’s ear. Jaehaerys, seated close enough, caught fragments, each word a live coal igniting his blood: Hunters, east wing.

That was enough to incinerate the little common sense that still clouded his senses. Jaehaerys knew they would return, that she would return. His long-forgotten trunk had been casually moved upstairs. His garments washed with the most perfumed scent of lavender and cedar. Everything prepared for her arrival, for her to be ready for him. In a calculated gesture, Jaehaerys brought his hand to his temple and leaned towards his mother, his voice a broken whisper.

“Muña, I don’t feel well.” Jaehaerys murmured, bringing his hand to his temple in a well-calculated gesture. Daenerys’s gaze, hazy with weariness, fixed on her son. For a moment, she seemed to measure the sincerity of his words, until a spark of maternal concern erupted in her violet eyes.

“Go and rest, my son.” She conceded, with a light wave of her hand. “Duty can wait for your recovery.” The queen’s soft voice had barely echoed when that of the Prince Consort cut through the air, firm and leaving no room for discussion:

“And no more wine for the rest of the day.” Jon Stark was observing him with a penetrating gaze, laden with a silent distrust that always seemed to accompany Jaehaerys.

“By your leave, Your Grace.” Jaehaerys bowed deeply, in a gesture of respect that disguised his urgency. His exit was as swift as it was elegant. He crossed the Great Hall with firm and measured steps, feeling the constant, heavy presence of Ser Luthor like a shadow at his side. The knight of the Kingsguard kept close, his attentive eyes scanning the environment for threats, but to Jaehaerys, that vigilance was more a chain than a protection. They had barely left the din of the hall behind when the guard’s grave voice sounded:

"Do you need anything, Your Highness?"

“Silence, Luthor. Just silence.” Jaehaerys retorted, without slowing his pace.

Upon reaching his chambers, he opened the heavy oak door and closed it with a single, decisive movement, leaving the sworn shield outside. The room was a refuge of austere luxury – spacious, comfortable, with a large seating area and an imposing bed. But his eyes instantly sought the broad stone column next to the headboard.

He approached, and Jaehaerys’s fingers found the carving out of pure familiarity, as if they had a life of their own. A single, firm press, and a dull, almost imperceptible sound echoed in the quiet. A silent fissure opened in the wall, revealing the damp, cold darkness breathing from the bowels of the Red Keep. Jaehaerys knew those corridors like he knew his own dreams – every curve, every worn step, every secret exit. He plunged into the gloom, his breathless panting echoing off the narrow stone walls as he advanced with determined steps. The winding path led him to a discreet wooden panel, which he knew led to the guest chambers of the East Wing. Without hesitation, he pushed it.

The panel swung on well-oiled mechanisms, without emitting a single noise. The opening revealed an intimate dressing room, dimly lit by a single lantern... And she was there. Bethany. Standing in the centre of the small room, as if she had been waiting for him. Her dark eyes, wide and surprised, met his. A slight tremor ran through her hands.

“Jaehaerys...” The name escaped Bethany’s lips in a sweet whisper, tinged with relief and terror. The prince had forgotten the magnitude of her beauty – the almost translucent alabaster skin, the seductive contour of her rosy lips, the high cheekbones and eyes that shone like black stars. He did not utter a single word – what words could exist for that moment? In three long strides, he was before her. His gaze was living fire, his need, an almost physical force in the air between them. He did not kiss her. Instead, his hands closed around her arms with a desperate firmness.

“Beths...” His voice emerged hoarse, a mixture of plea and command. Without giving her time to react, he pulled her into the darkness of the secret passage. The panel slid shut behind them, plunging them into near-total gloom, where the only sound was the panting echo of their breathing. He pressed her against the cold stone wall, the fury of months of abstinence and the anguish of distance taking hold of his senses like a tide.

“Jaehaerys...” She tried to protest, her voice a muffled moan in the confined space. “Please, if he...”

“Shhh," Jaehaerys cut her off, burying his face in the curve of her neck, where he felt life pulsing feverishly against his lips. “You are mine... mine...” His hands raised the thin robes with urgency, removing any barrier between them. Jaehaerys needed to feel her under his fingers, warm and real, and bury himself in her as deeply as his soul demanded. Bethany did not resist, enveloped by the same brutal, silent need that consumed the young prince. There were no delicate caresses nor vows of love, only the crude hunger that united them. When it ended, they stood still for a moment, breathless, the icy reality of their situation resettling upon their shoulders like a heavy mantle. For an instant, Jaehaerys felt himself again the boy of three-and-ten who had discovered her for the first time – the beautiful and unattainable lady-in-waiting to his mother, sister of Ser Edmund of the Kingsguard. The prince did not yet know, but he could have any woman he desired, except that one... Time had only deepened the chasm between them, as well as the incessant, scorching desire they both fed.

“We shouldn’t.” Bethany whispered, in a tone laden with sadness and farewell. “My children...” Always the children, thought Jaehaerys, with bitterness. He did not understand – nor did he intend to understand – such a feeling, but he would concede on this. At least until they had their own children, princes and princesses of the blood.

“I will care for them as if they were my own” He declared, with unshakable assurance. “They shall want for nothing, Beths.”

“Edwina and Alec have a father.”

“For now.” His voice echoed flatly, an incontestable fact. Jaehaerys did not know for certain when he had decided that, nor how he would do it, but one certainty consumed him: there was no other path. Nothing in the world would make him part from Bethany. “You are mine, and I am yours.”

“Jaehaerys...” She murmured, like a drunken prayer.

“You will be my queen. This I swear to you, by the Old Gods and the New, with fire and blood.”