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Chapter Text

Jon woke in a cold sweat and blinked his eyes at the ceiling as he grew accustomed to the weak morning light filtering through the shutters, his hammering heart calming slowly. It happened again. The dreams had intruded on his sleep and disrupted his peace once more.

He could still feel the cold in his bones, the chill air on his face. You are no Stark, go away, echoed in his ears still. Go away, go away, go away.

Each time he dreamt of the crypts, it was the same. I know! I know, I know, I know, he wanted to yell every time the voices of the old Kings of Winter sounded in the dream. I know that I am not a Stark! I know that I do not belong! I am sorry, I am sorry, I am so, so sorry.

He had always hated the dream, the fear, and the feeling of the darkness pressing down on him, and trying to suffocate him, it brought. Over the years, he had come to hate the crypts, too.

When he had been a child, he had visited them often and had even played there with Robb, chasing after each other, sometimes playing pranks on their unsuspecting younger siblings. Now, after suffering through the years of torment, he could barely bring himself to enter them and never alone, always making sure a Stark accompanied him.

Jon had never thought of himself a craven. Never. And yet the crypts left him uneasy even outside the dreams. There was something there. Some fell secret, a hidden evil that sought to harm him. Be it for his bastardy, being a stain on Lord Stark’s honor, or for an unknown crime of his own, he knew not. He knew not, he cared not, he merely wished to never enter them as long as he lived.

The dream was driving him away from Winterfell, from his home, from his family, and he hated it for that too, but mostly he hated it for making him feel small and unwanted and utterly insignificant.

Every night, as he went to sleep, he hoped he would dream of something else. Anything else, truly, but even as he wished for it, he knew it would never be just anything.

For as long as he could remember, Jon only ever had two kinds of dreams, and he knew which he preferred by far.

The first he ever remembered dreaming the other dream was when he had been barely more than a babe, and it was closely tied to his first true memory.

They had roughhoused with Robb, and he had fallen, scraping his palms. Jon had burst into tears and seeing him crying so, so had Robb. Lady Stark had come upon them and rushed to take Robb into her arms, caressing his head and pressing kisses to it as she shushed him.

Jon, not quite aware of their differences yet, had extended his arms toward her for comfort, crying still and calling her mama. Lady Stark glared at him and turned sharply away, carrying Robb away too. Jon had cried all the harder for it and could not be consoled even when the nurse came back into the nursery and tried to console him, taking care of the scrapes.

The dream came to him that night after he had fallen asleep, sniffling quietly and praying for his mama to come.

He had dreamt of a warm place full of light, a soft hand caressing his hair and back and a sweet slightly raspy voice singing quietly, sometimes slipping into humming, or whispering into his ear warm words he did not understand.

When he had woken, his palms stung still, but he had been happy.

The dreams had continued and changed as he aged, but he had always remembered that first dream, the dream that he had once foolishly believed had been of his own mother.

As the years went by, hardly a night went by without one of the dreams, and he had been still a young boy when he had realized, to his great disappointment, that it could not be his mother that he dreamt of. It was some other boy’s mother, some other boy’s life he kept dreaming of.

Despite the painful knowledge, he had welcomed the dreams still, for in them, the world was full of light and laughter and adventure . The other boy had had a mother, a father, an elder brother and best of all, there were dragons . When the boy’s mother had died, Jon had grieved as if his own mother had done so as well, for in a way, she had been. Only her touch had ever soothed him as a mother’s would, only her voice had sung him sweet lullabies, only her lips had kissed away his hurts.

Laughter had gone out of the boy’s life with his mother’s death, and loneliness had crept in as his brother grew and abandoned him as well. Jon had felt that loneliness as a knife in his breast even as his own family had kept growing, and he had gained sisters and then more brothers.

When Jon had grown older, the dreams had changed and while he had still dreamt of the boy, suddenly the boy’s life seemed to pass by swiftly, and the boy had turned into a youth and by the time Jon had become a youth himself, the boy had become a man.

And it was not just any man the boy he had dreamt of as himself had turned into. No, it was the Rogue Prince Jon dreamt of, it was his mother Jon had grieved so. He had grieved a woman dead for well over a century as if she had been his own mother.

He had known. Jon had known that the name of the boy he had kept dreaming of had been Daemon , and he had known that he must have been a Targaryen, for there were dragons, but he had not understood it had been the Rogue Prince he had been dreaming as, not even as he was knighted and given Dark Sister. No, he had only understood that as he had overheard the name spoken derisively in the dream, and realization struck him with uncommon pain.

A bastard, Jon might be, but he had found surprising kinship with the prince. There was a thirst to prove themselves better than those around them believed them to be, and so while Jon had named himself Aemon the Dragonknight in his play fights with Robb when they had been boys, it had become Daemon the Rogue Prince he had become as the years pressed on.

They no longer played at swords, pretending to be knights of great renown, though. No, they trained in earnest now, and while Robb was the better lance, Jon was the better sword, and he worked hard at it. The Rogue Prince had been one of the greatest warriors in the history of the Seven Kingdoms, a man feared and respected and loved . A brother to a king, a husband to a queen, a father to two kings, and an ancestor to all Targaryens that came after. The man that had thrown himself into a fight he had known he had little chance of surviving and still brought an end to the Kinslayer and the largest of all living dragons at the time plaguing the smallfolk of the Riverlands.

Jon could not claim any such ambition, no. But he wanted to forge his own path, be the master of his own destiny, be a name recognized even centuries later, invoked by the smallfolk forevermore.

He had wished to remain in Winterfell with Robb forever, when he had been younger. It was his greatest desire still. But his dreams had shown him another path, had nurtured a different desire and a need to leave had grown in him, for only away could he outgrow his shadow, overcome the stain on the honor of Lord Stark that he was. 

Only away could he become something more than just a bastard.

Jon knew that, and yet he loved his family and was leery of leaving them. Perhaps that was what the dreams of crypts meant to tell him. That he had overstayed his welcome, that it was time for him to go.

Something wet pressed against his face, and he abandoned his gloomy thoughts in favor of the pup of a direwolf he had found with his dead mother and livelier siblings.

It was not the time yet. It could not be the time yet. Jon was just shy of his fifteenth nameday, too young to strike out on his own, and Ghost was just a pup. He could not keep the direwolf behind, and he was too small to keep up.

So Jon abandoned thoughts of leaving and scratched his friend behind his ears, just as he liked it. As scratchy tongue lapped across his cheek and wet nose pressed into his own nose, he grinned and then grimaced, as scratchy tongue reached into his mouth as well. Not the kiss Jon would have wished for.

He removed the pup and moved to get up and get dressed for training with a sigh. For all that he wished to be a great warrior like the Rogue Prince, he had much and more training and years to go through before he had even a hope of that.

Some things, the dreams helped with, for some knowledge stayed with him even in the waking hours, but knowledge of swordfighting was not enough. Strength, speed, agility, all those needed to be trained up , and he was just a youth, unable to face grown men in a true fight. His height and therefore reach left much to be desired as well, as he was growing still. Jon hoped, at least. The Rogue Prince had been taller than he was as an adult, and he hoped for that height too, but Jon’s father was shorter than the prince, and he had no knowledge of his mother.

He left his room behind and headed to the training yard that was still mostly empty at the hour he began his training most days. Some days, the effort he had to put into his training was disheartening, but he knew, knew , that if he wished to be better than everyone else, to be exceptional, he had to train more than anyone else.

And Jon was determined. He would prove to them all that he was more than just a stain on his father’s honor. One day, he would even prove to Lady Stark that he was no threat to his siblings. She would see , he promised himself. She would see, and she would love him one day too.

Shame flooded his being at the very thought. There was ambition and then there were impossible dreams. He knew well enough which it was to wish for Lady Stark’s motherly love.

Jon put the thoughts out of his mind as he took up a tourney sword, closed his eyes for a moment to steady himself with deep breaths, and then started on the forms. He kept at it, even as the training yard came alive around him as the morning progressed and Ser Rodrik came to attend to the boys’ training.

The knight frowned deeply as he noted Robb’s absence and though Jon was wont to excuse him, he had no idea where his brother, usually so eager for their shared training, was or what kept him away, and so he kept his mouth shut and gaze pointed downward even as the tips of his ears reddened in the uncomfortable silence.

Robb, when he came at last, was bright-eyed and slightly breathless. “I beg your pardon, Ser Rodrik. Father kept me, and he bade me to send Jon to his solar straight away.”

Jon’s gaze snapped up from the ground with a frown. “Truly? Lord Stark sends for me?”

His brother nodded enthusiastically, his smile wide. “Yes. Yes, he calls for you and he calls for you now, so go.”

Jon looked to Ser Rodrik uncertainly, but the man merely raised a brow at him and inclined his head in the direction of the keep.

He shrugged, nodded to Ser Rodrik and put away the sword sedately, feigning nonchalance. Once out of their sight, he took off running. Robb had wanted him to hear whatever it was their father wished to speak to him about, and seemed quite convinced it was good. Jon needed to know whatever it was as soon as possible.

As the guards in front of the lord’s solar regarded him standing there huffing and puffing as he fought to regain his breath with amused smiles, he conceded rushing slightly less would not have harmed any.

When he found himself capable of speech, he addressed them levelly. “Lord Stark summoned me, I am told.”

The guard gave him a grin as he went to knock on the door and announce him. “And so he did.”

Jon hesitated before entering. He had not thought to wonder before, but what good thing could his father summon him for with such urgency? Was it a nameday present? The day was not too far off, so it could be that, but with the king’s upcoming visit looming large over all of their heads ever since it had been announced a week past, he rather doubted it.

“Lord Stark,” he greeted his father with a slight incline of his head, and was given a strained smile in return.

“Jon, come, sit. There was a raven from the king that concerns you.”

His father did not seem happy about it and come to think of it, no news from the king concerning Jon could be good .

“I do not understand. What could the king possibly want with me?” He frowned as he asked, but he rather suspected that he knew already. Jon was to be sent away so he would not be there when the king and his family came, so he would not be an embarrassment. He might get to travel though. Perhaps that was the reason Robb believed it good.

His father’s eyes were worried, and his long face slightly gray and suddenly very, very old as he folded his arms on the desk and leaned forward. “It seems that ill fortune follows the king as of late. After Jon died, that is Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, the king’s brother, Lord Stannis Baratheon, left the capital with his family for his seat at Dragonstone.”

Lord Stark paused and shook his head sadly, and Jon wondered what any of this had to do with him. His father let out a heavy sigh and continued. “There was a storm and the ship did not reach Dragonstone. There were no survivors.”

Jon stared at his father blankly, unimpressed. The king’s brother was dead, but he had not known him, had barely ever heard of him. The man meant nothing to him, plainly speaking.

“Stannis has no heir but his younger brother, who is the Lord of Storm’s End and cannot be Lord of Dragonstone as well.” He paused again and gave Jon a long look, seemingly waiting for something. Not finding it, he shook his head once more and pressed on. “The king named you the new Lord of Dragonstone.”

Breath died in Jon’s chest for a moment as he struggled to comprehend what his father had told him.

A bark of disbelieving laughter escaped him, and then he could no longer stop the onslaught, and he laughed and laughed. The king had wanted him to be the Lord of Dragonstone. Ha! As if Jon was going to fall for that!

His father was wearing his stern Lord’s face, so he fought to calm himself, but it was a futile fight. A somber bastard he might be, but some things were beyond even him. 

“I must thank you, Lord Stark. I did not know I could laugh like this. However did Robb manage to put you up to this?” Jon’s esteem for his brother had risen considerably. He may have pulled japes on him before, but never had he achieved something like this.

Father closed his eyes as if in pain and rubbed at his face. “This is no jape, and Robb most certainly did not put me up to it. The news reached the king not far out of King’s Landing, and he thought of me… and you immediately, it would seem.”

Jon blinked at his father somewhat dumbly. “What would the king know of me? What would he care for me?”

Father looked so, so tired. “He knows that you are my son, not my heir, and old enough to be a lord in your own right, without a regent.”

Jon’s brows jumped up at that. “I am more than a year away from my majority still.”

Lips pressed tightly together in displeasure, Lord Stark explained. “That might be true, and Robert seems to realize that too, for the decree that names you as Jon Stark, the new Lord of Dragonstone also declares you of age.”

Jon jerked in his seat at the news, but his brows pulled together shortly thereafter, for while he knew one to be possible, the other he had not. He had never heard of such a thing as naming someone an adult, not in his waking life and not in his dreams, so he spoke carefully. “I was not aware such a thing could be done.”

“The king’s word is the law. And the king has spoken.”

Jon smoothed out his face and the ghostly words sounded in his head once more. You are no Stark. You do not belong here. But he was a Stark now. He was a Stark and he had to leave.

Lord Stark broke the silence once more, and Jon’s heart was pierced by pain at his words. “Considering the circumstances, it is my belief that it would be for the best if you were to depart soon. Best be already on Dragonstone when the king arrives to Winterfell. We would not wish him to think we do not appreciate his generosity.”

The dream had been right. He did not belong here, his father was ashamed of him, and wanted to hide Jon from the king’s sight. He was being sent out of Winterfell, and much, much sooner than he had expected. It took all his strength to maintain an illusion of composure.

His dream of becoming a Stark was coming true, and yet it would send him away from his home, from his family immediately after. What worth was that? He had not proven anything! Not to the king and most certainly not to Lady Stark.

Oh gods, Lady Stark… She had never cared for him, but now that he had been made a Stark and a lord…

All his life he had wanted to be a true Stark and now that he was… 

He stared at his father numb with shock, a bitter taste of defeat in his mouth.

He was a Stark now, but he was still not good enough to stay. Not good enough to keep around.

Jon might be a lord now and declared an adult, but he wanted to weep like a babe.

He had been handed a famed keep, a lordship, a name. How childish of him to want to cry over it. How naive to have hoped for more.

Chapter Text

For the remainder of his time in Winterfell, Jon was plagued by the dreams of crypts, the sense of urgency, of desperation, growing each time. And truly, as he woke from the dream on his last night home covered in cold sweat, heart hammering, he was done with it. He was a Stark now and he was leaving . Why would they not leave him alone even now ? Why could he not have peace ?

Jon rolled off the bed in a huff, cursing under his breath, and dressed hastily in the dark, his movements filled with aggression, quietly furious. He was leaving . He knew , he had always known, that he did not belong here, not like his siblings did. Why must even his last night home be marred by this torture? Why ? The tears in his eyes were of fury , he told himself.

He ordered Ghost to stay in the room sharply, perhaps too sharply, and the pup sat down, looking at him quizzically with his head cocked to the side as the door closed behind him, but Jon needed to do this alone. Alone . Stalking through the castle and then out of it fueled by righteous indignation, his feet beat across the yard and toward the entrance to the crypts, only pausing to take a lantern, so he would not break his fool neck in the darkness on the narrow winding stone steps.

Cool air greeted him and the underground chill served to douse his ire, making him feel a fool as he stood there with the lantern raised at the bottom of the steps, nothing but his breath disturbing the utter lifeless silence of the crypts that housed countless dead Starks. Family. They had been all his family once upon a time.

Shame flooded him as he looked out at the tombs in front of him. There had been a time, when he had been a boy, that he had found refuge here, hiding away from the world, but then the dreams had come and had eventually put a stop to that. Eventually. His feet started to move on his own and he knew they were taking him toward the last filled tombs on this level, the last in the long and grim line.

He came to a stop by the tomb of his aunt and stared down at the face carved into the stone sealing it, putting the lantern down and reaching hesitant fingers toward it in a caress. There had been times when Jon could not wait for dreams to comfort him and at those times, he would come here to tell his aunt of his woes. Her face looked kind , and he imagined her eyes had been kind too. Had she lived, she would have been kind to Jon, he was sure.

After the dreams of the crypts had started, and they had ceased to be a place of comfort , Jon had come to speak to her no longer. Because he could not have borne coming alone. And now he was leaving.

“I am sorry that I do not visit you anymore.” He felt the fool even more now as tears gathered in his eyes and he sat down on the cold ground heavily, resting his back against the stone. “I do not know if I will ever come back to see you now.” He let out a heavy sigh and banged his head back against the tomb lightly. “You see, I was made a proper Stark. Unbelievable, is it not?” Chuckling darkly, he pressed on through the tightness of his throat. “But I have to leave Winterfell. I was made a Stark, but only so I could be the Lord of Dragonstone.” 

Had Jon won himself the island on his own merit, or perhaps under almost any other circumstance, he would have been overjoyed. It was Dragonstone after all. He had dreamt of dragons and the island itself since he had been a child .

He lowered his head and idly started to draw patterns in the dirt. “The Targaryen loyalists there will eat me alive, I think. Don’t you agree? Father must know the same. And yet he wants me gone from Winterfell now , his shame far from here by the time the king arrives.” 

Jon blinked rapidly, but it was not enough to stop the tears. “I will miss you.” He had not come to her in years , and now he would be gone and unable to come. “I will miss all of you.” Father, Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon, even Sansa. He would miss all of them.

His fingers scrubbed at the ground rather desperately as he fought not to burst into sobs. He was the Lord of Dragonstone now, for Gods’ sake! He could not be this… this… pathetic! Anger seized him , and he formed a fist and slammed it into the ground. When the side of his hand erupted in pain, and the force of the impact echoed in his shoulder, his lips pressed grimly together and the need to weep was finally replaced by an eerie calm as he closed his eyes and rested back against the tomb again.

He was truly a fool. He had considered leaving himself eventually, to make something of himself, to prove himself, and now that the chance had been handed to him, he wept like a child. But there was a difference in choosing to leave in a few years and being made to leave now . Just one more way Jon’s life resembled the Rogue Prince, he supposed. Both made to leave. Not good enough to keep around, echoed in his head.

His fist pounded the ground once more. He needed to stop this. He needed to end this cycle of self-pity. He was to leave, true, but he was to be a lord . There were worse things in life than that . Jon should be grateful. He was grateful.

Pressing his knuckles to the ground, he went to push himself off and cursed under his breath as he scraped them on a coarse edge of a stone. He lowered himself back on his haunches to look down at the ground, puzzled. What stone? There was just dirt there. He ran his fingers over the surface, coming upon a groove in the dirt. The groove ran in a straight line , and he frowned as he poked at it.

A sudden excitement rose in him as he recalled the many hours Robb and Jon spent in the crypts, hunting for hidden dragon eggs. This was no egg, but it was a secret, something hidden . His fingers dug around, deepening the groove until he could wedge them into it, and then strained to shift the stone. It was a great triumph when he finally managed to pry it away and peek into the now open space below , and he allowed himself a small smile.

The smile faded as Jon blinked in confusion, finding himself staring into an empty hole. He leaned forward and put his hand into it to feel around, heat rising in his cheeks. He truly was a child. What had he been thinking, looking for hidden treasure in the crypts? His hand froze, his whole body froze, and his mind froze as well, in the middle of berating himself, as his fingers brushed against something . Something made of leather.

Taking a deep breath, he wrapped his fingers around the object within and pulled it out. Or rather tried to as it did not fit . He bit on his lip and shifted his grip on what was surely a sword to be able to get it out through the opening. Once out, he set it aside and reached back in to feel around some more, but t he sword had been the only thing hidden inside. He frowned at that. So much for hidden treasure.

Leaning back on his heels, he went to lift the sword once more to examine it, but his breath caught as his eyes glanced over the hilt. No. There was no way. Dark Sister had been lost for almost a century . No. It could not be. How would…?

He fell back on his arse to stare at the sword some more. Had it been in Winterfell all this time? Why ?

The temptation was great. 

No one knew of it. He could keep it. Robb was to have Ice. Jon could have Dark Sister. And despite the yearning for the ancestral sword of House Stark, he knew which sword he would prefer in a fight.

The temptation was almost too great.

But it felt dishonest. It felt like stealing . No one would know . No, he told himself firmly, not no one. Jon would know.

He sighed deeply as he caressed the sheathed sword one last time before he put it back. Dark Sister was a magnificent sword, but it was not in Jon’s nature to take that which did not belong to him. He had done his best to prove that to Lady Stark his whole life. He would not prove her right now . Not even when she would never learn of it.

Putting the stone back into place was one of the hardest things he had ever done, but it needed to be done. He smoothed the dirt back to cover the stone properly, and then leaned against the tomb to look at the ground gloomily. He was a fool beyond all imagination, to give up on such a sword.

Standing up, he turned to look down upon his aunt’s face once more, caressing the carved features for the last time before taking the lantern and leaving. He paused with his foot raised in the direction of the entrance and shook himself. His aunt’s tomb . The sword was hidden next to his aunt’s tomb. His father had commissioned the tomb. The sword had not been there the whole time it had been missing. It could not have been there the entire time. His father must have put it there . But… Why ?

His feet moved on their own, carrying him out of the crypts swiftly and pounding across the yard back toward the keep and his father’s chambers, before he could think better of it, before the thought of waiting for the morning even occurred to him. Perhaps he should have waited, but that came to him only as he stood in front of the guard at his father’s door, the man blinking at him in confusion.

“It's the middle of the night. What do you want, Lord Jon?”

“I need to speak to Lord Stark.” He was out of breath , and he was sure to be covered in sweat and dirt, but he did not care, he needed to speak to his father. He needed it now .

“I will tell him you wish to speak to him in the morning, my lord.”

Jon shook his head vehemently. “No, now . I need to speak to him now. It will not keep.”

If Jon were to convince his father to let him take Dark Sister, it had to be now , while the castle slept. If Lord Stark was hiding the sword, he would not allow him to take it when others could see. It had to be done now.

“Jon-”

“No! I need to speak to him NOW!”

Jon’s voice was sharp. Too sharp perhaps, as movement and grumbles could be heard from inside the chamber and Jon’s cheeks heated in shame once more. He was not acting a lord, he was once more acting a child.

“My lord, Lord Jon is without. He claims he needs to speak to you now .”

“Let him in.” A voice sounded from beyond the door, and Jon’s feeling of shame only increased at the tiredness in it.

Jon pushed past the guard and into the chamber at the words regardless, sighing a sigh of relief. “Father, we need to-”

“And what do you think you are doing, barging into my chamber in the middle of the night? You are to leave in the morn, you need your sleep.” His father’s face was tired, sleep still in his eyes, but his voice was amused.

“I was in the crypts and I need to talk to you.”

His father straightened in alarm, suddenly wide awake as his eyes roved all over Jon, his voice turning sharp. “What were you doing there?”

“I could not sleep. I went to…” Jon flushed, unwilling to speak of the dreams even now. “I went to say goodbye.”

Father’s features softened and he looked as if he might cry. “I see.”

“Father, I… I found Dark Sister.” His father’s eyes fixed on him, and he seemingly stopped breathing. “Can I… I would not tell anyone… I just… Robb is to have Ice… Would it not be…? Can I…? May I…?”

“ Jon. ” His name was a horrified whisper, and his father’s face went very, very pale.

Jon stepped up to him, alarmed, and put his arms around him to steady him. “Father, are you well? Come, sit.”

He was silent while he guided his father to sit on the bed, concern for him too great. “Do you need something to drink? Should I fetch Maester Luwin? Should I-”

“Stop.” His father sounded a hundred years old. “Just stop. I need to… I did not want to, I hoped not to, but plainly I have to.”

Jon stared at him, utterly at sea.

His father rubbed a hand over his eyes and left it there. “Oh Gods. Oh Gods, forgive me.”

Wide-eyed, Jon observed it all. “I am sure they will.”

The pain in his father’s face was visible even through the cover of the hand, as he let out a hollow chuckle. “I would not be so certain. I made a promise to them and I made a promise to my sister, but so far I have not upheld it very well. I…” His hand lowered , and he looked Jon in the eyes. “I upheld only part of it in truth.”

“I am sure you had a good reason for it.” His father was the most honorable man in the Seven Kingdoms. If he had failed to uphold a promise to the Gods, there was a very good reason behind it, Jon was sure of it.

The pain was plain in his father’s eyes as he reached forward and seized Jon’s wrists firmly. “Dark Sister belongs to my sister’s son.”

Breath was expelled from Jon’s lungs seemingly all at once. Everyone knew that Rhaegar Targaryen had taken his aunt against her will , but that he had left her with a bastard in her belly… This was the first Jon was hearing of it.

A frown started to tug at his brows because his father said belongs , not belonged . Aunt Lyanna’s babe had lived and lived still. Surely…

“She named him Daemon.” Like the Rogue Prince, Jon could not fail to note. “Daemon Targaryen.”

Targaryen . Not a bastard, then. Somehow . Named exactly like the Rogue Prince, Jon thought numbly. Father knew of a trueborn Targaryen, had hid his ancestral sword in Winterfell. This was treason. Surely, this was treason. And the king was on his way to Winterfell .

Panic seized him, mind spinning wildly. Dark Sister could not stay in Winterfell for the king’s visit. What if someone found it as Jon had? Children liked to play in the crypts. What if he had not smoothed the dirt back into place well enough? Jon’s family could die , and he would be at fault for it.

“We need to-”

“You understand now, why I wanted you out of Winterfell before the king came.”

What? What did Jon have to do with any of it? They needed to get Dark Sister and any mention of this Daemon -

Daemon. Like the Rogue Prince. Like the man Jon had been dreaming of for years .

He was shaking his head even before the thought fully formed. No. No, it could not be. He was Jon Snow. Jon Stark now. He was not… This was merely a misunderstanding. Nothing more. A terrible, terrible misunderstanding.

He took a horrified step back, but his father’s- Lord Stark’s grip on his wrists kept him from moving further away. It could not be true .

Lord Stark’s eyes were full of regret. Regret and pain. “I am sorry. I am so, so sorry. I promised I would tell you when you were old enough to understand , but … You are mine . You might not be my seed, but you are my blood, you are my son .”

Jon’s- Daemon's eyes were wide with shock, and his voice was a horrified whisper. “I cannot stay here. I have to… I cannot stay here. It is too dangerous.”

Lord Stark’s face crumbled. “Aye, it is. I am sorry. I wish I could protect you more. But now… You cannot stay here, but you may be in danger on Dragonstone too.” The grip on his wrists tightened, and his fath- his uncle’s eyes were pleading. “Promise me. You must promise me that you will not go to King’s Landing as long as Robert lives.”

Jon felt numb, barely even recognizing his own voice as he heard it in the distance. “I promise. I promise.”

When he departed Winterfell shortly after sunrise, the peculiar numbness was still with him, as was Dark Sister, buried at the bottom of the largest of the few chests traveling with him, hilt meticulously wrapped in exquisite leather , and he could hardly believe that he had wanted the sword to be his mere hours ago.

He no longer even knew what his name was.

He wished he had never found the sword.

As he turned his head back to look at his family seeing him off, there were many things he wished, one more impossible than the next.

His gaze dropped to the pup loping alongside his horse. At least he had Ghost. He might be changed, might not know who he was at all, but Ghost remained the same pup, the same faithful companion, at his side, no matter his name or title or anything else. Nothing truly changed when it came to Ghost.

Chapter Text

When he had set sail out of White Harbor and had left the North for the first time ever, perhaps even the last time ever, the numbness had been still with him , and it had not left him even on the ship, for there was little left to him but train and think and thinking inevitably led to brooding.

He wished he had known sooner. He had little wish to know even now , but were he to know, could it not have been a few days sooner ? Before he had made his coat of arms and sent it ahead to the maester of Dragonstone at least. He had mirrored the Stark one, with a white direwolf and had given it Ghost’s red eye, but he had not wanted it to be a perfect reflection, marking his House as a bastard one forevermore. No, he had not wanted it to be a gray field the direwolf would be set against, and so had made it black. 

His coat of arms would be black and white and red . He rather hoped the red would be overlooked. It was a stupid detail anyway, he decided. It could be his formal crest, he supposed. There was little need to include the red in the first place , and he should have given more thought to how that particular combination of colors would look before he knew , but there was a part of him that had been excited . So excited, in fact, that he had ignored Lord Stark’s gentle suggestion when he had presented the idea to him, the objections, no matter how cautiously worded, only setting his mind more firmly on it.

What a fool he had been not to have realized that there had been a good reason to object back then. He had thought himself so clever , had thought the field of black a grand choice, well suited to the fortress made of black fused stone. He should have used the gray. He had not wished for future generations of his House to be plagued by his bastardy, and now that he knew… Now there would be no future generations.

He had long ago promised himself he would not condemn a child to live with a bastard’s name , and it had certainly been a part of consideration when dreaming of making a name for himself, winning himself a name and proving himself worthy enough of a match. For a few too short days, that dream of a beautiful wife with a kind smile and a babe with his features had been almost within his reach. But no more. No. There would be no wife and no children.

His parents had lit a spark of rebellion with their actions and be it love, lust or plain foolishness, it mattered little, for it had cost his siblings, his true siblings, their lives, to speak nothing of the countless thousands more it had cost all across the realm. His birth was cursed, his line was cursed. Accursed is the kinslayer, reviled by the Gods. If his life had been bought with the lives of his siblings, was he akin to a kinslayer himself? Even the Rogue Prince, his namesake , had gone out killing the Kinslayer, becoming one himself, cursing his line.

It was time for the curse to end. It was time for the Doom to come for the last of its children at last, for the last of the last line of the dragonlords to be gone. There had been Forty dragonriding families, most of them consumed in the flames. One had escaped , and the Gods had been attempting to correct that oversight ever since. So he would be a good lord. The best . But he would also be the last Targaryen Lord of Dragonstone and whether anyone knew it or not, made no difference. Not to him and not to the Gods, but it would come to an end at last.

As the island appeared in their sight at last, the new Lord of Dragonstone watched it rise out of the mists grimly. It was the first time in his memory that he saw the island from a prow of the ship. For all that the island had been home to the Rogue Prince for many years, he had never in his dreams approached it on a ship . It was still an impressive sight.

A home to House Targaryen, and the westernmost holding of the Valyrian Freehold long before that, it was an impressive fortress in its own right, built out of black fused stone rarely seen after the Doom. As the outline of the fortress gradually came out of the mists, one could almost mistake the massive shapes of stone dragons for living ones. Almost, for there were none left alive anymore.

He had been fascinated by dragons ever since the dreams had started and the sight of it took his breath away. It brought tears to his eyes. But it was not his home. No matter the memories he held. No matter his ties to it through the House of his bloodfather. No matter the dreams of dragons, Dragonstone was not his home, Winterfell was. That was where his entire family was. Not Dragonstone. Not Essos.

Now that it loomed large in front of him, he found his enthusiasm lacking, his mood gloomy and growing gloomier still, along with his apprehension. No matter what, he would not be welcome here. He had been named a Stark and however one cut it, the Starks had helped bring about the end of House Targaryen. Considering his mother, considering himself … in more ways than just the one.

Breathing was becoming more difficult, his chest growing ever tighter, as they neared the island. The need to turn back and run away was overpowering , and yet he was on a ship headed for the port. Even if he were to run away, he would not get away, he would reach it still, for he had no power over where the ship sailed, being nothing but a passenger.

His gaze dropped to the pup by his side, and he bent down to pick him up in his arms and hold him to his chest, stroking his soft fur, and bending his head to brush his cheek over it surreptitiously. The uneasiness in him only kept growing. The sense that something terrible would happen once they reached the shore left him feeling like a child, scared by one of Old Nan’s tales and trying to hide in her skirts from them. He was hoping to hide himself in Ghost’s snow-white fur now. What a man. What a lord . 

When they docked and the plank had been extended and the baggage he had been traveling with unloaded , and he could delay no more, he forced his feet to move, feeling as if every step took him closer and closer to his own execution, to his own death, to something even worse .

And yet… And yet after he had walked toward the inevitable through the docks and his feet met the soil of the island for the first time, nothing happened. Nothing bad . For all the feeling as if death awaited him right around the corner, if he stepped on the island, it was gone the moment he did. 

Warmth spread through him, enveloping his heart in a soft glow and bringing the corners of his lips up slightly. It was… strange. It felt like… coming home. Only warmer. Much, much warmer. It brought him to his knees, suddenly entirely overwhelmed and utterly confused. In the dreams, the feeling had never been this powerful. His very blood seemed to sing in happiness.

The near desperate hold he had on his direwolf pup loosened slightly and Ghost became agitated, nosing at his hand, looking for freedom now that his master was no longer in such a need of him nor petting him , and he let him escape, pressing his no-longer-full hands to the ground to steady himself and his swimming head.

“My lord, are you well?” The voice sounded from behind him, one of the guards his fat-Lord Stark had sent with him.

He shut his eyes firmly in mortification. Oh Gods, what a picture he must make.

“I am well. Just… I am glad to be on solid ground at last.”

Too late he realized that he was on Dragonstone at last and to speak so here , where anyone could hear, where his vassals would hear of anything concerning him soon enough, was a folly beyond all imagination, and he cursed his foolishness in the privacy of his mind.

He was most grateful for the hand that wrapped itself around his arm and pulled him up. His gratitude lessened, though, when the man the hand belonged to was not one of the guards, rather a man in Velaryon colors and with light Velaryon hair , and he had to press his lips tightly together, even biting the inside of his cheek, to prevent a curse from escaping.

“Not one for ships, are you?” There was mocking in the man’s voice and amusement in his light eyes , and he had to fight against the heat creeping into his ears and up the back of his neck and the temper that rose with it.

He wished nothing more than to let the temper loose and snap at the man, but he knew, he knew that he was not known, not respected enough, for the cost to him not be too great in contrast to the passing pleasure it would give him to bring a man low with but a few cutting words. Still, he could hardly let this show of disrespect go entirely unanswered, for the man had heard. He must have.

So he mastered himself, his face becoming an impenetrable mask, and raised his brows haughtily. “My lord.”

The man’s eyes sparkled with mirth. “I am no lord, boy, I assure you.”

His brows rose a touch higher. “Oh, that is plain enough. I am, though, as you are well aware, so I was merely reminding you of your manners. It would be a great shame were you to one day mortally offend someone of higher rank without meaning to.”

The man’s eyes turned wary as they examined him. “I see. I must apologize… my lord.”

His smile widened the slightest bit as he inclined his head graciously. “Yes, indeed you must . Though I would appreciate your name first.” 

The man’s brows drew together, a wrinkle appearing between them as he blinked at him , and he drew a slow cautious breath before he spoke. “Aurane Waters, here by my brother’s word to greet the new Lord of Dragonstone.”

He suppressed a wince. He had certainly not intended his first showing as a lord to be a dressing down of a bastard, but his course was set , and it was too late to back down now. His brows still raised, he inquired lightly. “And who would be this brother you represent so poorly?”

Aurane Waters clenched his jaw tightly for a moment , and he spoke through gritted teeth. “Lord Monford Velaryon, the Lord of the Tides, the Master of Driftmark.”

Not like he had not expected the answer, given the colors and the look. Oh Gods, the look . “I see. Please, give my thanks to your brother for sending a party to greet me, but inform him that I expect him on Dragonstone in person to swear his oaths to me in person. Do not worry, a message will be sent by raven as well, should you forget it. Now, have a good day, for I must go meet my household. It would not do to keep them waiting too long.”

He inclined his head as the man's eyes widened , and his brows drew back together, the bewildered frown even deeper than before as he stepped out of his way hastily.

It was meant to be an insult, he was sure, to send the lord’s bastard brother instead of coming himself, but not acknowledging it as such took away some of the lord’s bite. And with two paths for the message to take now, it would be all the more difficult for the Lord of the Tides to worm his way out of coming to Dragonstone. There would be no ravens going missing, not unless a brother would as well, and it did not seem like this Aurane Waters was held by his brother in too low a regard if the quality of his clothing was anything to judge by.

As he walked to the waiting servants with the guards at his back, it was almost impossible not to turn around and crane his neck to take another look at the man that had reminded him so keenly of his goodbrother. 

The thought brought him to an abrupt stop and had him shaking his head vigorously to clear it of the cobwebs it was plainly filled with. He had no goodbrother. Still, the man did look much like Laenor Velaryon had, only leaner and harder, his features sharper. And his eyes of an entirely different color. He was seeing things that were not there.

The group waiting for him was sparse. Too sparse. There was a too-young man with a maester’s chain and several servants. Servants , no castellan or captain of the guard. He had a rather dark feeling about it all before the nervous maester even opened his mouth.

“My lord, welcome to Dragonstone. I am Maester Pylos, assistant to Maester Cressen of Dragonstone.”

He blinked at him mutely for a moment, waiting for more, and yet nothing more came. “And where is the castellan? The captain of the guard? The steward?”

The maester’s face flushed red. “There are none, my lord. Ser Axell, the castellan, sailed for Brightwater Keep and so did the steward. The captain of the guard sailed for Storm’s End.”

It was all he could do not to let his temper get the better of him , and he struggled to give the maester a believable smile. “I see. I would have hoped for them to stay long enough to hand over their duties to their replacements, but that can no longer be helped, I suppose.”

He had not expected the need for replacements. It was beyond him why men of such a high rank on Dragonstone would decide to leave for different keeps. Well… Not entirely beyond him. He was just a northern bastard, after all. Still, it was one complication he had not expected and would have to be attended to swiftly. While a castellan would not be too necessary since he had no intention of leaving the island anytime soon, the steward was another matter entirely. At least the captain of the guard could be promoted out of the ranks with little issue, he hoped. Otherwise, he might be hard-pressed to convince one of the guards from Winterfell, and he rather doubted any of them would let themselves be convinced without Lord Stark’s say so.

The young maester gave him a tense smile and nodded, turning to lead him toward the keep while the servants busied themselves with the chests, chattering about the proud history of the castle. As every step took him closer and closer toward the home of his ancestors, a bitter smile twisted his lips. As if he did not know. As if he could not know. 

There was a fire, a beating fiery heart, somewhere on the island and the slow thumping of it was setting his own blood aflame. But even as his blood sang with joy, something deep, deep within him coiled tightly around itself at the feeling, hissing and spitting in displeasure. It was almost as if there were two creatures living within him, one warm and loving and exultant, another cold and dark and oily, and the brighter the glow of the first, the more menacing the second. The apprehension that had left him upon stepping onto the island was back, for both feelings were very, very new.

Something was very, very wrong. Because he knew what it meant to have the blood of the dragon on Dragonstone, what it meant to be a dragon on Dragonstone.

There was a dragon on Dragonstone. There should be no place for twisting and coiling darkness now.

When he passed through the gatehouse and into the courtyard where a queen had once died, he knew for certain. He would have to visit the Fourteen soon. Something was very wrong on the island. Something was wrong, and it might just be its lord.

Chapter Text

Margaery was giddy as she crept through the dark corridors of Highgarden toward her brother’s chamber. It was not often that Loras ventured home, and though she had hoped that the frequency of his visits would increase as he grew older and had been knighted, those hopes died as his affections for his captor had grown as well.

She had put up a strong face for him, never giving him cause to suspect she did not support him, but… she could not help it. Loras was her brother, the closest she was to of the three of them. The closest in age, the closest in appearance, the closest in spirit. And even though his time as a hostage at Storm’s End should have ended when he had been knighted, it had not.

Her heart broke when he had come home a proud knight at fifteen. She had been so proud of him too, so proud to be his sister . But then he had sneaked into her chambers as he had when they had been children, before father had been ordered to send him to Storm’s End as a squire to the king’s brother. And as they snuggled under the covers on her bed as if children still, he had confessed to her his love for his former captor. A love so great he would return to his service, into his keep and into his bed, instead of staying home with his family, with Margaery .

Father had raged when he had learned of Loras’ decision, but he would not deny his youngest son’s desires, not when he was but a third son that had expressed his wish to forge his own path. Not when he had no idea as to his son’s true reasoning and even as heartbroken as Margaery had been, she had not betrayed her brother. One word of what had been spoken between them would have certainly ensured Loras would never see his love again. But Margaery had not wanted her brother to suffer, could not bear to break his trust in such a way, not even to keep him.

Loras had chosen Renly Baratheon over his family, over Margaery , and ever since, she had feared that a day would come when her beloved brother would choose his lover over her once more, perhaps even for the final time.

Still, it was not often that he came to visit anymore, and so she set out to sneak into his bed, to be the one to surprise him this time, and it would be his bed that they would share their deepest secrets under the covers of.

A frown came to her face at the muted voices coming from her brother’s bedchamber, and she stood frozen in front of the door, her hand on the handle. She pressed her ear to the wood and listened , if it was Willas or Garlan, she could join them still. Her smile dropped from her face and her giddiness left her as she realized that it was neither of them within , and that she had not feared enough . 

Gods , no. Gods, please , let him say no, let him refuse. She squeezed her eyes shut and wished with all her heart for her brother, her most beloved brother, to refuse , to deny his lover his help, to deny him Margaery and yet it would seem all her wishes were for naught.

Her body and her mind froze as she heard the voices speak of her future and shock caused her to lose track of the conversation for precious moments.

“— need to move now . If they were bold enough to remove Stannis, they have to be stopped. Lannisters-”

Margaery backed away from the door in horror, hand rising to cover her mouth and ran , tears rolling down her cheeks. They not only meant to make her the king’s whore, they wished to use her against people that had killed already? The king’s brother, no less. They would sacrifice not only her future, her prospects, and her happiness, no, they meant to risk her very life . Had she truly come to mean so little to her brother?

She ran blindly, tears blurring her vision and yet her feet took her to the sept, blessedly empty at this time of the night, where she fell to her knees in front of the statue of the Mother Above and wept bitter tears.

An eternity passed before her sobs slowed and eventually came to a stop, and she wiped at her wet cheeks. After she got up to her feet, her knees shaking and her breathing hitching still, she lit a candle in front of each of the seven aspects as she contemplated her situation. 

Her tears were all for naught, she told herself, for her father nor the Father Above would ever allow for it. She was her father’s only daughter, his cherished little rose, and he would never allow her to be used in such a shameful way, with so uncertain an outcome. And oh Gods, the man . The king hated father with a burning passion, and the years of Loras’ squiring at Storm’s End did little to abate it. Nothing, in truth.

The Mother… Mother was a Hightower, but she loved all her children and for all that she was kind and soft and seemingly frail, her mother was made of steel when her children were threatened. Her mother nor the Mother Above would ever allow for such to happen, she was sure, but still she prayed to the font of mercy to spare her the awful fate, to have mercy on her. Just to be sure , she told herself.

The Warrior… she had few words for on this day. She had always prayed to him to protect her father and her brothers, to keep them safe… and yet now the danger came for Margaery, and it came from one of her brothers. She glared at the statue and for perhaps the first time in her life, prayed for protection for herself.

The Crone… To her, Margaery prayed for wisdom and for a way out . She prayed for the Crone to light her way safely out of the tangle that would be woven should Renly’s fool plan come to gain her father’s support despite her own beliefs. Margaery had always thought of the Crone to be like her grandmother, old and wise, shrewd and resourceful. Her grandmother would surely not allow this either.

The Smith. To the Smith, she gave her tears as she prayed to mend whatever it was that was broken in her relationship with her brother. For surely, for Loras to agree to such an outrageous proposal… For Loras to not only be convinced but to speak of it to father … Something had to be broken between them, and Margaery knew not what , knew not when . What had she done to deserve this?

Margaery had little but tears for the Maiden, too, and she fell to her knees and begged and begged and begged. Her prayers to the Maiden had always been superfluous before, for she knew her father and her grandmother would assure she would have a good and honorable husband, likely of high standing, though she knew they had once held higher ambitions.  She could not bring herself to believe they would sell her so cheaply now. Still, where she had been self-assured, perhaps even a touch smug in front of all her cousins and other girls her age, she could no longer be, and so she begged .

When it came to lighting the candle to the Stranger, the one aspect few ever prayed to or for, she did not hesitate for even a moment. Should all else fail, let the Stranger take the man, even by her own hand if needed.

It was a grimly determined Rose of Highgarden that left the sept with one last look at the statues of the Seven. She would not allow herself to be tumbled by the man, she would not!

A king of the Seven Kingdoms he might be, but the man was big and fat and sweaty and smelly and loud and crass and ugly and just plain horrible . She would not allow them to give her to him. She would not.

It was only a few days later that she regretted not praying harder . She had been too sure of her father, too sure of her mother, too sure of her grandmother . Gods, was she not her favorite grandchild? How could grandmother ever allow them to even entertain such an idea?

There was nothing she wished to do more than curl up in a tight little ball and cry as she listened to her father outline Lord Renly’s plan to her. He seemed less than enthused about it, his wording and his tone cautious, her mother’s face pale and lined with worry. It was not them, then. Not them, and so it could only be grandmother. 

Her grandmother . Old and wise and shrewd and resourceful, but none of those qualities would be used for Margaery’s benefit. No, for all that grandmother had chosen her own fate, Margaery would not. And while fate that her grandmother had escaped, marrying a Targaryen prince, would have been an honorable one, hers would not be. She was to be a seducer, a whore . A queen, if all went well, but only if all went well.

She allowed herself to speak only one quiet word, barely even heard over the din of the music in the outer chamber. “Why?”

Her father’s face turned grave, and his eyes darted to his mother, and it was her that answered.

“To speak bluntly, the king has no legitimate heirs. The Lannister woman cuckolded him and likely killed Jon Arryn and the king’s brother to get rid of the evidence. It will not take much to convince the king to set her aside.”

How do you know? She did not ask the question, but she knew the likely reply regardless. The idea had sparked in Lord Renly’s mind, after all. She preferred not to think of the queen’s father, who would surely not accept his daughter being treated so, no matter the crime.

Why me? She did not ask that either, for the answer was obvious. When Margaery had been born a girl, her family had rejoiced and believed she would one day wed Prince Aegon, finally securing that grandest of all prizes for their blood, the Iron Throne. Now, they wished her to secure it for their blood still, only now it was a king, not a prince, they wished for her to wed, and the king was more than twice her age and many, many times her bulk.

She was to seduce him and have him set aside his wife, yet her family seemed to have forgotten that the man was a whoremonger near enough the Unworthy, rumored to have near as many bastards. Seducing him would like as not not be an issue. Keeping his attention, gaining his affection , and not being left a fallen woman with a bastard in her belly or worse , would be.

Margaery could not do it and she would not do it. All that was left was to figure out how to escape her terrible fate while keeping her family none the wiser as to her intentions, while appearing to seduce the king without doing it. And all under the vigilant gaze of her grandmother.

She kept her features even as she pointed out a flaw in their plan, hoping to poke a hole in their plan. The Tyrells were rarely welcomed in the Red Keep, and there was no cause for a maiden to be there too long without either a husband or a proper position.

“Will the king not question our presence at court?” The king’s great dislike was known by all, and even Margaery could not fault him for that, knowing her father had starved the king’s brothers near enough to death in the Rebellion. She could only hope that that dislike would keep her shielded from his attentions well enough.

Her grandmother harrumphed, and even the last spark of hope of avoiding King’s Landing entirely died in her chest. “Worry not, Robert may be gone North to collect his new Hand, but the preparations for a grand tourney in the Hand’s honor are already on the way even without him. It would be queer for us to miss such a grand event, would you not say, dear? And who could blame us for staying a touch longer with my health as frail as it is?”

Margaery nodded, not letting on just how the news was affecting her, still sitting pretty, with her back straight and her hands clasped primly, head bowed dutifully. What else was there to do but be compliant for now? What use defiance would be? The plans would hardly change, they would merely watch her better when the time came.

She was not made to be a septa, nor a silent sister, and there was no other honorable future Margaery could have without her family. There might be no future for her at all without them, for the world was not kind to women, much less young maidens on their own, so she kept her head bowed and her tears at bay.

Weeks later, as they reached King’s Landing and settled into the Red Keep, while Lord Renly joined with the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and left the city to lead the escort for the returning royal party, Margaery was no closer to a solution to her predicament than when she had first heard the horrid proposal.

She knew, like every girl in her family, grandmother’s tale of escaping unwanted marriage and yet… It was not quite as easy as that. Her grandmother had had a prime candidate visiting right under her father’s roof, someone of appropriate rank that would raise no objections despite the order of things.

Anyone lesser than a king would be too low for Margaery in their eyes now and would be dealt with one way or another, should they dare to try, rather than be given her hand in marriage. No, unless her family was made to accept someone, made to accept the union by an authority higher than even the Warden of the South, meaning the king , there would be no escape for her. Even the prince would not be an option, not now that they knew .

She had taken to prowling the keep, walking the corridors, making turns around the gardens and visiting the Great Sept daily, to Septa Nysterica’s great delight, all in order to meet as many men as possible, to find the one that would suit her purposes. It could not be just anyone, she could admit that much to herself. And yet, no matter how she looked, her search proved futile.

No Reachman would be fool enough to try, no Riverlander good enough present, the Crownlanders, taking the opportunity the king’s absence presented, not yet there , the Westermen too loyal to the queen, and the Stormlanders too loyal to the king and his brother.

It was maddening, truly, that out of so many highborn men in the capital, so few would serve and none of them such that the king might take interest in. It was almost enough to bring one to tears, but weeping had been of no help to her so far, and she doubted that would change anytime soon.

Her mien, while always pleasant, no longer reflected her true mood, which soured further as she made an unwise turn around a corner and right into the one man she would never ever consider in her schemes, no matter how desperate.

“Lady Margaery, what a pleasant surprise to meet you.” The voice was oily and were she of lesser breeding would have had her shuddering in disgust.

“Lord Baelish, I apologize, my mind must have wandered.” She gave him a shallow curtsy as befitted a member of the King’s Small Council and made to move as far back as she could manage with a semblance of subtlety, immensely grateful for Nysterica’s reliable presence at her back.

“No apologies necessary. As I was just saying to Lord Stark, I was in a haste to leave the Red Keep and must have not paid enough attention myself.”

Margaery blinked at the words and raised her gaze from the ground curiously, for she believed Lord Stark with the king still, and the king’s party had yet to reach the capital. But there was no Lord Stark to see in the corridor, only a boy, likely her age, glaring daggers at the Master of Coin.

“And I told you that I can walk and talk, but the matter will not wait.”

Margaery blinked some more as the boy spoke, annoyance more than clear in his voice.

Lord Baelish’s smile was all artifice as he turned back to the boy. “My lord, as I already told you, it is not the Crown’s business to finance minor lords. If you lack coin, I suggest you raise it yourself.”

The boy- lord , was fighting not to snap at the man, that was plain to see as well, but he mastered himself and gave him a strained smile instead. “Thank you for such wise advice, Lord Baelish. I will most certainly keep it in mind.”

The smug smile on Littlefinger’s face as he bid them both a good day and left had Margaery’s nose curling in utter disgust the moment his back was turned.

“And just how the fuck am I to finance the royal fleet on my own?” 

The question was not intended for Margaery to hear, she was sure, but she did, and the queer interaction had her interest piqued already.

“Why would you need to?”

The young lord turned to face her with raised brows, his dark eyes piercing and judging her. “And you are?”

She flushed at being called out on her lack of manners so. “Lady Margaery Tyrell, daughter of Lord Mace Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South.”

He expelled a loud breath and inclined his head. “Lord Jon Stark, son of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. I am the new Lord of Dragonstone. And apparently the one provisionally responsible for the royal fleet, too.”

Her brows drew together. She had not known that the lordship of Dragonstone had been already given away, and to a Stark too. “Oh, I do not-”

“Have a good day, my lady. It was certainly diverting to meet you.” He bowed and was already several steps away before Margaery recovered her wits enough to wish him a good day as well.

Diverting. Not a pleasure, not an honor. It had been diverting to have met her. What was that even supposed to mean?

But it mattered little, for Jon Stark, for all his rudeness, might prove to be an option. If he had been named the Lord of Dragonstone after the passing of the king’s brother, that meant the king had already taken an interest in him. And his father, perhaps the most honorable man in the realm, was the new Hand. And it hardly harmed his case that he was her age and rather handsome. 

Yes, Margaery smiled and turned toward her family’s quarters, he might be the best option of them all.

Chapter Text

It was not as jarring as he had expected to be in the Lord’s chambers on Dragonstone. He had feared he would see the signs of the keep’s former master everywhere, reminding him of the grim circumstances that had allowed for his rise, yet the chambers were sparse and void of any personality. 

The servants must have worked hard to pack away everything that had once belonged to Stannis Baratheon and his family. He wondered where it had all gone. Had it all been hidden away, stored in the massive vaults deep below the fortress, never to be seen again? Had it been sent to their families? 

And what of… What of his family? He had struggled to reconcile the picture of the Dragonstone as it had been in his memories and the Dragonstone as it was . It was a fortress, a stronghold, built to intimidate, to inspire awe and dread in those that would think to stoke the wrath of the Freehold so far removed from its sight and its might this far west. 

But Dragonstone had been a home too and when Aenar Targaryen had settled his family here, he had brought a great many items with him to make it feel like one too. There had been countless tapestries, softening the grand rooms and tall corridors, and yet all of them were gone now, and in their absence each step echoed, each word carried, and the draft whistled sharply.

And so, as he walked through the castle haunted by sheer emptiness, he could not help but wonder… Where were those tapestries? The paintings? What had happened to the last treasures brought from Old Valyria? 

Gods, where were the carpets ? Those had not been brought over from Valyria, had nothing to do with House Targaryen in truth, but their absence was notable and rather difficult to ignore. Even the rushes seemed to be used only in the most commonly used public areas, and even then sparsely. Rushes.

Either Stannis Baratheon had been a particular miser or the island had fallen upon hard times. Considering what he knew of how the fortress had been financed in the times of the Rogue Prince, he rather suspected it was the latter and cursed in the privacy of his mind. This would be yet another complication in an already less than straightforward situation. 

His lords would no doubt hold little trust or affection for him and with the keep in as poor a state as it was, they were more like to hold a disdain and contempt for him than not as well, for their lord was likely poorer than any of them. Gods, the Velaryons had once been the second-richest House in the Seven Kingdoms. That was long behind them, but their pride surely remembered well enough.

He had wished to ascend the Stone Drum to the Chamber of the Painted Table, that most famous of all rooms on Dragonstone, but with the wind savagely beating at the walls from the outside and his steps echoing eerily inside, he could not bring himself to walk up even half-way before turning back, heart in his throat and headache building.

All things considered, the Lord’s chambers were a relief, truly, for they were not quite so spacious that even the slightest noise would carry and echo and stab him in his heart.

He was alone. For all intents and purposes, he had been abandoned, left to fend for himself among those that would see him brought low. Lord Stark had not minced words when they had spoken of Dragonstone, the Houses sworn to it, and the belligerent attitude they held toward all they termed the Usurper's dogs, the Starks doubtless chief among them. In the most amusing of twists, he would be despised by the Targaryen loyalists. He would have appreciated the jape much more had he not been the butt of it, he was sure.

His mood black, he threw himself onto the bed to stare at the canopy. This haunted keep was to be his home, and he had no idea whether he could even sleep here.

Ghost had been a silent and faithful companion wherever he had gone, his presence unintrusive and reassuring, and he remained so even as he wormed his way under his master’s arm and laid his soft furry head on his chest, wet nose nudging a hand to pet him. A small smile came to his face at that, and he ran his fingers through the soft fur and over the ears, scratching lightly, eventually falling asleep to Ghost’s quiet snuffles.

He came to with a start and a scream, launching himself off the bed and hitting his back on the frame before falling to the ground. He cried out in pain, breaths coming in short gasps, dread coiling tightly around his chest, as he tried to make sense of it all in the utter darkness of the room.

Ghost’s cold nose pressed against his throat and the contact seemed to help bring some semblance of calm to him, his breathing slowing slightly, and he leaned back against the bed. Gods , his heart was racing even as the panic seemed to subside. He had been falling .

Closing his eyes, he tried to recall the dream that had him feeling so, but there seemed to be nothing but the panic and the falling in the darkness there. Nothing. His brows furrowed and he tried to remember more. It could not be all. It could not. There had to be more. He poked and poked , and the darkness parted and a disembodied voice full of loathing and bitterness sounded all around him, reverberating in his skull. The things I do for love .

As the darkness had parted for him, so it had turned on him and closed around him, becoming oily and seeking to choke him, its very touch leaving him shuddering in disgust, sickness rising in him, and he had to scramble to his feet drunkenly and stumble to the privy to empty his stomach, heaving and heaving and heaving until there was no more to give, not even a spit of disgust.

Something foreign and malignant had touched him, and he felt dirty, felt like he needed to scrub himself clean, scrub his mind clean, and he wanted to weep like a babe. For years, he had prayed for the dreams of the crypts to end and now that they had, now that he had believed to have achieved peace at last, something worse replaced them.

He laid himself on the cold stone ground, pressing a cheek to it and closed his eyes once more, his mind desperately seeking that warm and loving presence in the heart of Dragonstone, wishing for the warm glow to fill him once more, to force the darkness out, for even Ghost’s warm body pressed into him could not lessen the freezing cold left behind by the evil.

When the warmth touched him once more and a fire spread through his veins, tears of joy sprang in his eyes at the feeling. A part of him, a deeply, deeply buried part of him, knew that feeling and rejoiced to feel it once more, but a far, far greater part of him was just tired. So, so tired, dragging him off to sleep.

A single word surfaced from somewhere deep within his mind just before he succumbed to sleep entirely, filling him with hope and joy and somehow, inexplicably, immense sadness. 

Caraxes.

This time, when he slept, the darkness was comforting.

The first morning on Dragonstone greeted him with a sore back, freezing feet, pounding head and a foul taste in his mouth. He winced as he pushed himself to his knees off the hard cold ground, and, feeling a man hundred years old, he stumbled toward the washbasin, splashing his face with water and scrubbing it vigorously in a vain attempt to rouse himself further, thanking every deity there was for him being dressed still, for had no strength to spare for clothes.

The night had been horrible, and he doubted the day would be much of an improvement, considering his state at the very beginning of it. But there were things to do, chief among them getting some food into him, and then the rushes . He would not survive another day, much less a night , without at least rushes spread out along the corridors, so he straightened himself as best he could and set out of his chambers.

A gnawing hunger ate away at his stomach even as long strides ate up the distance to the kitchen keep, and there was no more welcome sight to him that morning than the smoke gently rolling from the nostrils of the curled dragon that contained the kitchens. His heart rose as his eyes took the beast in and his feet carried him in, his appetite whetted by the delicious smell of warm bread, and his mouth watered.

He paused just inside the door, eyes closed, inhaling deeply, basking in the heat and the aromas of various herbs. It was a glorious feeling. It was a glorious feeling that lasted too short a moment as someone slammed into him, and he was violently reminded why standing in the door of a busy kitchen with eyes closed might not have been the brightest idea as he stumbled a few steps forward.

His ears red with embarrassment, he turned back to the door to see a scullery maid, a large and doubtless heavy cauldron held in her arms, pale dramatically at the sight of him. “M'lord, a thousand pardons, m'lord, I did not-”

All movement, all sound , seemed to come to a stop, and he grimaced and jumped in, waving his hand dismissively, feigning indifference, even as his blush spread. “No matter. That will teach me not to stand in the door, blocking the way, in the future at least.”

He inclined his head her way and then turned to the frozen staff, folding his hands behind his ramrod-straight back and taking a measured breath before addressing them. “As you know, I am your new lord. In the coming days, I will spend much time traversing the keep, but I thought to start today with the most important place of all.” 

At the silent stares, he elaborated. “The kitchens. If there is anything you would wish to raise with me, please, do not hesitate. It was a good and tried tradition in Winterfell to keep a seat at the lord’s table, at the lord’s right side, open for a different member of the household each night. I mean to continue in this tradition here and add to it. I would break my fast here, and I would much appreciate hearing of the matters of the kitchens and our stores while at it.” Because there was no steward, and he had no idea how things stood or who to name.

There was more silence at his declaration and he had little doubt they were all wondering at the strangeness of it, but the Stark children had spent much time in Winterfell’s kitchens, causing mischief, and there was much to learn from the cooks and the serving maids, if one only kept their ears open. And the more time one spent among them, the less attention they were paid, and the looser the lips around them became. Not that he was sure at all that it would work when he was the lord, rather than his father. But he had hope. He had to, because he was slowly coming to suspect there was little else left to him.

After his hunger was sated, he headed to the maester’s chambers in the Sea Dragon Tower. He had no particular wish to speak to the old maester that had been so fond of Stannis Baratheon he could hardly stop talking of him and his poor daughter, though he could not help but note that such did not extend to the man’s wife.

He much preferred the younger maester, 

The old maester coughed pitifully, plainly not yet entirely recovered from the illness that saw Pylos sent to Dragonstone to assist him, and motioned with a trembling hand for his lord to take a seat. “Good morrow, my lord. I must apologize that I do not rise to greet you, but my body betrays me.”

He took the proffered seat cautiously, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees. “Maester, please, do not trouble yourself over it. I… come to you to speak on a… personal matter.”

The maester perked up. “I will advise you best I can, my lord.”

Pressing his lips together, he weighted his words carefully before he spoke them. “I am aware that you server Lord Stannis faithfully and that you followed him to Dragonstone from Storm’s End. I… understand that it is the Baratheons, rather than Dragonstone, that you are bound to and… That is to say… I understand that I am not the lord you would likely wish to see succeed Lord Stannis. I truly do understand and if you wish… If you wish to return to Storm’s End to serve the king’s brother or to travel to King’s Landing to serve the king, I will support your decision and arrange that you reach either safely. If it is your wish to retire and return to the Citadel, I would arrange for that as well.” He paused for a breath as the maester’s eyes filled with tears and finished with some alarm. “I would not have you serve where you do not wish.”

The man straightened himself best he could, his eyes hurt. “I may be old, my lord, but I can fulfill my duties here still. Not so old as to be of no more use. I beg of you-”

He shook his head with sadness and regarded the old maester with pity and understanding, with sympathy . He knew what it felt like being sent away, being not good enough to keep, and his throat was suddenly tight. “You need not beg. It is not my wish to discard you. I merely offer you a chance to return to the service of the men you know, of the House you have served most of your life. While I would treasure your service and wisdom, I would not have you stay here out of duty, when your heart calls you elsewhere.”

Maester Cressen’s lips trembled along with his hands. “My heart sits on the bottom of the Blackwater Bay, my lord, and Lord Renly and His Grace have long since forgotten about me. They… do not need me anymore. There is nothing left to me but my friends here.” 

The man gestured toward the balcony and his lord blinked. “Friends?”

The smile he was given in reply was painful to behold. “My gargoyles.”

His breath caught. The hellhound and the wyvern, statues of stone. Those were the only friends left to the aged maester. He had thought himself alone, abandoned, separated from his family and yet even here, among strangers, he had Ghost. This old man had only the stone statues to keep him company. And the man everyone knew to be his replacement.

He expelled a heavy sigh. “Very well, I am grateful to retain your service then, Maester Cressen. And since you are to continue to serve me, there are some… questions I have for you in the absence of a steward.”

Maester Cressen’s lips stretched in a tremulous smile. “I will do my best to answer them, my lord, though I myself am no steward.”

“What… How do the finances of Dragonstone stand? I could not help but notice the lack of even the most base of comforts. So my question is this… Is Dragonstone ruined?”

What little brightness the maester gained as his lord declared he would be keeping him, drained out of him and his body slumped, the man turning crestfallen once more. “Not ruined, not quite, my lord. Lord Stannis was a prudent man and he would never allow for such. But… It’s the taxes, you see, my lord. Lord Stannis long suspected that the bannermen do not pay their taxes to Dragonstone as they should. Their ships and men and coffers had been savaged by the rebellion, they claimed, and they have not paid properly ever since. Not to the Iron Throne and not to Dragonstone. Lord Stannis eventually ensured they paid something , at least, but it was never near what they had paid under Targaryens.”

He dropped his head into his hands and fought hard not to laugh. Targaryen loyalists. Loyal only so far as to not pay taxes to their new king and liege lord. Loyal only so far as it benefited them.

“So the coffers are mostly empty?”

“They are far from full, certainly. And Dragonstone is not a cheap keep to keep. In the reign of the Targaryens, the Iron Throne supplemented much of the income needed to maintain it as the seat of the Prince of Dragonstone.”

Yes, he knew that much and he needed no reminding.

The maester seemed unsure whether to continue, but he did. “You should be also aware, my lord, that Lord Stannis was the Master of Ships and as such, with his passing, and lacking the replacement, the responsibility for the royal fleet now rests in your hands as the Lord of Dragonstone.”

His brows climbed, because that could certainly not be true. “I do not see how-”

The maester interrupted him with a deep sigh. “After the rebellion, Lord Stannis was commanded to rebuild the royal fleet and was named the Lord of Dragonstone and the Master of Ships. He did not trust the Houses of the Narrow Sea, though, and so the royal fleet consists of mostly Dragonstone ships.”

He perked up at the news. That was not as bad as he had feared. If he had ships then he could-

“The captains are quite restless with the death of Lord Stannis and were awaiting your arrival quite anxiously.”

“What?” Truly, what? Why ?

The maester coughed delicately. “They are owed wages. Lord Stannis had the gold for it and the paymaster with him when…”

He was stunned. Why ?! “I was under the impression the wages of the royal fleet are handled by the paymasters of the Crown.” In the capital . His own voice sounded weak in his ears.

“There was… some unpleasantness between Lord Stannis and the Master of Coin. Lord Stannis did not trust the man and had the pay handled by his own paymaster here on Dragonstone. It was his custom to sail with the gold for the wages to assure… And the gold… the gold was on the ship with them.”

His eyes were closed, hoping this all to be a bad dream. “So I must pay my captains, must pay them now , but the gold to do it is on the bottom of the Blackwater Bay?” And the king all the way in Winterfell.

“I am afraid so, my lord, yes.”

“So I must ask the Master of Coin for more, it would seem.”

“Not quite, my lord. Not quite.”

His eyes opened and his brows climbed. “Whatever do you mean, not quite?”

The maester coughed once more. “The gold for the pay may be released only to the Master of Ships.”

What the… “ Why ?”

The aged maester was apologetic as his shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “'Tis like I said, my lord. There was some unpleasantness with the Master of Coin.”

Some unpleasantness that must have been. He dropped his head into his hands again. Gods, this was a nightmare.

Chapter Text

Not ruined, not quite, the maester had said, and he did not come to truly understand until he saw the rolls and the accounting of the wages owed in the office of Stannis Baratheon’s late paymaster. It was Maester Pylos that accompanied him there, carrying the heavy book containing Dragonstone’s own accounts, because Cressen, for all his determination to help, could hardly walk all the way to the docks with him.

The young maester coughed uncomfortably in the silence as his lord stared down at the numbers, wishing for the figures to change. “It is not quite as bad as Maester Cressen made it out to be, my lord.”

He disagreed heartily. It was every bit as bad as his talk with Maester Cressen over the accounts indicated. Dragonstone was not ruined, far from it. As long as there were no big unexpected expenses. Lord Stannis had been a cautious man and had ensured Dragonstone’s accounts were well maintained and regular expenses more or less self-contained. There were even regular contributions to the winter fund. Not of a size that would make any Northman feel well-prepared but certainly prodigious by Southron standards.

Regular expenses were of no concern to him. It was the fucking fleet wages. Lord Stannis had been prudent and did not overspend on anything, it would seem, ensuring there was enough gold should an issue arise that would require it. But the wages would clean out the reserve almost entirely and should another issue arise, the winter fund would have to be drawn from. There was not a Northman alive that would be fool enough to draw from the winter fund in the longest summer in living memory, and he had no intention of being the first one.

The rather sorry state of the reserve would not have been much of an issue anyway, had the lord’s death not given the lords sworn to Dragonstone once more an excuse to delay paying the taxes owed. And even that would not have been an issue until a sudden change occurred just moons before the shipwreck.

“Why did he move the gold?” Truly, why ?

Pylos gave him a shrug. A shrug . “That was before my time, my lord.”

“Can I… Is there anything I can do to access the account?” He doubted it, because the account was not linked to Dragonstone at all, at least according to the book of accounts, but there was no harm in asking. 

“You may be Lord Stannis’ successor here on Dragonstone, my lord, but you are not his heir and… Braavosi are peculiar about details like that.”

He let out a snort because that was putting it mildly. The Iron Bank loathed nothing more than parting with the gold entrusted to it and Stannis Baratheon entrusted a whole lot to it.

Their stores had been filled to overflowing, the garrison had been increased and most of their gold had been sent to Braavos and while he was sure there could be various reasons for doing this, he did not like the one that rose to the forefront of his mind even a bit. Stannis Baratheon had been preparing for war.

Worse, while Dragonstone itself had been prepared for siege, the removal of the gold to the Iron Bank and into the man’s personal account likely meant he had been preparing for the island to fall or at the very least no longer be the lord of it. Or his heir not to be named as the new lord. It seemed to him that Stannis Baratheon had had a reason to suspect he was going to die. But… the man could have hardly predicted the storm that had taken his and his family’s life.

The realm had been at peace ever since the Greyjoy Rebellion ended nine years past with the unfortunate consequence of landing the Starks with Theon as a ward, and he could not be blamed for wishing that peace be disturbed at times so the annoyance that the ward was would be removed from Winterfell. But it was he, not Theon, that had been removed from the keep, and it was he, not the ward, that was the greater danger to his family.

Still, preparing for war. What war? Against whom? And why ?

The thought of being in charge of a haunted castle had been bad enough. For that castle to be ready for a conflict he could not see coming against an unknown foe was worse.

In that context, the sound carrying and echoing could be considered a good thing, certainly if one expected the fortress to be breached unexpectedly, so maybe… “Where are the tapestries?”

Stannis Baratheon could have been preparing for war, but he was not Stannis Baratheon, he was not a king’s brother and the king’s affairs did not concern him at all.

The young maester blinked at the sudden question. “My lord?”

“The tapestries. The carpets. Things that ensure that sound in a keep does not carry quite as much. Where are they?”

“Gone, my lord.”

“Gone? Gone where?”

“They were sent to Storm’s End and to Brightwater Keep.”

It was him that was blinking in confusion now. “ Why ?”

The maester’s face brightened. “It is my understanding that that was where they were originally from, so upon the death of Lord Stannis and his lady, they were sent back.”

“What about the ones that hung on the walls before ?”

Pylos stilled and looked at him with large eyes, his voice hushed. “But those were Targaryen tapestries, my lord.”

He pressed his lips tightly together, because from what he remembered of them, they were not Targaryen themed. “So they were destroyed?”

“I do not think so, my lord. The island was captured by Lord Stannis, and he was not given over to needless destruction. They are doubtless somewhere in storage.”

“Good. Have them found and put up, would you?”

The words sent Pylos stumbling back in shock. “My… my lord! But… What will people think? The king ?”

He gave him a small amused smile and a guileless shrug. “I would hope that they would think that I honor the storied history of this keep and have no trouble displaying tokens of a dead civilization. And I see no reason for the king to be interested in what decorations are put up in a castle he has little reason to visit.”

Casting a look around the paymaster’s office, he closed the book of the fleet accounts with a heavy sigh and picked it up to take with him. “And let the captains know that the wages will be paid from tomorrow on. I will be the one paying them here for the first four days, but should any come to claim them later, they will have to do so up in the castle.”

Because Stannis Baratheon had likely a good cause for his own trusted paymaster, and he had no one to place in a position of such trust since his men from Winterfell were not ones for counting coppers, and he did not know anyone here enough to trust them either. There was Maester Cressen, he supposed, but to have the man brought all the way out here when he hardly walked would be a challenge and to have a man of his age distributing wages would be a trial in patience, so he would do it himself. It would certainly allow him to make an acquaintance with the men placed under his command for now.

It was a fortnight before the few lords sworn to Dragonstone assembled there at his invitation and he was grateful that the time had been sufficient to get the wages and the keep in order, fresh rushes laid out, old Valyrian tapestries hanging on the walls and his own black and white and red banners hanging off the battlements on each side of the gatehouse.

He wondered what his guests would think of being greeted by such a sight. Nothing good, he was sure, but the keep seemed a home to him now at least, and he rejoiced every time he rose from his bed and his feet met a carpet instead of cold stone.

The owed taxes the lords had been invited to bring along he did not truly expect, but rather hoped for. They would go a long way toward tiding him over until the Crown reimbursed him for the wages and at least based on what the ravens traded between him and the Red Keep had said so far, that would be quite a while yet. And would likely involve him breaking a promise.

But he was not overly worried about that, not yet. The king’s party had taken moons to travel to Winterfell, and would likely take moons more to return. There was plenty of time for him to come to an agreement with the Master of Coin, and, worse come to worst, to go to the capital, resolve the matter there and return and never be seen by the king. Or the king’s new Hand. Most certainly not the new Hand.

He had been stunned when the news had reached him, more so that the word had not come from Winterfell, but in one of Baelish’s letters. Later, he received the news of Lord Stark’s appointment, though again, not from him but Robb and then even Arya as she had written to complain about having to travel south with them. But not from Lord Stark, not from his own…

Shaking his head to rid himself of morose thoughts just as he was to finally receive his lords for the first time, he straightened himself and folded his hands behind his back, staring at the door leading to the Chamber of the Painted Table expectantly. Maester Cressen was seated by his side, but he could not stand to sit while he waited for the lords to arrive, guided by Pylos.

The Chamber of the Painted Table was a symbol of power, of status, his status, and he had no doubt the lords would gnash their teeth to be greeted there by him , someone so unworthy of standing over them. Well, they would be unhappy with him being there, and he was unhappy with them not bringing the taxes, and their state of unhappiness would not be equal.

Still, he waited for them with his back straight and a welcoming smile on his face, struggling not to pace.

Truly, the perfunctory knock on the door and a guard announcing Maester Pylos and m’lord’s guests was a deliverance and his smile widened when they entered, and he was treated to their thunderous faces.

“My lords, welcome to Dragonstone. It is certainly a pleasure to meet you all at last.” And it was. It truly was, especially when he noted that Lord Bar Emmon was even younger than himself. It was always a relief not to be the youngest and the least experienced in the room.

The faces of the elders lords did not turn friendlier at the greeting, but the face of Duram Bar Emmon relaxed somewhat and upon being introduced by Maester Pylos, he gave him a smile with a touch of warmth and the bow of his head was markedly deeper than the ones given by his companions. It would seem that at least House Bar Emmon would not be a source of too much trouble. 

The same could sadly not be said of the head of House Velaryon, Lord Monford’s expression haughty, his chin raised proudly, looking down his nose at his liege. Or Lord Guncer Sunglass, his lip twisted in disgust as the pious man regarded him. Celtigar… Celtigar appeared perhaps the friendliest after Bar Emmon, his face sour, though not outright hostile.

“Please, be seated, my good lords, and sate your thirst and hunger.”

He sat himself and the lords reached for the goblets filled with wine at his prompting, raising them in a silent toast, and drank of the wine along with him. Except Velaryon, who apparently decided to set himself against his liege lord from the onset, not even pretending to a base civility, his lips pulled back in a snarl.

“ This Northern bastard thinks the decorations and the Painted Table will blind us to the fact that he has not a drop of blood that would entitle him to this seat. Stannis Baratheon at least had some blood of Old Valyria in himself, unlike this pretender. The Usurper means to insult us with this appointment. He means to insult us, I tell you. ”

Bar Emmon’s eyes were wide as the lord spoke in High Valyrian, and they widened further as they darted to his liege to see his smile stretching, and Celtigar’s features darkened, but Sunglass seemed not to understand at all, plainly annoyed at hearing the language spoken.

“ I assure you, my lord Velaryon, the decorations are not for your benefit, but mine. I consider myself somewhat of an expert on Valyrian culture and history. ” He let out a chuckle at the stunned and horrified gazes he was treated to as he responded. “ And I assure you as well that I pretend no right to this island. It was given to me by Robert Baratheon who you all bent the knee to as your king. Do not pretend loyalty to House Targaryen now before me when we all know that had you been loyal in truth, none of you would be here today. Though there is one thing you are correct on… This was most certainly meant as an insult to you. ”

Dropping the smile, he let his words sink for a moment and then continued. “Now, since we already settled that you are all loyal subjects of King Robert, and it was he that appointed me the Lord of Dragonstone, as is his wont, let us speak of the taxes you all owe me and when exactly I can expect them.”

He had believed Monford Velaryon would prove to be the largest obstacle to his rule, but that was before the man thought to name Robert Baratheon the Usurper right in front of the son of the king’s new Hand. The horror on the lord's face as he started to speak was proof enough that he understood he had lost already. Velaryon would pay the taxes soon enough and the others would hopefully follow. They had not rebuked him, after all.

It would seem that things were looking up, and a fortnight later, as he feasted them all once more after they had all delivered on their promises, he was certain of it, and when the lords had departed Dragonstone once more, his coffers considerably fuller, he knew he could delay a visit to the Fourteen no more.

There was a sept on the island that he had never visited, not even in the dreams, and there was no godswood, so the Old Gods could surely not see the island and the men on it, but there was a place of worship dedicated to the Fourteen Flames that had stood abandoned for the longest time he believed to be the proper place to offer thanks for this boon.

Though he had been curious to see it ever since his arrival, he had not, lest his lords learn of it somehow and be the warier for it in their dealings with him, but now…

It was in the hour of the ghosts that he set out from his chambers, a candle in hand, stepping toward the cold hearth with some trepidation. So far, his knowledge of the castle had not failed him, but all of it could be explained away by his obsessive reading of any and all books in Winterfell’s library that contained even a word on Valyria and its descendants. This… If there truly was a hidden passage here , then there was no other explanation than his dreams being real .

His hand froze a breath away from pressing down on the stone that should open the passageway, as sudden indecision came upon him, and darkness, oily and malignant, once more rose in his mind. He retracted the hand in alarm, staring at the wall blankly, as his breath came to him in short gasps. Shaking his head, he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force it back, and wished with all his heart for it to go away .

He rested his head against the cool stones and almost sobbed, when he realized with no small amount of bitterness that wishing had never helped him any. Gritting his teeth, he pressed his knuckles against the wall, and opened his eyes resolutely, his mind reaching for the warmth instead. The warmth had helped him before, he knew. The warmth cared about him. And he… he was coming to appreciate it as well.

As it enveloped him in its glow and the darkness retreated as if it had never invaded him in the first place, he breathed a sigh of relief and opened the passage, set on his course quite firmly. The Fourteen awaited him. Hopefully, some answers awaited him with them.

The glow remained with him as he walked deeper into the castle, deeper into the island, and it remained even as he stepped into the shrine, but the hope of answers was dashed the moment he did.

It was utterly and entirely abandoned, desolate by even the usually barren standards of Valyrian places of worship. The stone statues, decorated with colorful obsidian, had no candles in front of them and there was no sign of there ever being any either. There was not a single piece of something flammable in the cavernous chamber as far as he could see and when he went to the door to pull it open, he found a sturdy wall behind it and the breath was stolen from him. 

Had he not used the secret passages to get to the shrine, he never would have found it.

A place dedicated to the Fourteen Flames , forever denied light.

He stopped in front of each and every one of the statues and when he stepped up to the statue depicting Balerion, the God of death, he raised the candle higher to see into its face and its black eyes grimly. 

They were gone. The Fourteen Flames, the volcanoes, and the Gods both, were gone from this world, gone from living memory. Had he not had his dreams, the memories of a man long dead, he would have not found this place. Gone from living memory . And yet, somehow, he stood facing Balerion.

And there were no answers to be found here .

He wanted to weep.

Chapter Text

The shrine weighed heavily on his mind over the coming days, until eventually, he set out to find it in the daylight hours, accompanied by his new steward. He knew where the entrance was supposed to be , and his feet carried him there unerringly on the first try.

It was eerie how easily navigating Dragonstone had come to him. It was disturbing how accurate the dreams of the Rogue Prince had proven themselves to be. It was all so very strange. He had felt far from the reach of Gods here, far from their sight, far from their power. There was no weirwood and no godswood on Dragonstone and that seemed the way it should be, but when he had looked into the carved faces of the Fourteen… 

The Fourteen were a relic of a dead civilization, hidden away like a shameful secret, and he felt a certain kinship with them in that. And while his secret had to remain so, lest his family pay the price, the shrine need not be hidden away, not now that Dragonstone was his to keep.

And so, he took his new steward to the section on the wall meant to contain the door and faced 

“There was a door here once. I want it to be here once more.”

The aged man blinked at him and when he spoke, it was with great caution. “My lord, I served here for many years before I was dismissed when Lord Stannis became the lord. There was never a door here.”

Well, the old man had been the steward for the Targaryens, so he would know and that removed one of the two possible reasons for the door to be barred so , and he gritted his teeth. It was not the Baratheon king that had ordered this, but a Targaryen one.

“There was a door here, believe me when I say so. I read everything there was to read about this place. It must have been during the reign of Baelor the Blessed that it was closed off.”

The bushy white eyebrows pulled together. “Baelor the Blessed, my lord? Why would you think so?”

He turned to the man with a slight smile. “Because there should be a shrine to the Fourteen Flames behind it.”

“I see.” The man’s words were in direct opposition to his tone and expression. “I will get the men to try and clear the entrance, if you believe it to be there, but…”

He need not finish. His skepticism was quite clear , and it was easy to understand. The wall looked almost exactly like any other wall in the deeper, older parts of the fortress, but it was the almost that had him convinced that he was in the right place.

“Do it.”

Some secrets were better off never revealed, some were not. The Fourteen were meant to be here , and so they would be, though he would be their only visitor. There was little doubt in his mind that none of their worshipers prevailed on the island, not now that even the Targaryens were gone from it. He wondered whether even the Velaryons kept to the old ways, whether they still buried their dead at sea, whether the belief in the Fourteen and the Merling King still twined in their line.

There were many things he wondered at and many things he wanted to achieve and too many that he was too afraid to dwell on , and so he distracted himself as best he could, running all over the fortress and the island, meeting people and making arrangements for his household.

His new steward, he had been directed to by the cook, during one of his breakfast visits. The man had been considered too loyal to the previous owners of the castle and so too dangerous to keep on and yet the man himself had little left and nothing of it beyond the island , and so he stayed in the fishing village for the years Stannis Baratheon had held the title of Lord of Dragonstone. Now, though old, he was only too happy to serve once more.

His new captain of the guard was a knight from the Crownlands, Ser Hubard Rambton, and he had been the obvious choice. The knight was a most senior one of those that remained, and two of his sons served in the garrison already. There were not that many knights left in his service anyway, many Stormlanders previously in Lord Stannis’ employ leaving after the master-at-arms had sailed for Storm’s End, and most of the remaining Reachmen leaving with the former castellan. Only the Crownlanders were left to him and there were few of those. It would seem that not many would trust their future into the hands of a Northern bastard.

Looking around himself at the dank and drab place Dragonstone had become since the Dance, he could hardly blame them. It was the height of a long summer, yet the island was plagued by fog and rain and howling winds every day and while his dreams had shown him that such weather was hardly uncommon for the island, the persistence of it was , especially in summer .

It was… strange . Sometimes, it seemed the Dragonstone of his memories and the Dragonstone of the present could not even be the same place and yet every time he wandered the halls and every twist and turn led him to where he knew he would end up, they were confirmed to be the same. Which was both reassuring and not. Something seemed wrong with the island, but he resisted investigating so far, hoping with all his heart to be proven to be mistaken.

And so he kept himself occupied, filling positions left empty where a replacement could be found and fulfilling the duties himself where there was none yet. After all, there was no need for a castellan when the lord was in residence , and he could supervise the training of the garrison himself, getting to know the men under his command, identifying those with potential and that was how he settled on Ser Hubard as well. It was a shame one man could not be a captain of the guard and the master-at-arms both, because the man was the best blade on the island as far as he could tell.

He would have to sort out the master-at-arms soon, or bad blood would come of it. The men could stomach their new lord taking interest in their training only for so long before the tempers would flare at being corrected by a boy of fifteen and not even a knight. Aye, he would have to sort that out soon enough, but there was not a man he would like for the position here , and he had seen them all. His new master-at-arms seemed not to be on the island at all, which would mean finding one elsewhere. Which would mean convincing someone that coming to Dragonstone, gloomy weather and all, was in their best interest.

Still, there were things to learn, things to see to, things to do, things to plan and enemies not to make , and he reminded himself of it each time he received a response from the Master of Coin, rejecting his requests for funds. He had promised not to go to King’s Landing, but the man was making it impossible for him to keep it. He needed the gold back, if he wanted to make the island more of a home, to make the island more than what it was now. He needed the gold for even a hope of success in years rather than decades , and he needed it now .

It was a shame, truly, that Dragonstone and Driftmark, the two places closest to the heart of the Rogue Prince, the two places closest to his heart, at least as far as the South went, were left almost desolate in the wake of the Rebellion, the fleets of both suffering grave losses in it and later in the Greyjoy Rebellion too. 

He had ideas on how to ensure the two islands would rise again, the Sea Snake being one of the closest friends of the Rogue Prince, even becoming his goodfather, grandfather of his daughters. Daemon Targaryen had seen and heard and known all that was there to know of Corlys Velaryon’s great voyages, certainly more than anyone alive today. He had known how exactly the Sea Snake had gained his riches, had seen what kind of ships could make the journey safely, had come to know foreign ports himself.

He had plans, and one thing was becoming more and more apparent in relation to them and their financing.

The Master of Coin was going to be a problem, and there was nothing he could do about it from Dragonstone.

He had delayed as much as he dared, hoping to overcome the man’s objections from afar, but he had not and if he delayed any longer, the king might return to the capital before he had a chance to leave. Lord Stark had extracted a promise to avoid King’s Landing, but failing that, he could hope to avoid the king at the very least, and that was where the danger rested.

It would not be a long trip anyway, he assured himself. He was needed on Dragonstone, and there was no true castellan, only Maester Cressen would serve in his stead while he would be away and for the old man’s peace of mind he could not afford to be away for long. 

And there was the island itself. There was something calling to him, drawing him in, and he was unsure how long he could resist the pull, unsure whether it would stay, grow stronger or go away entirely with the distance, but he knew his own curiosity would not allow him to endure for long were he to remain. He suspected what awaited him should he resign himself to the temptations , and he was leery of it. As long as his suspicions were merely that, he need not worry too much over it.

Yes, it truly was for the best were he not to delay any further and leave now , and so he boarded one of the ships of the royal fleet and let himself be carried on toward what felt like certain doom, great apprehension gnawing at his insides and only rising as King’s Landing came into view.

Perhaps there were many books on King’s Landing, but he had read none of them, much more interested in Old Valyria and Dragonstone and even the Free Cities that spawned from the death throes of the Freehold. Long before he had had any reason to avoid the city he had felt a certain uneasiness about it , and it would seem it had not let him go , as he let out a tremulous breath at the sight of the Red Keep towering tall over where Blackwater Rush spilled into the bay. Lord Stark would surely be glad to know that he had no desire to return to it ever again. Or not, since that would involve him knowing his promise was well and truly broken.

While the ship put into dock on the Blackwater Rush, not far from the River Gate, his throat grew ever tighter as the Red Keep loomed large in the background, casting a dark shadow over him, and he was absurdly relieved not to have to stay there. So when he disembarked with the guardsmen that had accompanied him all the way from Winterfell, he declined the captain’s offer of an escort to the Keep with a strained smile and a shake of his head. He did not have anything he could not carry by himself anyway.

He led the way into the city himself, breathing easier once past the River Gate and into the Fishmonger’s Square, into a world in the shade of the Red Keep but utterly removed from it. A world of its own, a city teeming with life, bright and loud, unlike his last memories of it. The chokehold on his throat disappeared with the realization, and his shoulders loosened, a true smile making its way onto his face as he walked through the square and out of it to take the Muddy Way and then turn up toward Visenya’s Hill before going too far along it. 

There was an easy way to navigate around King’s Landing’s many inns, the Rogue Prince had known, and there was many a manse belonging to the highborn on Aegon’s High Hill, many an inn catering to the visiting nobility of high ranks there as well. And yet many of those amounted to what would be otherwise termed a robbery. Come too close to the Red Keep and you are like to be fleeced on the prices. Stray too far , and you are likely to be robbed in truth, sticking out like a sore thumb. 

There was a fine balance to strike , and the Eel Alley, half-way up Visenya’s Hill and filled with inns, was one of the places that managed it quite nicely. It certainly had been. It had been in the inns of the Eel Alley that Viserra Targaryen had spent her last night alive , and it had been there that the race that had cost her her life had begun. Aye, the Eel Alley had been famous for its inns, but the nobles seeking refuge there tended to be the ones of lower ranks or not too concerned with status, and that suited him just fine.

The inn he chose had clean rooms, edible food and good ale, all at reasonable prices, so he considered his choice a satisfactory one, especially when he laid himself on the straw mattress with a sigh of contentment and fell asleep almost immediately. This was a good inn.

The next morning, as he rode with two guards up Aegon’s Hill on borrowed horses to speak with the ever-evasive Master of Coin in the Red Keep, the apprehension was still there , but it mattered little in the face of the missing gold. He had set out from Dragonstone determined to get his coin back , and he was not returning without it.

Leaving the guards behind with the horses once in the courtyard, he set off for the Master of Coin’s offices, following his memories and doing his very best to ignore the bile rising and rising in his throat with each crowned stag he passed. 

Much like Dragonstone, the place was much changed. Too much, one could say. Too, too much. The Rogue Prince had resented the changes done to the Keep by the Greens, had resented every sign on the Seven that had replaced the Valyrian imagery, and yet this… this he would resent even more, he was sure. His family was dead and any sign of it was gone from the very keep they had built in the city that they had given rise to.

It was maddening, trying to reconcile the respect Eddard Stark had ingrained in his children for the Baratheon king with the intense loathing the very sight of the Baratheon sigil at every turn provoked in him. The Lord of Storm’s End had proven to be a traitor and an oathbreaker in the Dance and another in the Rebellion , and he had been made a king for it.

It truly was maddening, looking at it through the eyes of the Rogue Prince, through the eyes of a Targaryen , knowing what he knew now, knowing it was his brother and his sister who had paid with their lives for the man’s rise, knowing he would have paid the same price himself had the man known about him.

Staying on Dragonstone, even staying out in the city, one could ignore it well enough, the king, his House, and his court far from sight and mind. Being in the Red Keep… It was impossible to ignore that the corridors he walked were changed, impossible to ignore the lack of dragons and overabundance of stags and lions. If they had… Had they kept the memory alive, had they acknowledged which family it was that built the Keep, made the many warring petty kingdoms into one realm, would the changes have been easier to swallow?

He shook his head at his own thoughts as he came to a stop in front of the offices of the Master of Coin and announced himself. It did not matter . He was the Lord of Dragonstone, and it was Dragonstone and the lands sworn to it that were his concern, nothing more. That was his reason for being there, not to ruminate over the decorations in the Red Keep.

As he was greeted by the smiling Master of Coin, he had to suppress a shudder of disgust at the sight of the slippery man, and keep his lips from pulling back in a snarl, his hackles raised, and for just a moment, he was grateful for keeping Ghost home. There was something in the man’s countenance that rubbed him wrong and had him regretting the visit already.

“My Lord Stark, I must say I did not expect your visit.” The smile on the man’s face was wide and welcoming, but there was a note of amusement in his dark eyes , and he did not trust any of it even slightly.

His brows came up in surprise. “Oh, is that so, my Lord Baelish? Then my raven must have gotten lost, my apologies.”

The man let out a laugh that grated on his ears and he had to fight to keep his jaw relaxed. “Apology is not necessary, my lord, I assure you, though I must admit myself confused by your presence here. I believed myself clear when I wrote that the coin cannot be released to you and will not be released to you.”

He leaned forward, closer to the man, resting his forearms on his knees, hands clasped in front of him to better resist the desire to wrap them around Baelish’s throat and squeeze . “As I have already explained to you in my letters… The coin is gone, resting on the bottom of the Blackwater Bay, along with Lord Stannis. It cannot be retrieved , and the fleet wages must be paid.”

The man’s eyes were wide and innocent as he opened his arms in a helpless gesture. “I am sorry to hear that, my lord, but the coin had been allocated from the treasury for this purpose already, and Lord Stannis took it. What came of it afterward is hardly the Crown’s concern.”

The words stunned him for a moment , and he reeled back in his seat in shock. Hardly the Crown’s concern?! It was the fucking royal fleet!

“The coin is gone .” He repeated himself, but he did not care, not when his mind was blank. “How am I to… The fleet’s wages have to be paid. The Crown has to release the funds to do so.”

He had not mentioned in his letters that the wages had been paid by him , hoping to put pressure on the treasury with words of coin owed to the fleet, to invoke urgency , rather than asking for reimbursement, which could be delayed endlessly. He had not truly expected such a lack of concern for unpaid wages, though.

Lord Baelish gave him a patronizing look. “So you say, my lord, but there is no way for us to know for sure, no way for us to verify your claim. The Crown cannot afford to pay more every time a minor lord claims the coin lost.”

Deciding to ignore the implied insult, his mind churned, trying and failing to come up with a response, something that would get him his gold back.

Baelish rose to his feet with a smile. “Now, as you can see, there is nothing to be done here, and I do have to be going. I have other duties to attend to outside the Red Keep, so you understand-”

He got to his feet as well, nodding dumbly. “I can walk and talk, my lord, but we need to settle this quickly. The captains cannot be put off much longer.”

The smile he received in response to that was a thin one as the lord walked around the writing desk and toward the door. “That, I believe, to be a matter for you to attend to until there is a new Master of Ships, my lord. The treasury’s involvement in it ended when Lord Stannis took possession of the wages himself.”

He followed the man stubbornly out of the offices and into the corridors, keeping his strides long to keep up. “Would that it-”

He stopped in surprise as Baelish turned a corner and ran into a lady, biting back a bark of laughter. Served him right. The lady in question seemed less than enthused about the encounter herself, shrinking back from the man, and his brows drew together at that.

Stannis Baratheon had some conflict with the man and had plainly not trusted him, and now this lady believed herself unsafe around him, drawing closer to whatever protection her septa could provide. And his own hackles had been raised the moment he had met the man. Something was not right here, not right at all.

He barely restrained himself from snapping at the sleaze and let him have his victory, his escape . For now. There was something wrong with the entire matter , and he just might have to look into it deeper to better understand his adversary. And to then use that understanding to get what he needed out of him.

Still, how the fuck did the man expect him to finance the royal fleet on his own? He had spent all his reserves on the wages, and the man clearly expected him to bear the expense. Was he mad ? Since when were minor lords expected to finance the Crown’s expenses? Beyond the taxes, that was.

The girl’s voice brought him out of his silent contemplation of the man and the many ways he wished to see him suffer, and he turned to her more than slightly annoyed. “And you are?”

She blushed and introduced herself promptly. “Lady Margaery Tyrell, daughter of Lord Mace Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South.”

Sighing heavily, he inclined his head, letting some of his irritation loose. “Lord Jon Stark, son of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. I am the new Lord of Dragonstone. And apparently the one provisionally responsible for the royal fleet, too.”

“Oh, I do not-” 

He was truly not interested in polite talk, not when there was the suspicious Master of Coin to investigate, so he cut her off briskly. “Have a good day, my lady. It was certainly diverting to meet you.”

And it was. It was both diverting and very, very informative. Something was not quite right with the man , and it was not just Stannis Baratheon and himself that believed so. No, the man was known to be enough of a bad egg that young maidens shied away from him on instinct, and yet the man was a member of Robert Baratheon’s Small Council.

Chapter Text

It would have to be him, Margaery came to realize. With his father the Hand and the king’s best friend, the new Lord of Dragonstone was truly the most eligible of the few options open to her in King’s Landing. Truly, the only better one would be Prince Joffrey, who was even younger than her and already betrothed to the Hand’s daughter. To say nothing of Lord Renly’s claims, because if those were to prove true…

Her family might not even be too disappointed to be denied the king, were her marriage to get them that much closer to the king’s trust, to the king’s family . If all went well, Margaery would be goodsister of the future queen, if the claims were false, and that was not nothing, and certainly an improvement on their present standing with the king. And it was the Starks , the oldest of the Great Houses, when Tyrells were the youngest.

And so she set her sights on Jon Stark, who had so far proven himself to be an elusive target. Unlike everyone else, he did not seem to spend his days in the Red Keep, rather out of it and Margaery found herself hard-pressed to find a reason to be out and about in the city herself, especially with a light enough escort so as to not warn her quarry away and allow for a friendly conversation.

There was all of one person her future husband, the Seven willing, of course, seemed to be interested in the entirety of the Red Keep and that was the unpleasant Master of Coin as he visited him daily , though never on the same schedule, making it rather impossible for her to encounter him accidentally.

After a third such missed opportunity, and having run into the lecherous lord instead for good measure, Margaery was quite ready to scream her frustration out to the heavens. Did the Gods not understand that she had no time for games? She had wasted the time in King’s Landing attempting to identify the prospects and now that she had , she was wasting time yet again, trying and failing to so much as meet him again while the king’s party drew ever nearer to the capital.

Barely holding herself back from storming , she walked swiftly to the gardens, hoping to vent her frustrations away from prying eyes, in the most remote part of the gardens, the part where even Nysterica would not follow her to, but when she reached it, she merely stood with her fists clenched in front of the heart tree for the longest time, glaring at it. Blasted Northerners .

Her scowl shifted into a smile as an idea occurred to her. She prayed to the Seven Who Are One, each day, several times a day, for help , and they had remained silent so far, but maybe… Jon Stark was a Northerner, and they were known to follow the Old Gods… What if… What if it was their help she needed?

“Would you help me?” She felt a fool for asking a tree , but there was no one to hear her foolishness , so there was no harm in it.

“I suppose that depends on what help it is you require, my lady.”

She froze at the voice , and she closed her eyes in horrified realization that she was not, in fact, alone. No, her quarry was right there with her, it would seem.

“My lord, I did not see you there.” Keeping her eyes closed in mortification, she did not see him still.

“Oh? Did you not? Who was it you were talking to, then?” There was a distinct note of amusement in his voice that the fiend did not even bother hiding.

Her reply was airy. “No one.”

“I see. No one .” He was laughing at her and her eyes sprang open to glare at him , sitting on the ground, hidden from sight by the surrounding bushes.

She raised her chin in a challenge. “Is a godswood not a place for speaking to the Gods?”

His lips were still twitching , and his eyes were laughing at her. “It is. It is a place of silent contemplation and prayer. Which is what I was doing. You, on the other hand, were not… silent .”

Margaery cast her eyes over to where her septa stood, not truly paying her much attention and clearly out of hearing range, and dropped to the ground as well with a smile. She had been looking for him , and now she found him , and they were talking already. She truly should have realized that as a Northerner, he would likely seek out his own Gods while here.

“I admit I was not. I did not expect anyone else to be here , and you are certainly well-hidden.” A strange smile twisted his lips while she was speaking and his gaze turned away from her toward the tree, but she pressed on, inserting a note of bashfulness into her voice and willing a blush to rise into her cheeks. “I did not… I thought it is only Lord Baelish you find of interest in the Red Keep.”

When his gaze returned to her, filled with confusion, she resisted crowing in victory and lowered her eyes to the ground, her voice almost a whisper. “But I hoped you would wish to see me again as well.”

She felt his eyes on her, piercing her, but she kept her head lowered timidly , and she could feel her face warm in earnest as silence stretched between them.

“What?” He sounded entirely aghast. “Why would you…”

Annoyance grew in her when he did not continue , but she stomped down on it. Grandmother had said some men needed to be led more than others and that patience was oft required, she just did not expect it here . 

She raised her gaze hesitantly and let her shoulders rise and fall in a helpless shrug. “Is it truly such a surprise? You are… very handsome and a lord too.”

His brows pulled down in a frown and his eyes filled with suspicion as he responded slowly. “Of Dragonstone. I am the Lord of Dragonstone. Which is far from a rich keep. And you are… a daughter of a Great House.”

Her brows jumped up in genuine amusement. “And? Are you not a son of a Great House?”

“Yes.” The word was enunciated carefully. “A recently legitimized one.”

She smiled at him warmly. “I am aware.” That served her very well in truth, for not many highborn maidens’ parents were too likely to look at him twice, not yet.

His brows drew together even more. “There is nothing for you to gain here.”

Well, she was well and truly annoyed now , and her voice reflected that. Were status and gold the only things for a maiden to look for in a suitor? “And what of freedom? What of at least a measure of freedom?”

The suspicion drained out of his eyes , and they filled with understanding instead. “I see.”

She grew wary of the sudden change and folded her arms across her chest. “What is it you see ?”

“Your family intends you for someone you do not agree with.” There was a mix of sadness and pity in his gaze , and she had to avert her eyes, true embarrassment painting her cheeks red.

“I do not… I will not…” She shook her head helplessly, fighting tears, and her voice was broken when she continued. “Is a measure of freedom too much to ask for?”

“No, I suppose it is not.” That pity was still there, and a terrible thought occurred to her.

“Is there… Are you betrothed?” She had not considered that before , but was that the reason why he did not seem interested? Or was he like her brother? He did not seem like it, and his gaze had strayed when she had crossed her arms, pressing up her breasts.

He laughed quietly. “No. No, I have no intention to marry.”

Margaery could have rolled her eyes at the declaration. There was not a man his age that did not claim the same, she was sure, and yet all of them eventually fell to it, one by one. Instead of an eye roll, she gave him a solemn nod. “I understand completely.”

It was only a good thing. Grandmother had been clear that men could be led by their baser instincts, but had there been a previous engagement, it could complicate the matters , and if there was one thing she had little time for, it was complications . Her course was set.

It was important to pick an honorable man when doing this, she knew, and Eddard Stark was known to be the most honorable man in all of the Seven Kingdoms, doubtless teaching his sons the same. There was no risk, she told herself. No risk at all. She merely had to have him wrapped around her finger by the time his father reached King’s Landing.

She had to seduce him to ensure that he would speak to his father no matter what, she knew that, but she could not be too forward, she knew that too. But there was no time .

She could be slightly forward, though, so she leaned forward and laid a hand over his, widening her eyes as she did so. “May I ask what your interest in Lord Baelish is, if it is not too much of a secret?” She raised her brows in inquiry and cocked her head to a side with a mischievous smile, shrugging her shoulders elegantly. “Who knows, I may even be able to help you.”

His eyes followed the movement of her shoulders, and she pretended not to notice, waiting for his answer patiently. If she could give him a reason to speak to her… 

“Do you believe yourself well-informed on the matters of our illustrious Master of Coin?” There was amusement in his voice, and their previous interaction had already informed her enough to allow a genuine snort to escape her at the words and her brows to raise a touch higher.

“Illustrious? Are you certain we speak of the same man?”

His smile widened. “I was wondering at that. You seemed quite… eager to be out of his company. Why was that?”

Hesitating only for a moment, and using it to lean back to check on Nysterica to ensure she was still keeping her distance, she leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile. “What do you know of him?”

His eyes tracked her every movement with a spark of something , no longer just amusement, and he responded dryly. “That Lord Baelish is the Master of Coin.”

She blinked at him, frankly surprised. “Oh. Is that all?”

He rolled his eyes at her. “At present, yes, that is all I know for a fact. Which is why I am humoring you for now.”

The glare she sent him was instinctual. “ Humoring ? Humoring me when you know nothing at all ? Urgh!” She leaned back and folded her arms once more with a pout, facing away from him.

“Were you to tell me something, I might change my mind on that yet.” There was exasperation in his voice , and she turned back to him with a grin.

“Well, did you know that Lord Baelish intensely dislikes Starks?”

Brows pulled together, his face turned serious. “No? Why would he?”

“When he was a boy, he was fostered in Riverrun. Apparently, some attachment formed between him and the Tully sisters, and when Brandon Stark came to claim the hand of Catelyn Tully, he challenged him to a duel for it.”

Jon Stark’s features were slack with amazement, and his lips started to twitch. “He? He challenged uncle Brandon to a duel? He ? But he is so…”

Margaery nodded eagerly. “Little, yes. They do call him Littlefinger.” His face contorted , and he tried and failed to restrain a chuckle. “He lost, obviously, and was left with a terrible scar. Still, he claims all over the city that he had the maidenhead of both of the Tully sisters. Well… outside of the hearing of the king and the previous Lord Hand, of course.”

“Of course.” The frown was back on his thoughtful face. “Why was he…? How did he even become the Master of Coin?”

Her shoulders rose in another shrug. “He was a customs officer in Gulltown , and he was exceedingly good at it, bringing in much more gold than others. He was eventually called to King’s Landing to a similar position and rose through the ranks to be the Master of Coin. And he is a very good Master of Coin, bringing in ten times what his predecessor did in the Crown’s revenues.”

Jon Stark choked. “ Ten times? Ten times ?”

She nodded solemnly. “Ten times. The king is very happy with him, despite the horrific debt the Crown is in.”

The frown was back , and he rubbed his forehead, his frustration plain. “What do you mean… horrific debt?”

She shrugged once more. “I mean just that. A horrific debt. I do not know the particulars, but everyone knows that the Iron Throne is millions in debt.”

He choked again and then gaped at her. “ Millions ? How ?” 

“The king likes to spend coin.” She informed him shortly.

“But… Viserys I liked to spend coin and whatever his many, many flaws, even he did not manage to empty the treasury.”

Poor Jon Stark had trouble understanding it all, it would seem, so she explained some more. “The king likes nothing more than tourneys and feasts and royal hunts.”

“So did Viserys, though perhaps not the hunts.” He informed her dryly.

Giving yet another shrug, she responded. “The amount of enjoyment must have been different, then. The prizes in the tourneys alone have risen considerably in the last few years.”

“When you say considerably… What exactly do you mean by that?” The question was filled with wariness.

She enjoyed having information he apparently lacked. “There is to be a tourney celebrating the appointment of the new Hand shortly. Everyone expects the purses to be in tens of thousands of golden dragons.”

“ Purses ? Multiple? In tens of thousands…?” His eyes were almost comically wide, his voice hushed with shock.

“Multiple purses, yes. Those familiar with the matters believe it will be forty thousand to the champion, twenty thousand to the man who comes second in the joust, twenty for the winner of the melee, and ten thousand to the best archer.”

“You must be jesting. Ten thousand for archery ? And since when does the man that comes in second gets anything ?”

Poor man, truly, he sounded entirely lost, so she patted his hand. “It is not for us to question the king. Even Jon Arryn could not truly stop him.”

His eyes closed , and he brought his hands up to rub his face, muffling his voice. “Gods have mercy.”

Margaery patted his back in feigned sympathy. “There, there.”

“How could the Master of Coin let it get this bad?”

“It is not for him to question the king. He merely gets him the coin.”

“ No . That is not true at all. That is not how it is meant to work. Gods , old Beesbury must be spinning in his grave.”

She frowned, not quite sure what he was referring to, and continued quietly. “Everyone agrees that Lord Baelish excels as the Master of Coin.”

He snorted and finally removed his hands from his face to look her in the eyes. “I assure you they are wrong . There is only one explanation for the Crown’s revenues to increase tenfold and the debt to grow into millions still. And it is not a good Master of Coin.”

He closed his eyes and shook his head sharply. “No matter, that is not what I wanted you to tell me anyway… Why are you afraid of him?”

Margaery blinked at him, caught unawares. “I am not afraid of him.”

He opened his eyes and gave her a flat look. “Why are you disgusted by him, then? You wished to be gone from his company from the moment you laid eyes on him.”

“Oh. He is…” A furious blush rose to her face. “He is known to own several brothels and to… Well, I mean… And besides, I do not like him. His eyes are cold , and his smiles leave you feeling dirty, you know? There is nothing genuine about that man.” There were many nobles at court and all wore a mask, but there was always something to give a hint as to their true self, something soft and human. She saw no such thing in the man.

He hummed thoughtfully, his gaze fixed on the heart tree. “I see.”

Silence stretched between them, and she grew uncomfortable. There was only so much time she could spend here before Nysterica grew too bored and while their talk was promising, nothing was truly achieved yet, so she bit her lip and looked at him imploringly through lowered lashes.

“Will I… Will I see you again?” 

His eyes left the tree at last, regarding her with interest, head cocked to a side. “I suppose so.”

Urgh. He seemed far from eager, so she let her fingers play with a blade of grass, affecting shyness. “Will I… Will I see you alone ? Like now?”

His brows pulled together, his face betraying puzzlement. “Do you wish to?”

It was all she could do not to roll her eyes at him. No, she was hiding from her septa, talking to him for the simple great joy of a single conversation. She restrained her temper and gave him a flash of a timid smile and one more short look through her lashes before lowering her gaze to the ground. “Is that not apparent? I thought myself so scandalously forward.”

“Not scandalously so, no.” He seemed to hesitate a beat. “And you were so very… illuminating. I am truly grateful.”

She gave him a pleased smile and decided to be a touch daring. “Grateful enough to take a turn about the garden with me on the morrow?”

Amusement was back in his eyes. “Not now?”

She gave him a wide-eyed look. “ Gods , no. Poor Septa Nysterica would have an apoplexy knowing I was here talking to a man out of her sight.”

“Ah, we must not upset poor Nysterica, then.”

“So… will you?”

“Will I what?”

He was tweaking her nose, she knew, but she could not let it go. “Will you take a turn about the gardens with me on the morrow?”

There was a small smile on his lips and a sparkle in his eyes. “It would seem I must. It would be a shame for me to pass up on such an opportunity to educate myself.”

She gave a heavy sigh and raised her eyes to the sky. There was a long way to go with him if that was the enthusiasm he displayed when agreeing to an assignation.

“I would hope to run into you in the gardens, near the entrance, after breakfast, and I would appreciate you being surprised at it. Would that suit you, my lord?”

“That would suit me exceedingly well, my lady.”

When she lowered her eyes from the blue of the sky above them, his eyes were alight with humor. There was a long way to go, indeed.

She shook her head in resignation. There were men and boys both, that would eat out of her hand at the slightest encouragement, but the one she needed to seemed quite oblivious to her hints, only interested in her wits, and while that would be a welcome thing to have in a husband, she was unsure how it would affect her attempt at a seduction.

Rising to her feet, she smoothed out her skirts and bade him farewell evenly, returning to her septa. There might be a long way ahead of her, but she had started down it at last.

Chapter Text

Baelish was an odd one. Once he knew to look for it, the resentment for him was quite plain. The why though… He wondered at that. It could be that the smarmy lord disliked the Starks and himself specifically due to his regard for Lady Stark. But then could a man’s regard for a lady be considered high if he spread rumors of her compromised virtue?

The Rogue Prince had never done that. Not for not having compromised anyone and certainly not for an overabundance of chivalry, merely due to a distaste for smearing others for that in which he indulged himself. The Rogue Prince would have likely tumbled Lady Margaery already. There was no danger to her offer, after all, and the prince had been of firm belief that any maiden deserved a pleasurable experience in exchange for her maidenhead. An experience too few husbands were willing to provide.

He blushed just thinking about it. He was no more experienced in truth than Lady Margaery herself, and she wanted him to… She did not say it, but it had been clear. The why escaped him in this matter as well. There were others she could ask, he was sure, in a better position to provide her with an honorable marriage should her virtue come to be questioned. She must believe the arrangement that had been made for her inescapable if she persisted despite him clearly stating his intention never to marry.

The offer was very tempting. Too tempting by far. He had eschewed brothels and their services, despite knowing that there were ways to avoid consequences of such visits because he had believed himself to be a result of one such occasion. For all that he had hoped his father had loved his mother, he had known her to have been a whore far more likely. Now that he knew… It was freeing. It was also somehow more intimidating. One could avoid brothels easily enough. One could hardly hope to eschew women altogether for the entirety of one’s life.

The dreams of the Rogue Prince’s life had shown him too much. He knew what the deed entailed as good as first hand, and now an opportunity with a pretty girl his age presented itself. And she knew things he did not, being a recently legitimized bastard not familiar with court. She was useful , and she seemed smart enough to know it. Worse, he could easily imagine the fun spending time with her could be, joining useful and pleasurable. 

Gods, he was getting nowhere with Baelish, the only leads he had gained coming from her, and it was apparently driving him insane and willing to consider an affair with the only daughter of the Lord of Highgarden. More than willing. And diversion from his fruitless labors in King’s Landing would be so very welcome.

He had headed directly to the Red Keep library after their talk the day before and had spent the remainder of the day there, looking for the royal ledgers, since, as he had come to know from his visits to the Master of Coin and his offices, they were most certainly not there . They were not in the library either, though, and none had been filed there since the Rebellion as far as he could tell. But the books must be somewhere , they could hardly just disappear. If the man was committing as much of a shameless robbery against the Crown as Lady Margaery’s words seemed to point to, he would have to keep books just to keep the lies straight.

Truly, he should be grateful for the information she had given him and the diversion her presence offered. Even the knowledge she had shared with him so far had provided him a great insight into the man and his schemes. And he was grateful, which was why he found himself loitering around the entrance to the royal gardens while attempting not to be too obvious about it, against all reason.

He was absurdly relieved when she appeared around the corner, bringing to an end his ceaseless questioning of his own sanity as a guise of confidence and indifference took hold, thrusting all doubts aside. One could not give even a hint of weakness in the presence of others, and the only way to achieve that was to have none, unless safely alone.

His back was straight, and his gaze was cool as he inclined his head to her in greeting. “Lady Margaery, what a pleasant surprise to meet you again.”

Her lips stretched in a pleased smile, her eyes full of mischief, full of danger . “My lord, what a surprise it is indeed. Do you share an interest in the royal gardens with me?”

Her septa was a few steps behind her, and he was only too aware of her. “I must admit myself poorly educated on the subject, though I hope them worth a visit.”

She nodded her head in understanding, drawing closer. “Then let me educate you, my lord.” She presented her elbow to him with her head tilted to a side. “Shall we?”

He took a breath and made peace with his foolishness. “I suppose we shall, my lady. I will be most grateful for the instruction.”

He was not. Not truly, as she drew him along and spoke of this bush and that, that flower and this and their seasons. He could not believe he brought this unto himself. He had looked forward to seeing her, had been rather anxious about it, but as her voice droned on and on, he found himself despairing quietly. She had turned into a perfect lady overnight it would seem, and it was a damned shame, so he brooded silently.  

That was, until he found himself yanked to a side quite suddenly, Lady Margaery’s back pressed against a wall, his doublet clutched in her hands, her face split by a wide grin, her eyes alight with mischief. “Do you believe my lecture boring enough to buy us some moments alone, my lord?”

Grinning himself, he leaned closer. “It would seem so.”

She raised a brow expectantly. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

He had no idea himself, so he closed the distance between their lips. This was nice. More importantly, this was his , so he licked between her lips, and tangled their tongues greedily, drawing a soft groan out of her as she molded herself to him. Gods, who needed air when they could have this sweetness?

But air was needed and when their lips separated, he rested his forehead on hers, trying to catch his breath, and his thumb caressed her bottom lip as he considered its redness. “I would not be opposed to more of this.”

Her eyes sparkled with amusement, and she pushed him away. “Neither would I. Not now, though, for we must return to the path. Even I am not that boring.”

The septa did not catch up to them by the time they did return to it, apparently wise to the contents of her charge’s lectures but not so wise to her mischief, and she would remain so as she followed a distance behind them, never seeing their faces until they lost all signs of naughtiness.

Yes, Lady Margaery would be a great distraction.

He returned to the Eel Alley deep in thought, kicking loose stones moodily along the way until a flash of red caught his attention and he ducked away on instinct. Blinking once, twice, and then shaking his head for good measure. That could not have been Lady Stark. His eyes had been plainly deceiving him. It could not have been her. What would she even be doing there? She was all the way back in Winterfell. She was not one of his problems now.

His mind was set, but his feet followed after the mounted redheaded woman and her escort of gold cloaks, keeping himself well out of sight, and chastising his fool self all along the way. His chastisements turned to silent curses as he realized he was retracing his steps back toward the Red Keep. The lamps were being lit along the roads and the gates of the Keep would be long closed by now, he was sure, and he was proven right when he sighted the lowered portcullis. Still, the riders dismounted, the woman among them, and passed through a postern door.

That could not have been Lady Catelyn. No, he was seeing things. He turned sharply on his heel and stomped back to the Eel Alley and toward his bed. It would not hurt to check on the inn from whence the woman had emerged, though, surely. He cursed himself again. It could not have been Lady Catelyn. She had no business being escorted anywhere by the gold cloaks, much less being in King’s Landing, and without Winterfell guards.

His mood was properly black by the time he stomped his way back up Visenya’s Hill and into the cursed inn where all this trouble had begun, heading for the tap room’s counter and ordering himself strong ale to wash away all the feelings seeing the shade of Lady Catelyn in the city, his city, evoked. It was a good thing he headed to a different inn than the one he kept rooms in, besides. It would not do for his men to report to his father on him drinking his troubles away once back in Lord Stark's service. Not his father , he reminded himself morosely as he stared at the bottom of the almost empty tankard.

He could already hear the disappointment in his voice, see it in his eyes. He had broken a solemn promise for what amounted to nothing so far, and now he was drinking alone in a seedy inn. It was worse than his. Ale was worse. Lady Catelyn would never have chosen a place like this for herself.

Uncle Benjen would laugh at him. So would Jory. And Robb. Theon would mock him ceaselessly. Ser Rodrik would be disappointed too. Ale dulled the senses, he would say, and a decent swordsman should never allow for his senses to be dulled. Well, he wanted his senses dulled, and Ser Rodrik was not there to chastise him either. 

He hunched his shoulders as the man’s voice boomed out in a toast to the King’s new Hand, and then chuckled to himself. He was not just seeing things, he was hearing them now too, but as numerous patrons echoed the toast, he knocked the rest of the ale back with a bitter twist to his lips. At least Lord Stark already seemed rather popular in the capital.

He cradled his now-empty tankard in both hands and turned to face the room, pondering whether to brave more of the foul thing. Huh, he wondered what it was they had put into the bloody ale. He had heard Ser Rodrik’s drunken voice, and now he was seeing his drunken twin, save the whiskers. It was little wonder he had thought to have seen Lady Stark, when King’s Landing seemed filled with people that could have-

Cutting himself mid-thought, as he caught a snippet of a conversation, a name , he could not believe what his eyes and ears were telling him. No. No matter what he had heard, no matter what the man’s name, he could not be Ser Rodrik of Winterfell. No. That would mean…

Fucking hells.

No.

He was meant to be free of her.

Looking into the tankard moodily once more, he turned back toward the barkeep, slamming it on the counter, slurring his speech deliberately. “Another!”

Once a full tankard was back in his hand, he took a hearty gulp and then turned to sway over to the man that could not be Ser Rodrik and join him on a bench jovially, laying an arm across his shoulders and drawing him close with a boisterous laugh and then muttering through gritted teeth into the man’s ear.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” 

The man jolted and had he not been holding on to him firmly, he likely would have fallen off the bench from sheer shock.

“What-?” The man’s wide eyes stared at him, unable to form an answer.

“What the fuck are you doing here ? And why the fuck is the lady here?”

Ser Rodrik’s eyes only grew wider and wider, but then his face crumbled as he finished speaking quietly through the gritted teeth and with a wide drunken smile, and the man let out a wail, his head falling onto his forearms resting on the table. 

“Not here. Gone .”

Impatience entered him, and it became a struggle to keep up the drunken facade. “I know that. Why is she in the capital at all?”

The knight was sobbing. “The little lord.”

Ice seized his insides, breath catching. Robb’s last letter did not mention… Bran had woken up , he had written. He was getting better . How …? 

His brows scrunched. Something was wrong. The last raven would have left Winterfell after Ser Rodrik. How, indeed?

His hand spasmed on the man’s shoulder and his grip became quite painful, he was sure, but he did not care , and he lowered his head to hiss into the knight’s ear. “What about Bran? Robb wrote that he woke.”

The man turned his head to look at him with one clouded eye and spoke in a hushed tone. “There was a hired knife sent after him. The man is dead, but the dagger remains. Valyrian steel with dragonbone hilt. The lady has it.”

He sucked in a shocked breath. No. How would… Why ?

Valyrian steel was beyond expensive, considered priceless by many. Dragonbone was more expensive and more difficult to obtain still. A dagger of Valyrian steel with a hilt of dragonbone… He knew of only one such dagger. 

But… Why would his kin beyond the Narrow Sea seek to harm Bran ? It made no sense. No sense at all.

He pushed himself away, horrified, and tripped on the bench in his haste to get away. Gods, he was going to be sick. He rushed out of the inn, leaning heavily against the building’s side once out in the night air. Gods, Bran . Why ?

Resting his forearms on his knees, he spat out the bitter taste of ale, trying to breathe and ignore the wetness on his cheeks. Gods, what was going on ?

He roughly scrubbed at his cheeks and then stumbled toward the inn he was staying at, going up to his room to throw himself on the bed. Gods, what madness.

Fucking hells. He threw himself out of the bed to go hammer at the door of his guards’ rooms, doubtless waking them. He had had little need of them till then. Now, they would earn their keep.

Assembling the men in his room to some grumbling, he stood himself in the center of the room, not too close to the closed window, not too close to the barred door. He took a breath to speak and then changed his mind, positioning one of the men to lean against the door and bar the keyhole. Gods, this was making him jump at shadows.

The men looked at him aghast, but he shook his head resolutely and spoke in a hushed voice. “Lady Stark and Ser Rodrik are in the city.”

There were disbelieving blinks all around, but no words were spoken, and so he continued. “Lady Stark was escorted to the Red Keep after nightfall by several gold cloaks. Ser Rodrik is unaware of that, believing her gone, and is currently drinking his sorrows away.” He rather doubted, the knight would remember meeting him and talking to him by morn.

“I want two of you to go keep an eye on him. Leave your swords and your gambesons and anything that would mark you as Winterfell or Dragonstone men behind. Do not talk to Ser Rodrik, merely keep an eye on him. If anyone comes to collect him, follow them. If Lady Stark comes back, send for me immediately, whatever the time. If nothing happens by morn, the other two will replace you, but never, under any circumstance, is Ser Rodrik to remain unobserved. Am I clear?”

The men watched him intensely, until the oldest spoke up. “My lord… Are we to… spy on Lady Stark’s business?”

He pressed his lips tightly together. Lady Stark was in King’s Landing in secret, apparently unaccompanied except for Ser Rodrik, meeting with someone in the Red Keep under the cover of darkness, leaving her only escort from Winterfell behind. The Master of Coin was one of two members of the Small Council left in the city, and as such would have the gold cloaks at his beck and call. 

He had not truly believed it when he had heard of Baelish’s involvement with her, but could it be true? With the man’s distaste for Starks, with the man’s special distaste for him … Could they be plotting together against Lord Stark? Against both of them? The man had certainly proven himself hostile enough to Dragonstone and its lord.

Straightening himself to his full height, he folded his hands behind his back and spoke with authority. “Our loyalty is to Lord Stark, to Winterfell. It is our duty to report to him matters that he might be unaware of , and he is most certainly not aware of this .”

The men straightened and nodded grimly.

This was a nightmare.

Chapter Text

Lady Stark was in a brothel. Not visiting, staying there, because her chests had been moved there as well. He stared at the man that reported it to him, one of two that followed after Ser Rodrik when gold cloaks came for him.

Chests. She had been traveling with only Ser Rodrik, likely to avoid notice , and yet she dragged heavy wooden chests with her. That made no sense to him at all. And she was in a brothel now. This had to be a nightmare, else he was already showing signs of madness mere moons after learning of his heritage. More signs of madness, that was, since dreaming dreams of a man gone for over a century hardly counted as common.

Still, he had thought he would have to go visiting brothels, spending days establishing a facade and connections to ingratiate himself into the seedier parts of the city to identify Littlefinger’s holdings, and now he had been handed the location of one on the golden platter. His man did not say so, for he had no way to know, but he was sure. It was the only thing that made sense. The lady had met the Master of Coin in the Red Keep under the cover of darkness, and now she was staying in one of his establishments. With her chests.

What was he to even make of that? He looked around himself aghast and shook his head upon seeing the anger in the men’s eyes. At least the men no longer had any reservations about spying on Lady Stark. Not that he could truly use them much without drawing attention himself. They were Northmen and while far from the savages many Southrons believed them to be, they would be recognized as such the moment they opened their mouth.

It was a damn shame Baelish would have the whores cornered. Mysaria of Lys had proven well enough that there were no better resources when it came to gathering information, and they were safely out of his own reach. Not that he would have been able to afford too many of them, but still. So, no whores for him.

He scuffed the toe of his boot on the ground moodily. His men were too conspicuous. He was too conspicuous. The thought brought him up short. The Rogue Prince had been too conspicuous too, much more so than himself, and he had been well-informed on goings-on in the city even without his Lady Misery. But he had had the gold cloaks on his side, which he would not. 

It was a fool idea anyway. He was known to be too much of a loner to pull it off convincingly. That was in Winterfell, though. 

He had no coin to spare, he reminded himself, and that was true, but if he had any of the Rogue Prince’s luck, not just his memories… And gambling pits tended to attract the desperate. Which he apparently was too, now, to be considering it. Lord Stark would box his ears were he to ever learn of it. Were he to learn of it.

He cursed himself for a fool. The men with him were Winterfell men. Of course, Lord Stark would learn of everything he had been and would get up to the moment they returned to his service. He could relieve them now and be done with it. That would leave him alone in the city that would know him for a lordling alone, and he would make for a juicy target, he was sure.

The Rogue Prince had been a prince, the Lord Commander of the City Watch, and most importantly, a man grown. He had had coin aplenty and the shield of his blood. Technically, he might be a prince too, but his blood was no shield for him, quite the opposite, he was but a boy, and his lack of coin was how he had become embroiled in this mess in the first place.

He should leave. If he had any wits left to him, he would. But it was Lady Stark. Lord Stark’s wife. Robb’s mother. Bran’s mother. Who was here without proper escort and with fucking chests when she should be at her son’s side.

Damn the suspicious Master of Coin, who was merrily helping the king plunge the realm into a horrific debt it was unlikely to recover from. He had no business to worry about any of that, not as long as he got his reimbursement for the fleet wages. Which he was far from confident he would ever achieve now, that Lady Stark and Baelish seemed to be in some sort of alliance. To what end…

He should not have come, but he could not leave now. If there were plots against Dragonstone, against Winterfell, there were truths that may come to light, dangerous truths, and that could not be allowed, not at any cost. Lords Stark would be unhappy to see him here when he arrived, but he would be there to greet him nevertheless. The new Hand could not be allowed to venture out into the snake pit that was the Red Keep, unaware of the traps laid out for him.

Dragging his hands through his hair, feeling rather desperate, he looked at his men. It was, as he had said, it was their duty to safeguard Lord Stark and Winterfell. His duty. His debt. They could not be allowed to pay for sheltering him for so long. It did not matter what Lord Stark would think of his character once he learned of his actions. It could not matter, when lives were likely at stake. Or were about to be. Because of him.

The men were watching him despair curiously, and he allowed his hands to drop from his head and took a deep breath to steady himself before informing them of their next course of action. “We are too few and too easily recognized to find out what plots are about without being noticed swiftly. This is a viper's pit, and so we must be vipers. I must be a viper.”

There were frowns growing all around him, and he was not the least bit surprised. He did not like it himself. Hells, he doubted the Rogue Prince had liked it, but he had known the value of even the lowest of low on the streets of Flea Bottom and had known that a little kindness went a long way when one had been met with nothing but harshness in their life. 

Now, more than a century after he had died, he was about to take inspiration from the Lord of Flea Bottom. It was ironic. By all accounts, Stannis Baratheon had been the most circumspect, miserly and humorless man, a man without vices it would seem, and yet it would be he that would indirectly cause the new Lord of Dragonstone to become everything he had despised.

The Lord of Dragonstone would become known in the bowels of Flea Bottom, in its winesinks and its gambling pits and everyone would know that he held no higher ambition, held no motives, beyond drinking and gambling. He only had to hope he reached Lord Stark before the rumors of him did. 

His presence in the Red Keep would have to be reduced considerably, he came to realize. He had spent mornings there, haunting the corridors and hoping to corner Baelish, spending the afternoons in the library, pouring over the Crown's accounts throughout the history of the Seven Kingdoms, making sure that there had been no significant changes to how he knew them to be supposed to work. He had not gained any proof against Baelish yet, and he could not gain it there, but at least he could assure himself that his knowledge on the matter was accurate. And it was. He was not entirely sure how to feel about that part.

Still, he would be spending much less time in the Red Keep, and it felt honorable to inform Lady Margaery of that the next time he would happen upon her in the gardens, as they had agreed. Kissing her had been nice, and he would certainly like to do it again, but if she wished to be properly courted before surrendering her maidenhead, he had no more time for that. It would seem that no matter what, he could always count on Lady Stark to cast a shadow over him.

It was perhaps dishonorable that he did not tell her when he did some upon her in the gardens. It was perhaps even more so that he let her go on and on about the history of how the various plants came to be there. Dishonorable was not a strong enough word for what it was to let her draw him off the path once more and take not one but two torturous kisses from her, leaving them both flushed.

But after, once back on the path, as she wondered whether they would happen upon each other in the gardens ever again with that spark in her eyes, that hint of a mischievous grin on her lips, he had to tell her.

“I fear that my time admiring gardens has come to an end, my lady. My plans for the remainder of my stay have shifted, and I will find myself in the Red Keep only for my studies.”

She turned her eyes clouded over in confusion to him, a slight wrinkle between her brows. “Your studies?”

He hesitated before answering, but there was no harm in telling her. “Yes, I dedicate my afternoons to studying accounts in the library.” He gave her what he hoped was a bashful smile. “I fear it is a rather dry part of history, but it does interest me greatly. One could say almost as much as the nature interests you, I think.”

Her eyes cleared, her brows smoothed out, and a smile appeared on her lips once more. “I suppose I can hardly imagine finding much of interest inside a library.”

He could not hold back a soft laugh at her words. She was apparently well-learned, but she seemed not to be alone in her opinion, if the Red Keep’s library and its lack of occupants was anything to judge by. “That is an opinion shared by many in the capital, I would wager. I have yet to meet anyone in there, though that is hardly a complaint when it comes to my studies.”

She nodded along thoughtfully. “I suppose you are right.”

She did not seem upset by the end of their very short entanglement, and he felt an embarrassed flush start to rise to his cheeks. He had plainly exaggerated her interest in him in his own mind, and it was little wonder. There were bound to be copious men that she could make her offer to and that could provide her security of a marriage if needed. That her interest in him prevailed over one obstacle hardly meant it would prevail over others, especially if it was him that had little time for her.

Her smile was wide and there was a bounce in her step as she walked away from him after he bade her a good day, and he was left to stare after her, nursing his smarting pride. He was a recently legitimized bastard in the eyes of the court, he reminded himself. He had no business getting involved with a girl like her, not when there was nothing beyond a pleasurable diversion he could offer her, and the ease with which she had parted ways with him only stood in stark evidence of it.

Shaking his head, he headed to the library, berating himself silently all the way there and even while pouring over the books, when his mind wandered to it time and again.

It was upon one such occasion, beating his head on the table he was seated at, hours into his stay there and just before giving the day in the Red Keep up for the loss it was, that a soft voice spoke over him, and he looked up in utter bewilderment.

Lady Margaery raised a brow and repeated her question. “Are you quite well, my lord?”

He blinked at her mutely some more, and her lips stretched in a grin. “Did you believe I would not come? I could hardly turn down such an invitation.”

What? He was at a loss. “Where is your septa?”

Her shoulders rose and fell in an exaggerated gesture, and he watched fascinated. Something very strange was going on. “Septa Nysterica sees no reason to keep a constant watch over me in an empty library as I deepen my knowledge of greenery. She is sitting near the entrance, reading The Seven-Pointed Star.”

She folded her hands innocently behind her back, her eyes wide and guileless, bouncing in place, her skirts swishing with the motion. “I wonder what we should do with such a lack of oversight.”

He might have been surprised to see her there, but his wits were not addled enough to misunderstand her meaning, so he rose to his feet eagerly, stepping closer to her and drawing one of her hands from behind her back to press a kiss to its back as he winked at her and then turned to lead her deeper between the shelves. He had set himself up at the farthest table hidden in the back of the library, but there were places far better for kissing than that.

As he pressed her into the most remote wall of the library, between the shelves of the dustiest tomes and saw her grinning up at him, entirely pleased with herself, he knew he would be getting many more kisses that just the two in the garden and despite his lack of focus, even the day in the Red Keep would not be a loss after all.

A chuckle escaped him when she got impatient waiting for him to kiss her at last and stuck out her lower lip in a pout, bringing her hands up to bring his lips down to hers, and he let himself be guided lazily before taking over, pressing her into the wall with more force and deepening the kiss hungrily. Gods, he had driven himself half-mad in the last few hours and had he thought for even a moment for it to be a good idea, he would take her right there. 

But he did not, some sanity left to him still, and so enthusiastic kissing would be all he would allow himself. Enthusiastic kisses to her lips, their tongues drawing each other in desperately, enthusiastic kisses along the column of her throat and to the tops of her breasts teasingly peeking over the neckline of her dress. He lost himself in the feeling, both of them lost themselves, he would wager, only coming to his senses when a ragged moan tore out of her throat as he brought her leg up to wrap around his hip and press their clothed groins together.

Right. He did not mean to take her right there right then. What kind of addle-headed halfwit was he turning out to be? He pulled himself out of their kiss, pressing his forehead to hers, breathing raggedly, letting go of her leg slowly, desperately searching for calm.

“Is something wrong?” Her question was breathless, and she shifted against him with a note of desperation of her own, and he realized that they were still too close, the hand that had held her leg over his hip had moved to cup her ass, the other kneading her breast absently.

He took both hands off of her rather abruptly, and he stepped away from her, tugging at his hair. “Nothing. Nothing is wrong.” 

She looked a right mess, and it would take quite a while for the signs of what they had been up to to fade enough to rejoin her septa without causing her a fainting spell. What was wrong with him? She was a lady. Whatever her offer, he was not taking her maidenhead against a wall in a very public, if abandoned, library.

He spun on his heel and headed to his table, sinking into the chair, hoping to melt into the floor, his ears, and the back of his neck burning, but she followed him shortly, her expression lost, her eyes hurt, when he dared peek into them.

She came to rest her hip against the table, her arms wrapped around her chest, her fingers digging into her upper arms, and standing entirely too close over him as he tried to shrink further into the chair fruitlessly. Gods, he was going to die.

“Did I do something wrong? I can learn-”

He was shaking his head vehemently. “No, no. You did nothing wrong. Nothing wrong at all. You did everything right. Too right. I need to…” He cast around for more words to reassure her, without exposing himself, but nothing more came to mind, and so he closed his mouth with a snap.

“I do not understand.” 

Gods, she sounded so lost and there was an adorable pout in her voice, and it made it worse, but he would not explain. He would not! He closed his eyes and breathed deeply through the nose.

When he opened his eyes, he found her examining his face with a great deal of curiosity. “Are you sick?”

He started to open his mouth to agree and scramble out of his seat and the library before he realized that that would be a very bad idea. “No. Just… tired. I need to… rest.”

“You are very red.” 

He closed his eyes in resignation.

“I do have three elder brothers, you know.” Oh Gods, there was amusement in her voice now. “Is there…?” Her teeth worried her red, red bottom lip, and he was lost. “I could help, could I not?”

He was out of the chair and dragging her giggling form back behind the shelves in a flash. This was embarrassing, and it would be uncomfortable, but at least there would be a release. It was not like he would not have to change before his nighttime plans anyway.

Chapter Text

Margaery was giddy. Her plan was going even better than she could have expected, the time spent with Jon Stark far more pleasurable than she could have known to hope for, the seduction almost complete with days to spare before the king’s party’s return to the capital.

By then, she would be a maiden no more and her fate would be sealed. She would not be a whore, one among many, and she would not be a future queen. Her honor would be soiled but with only her and her husband to be aware of that, along with perhaps Lord Hand, if his son felt compelled to share with him the reason for his sudden suit, and that would not harm her any.

She could almost taste the freedom , and it was oh-so-sweet. It filled her heart with hope and joy and light to know that all that they were doing now, hidden away in a library, afraid of discovery, they would be free to do more of and anytime they wanted, not judged for their actions by anyone. She focused on that, on that feeling of light and warmth in her chest, on the feeling of their kisses, of burning touch on her body, on her skin and, as of last night, teasing just inside her. She would burn from the touches alone if he did not take her soon, so he had to take her soon. Today would already be far too late for her poor tortured body.

And Margaery had to focus on the giddiness, else she would wallow in despair, for her family did not truly let up on their plans and as the caravan neared the capital, the plot loomed large over her and her nights had become plagued by nightmares twisting the cherished memories of softness and warmth and burning pleasure, replacing the hands with big meaty ones, grasping and groping, the weight pressing her into the wall no longer just right, but too, too heavy, leaving her unable to draw breath.

Each night she woke from what began as a pleasant dream covered in cold sweat, gasping for breath, tears running down her face, and the urge to throw up almost unbearable. She had taken to eating only lightly for supper , and it helped with the urge not at all. Not even not eating at all had helped with it , and so she truly needed not to be a maiden by the time she went to sleep that night. She needed a night of peace and only this would ensure it, she knew it.

But when she found herself pressed against the wall in their corner of the library, gasping and moaning and writhing helplessly , and she finally managed to string together words to voice her request, he froze against her, taking his lips off of her bared breasts to blink at her, his eyes clouded over.

“What?”

“Take me. Oh Gods, I beg you, take me.”

“ Here ?” He paused and shook his head dazedly. “ Now ?”

She stared at him, at a loss. “Yes? Where else? When else?”

He blinked lazily and spoke slowly. “In the night. Where no one can disturb us. Where we can both truly enjoy ourselves fully.”

“ Where ?” The fog was slowly lifting from her mind and she could start to see the benefits of a more secluded place too.

Her companion’s brows pulled together in thought. “Where exactly is your bedchamber?”

She was shaking her head vigorously even before he finished the question. “Oh no, my bedchamber is a bad idea. We would be discovered.”

An eye-roll preceded his answer. “I am not fool enough for that. I just need to know where you can sneak to without your septa.”

A heavy sigh escaped her. “My bedchamber. Here. A sept, I suppose.”

“Nowhere else?”

She folded her arms and shrugged despondently. “I must pass through the chamber where Septa Nysterica sleeps to leave my bedchamber.”

It had not used to be that way. Before her family had set on their course, she had had freedom of the castle, not having to spend time in Nysterica’s company if she did not desire it. She supposed the constant need to be together was part of the reason Nysterica was quite willing to let her have so much time alone in the seemingly empty library. That and the fact that by the time Margaery returned to her, she was always straightened out, not a single sign of her previous activities left visible.

His frown deepened and her hopes sank. “So where exactly is your bedchamber?” 

A sigh left her. It was useless, but she still told him, gaze pointed to the ground, tears pooling in her eyes. Would he not take her, if the library was the only place they would be left alone? Was it all for nothing? Worse, had the Gods shown her all of it, all that could be, just to raise her hopes and then dash them without mercy? Would her nightmares become the truth of her life? She shivered in disgust and closed her eyes in pain.

A long breath left him. “Good.” What? “Make sure to lock the door of your bedchamber.”

“I always do.” Her answer was mumbled toward her feet , but it was the truth. She always locked her bedchamber door these days.

“Even better.” There was glee in his voice.

She raised her eyes at last and scrunched her nose at the sight of his grinning face. “I do not understand.” 

His grin stretched wider. “There are hidden passages throughout the keep. Your bedchamber happens to have one of the entrances to them.”

Her mouth dropped open quite inelegantly, she was sure. “What? How do you know that?”

A single teasing brow rose at her question. “I would let you know that I am somewhat of a student of history.”

Hope grew within her once more. “When…? How will I…?”

“You will not. I will come for you after nightfall.” He paused and looked into her eyes searchingly. “If you are sure.”

Her head bobbed in an energetic nod. “I am. I will not change my mind, I swear.”

Amusement was quite plain on his face once more. “You are free to change your mind at any point. As much as I am an enthusiastic participant in all of this, your maidenhead is yours to give and just once, too. If you change your mind, say so.”

She repeated herself firmly. “I will not change my mind.” 

He shook his head with a smile and leaned forward to press a warm kiss to her forehead, leaving her bereft and infinitely confused when he stepped back and started to straighten his clothes. 

“In that case, I suggest we err … part our ways for now. There are things I need to arrange if we are to do this , and you should probably rest before … Yes, you should rest, I think.”

It was for a good cause, so she pulled her shift and dress back up to cover her breasts and shoulders as they should and turned her back to him to help her with the laces he had undone , and he obligingly laced the dress up . He put his hands on her hips after he finished and drew her back to press against his front, dropping a kiss to her shoulder , and they stayed like that for a long moment.

They had not done much. They had not done nearly enough. But the night would come , and she would be deflowered and the rest of her life would begin. She could hardly wait.

Margaery chose to eat lightly, having hope of a good night’s sleep with no nightmares to haunt it, and she even managed a genuine smile for her grandmother, but she lamented that she had not asked more questions of her lover-to-be. Alas, she had not , and so she was left to wonder what she should do to prepare herself, how to dress, even what shoes to wear.

She sat in front of her mirror, absently brushing through her hair long after she had dismissed her maids, examining her reflection. Despite all that she had done, all that she had learned since leaving Highgarden, she did not look any different. She seemed the same old Margaery. Would she seem the same tomorrow as well? Did experience truly not leave any visible mark on people?

When a rap sounded on the locked door to her bedchamber, she nearly jumped out of her skin, her comb clattering to the ground loudly.

“What is the meaning of this?! Open this door, girl!”

Margaery jumped to her feet, unlocking the door even before it occurred to her to question her grandmother’s presence.

Her grandmother was leaning on her cane heavily , and she tapped it on the floor impatiently even as Margaery stood in the open door, staring at her. “Let me in, dear, would you?”

She stood aside numbly, her grandmother passing her by to come stand by the bed, looking around herself with a frown. “What was that commotion I heard?”

“What…?” Margaery frowned herself, not quite understanding the question, but then her face cleared as her eyes met the fallen brush , and she bent down to gather it from the floor and put it back on the dressing table. “Oh, my comb fell. The knocking startled me.”

“I see.” Her grandmother tapped her cane on the ground once more and seated herself on the bed, bouncing slightly. Margaery stared.

“Come sit, dearest.” Her grandmother patted the space next to her and her feet moved to obey without a thought.

“What is it, grandmother?”

“Are you well, dear? You have been eating like a bird lately.”

“Oh.” She had not thought anyone had noticed. “I… I have been having bad dreams. I found that they are worse if I eat richly before bed.”

“Hm. Tell me, how are your studies going? Are you not bored to tears spending so much time in the library with only Nysterica for company?”

Margaery stared some more. “No? Why would… Did Septa Nysterica complain? I am occupied well enough surrounded by books , but if she is bored then I suppose…” She could stop her visits to the library. If all went well tonight and there was someplace else where they could meet free of the danger of discovery, then the visits would not be needed besides.

“ Never mind Nysterica. I have missed you these past days. I think it would be best if you had the books sent to you here, where we can all keep you company.”

Margaery smiled. “Very well, I think I shall. The library here can be dreadfully disheartening, empty as it is.”

There was a note of relief in her grandmother's smile as she patted her hand. “Good.” She reached over and brushed a strand of hair behind Margaery’s ear. “You are such a good girl, dear. Our pride, truly.”

Her smile widened. She should be. Her family had decided to throw her at a whoremongering drunkard lecher, had cut off any conceivable avenue of escape and yet still, she would manage to break free of their schemes, and whether she would appreciate it or not, her grandmother was to thank for that. 

“Thank you, grandmother.”

Her grandmother’s eyes turned misty. “You were always meant to be a queen. It is such a shame it will be to such a king.”

There were no words she had to say to that, so she remained silent, turning her eyes down. She would never be a queen. Not to this king and not to any other, but she would be happy. She was quite determined to be.

It was fully dark outside for quite some time and all candles in her room save one had been long blown out by the time there was a sound she had not heard before coming from beside the hearth. Had she been asleep, had she not been listening for any sign that her salvation was at hand at last, she would have likely missed it entirely.

She scrambled out of her bed as a figure appeared , and she threw herself around his neck, pressing a firm kiss to his lips as even in the weak light she could see that it was indeed him coming for her.

“Where are we going? I did not know how to dress. Do I need to change? Is there time? What shoes should I-?” He silenced the stream of whispered questions with a kiss.

“I suppose you can take a dressing gown. The tunnels can be quite drafty. And we are going to a hidden cove.” He shrugged. “I could not think of a better place. I did not think you would appreciate dungeons.”

Her eyes were wide as she put on shoes. “Dungeons? What would…? No, I would not appreciate dungeons.”

“Like I said. I did not think you would.”

When she was done, he took her hand and led her through the opening, and she followed blindly, her heart in her throat and beating wildly. This was truly about to happen.

She would not be able to return to her bedchamber on her own, she realized as she stood blinking at the cove. She did not remember the journey there at all, all too focused on the hand that guided her, her stomach churning and the blood rushing in her ears.

There was a blanket laid out in the sand awaiting them , and she was thankful for the darkness that hid her blush at the realization. This was real. This was truly about to happen , and they were to lay together. They had not… All that they had done had been done standing up, fully dressed, only small parts of Margaery coming uncovered even the day before. But laying together implied being bared more.

“You can still change your mind.”

She turned her wide eyes at him. She most certainly could not. “I am not. It is just… we have not done this before.”

A laugh escaped him. “Well, no, that is the idea, I think, is it not?”

She laughed a nervous laugh herself and shrugged. He shook his head at her. “There is wine if you need it.”

“Oh, I am not thirsty, thank you. I would just…” Get to it. She gestured mutely toward the blanket.

“So eager, are you?” His voice was taunting , and she could hardly blame him, but it occurred to her that he was far more experienced than her. What if she was no good at it? She had little doubt he would wed her still, honor-bound as he would be, but what if she was no good at it , and they would spend their lives miserable because of it , and it would be all her fault?

A heavy sigh escaped her. “What if I am no good at it?”

He appeared startled by the question. “What?”

“I mean… How would I even know whether I am doing anything right?”

“You did very well so far. I suggest you build on that. Do what feels right, whatever feels good.”

“But what about you?”

“What about me?”

“How do I know whether whatever feels good for me feels good for you too?”

“I would let you know if it did not.” The answer was spoken with deliberate slowness, but she accepted it nevertheless with a decisive nod.

“Very well, I will trust that you do. Shall we begin?”

He looked at her with his head cocked to the side. “Do you wish to undress?” 

How would she know? But she supposed she must. The dressing gown had to go at least , and she toed off her shoes and shrugged out of the dressing gown easily enough but when it came to remove her nightdress, her fingers would not work.

Warm fingers closed around her own cold ones. “Do you want me to help you?”

Her eyes slowly traveled up to meet his. He had only his shirt breeches on and the shirt was gaping open, laces undone. It was distracting , and her gaze lingered before it finally locked with his. “Yes.”

There was a small amused smile on his lips, but it mattered little when he leaned forward and kissed her, drawing her to himself , and then he grew entirely too distracting as he pulled her onto the blanket, still dressed in her nightgown, locked in an increasingly desperate kiss, fire building in her veins.

The nightdress was not on her by the time his lips reached her breasts, but she had no idea nor care where or when it had gone. It was far, far better without any clothes to hinder them, she found as her night turned white when his fingers did something inside her just as his teeth tugged on her nipple, and she squeezed her eyes shut. 

Oh Gods. Oh Gods, his fingers were not stopping , and it was too much, much too much, and she wriggled desperately, trying to get away, trying to get closer, trying to get them deeper, she did not know. She only knew that when the fingers were suddenly gone, she sobbed at the sudden loss , and she would have surely voiced further protest were it not for lips coming to cover her own, the dance of their tongues momentarily distracting her , and then she was full once more, and growing fuller, fuller than before , and she tore herself free of the kiss to let out a pained moan at the uncomfortable stretch.

All movement stilled, and there were warm puffs of air against her throat. “Shh. Shh. Try to… Try to relax.”

But how could she? There was the discomfort that she knew would grow if either of them moved, and yet the puffs of his warm breath against her burning skin made her need to move rather desperate. How could one relax when their body was bidding them to do two entirely opposite things?

Move, she had to move , or his breath would rid her of her sanity, and so she squirmed and wriggled and did not stop even when the discomfort grew as she made herself fuller or when a ragged cry left her lover. 

“Gods, I beg you, stop.”

“I can’t.” Her answer was a whine , but it was the truth. She could not stop, not now that she was getting some relief and the discomfort was receding.

A growl left him at that and then her lips were taken in a savage kiss and there were hands on her hips, stilling them and the fullness was receding , and she struggled to follow , but then it returned with force and her mind blanked, her eyes staring unseeingly at the stars above as something strange happened to her body. A fire built and built and built in her nearly to the point of burning her up and then, as she teetered on the very brink of utter bliss, the body above her, within her, shuddered and stopped moving altogether, robbing her of it. It was all that she could do not to cry out her disappointment as he withdrew from her and collapsed next to her , and she blinked up at the stars dumbly. What was she to do now?

Only the sound of waves was heard for the longest time, until Margaery decided to break the silence. Damn the disappointment, she needed to know.

“Was I… Was I any good?”

“What?” The question was asked in a voice that sounded rather sleepy.

“Compared… Compared to others… Was I any good?”

“Others that I have been with?” 

That was a useless request for clarification in her opinion, but she answered anyway. “Yes.”

He turned his head to face her, and a spark of humor appeared in his eyes as he brushed a lock of hair behind her ear and leaned forward to peck the tip of her nose. “The best.” 

There was utter sincerity in his voice, so the humor in his eyes did not matter. It did not matter at all. They would do well together, she was sure.

Margaery slept like a babe. First in the cove and then in her bed, after her lover had helped her clean up using a washcloth and water from a skin he had brought along , and she had dressed in her nightdress and dressing gown once more , and he had returned her to her chamber with a lingering kiss.

When she woke, she woke refreshed , and she deemed whatever discomfort remained after her nighttime activities a small price to pay. No price at all, truly.

It was two nights later, as they traded slow kisses and childhood stories after they had spent themselves utterly, that she finally dared to voice her question.

“When do you plan to speak to your father?”

“Hm? Oh, I mean to be the first one to welcome him to the Red Keep.”

And Margaery would be sure to be there for it, welcoming Lord Stark into the capital and ensuring he could bear no ill will toward the Tyrells for treating him poorly in any way. He would like her before his son informed him of his suit. He had to.

Chapter Text

Eddard Stark rode into the Red Keep, only too happy to be at the end of his travels. He was sore, tired, hungry, and irritable. He closed his eyes for a moment to relish the fact that he was about to dismount for the last time on this endless journey, but when he opened them again, his mood soured at once as his gaze encountered Jon’s dark one.

His lips thinned and as he dismounted and the king’s steward approached, he waved him away impatiently in a fit of temper, heading directly for his fool son, heedless of all that would stop him from reminding the boy of his solemn promises and shaking some sense into him. It was chiefly the boy’s own life that Ned had wished to safeguard, and here he was, already risking it before the king’s party even returned to the Red Keep.

Jon stood firm though, undaunted by his glowering father, his face a mask even as the girl by his side stepped forward and greeted Ned with a charming smile and a well-practiced curtsy. Dressed as she was, in a rich yet light summer dress of green with roses painstakingly stitched in a golden thread all over it, she could not be anyone but a Tyrell and a sense of dread started to rise within him.

“Lord Stark, it is with great pleasure that I welcome you to the Red Keep. I am Margaery Tyrell and my father, Lord Mace Tyrell of Highgarden, the Warden of the South, wished me to convey to you his welcome in the capital and a hope that once you have had a chance to settle, you would grant us the honor of you and your family breaking your fast with us in the chambers granted to us. Say on the morrow or the day after?”

Ned blinked at the girl, taken aback, and his gaze traveled past her to Jon once more to see him frowning, his confusion plain, and he breathed out a slow breath in relief. They were not here together, then. Tyrells had not seen the boy for what he was and had not sought to sink their claws into him.

He gave the girl a tired smile, struggling not to let the relief shine through. “I will send someone to let Lord Mace know when it would suit me best after I have rested some.”

Her smile widened , and a mischievous spark entered her eyes. “Of course, my lord Hand. It would not do for anyone to intrude too soon upon you after your grueling journey. That is just not done.” Then she bobbed another curtsy and stepped back and turned, brushing past Jon without a care. Oh Gods, the relief.

Jon’s face was tight as he turned his head to look after her, the distrust writ there almost amusing in the light of Ned’s fears, and he opened his mouth to chastise him at last, when the king’s steward stepped forward once more, pressing on to inform him that Grand Maester Pycelle had convened an urgent meeting of the Small Council and that the honor of the Hand’s presence was requested as soon as it was convenient. 

Ned barely suppressed a growl, because he needed to speak to Jon, needed to find out why his promise had been broken so swiftly and all these people kept interfering. “It will be convenient on the morrow.” 

The steward bowed very low. “I shall give the councilors your regrets, my lord.” When he straightened, he continued. “We have given you Lord Arryn’s former chambers in the Tower of the Hand, if it pleases you. I shall have your things taken there.”

He nodded and almost withdrew his hasty words in regret, for it would not do to offend the other members of the council before he had even assumed his position in truth, but he was sore, tired, hungry, and irritable, there was Jon to dispatch back to Dragonstone with all haste and some healthy tongue-lashing and the girl had been right besides. This was just not done. Not when all he dreamed of was a long hot soak, a roast fowl, and a featherbed.

His household was still entering the yard behind him so he called out instructions to Vayon Poole and then beckoned Jon to follow him after the steward, letting themselves be guided to the Tower of the Hand and the Hand’s solar within, only to collapse into the wingchair there gracelessly the moment the door closed behind the man, letting out a groan and throwing an arm over his face.

“Gods, what are you doing here? Do promises mean nothing to no one anymore?”

There was a pause and then Jon’s quiet voice sounded right next to him. “Lord Stark, there are matters you need to be made aware of.”

Pain seized his heart at the address. It had been painful to hear him name him so before, when the boy had not known the truth but now… Now, there was a new meaning to it, so he dropped the arm that covered his eyes to look into the concerned ones of his son. “Do call me father at least when we are alone, would you?”

Jon’s gaze darkened , and his brows furrowed as he continued in a soft voice. “I am unsure that I can. But that is not what we need to speak of, regardless. There were some developments in Winterfell.”

“Is it Bran? Is he-?” Horror robbed him of his voice and he could not continue.

Jon’s impenetrable gaze softened in sympathy, and Ned could not breathe. “Yes, but not in the way you think. He is awake now.”

He closed his eyes and thanked the Gods.

Jon’s voice became even more hushed. “There was an assassin sent to kill him. Lady Stark reportedly came to the capital with Ser Rodrik to tell you. They have been here for some days, staying in a brothel owned by one Lord Petyr Baelish.”

Ned blinked at his son incapable of comprehending the words he spoke. An incredulous laugh started in his chest but died a quick death at Jon’s grave expression. “What?”

The boy worried his lip with a troubled expression and then heaved a heavy sigh. “I better start at the beginning, I suppose. Lord Stannis left Dragonstone without much coin. Not long before his death, he transferred almost all loose coin into his personal account in the Iron Bank. When he died… He did so on a ship that carried the coin for the wages of the royal fleet and so by the time I took possession of the island, the fleet captains were already clamoring for them for quite some time. I made the decision to pay them with whatever gold was left in my coffers.”

Jon buried his hands in his hair and tugged at it. “In retrospect, that might have not been the best idea, since it has proven near impossible to get the Master of Coin to reimburse me. I could not convince him by a raven and when I arrived here after weeks of fruitless pleading, I could not convince him in person either.” 

He shook his head with a bitter chuckle. “You see, the Master of Coin seems to hold some animosity toward me.” His dark eyes rose to pierce Ned consideringly. “Toward Starks, I came to learn. Did you know that Baelish claims to have taken the maidenheads of both Tully sisters all over the capital?”

Eddard choked. “What?!”

Jon nodded grimly, his lips pressed firmly together in displeasure. “Not in the king’s or Jon Arryn’s hearing, apparently, but it is a well-known tale at court. I did not pay much heed to it, but…”

There was a clear hesitation to continue, and Ned laid a hand on his shoulder and, despite his own reluctance, bade him to.

Jon’s gaze was full of doubt as he heaved another great big sigh. “I thought I saw Lady Catelyn one night outside a seedy inn in Eel Alley and followed her and her escort of gold cloaks to the Red Keep. I… could not believe she would be here and without anyone from Winterfell, so I convinced myself I was seeing things, but I did go back to the inn and found Ser Rodrik there, drinking alone. He told me of Bran and … ”

Shaking his head, the boy continued. “I set men to watch him and to watch in case anyone came to collect him. And someone did. They came for him and for Lady Catelyn’s trunks , and they took both to a brothel. Which belongs to Baelish.” The boy paused for a beat. “You can speak to the men to confirm this. They are all Winterfell men.”

Ned stared at him, stunned, his mind caught on a single word. “What do you mean trunks?”

Jon let out a bark of laughter. “She has just Ser Rodrik with her to avoid notice, I would assume, but they came with several heavy wooden chests as well.” His weary eyes told him the rest. No one hoping to travel avoiding notice brought chests along with them. The boy had not dared voiced the doubt, not plainly, but it was impossible to ignore.

Baelish and both of the Tully sisters. Jon had told him that Lysa’s fertility had been proven, but to hear this … The man had served Jon first, had been called to King’s Landing by Jon. Surely, his foster father would have known… Surely, he would not have called into his service the man that had dishonored his wife. Had he known.

Gods, he did not know. He had been a fumbling inexperienced boy when he had taken Catelyn for wife , and he had left her the very next morning for war. He hated himself for even entertaining the thought of doubting her. Whatever their differences in the beginning, whatever her reservations regarding Jon, she had been a good and loyal wife to Ned.

What did it even matter whether she had come to their marriage bed a maiden or not? She had been intended for Brandon, and his brother had been known for taking maidenheads all over the North. One could not be surprised to learn that his own betrothed’s had been among them. That was what Ned had always believed, anyway.

And yet… It was for her the secret message was intended, the message from her sister, the message that only she could read, the message that had her convincing him to take the position of the King’s Hand against his better judgment, had him traveling all the way to King’s Landing, leaving her in Winterfell alone with their sons, one of whom had been gravely injured, leaving her to take care of them. Cold fury started to spread through his veins and he had to rein himself in, lest he make Jon think it was him he was angry at instead of his wife. Bran… She was meant to be taking care of their poor son, not… Gods, he could not even think it.

“There is more.” Ned closed his eyes in horror at Jon’s words. How could there be more? “The dagger. The dagger the assassin used… Ser Rodrik said it was Valyrian steel with a dragonbone hilt.”

He opened his eyes to stare at his son, utterly confused. What kind of assassin would use a dagger like that? And why would he show so much hesitation about that particular detail?

“There is… I know of only one such dagger. It was a king’s dagger. It was… It was brought from Valyria before the Doom among the possessions of Aenar Targaryen , and eventually it came to be owned by the Conqueror. After… It was passed from one king to another.”

Ned slumped into the chair and tried to make sense of that. A king’s dagger. A Targaryen dagger. Valyrian steel with a dragonbone hilt. Certainly priceless. Sent to kill his young son, lying in his sickbed. It made no sense.

He brought his hand to cover his eyes and tried to remember. It was a king’s dagger. Had Aerys had it? He had been the first to discover Aerys’ corpse lying in a pool of blood, his murderer sitting on the Iron Throne in his gilded armor, lazily cleaning the blade of his gilded sword. Usually, he shied away from the memories of him entering the city, entering the Red Keep, entering the throne room at the end of the Rebellion.

As he had ridden through the city, the signs of the Sack had been horrifying, and yet the knowledge that it had been their side committing such had been worse. He had come to realize that Robert might not have been the man he had believed him to be when not a single of Tywin Lannister’s dogs had been punished for the many, many crimes committed against the smallfolk and none had been punished for what had been done to the Targaryen babes either. Tywin Lannister had been rewarded instead.

But he forced himself to recall the memory to the forefront of his mind now. He recalled the ringing of swords in the corridors, the agony of the city ravaged by the tender mercies of an invading army blessedly muted inside the sturdy walls of the Red Keep. He remembered pushing the massive door open and the golden youth seated on the throne. He remembered his shock at the sight of that.

When he had noticed the body laying in a pool of blood, he had not known it to be the king, not until he had stood above it and looked down into the face forever frozen in shock. He had focused on the face, had stared at the unkept beard and hair, but his eyes had traveled all over , and it had not taken long to realize that he had been stabbed in the back. His face frozen in surprise had told the story plainly enough.

The memory of the body was hazy, hazier than others that returned to him in his nightmares still. But there had been a fine blade at the dead king’s belt, a blade of Valyrian steel, with a hilt of dragonbone, as he had come to learn from gleeful Robert once he had arrived, before they had been presented with the bodies of the Targaryen children. Yes, that dagger had certainly belonged to a king. There was no reason at all for that dagger to be wielded against his son, not unless…

His eyes darted to Jon’s and he chided himself. Robert would have not given him Dragonstone had he known. Surely, he would not have…

He closed his eyes in pain and rested his head against the backrest. Words could not express how grateful he was now that he had not gone off to the council meeting. He was not ready. Not ready at all.

Jon was not quite done, it would seem, as he heaved another sigh and Ned almost winced. He was uncertain he could bear any more of this. “There is more.” Gods, please, make it stop. “I believe Baelish to be robbing the treasury. The Crown is millions in debt.”

In any other circumstance, Ned would have been horrified to learn of such a thing. Now, he struggled not to laugh from the sheer bliss of relief.

“And there is this tourney…”

As he walked into the richly furnished council chambers, well-rested after a night’s sleep in a featherbed and no riding at all, dressed in some of the lightest clothes he owned, to find five members of the king’s council already assembled there, he felt as if entering a field of battle.

Of all the men there, he could count only the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and perhaps the king’s brother as his ally, the rest he was exceedingly uncertain of. The perfumed eunuch he had disliked the most until just the day before. The Grand Maester adorned with a gaudy chain that was adorned by gold and jewels far more than by links of various metals had ever been a creature of Tywin Lannister and so could hardly be counted on for support. 

The Master of Coin… The less said about him before he had a chance to speak with Catelyn about her presence in King’s Landing, in a brothel of all places, the better, but his hackles were raised as they bandied words of his brother, and he escaped the conversation to seek his seat at the right hand of his king though the king’s seat sat empty at the head of the table, the crowned stag of Baratheon embroidered in gold thread on its pillows.

He frowned at the unoccupied chair , and it only deepened when he looked over to the Grand Maester at his request that they begin. “We are but six.” 

“We have no Master of Ships, my lord. None since the unfortunate passing of Lord Stannis.” Varys helpfully informed him of what he already knew.

Ned raised an ironical brow. “Perhaps we had best wait for the king to join us.”

Renly Baratheon laughed aloud. “If we do wait for my brother, it will be a long wait.”

“King Robert has many cares, my lord. He entrusts small matters to us.”

He gave the eunuch a thin smile. “I would assume no Master of Ships to be a no small matter.” His brows furrowed. “Especially since I hear there is some trouble when it comes to financing the royal fleet.”

Littlefinger rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner. “I see your delightful son spoke to you already.”

Ned looked him in the eyes and spoke mildly. “Yes, he did. I fail to see how unpaid wages of the royal fleet are not a matter for the Master of Coin to address with all haste.”

The man leaned forward in his seat, resting his forearms on the table, and responded with an easy smile. “As I already told the young Lord Stark many, many times, the coin had been dispensed from the treasury. That it and Lord Stannis did not reach its destination is not a matter for me to address.”

“The coin is gone. We all know it, and yet the men of the royal fleet have to be paid. The treasury must release the funds.”

Littlefinger’s smile stretched and his eyes gleamed. “Ordering such is entirely within your rights as the Hand, my lord. However, I would caution against it. It would look poorly if your first action was to give gold to your son when the Crown is millions in debt already. Especially when that son likes nothing more than to spend his time in gambling dens.”

It was a bait. The man baited him with the information. He wanted him brought low, to show how little Ned knew of the state of affairs, how little he belonged there, and he could not give him that, so he allowed a small smile to come to his face and focused his reply on what mattered.

“Ah yes, the Crown’s debt. I must admit myself confused as to how that came to be when Aerys Targaryen had left the treasury overflowing with gold and with the Crown’s revenues increased to such a degree.” Uncertainty flashed in Littlefinger’s eyes, but he could not allow himself to show the satisfaction it evoked in him. “I would be most grateful if you could provide me with the books of accounts going back to the Rebellion. I fear there is much for me to familiarize myself with, so, please, have them sent to me today, my lord.”

Chapter Text

He had known better than to argue against the very reason the urgent session of the council was called, but he promised himself he would have words on it with Robert privately. The tourney. The tourney that everyone in the capital had seemingly known of long before the word of it ever reached the new Hand, long before Robert ordered a session of the council to be called to deal with this urgent matter. Even the extravagant purses had been known to all.

The Crown was six millions in debt, to the Lannisters, to the Tyrells, to the Iron Bank, to the Tyroshi, and even to the Faith, and there was to be a tourney where merely the cost of the purses came to ninety thousand gold pieces. And this tourney he could do nothing to stop, for it was in his honor and worse, everyone already knew about it. If for no other reason, it was for that one that Robert would not back down from it. 

When he had called the session to a close, it was with a sense of resignation. Jon had allowed Robert to beggar the realm and Ned would be powerless to stop him too as long as he remained uninterested in counting coppers. Coppers . How many of those were even there in six million gold dragons?

Gods, if the ugliness on the Trident had not soured him to the idea of them being in the South at all, the first session of the council would have. He did not belong here. None of them did, not even Jon, who seemed far too wise to the ways of the court and the snake pit that was King’s Landing for Ned’s comfort. The Stark party had ridden far ahead of the royal party since the Trident and now that they were all in the Red Keep, he was at a loss how to proceed.

He was walking toward the Tower of the Hand, deep in thought, when Littlefinger appeared in front of him. “You’re going the wrong way, Stark. Come with me.”

The Tower of the Hand stood in front of him, he knew that well enough, but he suppressed a sigh and followed after the man, wondering what he was up to. 

As he was led further and further away from the Tower of the Hand and deeper into the bowels of the Red Keep, he could no longer hold his tongue. “This is not the way to my chambers.”

Littlefinger’s reply dripped with sarcasm. “Did I say it was? I’m leading you to the dungeons to slit your throat and seal your corpse up behind a wall.” Ned gritted his teeth and held back a snarl, and the man continued, exasperated. “We have no time for this, Stark. Your wife awaits.”

It was a good thing he could not see Ned’s face as he followed behind him, for he could not summon even a hint of surprise at the words. He had spoken to the guardsmen, and they had confirmed Jon’s tale, casting him apologetic looks mixed with pity. All that he felt now was tiredness and resignation.

“What game are you playing, Littlefinger? My wife is at Winterfell.”

The man turned his head to look back at Ned, his eyes shining with amusement. “Oh? Are you sure? Then do not come and I will keep her to myself.”

He followed because there was little else to do. They had wondered what would happen now that Ned was in the capital. The arrival of the king’s party was not something that would have been missed and so Catelyn must have known, yet she had not come to him and the girls. He had been left alone to deal with his distraught daughters as Arya brooded silently and Sansa cried herself to sleep, while his wife was in the same city, hidden away in a brothel. 

He did not wish to betray Jon’s knowledge, did not wish to bring more attention to him than what was already there, but he did not think he could stand not knowing for much longer and so despite questioning the wisdom of following after the man, he did. When they stepped out onto a rocky bluff high over the river, he questioned his own sanity in doing so, but still he followed, climbing down, placing his feet in the niches with great care. 

They mounted the two horses waiting for them and then trotted toward the city, and Ned followed until they came upon a building much like his men had described it. The brothel whence his wife resided. Littlefinger turned to him with a smirk when they dismounted, waiting for his reaction, but he was none he could give, numb as he was.

“This is a brothel.”

Littlefinger’s smirk widened. “How observant of you.”

It took everything he had not to pound the man into the ground, leaving that smirking mouth and his face along with it a mess of blood and bone, but he mastered himself, his fists squeezing uselessly by his sides.

An old white-haired man moved toward them. “My lord, your lady awaits you upstairs.” 

Ned blinked, and it took him an embarrassingly long moment to recognize his own master-at-arms without his whiskers. “Ser Rodrik.” A fire smoldered in him, a quiet fury. He had known and yet to meet him here… He had left three people to guide Robb at Winterfell, and yet two of them were right here. 

When he entered the room that contained his wife at last, and she threw her arms and asked about the girls, he held on to his temper firmly, and answered in a cold voice. “In mourning and full of anger.” Much like he was now. “Why are you here?”

She told him of the attack on Bran and how his wolf had saved him and Littlefinger told him how he was keeping her hidden from Lannisters, and he was grateful for the curious numbness, else he did not believe he would have been able to keep his lips from twisting. Hidden from Lannisters when he had had her brought to the Red Keep itself with an escort of gold cloaks to meet him and Varys both. The man must believe him a simpleton.

Still, the palms of her hands were cut deeply, and her fingers were stiff and for all that it was a sign that she had been hurt and hurt badly, it brought him relief. His son’s wolf had saved his life, but his mother had fought for him as well. With all the strangeness, he had started to question everything, even… But no, she had spilled her own blood defending Bran, and for that at least he could not fault her.

But then she drew the dagger, the dagger he remembered now, and claimed it to be the Imp’s, won off Littlefinger in a wager, and he was left to question once more. And then they spoke of accusing the Lannisters and Robert’s willing blindness. To accuse the queen with no proof was treason and yet here they stood, convincing him of it and the dagger that was their proof was a lie.

First, the queen stood accused of killing Jon, now, of sending assassins after Bran. And Catelyn had burned the message that her sister had allegedly written, never allowing either him or Luwin a glimpse.

Jon was dead and despite his years, his death seemed suspicious, that was true enough. But now here Ned was, far from home, far from friends, and their words incited him to treason. Based on a false proof. A proof that would not stand up to any amount of scrutiny. Should Ned bring forth an accusation against Cersei Lannister on such a proof, he would be dead before the week was out, whatever his station. 

Perhaps that was the goal. If there truly had been an attachment between Littlefinger and Catelyn and her sister from before their marriages… He could not help but think how very convenient it would be for Ned to accuse the queen and find himself short a head. Robb was not yet truly ready to lead the North, and would require a regent for some time yet. A role his mother would naturally fill as her sister did in the Vale for her own son. With their attachment to the man standing in front of him… Should Ned make an unwise move, the man stood to hold the North and the Vale in the palm of his hand. He wondered what it was he meant to do with them.

Jon had warned him that the man despised the Starks, and it oozed from every jeering word he spoke of his brother, the Starks and the North, and yet Catelyn would have him trust the man she had named almost a brother to him more than once. To the best of his knowledge, no brother had ever spread rumors of taking their sisters’ maidenheads long before they had wed. He found a drop of humor in that. No brother, not even a Targaryen one.

When she asked to speak to him alone, and she named the man a brother once more, there were thoughts of betrayal and war on his mind, a sense of loss in his chest. He was a Stark of Winterfell though and if she did not think of their children, he had to, so he steeled his heart against the pain.

“Jon sails for Dragonstone tonight. I want you and Ser Rodrik to accompany him. He will arrange for a ship to take you to White Harbor from there.”

Jon did not know of his journey yet, but it seemed there were no others that he could trust to ensure that the lady left the capital and reached the North with appropriate escort.

It seemed that there were no friends to be found among the old allies in King’s Landing. Perhaps it was high time he found himself some new ones.

The next morning saw him and his sulking daughters warmly welcomed into the chambers given to the household of the Lord of Highgarden while at court. It would not be the first time Eddard Stark had to make common cause with a man he disliked. Mace Tyrell might be many things, but if there was one thing for certain, he was not robbing the Crown and had had nothing to gain from Jon’s death, and that was already a sight better than his other options at court.

The Tyrells were a handsome family if nothing else and Sansa melted soon enough at the sight of smiling Margaery and Loras Tyrell, stood between their tall pale-haired mother and their diminutive white-haired grandmother as they greeted their guests and they all seemed quite skilled at courtly talk, because even Arya’s icy demeanor started to crack by the time they were all seated around a table and breakfast was served and it warmed his heart to see it.

He was startled out of watching Lady Margaery charm his daughters by Lady Olenna’s aged voice. “Beautiful, is she not? Our little rose. Our pride. There are some that say she looks like your sister.”

Ned choked, and his gaze darted from the crone to the maiden and back, and upon encountering the woman’s sharp gaze again he had to laugh. “No.” He had seen her standing next to Jon, and they had certainly looked nothing alike. The difference was even greater when compared to Arya sitting not far from her now.

A flash of displeasure appeared in her eyes and she opened her mouth to speak once more, only for his daughter to chime in in a low voice. “Father says I look like Aunt Lyanna, but I think he is lying. Everyone calls me horseface.”

He suppressed a sigh, because she was talking at last and not yelling either. “Not everyone. Only those that know nothing about it. You have a long face, but you will grow into it just as Lyanna did.”

She turned her big sad eyes at him. “Like Jon did?”

He did sigh at that. “Yes, like Jon did as well.” 

A satisfied smile spread across her face, and he told himself he truly should have known better by now when she raised her chin and looked around the table before imparting upon them all a cherished piece of information. “Lord Umber once declared Jon the most beautiful of father’s daughters.”

A snort and then a giggle escaped Lady Margaery before she smothered it, hand covering her mouth, and Ned closed his eyes in pain. He had truly wished to get through the conversation without bringing any attention to him.

“The bastard?” The aged voice was grating at him.

“He was legitimized, mother.” Lady Alerie chided her godmother gently, but Lady Olenna was not deterred. 

“Do not call me that. I did not birth you as far as I remember and neither did Lady Stark this one.”

Ned opened his eyes and looked her into the eyes with a small smile. “Yes, that would be him.”

“Why is he not with you, Lord Stark? Father’s invitation included him as well. We were all so very curious to meet the new Lord of Dragonstone.” There was a shadow in Lady Margaery’s eyes, the mischief he had glimpsed there as they had spoken two days past gone.

“There was some business he had to attend to on Dragonstone. He sailed away on the eventide.”

“But he did not even say goodbye!”

He turned to console Arya at her outraged cry. “He will be back before you know it.”

“But I already know it! I want him back!”

There were tears shining in her eyes, and he steeled himself against them. “He will be no more than a fortnight, and I can write to him to bring Ghost along when he returns. How would you like that?”

Her gaze was wary as she gave him a nod, but she stabbed a piece of cheese with some violence as she muttered. “Why did he have to leave anyway?”

“I helped him find a new master-at-arms. He went to ensure he was well situated and there were other matters to attend to as well.”

“Like what?”

He supposed he should chide her for her tone, but it was the most she had spoken to him since the Trident, and so he answered her. “There is to be a tourney, you know that. He means to take part, but he left his armor at home.”

“He could have sent for it.”

“I suppose he could have. But then there were the other matters to attend to, as I already mentioned.”

“It must bring you great pleasure for your son to enter the lists in the tourney held by the king in your honor. Though, I do not give him a high chance of winning with my Loras competing. He is an excellent jouster, he was the champion of the tourney on Prince Joffrey’s last nameday.” He had almost forgotten about Mace Tyrell in the course of the conversation, but he let himself be heard now.

Ned smiled at the man and gave a nod toward Ser Loras. “I heard only good things of Ser Loras’ skill and so did Jon, I am sure, but he does not mean to compete in the joust.”

Lady Margaery joined in as well, the spark of humor back in her eyes once more. “Oh? Does he mean to compete in the archery competition?”

Arya gave an inelegant snort at the question, and Ned’s lip curled up as well. Jon was a passable shot, but with Theon around, he had seen little value in honing the skill. “No, he means to compete in the melee. He left his destrier back at Winterfell and did not believe he could trust a new horse in a joust. A victory in the joust is determined by the quality of the horse as much as the skill of the rider.”

Ser Loras let out a bark of laughter. “Hear, hear! I do believe my own horse will assure me triumph this time as well.” 

Ned smiled at the boisterous youth and inclined his head toward him. “I wish you good luck, ser.”

Sansa chimed in as well, blushing furiously, and her voice had a dreamy quality to it that Ned was not too happy to hear. “I am sure you will win, Ser Loras! I have heard so many tales already.”

“Humph! Grown men knocking each other off their horses! Do we have nothing better to speak of over a meal? I am already tired of this foolishness! Say, Margaery dear, tell us of your studies.”

Lady Margaery blushed prettily and lowered her eyes demurely. “There is not much to say that would not bore everyone to tears. It would seem only Willas shares my interest in greenery, and it would not do to have our guests sleeping or weeping, would it?”

“Humph! You have spent so much time in the library and yet have learned nothing to share with us?”

Lady Margaery gave her grandmother a sweet smile. “Nothing you would enjoy, grandmother.”

Chapter Text

He had taken a few of the Crown’s older ledgers with him to Dragonstone, leaving the rest behind in the Red Keep, hidden well out of sight, and it afforded him welcome entertainment as he had kept himself in his cabin for the majority of the journey, venturing outside onto the deck only under the cover of darkness to stretch his legs and breathe fresh air.

After Lord Stark had shared his concerns with him, he had no idea how to act around the lady, could not even look her in the eyes without anger rising in him. He had desired a measure of her approval, a measure of her love his whole life, and now he did not even know whether it was worth anything. Having her on Dragonstone would be a torture, but there he would have an entire island to put between them. Here, he heard her voice whenever she passed by in the corridor, speaking with Ser Rodrik, and every time he did so, he braced for danger that never materialized.

There was no true reason for it. But still, his time was spent buried in the ledgers or with the dapple gray mare in the hold he had bought just before they had set sail, brushing out her coat and speaking to her soothingly. He had spent much of his time after learning of the tourney, or rather the tourney purses, wondering whether there was a way for him to get his hands on one of them, and with the city alight with the talk of it, it took no effort at all to learn that he could indeed, as long as he strayed clear of the joust.

There were too many great knights known to attend already, not least among them the brother of his… paramour for lack of a better word, the knights of the Kingsguard, and the mad dog of Tywin Lannister many believed had killed Elia of Dorne and her babe. His brother, whose tender skull had been smashed against a wall and whose broken body covered in a cloak of red, had been presented to the new Usurper. His brother, who would likely have been alive still had he never been conceived. Bile rose in his throat as it did any time he thought of it, and he tore his mind away, angry at himself. He should have known better than to let his mind wander there.

He closed the book he had been examining with more force than necessary and headed to the hold, to the horse that he hoped would give him victory in the melee. She was only one part of it, but a rather important one. In the winesinks of King’s Landing, it was Thoros of Myr that was widely believed to be the winner of the upcoming melee as he often had been, the queer flames of his wildfire-covered sword spooking the other horses and ensuring an unsteady seat of any who thought to challenge him, giving the fat priest a clear advantage.

When he had seen the palfrey and looked into her calm eyes, he had known she was the one. She would not spook easily, her legs were steady and strong, and the seller had praised her docility to high heavens when he had thought him to be looking for a horse for a lady. She was a beauty, and she lacked the weight and strength of destriers or coursers, but she would do very well for what he needed of her. And just being near her calmed him down whenever his mind conjured images of a terrible future, full of betrayal and suffering, as was only too common now that Lord Stark had shared his suspicions with him.

Baelish had been an annoyance to him, an obstacle in getting started on his plans, not a threat. Now, he wondered whether the war Stannis Baratheon had been readying for and his death, coming so shortly after the death of Jon Arryn, had had anything to do with the Master of Coin. Now they both apparently wondered whether the death of the former Hand had had something to do with the man as well. 

And why would have Lysa Arryn accused the queen of it anyway? Why send the message with the king’s party, which had departed the Red Keep long after she had? Forget why. How? The message had been hidden in a box with an exquisite Myrish lens, which was far from easy to come by and very, very expensive. How had she known where the king would travel, and how had she had time to arrange for all of it when she had left the capital in such a hurry?

It was mind-boggling. The Lannisters were far from a benevolent force, despised in the city even more than a decade after the Sack, and yet they had been gone from the city with the king when Stannis Baratheon had died. And what could they have possibly gained from killing a man surely not far from his deathbed such as Jon Arryn?

There were too many questions in his mind, his speculations growing wilder and more outrageous the more time he had to ponder the details Lord Stark had shared, and so he found himself spending far more time with his sweet palfrey secured in her sling, and talking to her softly, calming himself more than her, than with the ledgers. Needless to say, the arrival at Dragonstone was a deliverance for him. At least to begin with.

He had not told Lady Stark or Ser Rodrik of Lord Stark’s instructions yet, preferring to voice them only once certain he could secure himself far away from the inevitable explosion. And once he could tell them separately. There was little need to spread the humiliation around.

Lady Stark’s countenance as he welcomed her to his new home was frosty at best, her eyes flashing with barely concealed fury, and she had yet to learn she would not be leaving as swiftly as she believed. Still, he had written ahead to prepare her chambers in the Windwyrm, far from the maester’s chambers and his own.

When she informed him that she would retire for the day and take her meal alone in the chambers assigned to her, claiming fatigue after the journey, he was relieved to push the conversation with her further away. Ser Rodrick, more than slightly green still, would be a challenge enough for him for the day.

He suppressed a sigh as he turned to the man. “Ser Rodrik, would you join me in the Chamber of the Painted Table once you have refreshed yourself? There are matters I would speak of with you.”

As the white-haired knight was led away to the chamber assigned to him while in Dragonstone, he turned to a servant patiently waiting by his side. “Please, inform Ser Hubard I would have him join me in the Chamber of the Painted Table after I have refreshed myself as well.”

He stood looking out at the darkening sky as the knight that had taught him to swing a sword joined him, and his shoulders rose and fell with a heavy sigh before he turned to the man and regarded him with some pity. “Ser Rodrik, it is Lord Stark’s wish that you remain on Dragonstone as my master-at-arms.”

There was shock in the knight’s face, shock, and pain and disappointment, and no small deal of resignation. “I see, my lord.”

“Do you?” It gnawed at him, that the lady had been allowed to come with so small an escort, that a man such as Ser Rodrik would allow himself to be fooled into agreeing with that.

“Yes, I believe I do. But I would have you and Lord Stark know that I only did what I had to. The lady wished to come alone, and I could not allow that.”

Anger spiked in him at that. “You should not have allowed her to come at all!”

“Lord Stark had to be told, my lord, and Lady Stark believed there to be no other way. She would not be swayed on it, and so I did my duty.”

His brow rose in amusement. “Oh? I was unaware that it fell under master-at-arms' duties to escort his lord’s wife half-way across the continent so she could hide in a brothel with her former lover.”

Ser Rodrik paled and stumbled back, but recovered swiftly and with anger. “Lady Stark’s honor is without question, boy, and you would do well to remember that!”

“It is not me that questions it. It is Baelish that happily spreads the word all over the capital. Need I remind you that it was in Baelish’s establishment that Lord Stark found you? Lord Stark has been given more than enough cause to question his wife and those that would support her follies, and he asked me to host her here on Dragonstone until such a time that he can be certain nothing would come of them.”

He gentled his voice as continued. “I have no intention to hold you here against your will, as I do understand that you must be eager to return to Winterfell, but I would be most grateful for your assistance and guidance here. I am pulled in a hundred directions, and I am struggling, being so new to everything. If you wish, I can send for Beth so she can join you here. And you have Jory close by in the capital should you wish to visit him. I will not stop looking for a master-at-arms of my own, either, since I am sure Lord Stark will wish to have you back in his service soon enough.”

The knight was not happy, not happy at all, but by the time Ser Hubard joined them, his cajoling seemed to have born some fruit and as he left, heads bowed together with the captain of the guard, the frown on his face was thoughtful more than anything else. 

Ser Rodrik had taught him since he had been a little boy, never any harsher than he had needed to be, and quite often showing kindness to him and making sure that he never trained more than what was safe, whatever his own stubborn determination had bidden him.

He headed to the Sea Dragon Tower and Maester Cressen’s domain, carrying with him the carefully worded messages sealed with Lord Stark’s own seal. The first, and perhaps the most straightforward, flew to White Harbor requesting to increase the number of ships it held, to strengthen its defenses and for Lord Wyman to join Lord Stark at court without delay. 

Next, a raven flew to Last Hearth, requesting Mors Umber to head south to Winterfell and become its master-at-arms, at least until such a time that Ser Rodrik could return to his duties and to keep a close eye on Theon Greyjoy and other Southrons in Winterfell. A word to send men to secure Moat Cailin against brigands flew to Torrhen’s Square and Deepwood Motte. And last, a sternly worded letter to Winterfell.

If men such as Stannis Baratheon and Eddard Stark believed war to be on the horizon, one ought to prepare for it as well, and yet when one had no idea who they would be fighting, how could he? And yet there was one rather obvious answer offering itself. Lord Stark was in the South, isolated in the Red Keep, and he should be sitting pretty, a child lord, isolated on Dragonstone, and far from any allies.

When he left the rookery where he had attached messaged himself under the curious eyes of Maester Pylos, he lingered in Maester Cressen’s study, eyes examining various books strewn about and fingers picking up bottles to play with and then return to their place.

“Is there something you would wish to speak of, my lord?” Cressen’s weak voice put an abrupt stop to his wandering fingers, and he brought his hands behind his back to fold them there.

There were things he needed to speak of that he had not wish to. “How does one make a green flame?”

It was hardly the most pressing issue at hand, but any delay was a good one.

The maester’s bushy brows rose at the question. “Is there a reason for this sudden interest in wildfire?”

He gave the old man a smile. “I am not interested in wildfire at all. I merely need a green flame.”

The brows rose higher, and he rolled his eyes at the maester. “There is this priest. Thoros of Myr. He dips his sword in wildfire and it spooks horses. I mean to get mine accustomed to it, and so I need a green flame.”

“I see. Copper would suit then.”

“Copper?”

“Yes, though I do have some dust in my supplies, you would have better luck with the blacksmith in this matter, I believe.”

“Would it work with a torch, do you think?”

“There is no reason it should not, my lord.”

He nodded to himself, satisfied. Yes, that would help. The poor palfrey needed to recover from the sea travel for a bit, but then they could start.

“I am not unfamiliar with the name. Lord Stannis greatly disliked the man. He is a drunkard, and he wins melees with trickery, my lord believed.” He supposed bathing one’s sword in wildfire did count as that. “You should know that the flames weaken the blade. The king pays no small price for the priest’s blades for them to hold as long as they do. I would advise you against meeting this man in the field and if you do, do so with a sword you care nothing for.”

His lips twitched at the advice. Or with a sword that can bear it. “Thank you, maester, I will keep your advice in mind.”

The maester seemed far from reassured, and he started to fidget under his gaze again, turning to play with the vials once more before he gathered his courage and asked Maester Pylos to leave with a sigh and spoke only once the door closed behind him.

“Is it possible…? How does one…?” When his voice failed him twice, he slammed his hand onto a table and shook his head at his foolishness. “Is it possible to ensure someone drinks moon tea without them recognizing it?”

In his memories, the tea had a rather strong smell and a foul taste.

The maester’s voice was full of caution as he replied slowly. “I suppose it is with enough honey for taste and mint for the smell, but I would strongly caution against such. There can be certain dangerous side effects to its use if used unwisely, and unwise use cannot be prevented without knowledge of what one is drinking.”

That was not what he had wished to hear, that was for certain. It would have been dishonorable beyond belief to have her drink the concoction without her knowledge, but he had no wish to speak to her of the reasons, no wish at all. And yet, he had even less wish to cause harm to Lady Stark, and so he would have to tell her that her husband believed there to be a need for it. Worse, if she refused to drink it, he would be forced to keep her on Dragonstone until they could be certain there was no babe in her belly, and he already dreaded that.

He let out a slow breath. “Can you have some ready in the morning?”

“Of course, my lord, though I would like to speak with the lass first to ensure it is not too late.”

He blushed. “It is for no lass, but I will see if she agrees to come to you.”

The maester’s face was even as he inclined his head in acceptance, and he inclined his own and left in a rush, with his stomach churning.

There was no chance of Lady Stark ever coming to care for him, not after this, but seeing how little affection she seemed to hold for her husband and her own children, how little consideration she had for them, he was truly no longer certain her care was worth anything to anyone.

It was a night of uneasiness for him as he tossed and turned and trapped himself in the sheets, and he could not sleep a wink, so he left his bed to sit on the ground by the hearth and stoked the dying fire. It was a night filled with uneasiness already. Adding to it would bring no greater harm and if he was wrong, if his memories were wrong in this, perhaps some of the uneasiness could be even put to rest.

He took the dagger the catspaw in Winterfell had intended to use from the nightstand where he had put it before he had gone to bed, his fingers caressing the blade with wonder and apprehension. Surely, it could not be the same blade. He had never held it in his memories, but to have the Conqueror’s dagger, the dagger he had steeped in bloodmagic to ensure a message was preserved for those that would rule the Seven Kingdoms after him… It could not be true. Surely, it could not be true.

When the fire blazed in the hearth once more, he tossed the blade in and sat down to watch. For the longest time, there was nothing and the relief and disappointment warred in him, but then red lines started to appear, forming fiery glyphs and his eyes burned. The Rogue Prince had never so much as touched the blade, had never seen the words inscribed into it, and he had died wishing he had been lied about it. 

He sat there, with Ghost pressed into his side, watching until the fire died down again and the glyphs started to fade. His will be the song of ice and fire.

Once he could see the glyphs no more, he reached out to take the cold dagger into his hands carefully. 

There was a war coming. There was a prophecy that spoke of a prince of ice and fire to come and stop the coming of the second Long Night. There had been a deserter from the Night’s Watch speaking of the Others the day they had found the direwolf pups, their mother gored by a stag. And there was a dragon on Dragonstone.

It would seem he had been wrong. There was always space for things to get worse.

Chapter Text

The morning arrived far too soon and not early enough, and he had not slept a wink, staring blankly into the cold hearth, doing his best to convince himself that he was wrong that the prophecy could not possibly be about him. He had wanted to make a name for himself, but he had not wanted to be a prince, much less a promised one, and he certainly wished to have nothing to do with the second coming of the Long Night. He was wrong. He had to be wrong.

His eyes were burning, his head was aching, his body was stiff, his back cracked and popped when he moved at last, and he was still to speak to Lady Stark. He could not have prepared himself better for it had he tried. Whatever the outcome, the experience was bound to be painful.

Not knowing the length of her stay, he had had the best, most spacious chambers in the Windwyrm made ready for a guest, and he walked to them with all the enthusiasm of a man walking to an appointment with a headsman's axe, hand rested atop Ghost’s head as he faithfully walked by his side. The tower was otherwise unoccupied and so, should there be a need for it, the lady could have it fully at her disposal, and the single entrance leading to it secured easily enough without inflaming too much interest, though he hoped such would not be needed.

“Lady Stark, I hope you had a good night.” One would be hard-pressed to have one worse than his own, though judging by the glare he got, Lady Catelyn certainly believed herself to be the injured party.

“There was nothing good about it. The howling of the wind would have woken the dead.”

A chuckle escaped him, because he had not minded the wind. He had not even noticed it, the turmoil of his mind sufficient in keeping him awake. “I am so very sorry you do not find my keep to your liking, Lady Stark. Though I came to speak to you of staying here a few days, hopefully no more, while a certain issue is resolved.”

“And what issue would that be? No ships headed to White Harbor to be found in this bustling port?” Her tone was cutting, but his lips twitched at her words. Were he to order so, any ship currently docked at Dragonstone would have taken her wherever he wanted, being the one to have paid their wages from his own coffers, as the crews had come to learn by means utterly unknown to him.

His smile was entirely pleasant, even a touch amused, as he responded to her evenly. “No. No, it is an issue that has to be addressed before I can start a search for a ship to take you away.”

Her brows drew together, and her lips pursed in displeasure, and she folded her arms across her chest and spoke with clear impatience in her voice. “Well, what is this issue? I would be on my way as swiftly as possible. My sons need me.”

That was not the right thing to say to him, not when she had acted as she had, and rage bubbled under the calm exterior. “The issue is you, my lady, and your behavior.”

Her eyes flashed, and she rose from her seat gracefully. “You have no right to chastise me, bastard.”

He gritted his teeth at the address, but let it go. It was the least of her offenses. “I may have no right, but Lord Stark, your lord husband and the Hand of the King does, and as it would not be fitting to do so himself in a place like King’s Landing, he directed me to act in his stead.”

She let out a cold laugh. “You truly expect me to believe that? You must be not as clever as I thought you to be.”

For a flash, he wondered whether that was almost a compliment, but he gathered his wits and dashed her amusement. “I do have a sealed letter from Lord Stark to be handed to you under certain circumstances. These are not those, but should they arise during the course of our conversation, I will give it to you.”

A shadow of uncertainty fluttered across her face and a frown returned to it. “I would see the letter.”

He hesitated for a beat. “I can show you the seal, I suppose, but I am to give it to you to read only if… there is no other choice.”

A haughty brow rose at that. “Oh? No other choice? How dramatic you are. Show me the seal then. How else am I to believe you truly act in my husband’s stead?”

He took out the letter with great reluctance and stepped closer to show her, making sure his grasp on it was firm, and she examined the gray wax as well as the sigil upon it, scrutinizing every detail, nodding once satisfied, and he took a deep breath to take the topic head on.

“Lord Baelish has long claimed that he had taken the maidenhead of Tully sisters, and it is a tale well-known at court.” 

She had retaken her seat after finishing the examination of the seal, but she was back on her feet in a flash, her outrage plain. “That is a filthy lie! You lie! Petyr would never-!”

He interrupted her in a cold voice. “He would have. He did. He had fought your betrothed for your hand. He had even made some insinuations to Lord Stark himself. You coming south in secrecy, with so light an escort, and then staying in Baelish’s brothel for who-knows-how-long…”

Her eyes were flashing still, and she seemed to barely hold herself back from scratching his eyes out. “I did nothing wrong. I had to come and tell Ned about… I had to. No one else could be trusted. No one!”

“Ah, and here we come to the crux of the issue. Trust. Lord Stark trusted you with guiding his heir in his time of need. He trusted you with caring for a son that had just suffered a horrific injury, barely surviving it. He trusted you to care for your son, all of three namedays. He trusted you with his children, and you left them alone, without a parent to look after them, to guide them, to love them. You have defied orders of your lord husband, your liege, to go gallivanting across the continent and end up in a brothel of a man that claims close affinity to you. Needless to say, Lord Stark’s trust has been strained a touch too much.”

She sat back down heavily, her hand on her breast, looking stunned. He could almost believe her innocence, looking like that, but he steeled himself and pressed on.

“The trust has been broken and all that Lord Stark requires for you to start to rebuild it is for you to drink moon tea and to stay on Dragonstone until such time that its effect can be confirmed.” 

The lady let out a hollow laugh. “ All that he requires? I have no need of moon tea. None at all. I have not lain-”

His voice was frigid as he cut in. “Lord Stark is not interested in your declarations of innocence, my lady, only in proof of it. If there is nothing to hide, you should have no trouble drinking a cup of tea and remaining here until your next blood comes. Lord Stark commands it.”

Her features twisted in a scowl. “Proof? What would that prove but that I accept this ridiculous accusation?!”

He answered her mildly. “It would prove that you can follow Lord Stark’s orders, of which there is no proof whatsoever at present.”

“I will not drink it.”

“Very well. In that case, I am commanded to keep you here until there is certainty that there is no babe in your belly and then deliver you to a motherhouse to live out the rest of your days in peace there.”

“ What? ” The question was a mere horrified whisper, her hand clutching at her throat, her eyes full of tears yet to spill over.

“Motherhouse. If Lord Stark cannot trust you, then he would not have you anywhere where you can cause further harm.”

“Further harm? What harm have I caused?” The tears did spill over at last.

“Do you wish Lord Stark dead?”

“No! Why would you even…?” Her shoulders were shaking, and the tears flowed freely.

He let out a sigh. “That dagger belonged to the king. Lord Stark had seen it on Aerys Targaryen’s corpse and then in the hands of Robert Baratheon years ago. Tell me, my lady, were Lord Stark to go to the king with such evidence, claiming it to be the Imp’s and accusing the queen, what would have happened to him?”

“The dagger had been Petyr’s. The Imp won it off Petyr.”

“And how did Baelish come by the dagger of kings? The very blade passed from king to king going all the way back to the Conqueror?”

She was shaking her head, rocking herself and crying in earnest. “Petyr would not lie to me. He would not!”

“As he did not lie about you? Ask any lady that has spent some time at court, and you will see how that goes.” He worried his lip as he looked at her and thought about the rest. “The letter… I am to give it to you only should you refuse the moon tea. And so I beg you, my lady, drink it and let us be done with it. Let us move on.”

She stared at him, her cheeks wet, though tears no longer streamed down her face and her expression became impenetrable as she collected pieces of her shattered dignity and replied in a dead voice. “I will drink the blasted tea. Bring it to me.”

He let out a sigh. “The maester requested to speak to you before allowing you to drink it. If you would follow me, my lady.”

The walk to the maester’s chambers was perhaps the longest of his life.

He could not remain in the fortress after the talk with Lady Stark. He could not face her, not Maester Cressen, nor anyone else truly, for he was certain the whole castle would know of his orders soon enough, and so he nodded at the elderly steward once more and left his solar, Ghost close on his heels.

It had been difficult to make himself blind and deaf to the alluring call of the warmth of the dragon, but now he found himself in dire need of that comforting warmth even if there was something wrong with it, even if the entire island felt somehow wrong for it. It was somehow too much and too little at the same time. More than there should be, and yet less than his heart yearned for.

He took a torch off a wall once he reached the deeper levels and followed the call deeper and then out a passage and past the old and empty and cold dragon pens and toward the hidden hatcheries, his mind screaming at him to turn back, that it was wrong, wrong, wrong, but he could not turn back, not now, not anymore.

The hatcheries, etched deep into the Dragonmont, were much, much warmer than any other place he had ever been to and yet considering what he knew they contained, even they were not warm enough. Far from warm enough for what they contained.

The dragon, when the light of the torch fell on its form, seemed as much a statue as any on Dragonstone, unmoving, still and not warm enough. Compared to what it should have been, the dragon was… cold for lack of a better word. There should have been heat rolling off it rather than the mild warmth he could feel standing not far from the entrance.

Still, the dragon was exquisite, her curled black horns seemingly consuming the weak torchlight while the pale pearlescent scales danced with myriad shades of pinks and his breath stilled. It would seem that Rhaena Targaryen had not been the last Targaryen dragonrider, after all.

Not the last Targaryen dragonrider, not even her last rider. He burst into a disbelieving laughter, heedless of a danger startling a sleeping dragon might bring. There was no danger, not to him and not to anyone else, not as long as the dragon remained asleep and asleep she would remain. 

Rhaena Targaryen had bound her dragon to sleep on Dragonstone, robbing the Hightowers she had been married off to of the last living tamed dragon. A female one at that. They had thought to catch themselves a dragon and while a dragon they had gotten, it had not been the dragon they had aimed for.

They would have sent someone to confirm the report of the dragon’s death, he supposed, and sleeping as it was, not moving at all, seemingly not even breathing, anyone could approach it here, where the warmth was ever-present and believe it dead, the fact of one’s survival serving as proof enough. Any dragonrider would have known better, but there had been no dragonriders left other than the Dragon Twins by then, certainly none that would have been willing to see the dragon.

Laena Velaryon, for all that she had been a sweet and dutiful daughter, had been far from a biddable woman. Her daughters… It would seem her daughters, the fruit of the union between her and the Rogue Prince, had been far from biddable as well, whatever sweet facade they might wear. And they certainly had proven to be dutiful daughters to their father, even long after his death. Oh, the Rogue Prince would have loved this.

He dropped the torch to the ground and approached the she-dragon with no small dose of wonder, laying his hands on the scales of her large head, and then closing his eyes in reverence and pressing himself fully against her, suppressing a shiver. Too cold by far. He ran his hands all over her, anywhere he could reach.

She was curled into a tight ball, entirely ignorant of his actions, despite him feeling the warmth of her mind reaching for him, calling to him still. But she was bound by bloodmagic, blood had been spilled to ensure she would remain in her sleep and blood would have to be spilled to ensure her rousing. Not too much, just enough to let her know that it was time to stir at last.

He separated himself from the she-dragon at last with a sigh and bent down to retrieve a dagger from his boot. Dragonglass or Valyrian steel could both be used in a ritual, but he had not dragonglass as of yet, and the dagger… The dagger called to him too now and could not be left behind where anyone could see besides, so he took it into his swordhand and used it to cut a shallow cut across his palm, watching as blood pooled in it, and then he spread the blood between and under her nostrils and then had to stretch and strain quite a bit to spread the blood over each eyelid until he finally stepped back from her satisfied.

The dragon laid motionless, waiting for him to speak the simple order that would break the spell that dragonriders of old had used on dragons too wild to be safely handled by anyone but their riders when need for such arose. He did not believe this dragon counted among them for even a moment. “ Awaken, Morning. ”

A great shudder ran through the she-dragon and air moved, his hair moving forward with it, as she inhaled a great deep breath in for the first time in over a century. Her eyes remained closed for a few breaths, but then snapped open and pierced him, and he stood entrapped in her slitted gaze even as she laboriously uncoiled her body and there was the sound of debris accumulated over the duration of her sleep falling off her when she did so.

He stood frozen, watching her every move and when she moved toward him, his breathing stopped altogether as he saw what it was she had been wrapped so tightly about. Just a glimpse was enough. Eggs. Dragon eggs. Likely even fertilized ones, or she would have not protected them so. Gods… She was the last living dragon, but could it be…?

The eggs had stolen his attention and when her head bumped into him gently, it sent him several steps back, until he tripped and fell on his ass and the dragon rested the bottom of her maw against his chest. Not on or he would have been crushed for certain but against it, effectively pinning him in place as she breathed him in, her eyes closed in contentment.

He was left to stare at her, still stunned beyond belief, his mind still locked on the eggs and their implications. Perhaps not the last dragon at all. Perhaps…

His eyes closed, and his head met the ground as he laughed. Oh Gods. If he wanted there to be more dragons, he needed there to be more Targaryens. There were his uncle and aunt, somewhere in Essos, far beyond his reach that would likely never believe him to be who he claimed to be unless shown a dragon and that would mean leaving Dragonstone with her, leaving the island behind to be taken and his family to be slaughtered. And both would happen with him known to be gone, with the dragon known to exist.

So truly, if he wished for dragons to survive, it was his solemn duty to propagate the line of dragonriders. He would have to have children, whatever the consequences of their possible looks. That could be accounted for, he supposed, by taking a wife from a Valyrian family, but the most obvious ones, the Velaryons and the Celtigars had no girl in the main line as far as he knew. He likely would have to search through genealogy books to find the best prospect and then likely move down the line of prospects quite a bit before finding someone willing to have him. He was only a step above destitute at present, after all, and no one could know about the dragon yet. No one.

So there he was laughing. He had to have children if he wished for dragons to return, and yet he could not risk having children, at least not without a Valyrian looking wife, without risking his family. With Morning, he could protect them from an army, should he be close enough and should there be just one, but an assassin’s blade had been used against one of them already, and even a dragon could do little to defend against that.

He had wanted to make a name for himself and have a pretty wife and babes to bear it, once upon a time, before he had learned the truth of his parents. It was the knowledge of the risks that had had him give up on that dream, though his foolish heart still yearned for it. And perhaps that was the reason he had so heedlessly fallen into the affair with Lady Margaery. She was all Jon Snow could have hoped for in a wife, more than he would have, truly. But the boy Jon Snow was dead now, and he had no idea who had taken his place.

All he knew was that he was the Lord of Dragonstone. There had been magic restraining the dragon and interfering with the island itself, allowing him little peace, and he had broken it now. The dragon was free and the danger to his family and himself was greater than ever before, and yet he was giddy. So irrationally and completely filled with warmth and joy he could cry. He was crying, he realized, for there were drops of wetness running down the side of his face to disappear into his hair. He was not alone. Not anymore.

Chapter Text

It was no difficult matter to convince even grandmother that it would be a good idea for her to spend time with the Stark girls. With Lady Sansa betrothed to the prince, she and her sister spent perhaps more time with Princess Myrcella and the queen than any other lady of the court, excluding the queen’s ladies in waiting. Surely, being in the royal apartments would afford her a chance or two to impress the king?

Grandmother had given in with little resistance and while it was not Margaery’s skill of persuasion that had achieved it, she was rather gleeful about it. They had watched her ever step, at least to the best of their knowledge, and yet the very central part of their scheme had yet to fall into place. Lord Renly had been ever-so-confident back in Highgarden that he could put her in front of the king and have her gain his attention, but the matter was proving rather more complicated than he had believed.

The king had not emerged from his apartments, spending his days in drink and whores, and the king’s brother could hardly bring her to the king’s chambers and have his plan work still. Margaery could laugh at all of it. By the time the king sobered enough to venture out into the court, so that she could meet him in all innocence, she could very well be wed already. She would be wed already. 

Only Lord Stark truly spoke to the king outside his family and the Kingsguard since he had returned to the Red Keep and while he seemed a tad cold toward her, he was her best chance of convincing the king to order the marriage, even without disclosing sordid details to him. He would get over his apprehension soon, she hoped, and she took it as a good sign that he seemed quite appreciative of her friendliness toward his daughters. The very fact that he let his daughters speak to her knowing what he did, spoke well to her prospects.

Perhaps it was even to the good, that Jon had gone off to Dragonstone, she told herself. He would be back soon enough and with him gone, grandmother would never suspect her plot, would not realize why it was that Margaery spent so much time with girls so much younger than her. And though Sansa had a rather queer beliefs about life at court and Arya acted quite sullen, Lord Stark’s slight smoothing of his frown upon seeing her with them was promising.

And she learned so much from them! While he had shared some childhood stories with her, there was still so much she did not know about her future husband. She had not known his likes or dislikes, had not known much about him beyond his interest in history and bookkeeping, of all things, and she wished to learn all there was to know so she could be a good wife to him. They would do well together, she was quite determined.

Still, she could not ask just about him, so she was learning all manner of things from all over the North. And not just the North. She came to learn of the business at the Trident that had the sisters not speaking to each other at all for a time, and then only in anger. Even now, in Margaery’s company, they took care to speak to her, never each other.

When Arya excused herself to go to her dancing lesson, she blinked after her in utter confusion. Never in their time together had she given Margaery the impression that dancing would be something the wild girl would be interested in, but she kept her silence as Sansa stabbed the needle into her embroidery with uncommon violence.

Her eyes drifted to the door Arya had left through, to the septas speaking quietly in the corner, and then she spoke softly. “Is there something wrong?”

“It’s not fair!” Though her voice was low, it was full of pain. “It’s not fair! It’s her fault that Lady is dead when she never hurt anyone, would never hurt anyone, but she gets to have a dancing master when they promised-”

There were tears flowing freely from the girl’s eyes, and Margaery cast a worried glance toward the septas that were thankfully still paying to them attention and reached out for her hands. “I am sorry, I cannot imagine-”

“Why doesn’t father love me ? Why her ? Why am I not worth his attention?”

Margaery stared. Never in her interactions with the Stark family had she been given the impression that Lord Stark did not care for Sansa. “I do not think-”

“He got her a dancing master, and she doesn’t even like dancing. They promised me I would have a music master here, that I could learn the high harp, but he forgot all about that and got her a dancing master instead. I lost Lady and Nymeria went free, and she is the one that gets everything!”

Margaery patted her hand in sympathy and thought quickly. “I am sure your father did not forget. He is merely a very busy man with the king as he is , and besides, it is no easy matter to find a good music master for the high harp.”

Sansa’s cheeks were wet, but her eyes were full of hope. “Oh, do you truly think so?”

She nodded with all the conviction she did not have. “Truly.”

The tears started afresh. “Oh, I hope you are right.” Then, lowering her head, she whispered. “I wish you were my sister.”

Margaery gave her a warm smile and squeezed her hand once more, answering with all honesty. “I wish you were my sister too.”

Later, as she was admitted into the Hand’s solar, she truly wished the man remembered the blasted music master. Though, as tired eyes met hers, she rather doubted it. She rather doubted he had any time to go looking for one either, so she gave him a beaming smile as she entered and sat as she was bidden to.

“My Lord Hand, I understand finding a suitable music master gives you some trouble. Would it be too forward to offer my assistance in the matter?”

Lord Hand blinked at her blankly, plainly at a loss. “Music master?”

She kept her smile firmly in place. “Lady Sansa mentioned when we spoke earlier that she wished to learn the high harp, and that some promises were made.”

A frown appeared on his face. “Promises? I do not recall any promises.” His frown deepened and his mouth tightened in displeasure as his considering gaze regarded Margaery. “ Were there promises made?”

She hesitated. “It would certainly seem so.” Sansa was too hurt by it all for it to be a lie.

The Hand nodded to himself and stood up. “Thank you, Lady Margaery, for bringing this to my attention, but your assistance in this matter will not be required.” His brows rose a touch. “Not unless you have a particular talent at high harp.”

Margaery rose from her seat and shook her head with a laugh. “I fear I have no talent at the high harp at all, my lord. I wish you good luck and good day.”

Lord Stark’s face relaxed and he gave her a miniscule smile. “Have a good day, Lady Margaery.”

There was a genuine smile on her face as she walked back to her family’s chambers, struggling not to skip lest Nysterica had cause to wonder , but she was so happy. It was far from a victory, but a first thawing was already an improvement on the frigid politeness she had been treated to before.

“Do you want to marry Jon?”

She was startled out of her pondering of the delicate flowers of the bush in front of her, and looked down into the wide eyes of one Arya Stark that appeared at her side seemingly out of nowhere, before casting a furtive look around the gardens to see if Nysterica was close enough to have heard. Only once assured that she was indeed not, she spoke up with a light laugh.

“Why would you think so? I do not believe I met him more than once or- oh, thrice.”

The girl’s eyes had not left her face, studying it intently. “Sansa says you do. She says that you want to marry him and have his babies. I think she is stupid, but she says that if you marry him, I could go stay with Jon on Dragonstone. Because there would be a lady.”

Margaery stared at her helplessly, somewhat at a loss. “I… What?”

The girl was not deterred by her lack of an answer, it would seem, because she continued. “Do you ride? Does your septa? Mordane doesn’t , and I am not allowed to go riding without a female escort here.” There was a note of disgust in her voice.

“I ride.” That seemed to be the safest answer to her.

“I want to go riding in the Kingswood.” There was a clear challenge in the girl’s voice.

“I fail to see what that has to do with me. ” She had a sinking feeling, but still.

“Jon is my favorite brother. And I am his favorite sister.” Margaery raised a single brow and folded her arms across her chest, and the girl continued reluctantly after a short expectant pause. “I could help you.” Then she frowned fiercely and glared at her. “Or I can make Jon hate you.”

Margaery did not need help, not truly, but she could ill afford complications and if there was one thing she had come to learn of her since she had met her, it was that there was nothing Arya Stark liked as much as making complications.

She did not sigh, no matter how much she wanted to , and she let out another light laugh. “What an amusing idea. I wonder how your sister got it.” When the girl’s eyes narrowed into slits, she rushed to finish. “Though I would be happy to take you and your sister along the next time I go riding with Loras.”

Arya’s face relaxed into a smile , and she bounced on the balls of her feet. “We can go tomorrow! I have lessons to get to now!” And then she bounded off, quickly disappearing among the bushes, and Margaery did let out a sigh at last. She supposed she should let Loras know she wanted them to go riding again. And ask Sansa. She heaved another sigh as she realized she would have to ask Lord Stark for leave to take his daughters riding outside the city too.

Balancing the Stark sisters had proven to be an exhausting and time-consuming work, with only few distractions, and she found herself grateful for the now almost daily rides in the woods, which afforded her both time with the sisters and time away from their squabbling and jabs and sullen silences. 

She had always wanted sisters and in all her experience so far, having sisters was a good thing and yet here… These two could not be farther apart if they tried , and they did try. Oh, did they try.

Sansa had envied the dancing lessons and now that she had her music lessons, Arya jeered her for it, for being such a lady and Margaery had to stifle her laughter at the scorn in her young voice whenever she gently pointed out that Arya was a lady as well, no matter her behavior and no matter her dresses, no matter the scorn, and nothing would change that. And then she would direct the conversation away from danger, toward their rides or the upcoming tourney and the knights to attend it and their great deeds, and pray for the distraction to work.

Too often it seemed that the sisters were stuck in a permanent tug of war and now, Margaery felt the rope in it. It was exhausting beyond belief , and she fell into her bed with her head aching and bone-weary at the end of each day. And to think, she had done this to herself. 

Sometimes, the thought made her want to weep. Mostly, she just counted the days and hoped for their brother to return to her and put an end to her suffering, or at least distract from it. It would be a different matter were there to be any reward to be had for her efforts, but so far, all she had gotten had been a few grateful smiles from Lord Stark, and he had not mentioned Jon to her even once, much less spoken to her of their union or even betrothal, and he had most certainly not spoken to her father of it either.

So, it was with great relief that she laid down in her bed every night, allowed to rest her eyes and sleep, but when she was woken in the middle of the night by the sound she had grown familiar with in the too short time they had had, the scraping of the entrance to the hidden passageways opening, the relief was too small a word for the feeling she experienced. He was back. He came back to her.

She allowed a smile to grow on her face and turned her head to watch his form emerge from the opening, not letting on that she was awake, until he was standing over her, a silly grin she had never seen on him before on his face.

“Good morrow, my lady.” His voice was a whisper and little wonder. They were in her bedchamber, only a door separating them from her septa.

And yet, her smile up at him was only a touch less silly, she was sure. “Morrow, my lord? 'Tis the middle of the night.”

If possible, his grin widened and his eyes glittered in the dark as he hummed thoughtfully. “It seemed the right greeting when you were sweetly sleeping mere moments ago.”

She rolled her eyes at him , and then she pushed herself up in alarm. “What are you doing?”

“Removing my boots.” His tone was entirely dry.

“ Why?! ” She was whispering still, but it was a close thing.

“Would you prefer me in your bed with them?”

“ No! Are you drunk? My septa is right next door!”

His grin was very, very wide and his eyes shone with amusement. “Your septa is sleeping and as long as you keep quiet, asleep, she will remain.”

The grin was doing things to her. Foolish, foolish things, for she let him climb onto the bed and over her , and she let him kiss her and remove her nightgown and she did not protest. She did not protest at all, kissing him back with vigor and chasing his lips when he drew back to take a breath and oh Gods, she was on fire, yearning that had dwelled deep inside her coming to the surface and making her desperate for more and yet desperate not to give in to the need to make a sound.

She grabbed a pillow to press against her face when his lips descended on her breasts to torture her so and when his fingers entered her while still latched on to them, it was all she could do not to sob and beg as she shifted against him with great urgency. Oh Gods, how could she have come to miss this so much in their time apart?

The pillow was removed from her hands as she shuddered through her release and she was met with the sight of a greatly amused face hovering above her own. “Was that truly necessary?”

She stared at him with disbelief, searching for words, searching for voice. “Oh Gods, yes. ”

A low chuckle escaped him. “And you have no idea what I have planned for you yet.”

His eyes were blazing and combined with his words and his voice… Whatever it was, she needed it, she burned with the need for it. “Please, oh, please.”

There was another low chuckle and the pillow was placed back into her hands. “Since you ask so nicely…”

But then he was gone , and she was left bereft and for a blink of an eye she had the most overwhelming urge to cry as she stared at the canopy, but then his hands were on her hips, shifting her , and she spread her legs further apart to better accommodate him and jerked in alarm almost immediately after, yelping and clutching her pillow to her breast.

“What do you think you are doing?!” What was his head, his mouth, doing all the way down there?

He rested his chin on her hip with a sigh, his lips set in a pout. “Trying something new. Do you not like it?”

His eyes were wide and deceptively innocent and his fingers were drawing distracting patterns on her skin and she… Oh, Gods forgive her, she needed him, so she let her head drop back , and she drew her pillow to her face, shifting desperately and doing her best to ignore yet another low chuckle. Truly, how was one to survive all this melting and burning and confusion?

Chapter Text

He stared at the parchment in his hands, utterly perplexed by the words it contained, turning them over and over in his mind, wondering what manner of code Lord Stark might be using in the message and coming up empty time and time again.

His face twisted with confusion, he turned to face the elderly maester. “Are you certain there was no other raven?” Something that would explain the code used?

Cressen nodded and replied rather unhelpfully. “Quite certain, my lord.”

Laughing lightly, he shook his head. “I do not suppose you know anything about music masters?”

The maester’s lips twitched. “No, my lord, I certainly do not.”

Sighing heavily, he tossed the message into the hearth. He could not make heads or tails of it, but it did not mean no one else would. “Then it would seem I must speak with my guest. Thank you and have a good day, maester.”

It was most perplexing. There was no code, no hidden message he could uncover in the words, the only seeming attempt at subterfuge Lord Stark referring to his lady wife only as a guest at Dragonstone , and so he was left with little choice but to do exactly what the letter requested of him.

The lady’s voice was full of resignation as she called out for him to enter when he announced himself and her shoulders were slumped, her face pale and her eyes tired.

“My lady, I am sorry to disturb you, but there was a message from King’s Landing inquiring after…” It was a code, surely, it had to be a code for something. He blushed, not entirely certain he wished to know, and coughed awkwardly to clear his throat before he pressed on. “Certain promises regarding a music master?”

She gave him a blank stare, plainly not understanding either. “Music master. What about a music master?”

He breathed a sigh of relief because if it was a code, it was not one Lady Catelyn was familiar with either. “Lord Stark inquires whether there were any promises made in his name regarding him acquiring a music master.”

Understanding alighted on the lady’s face at last. “Promises? No, there were no promises. I merely told Sansa there would be singers at the king's court. I told her she would hear music of all sorts, that her father could find some master to help her learn the high harp. That is all. Sansa loves music.” Her voice broke and tears rolled down her cheeks with the last statement.

He blinked at her. No code after all. Not that the inquiry made any more sense now that he knew the answer, but at least he could send a raven back with a response on this one, unlike waiting until seeing him next to tell him the result in person.

“How much longer am I to remain your prisoner?”

Sighing in frustration, he did his best to respond gently to the question asked of him every time she saw him. “As soon as you have bled and the maester confirmed that you are not with child.”

“I prayed, you know? I prayed for the Gods to grant me another child to give to my husband but now…” She let out a bitter laugh. “Now, I would not care if my change was upon me and I never bled again. Have you thought of that, boy? What would you do with me if that were to happen?”

He had no wish to think of such a thing, much less speak to her of it, and his ear burned. “You are far too young for such, my lady. But should it be the case regardless, I am sure the maester would be able to divine the cause of…” Words failed him and he choked for a moment. “I am sure he would know.”

It was high time to finish the talk anyway, he decided, so he bowed his head perfunctorily and excused himself to hastily retreat to his solar where his steward should already await him anyway, likely questioning his master’s wits by now , and he was about to increase the doubt yet more.

The questions in his steward’s eyes and the resigned air about him seemed to be proving him right as they stood on the beach facing the Blackwater Bay.

“The Merling King, my lord?”

He did his utmost best to maintain a stony expression and not let even a hint of his amusement through. “Yes, the Merling King. And this seems to be the place for it, would you not agree?” At the doubtful look, he elaborated. “Facing the Spears. A sacrifice of fish to the Merling King presented at every sunset, facing the Spears of the Merling King, should keep our sailors safe, would you not say?”

The steward could not appear more reluctant to speak. “I should hope our sailors safe as they are, my lord. Only a true fool would sail into the Spears.”

He nodded gravely. “Stannis Baratheon was no fool , and yet he perished at sea. The Narrow Sea seems treacherous enough to me to warrant it.”

“But the expense, my lord.” There was pain in the man’s voice, and he could not blame him for it. The coffers truly were in a sorry state.

“I would hope I can afford to pay a single haul of fish a day more. The castle certainly buys enough as is.”

The steward heaved a deep sigh. “Very well. Are there any more religions my lord would like to revive on Dragonstone?”

He turned to him with his brows raised. “Reviving religions? Is that what I am doing here?”

“It would certainly seem so, my lord. First the Fourteen, now the Merling King. We restored the shrine to the first, should we build an altar to the second?”

“Aaaah, no. No altar. Just the fish.”

“I see.” He truly hoped he did not.

It was high time to close the conversation on religions and especially so the Merling King. There was woefully little he knew of the deity , and he had no wish to uncover just how woefully little it was to the man, so he turned his back on the sea and started back toward the keep. “How goes the mining?”

“Slowly, my lord. The prospecting went well. The mines are still rich in dragonglass, not just the black, but the green as well. But there are only a few men working , and it will be a long time before there is much to show for their efforts.”

He hummed in thought. “Is it the pay, do you think? Would increasing it help?”

“I do not see how, my lord. There are simply not many men without an occupation on Dragonstone.”

His lips thinned. “There cannot be so few of them.”

The steward gave him a pitying look. “There will always be those that would be of little use no matter the pay, my lord. That is just the way the world works. Were we to increase the pay to attract them, it would bring us little gain, if any, and we can ill afford it.”

He let out a breath. He had little need to be reminded, but he was planning on addressing the issue and the dragonglass was a rather important part of it. Valyria had been a major source of it, Dragonstone a mere footnote in its trade, and even that footnote had been forgotten after the Conquest when the island stood no longer on its own, only serving as a secondary seat of the ruling House.

The prices of dragonglass were bound to have soared with its sources disappearing, though he rather doubted it would have in places where they used dragonglass merely for jewelry making. No, it would be Qohor and Volantis, where they would want it for the more magical uses of it where the prices would be the best. And Myr too, where they had a need of the fine blades that could be made of it, thinner than ones made of any other material.

Still, he had hoped to speak with Lord Velaryon of arranging a trading expedition to Volantis and further, but with the mining progressing only slowly, there would be nothing to fill their holds with that would warrant a conversation, and it seemed it would remain so for some time, unless he found more workers.

Much of his time on Dragonstone was spent training Sweetfoot with the green flame, Ghost bounding around happily, chasing the horse and snapping at her legs playfully, and then training on her, accustoming himself to her movement. There were two stable hands swinging torches with green flame around adding to the chaos and yet the palfrey was exceedingly calm, avoiding Ghost’s snaps with grace, never startling and not disturbing his seat even once. Even the flames she handled beautifully, not sidestepping or backing away without his say- so, and he grew even more satisfied with her purchase as the days went on.

He had the right horse to win against Thoros of Myr. He had the right sword to win against damn near anyone and though there was some danger to wielding it, he would do so only in the chaos of the melee, with none the wiser and with the hilt and the crossguard carefully wrapped in black leather to best hide any distinguishing features, there was truly no risk. The leather-wrapped crossguard was bound to earn him nothing but derision from the other combatants, he was sure, but that would serve him only too well, assuring their dismissal of him as a threat in the competition itself. The blade might be Valyrian steel, but being hidden in its scabbard, it was of no danger to him at all.

And with his black armor, the sword would fit right in. The armor had to be black. However much he trained his horse not to fear a green flame, wildfire was a dangerous and insidious substance, its flames burning hot , and he had to protect himself the best he could. It would not do to cause himself a grievous injury in the first and likely the last tourney he ever entered.

He had scoured the old vaults filled with sets of old Targaryen armor for pieces that would fit his needs. And his needs were rather specific. Armor of dragonriders had had protection runes etched on its inside to help protect the rider against flames, dispersing and diminishing its effects, though even the runes could not truly save a man from the full blast of dragonflame. There were not too many sets left.

The last set known to him had been lost with the Rogue Prince in the Gods Eye and even that had not been a truly complete set, so there he was, scouring the vaults for armor with near invisible runes etched on the inside, forgoing any pieces with dragons on them altogether, not deeming them worth the effort. Even if they had the protection runes, they would be useless to him, bringing greater danger than they were worth. 

For all his searching, all that he found to fit him was a pair of vambraces and a pair of gauntlets to go along with them , and he was left to despair quietly at that. If there was nothing else to inform him of the folly of his endeavor, it would be the lack of proper armor to fit on his frame. He was fifteen and lean. Robb would have had no trouble finding armor to fit him, being of stockier built, but he, in the home of his ancestors, had.

Still, he had little choice but to forge on. If he wanted to bring Dragonstone back to prosperity, he needed the funds, and the melee was the quickest way to acquire them. The quickest, the safest way, for there was an account with the Iron Bank that had been opened a long time ago by a certain prince to be kept accessible to anyone that would bear his authorization, but he dared not touch it, not yet. The risk was not worth it when it could be long emptied by now. Besides, with Morning right there and her presence like to be noted sooner or later, he needed to make Dragonstone into a prosperous hold swiftly. There would be plenty of time to inquire after the contents of the account once the dragon revealed herself to the realm. There would be plenty of time and hopefully no need.

He visited Morning each day and once the sacrifice to the Merling King was set up, he was always the first on the beach at night to ensure it was safe for her to come out and consume it. He had taken great care to explain everything to her, repeating himself until he was sure they were both sick of the sound of his voice echoing in the cavern. Perhaps too great a care, considering the attention the she-dragon put into covering her own tracks in the sand, examining everything with a critical eye before retreating back into the caves. It had become a game for her. She would make as much of a mess as possible of the beach, jumping all over, rolling herself in the sand, and then smooth it all over, eagerly awaiting his approval and he was left to despair at yet another complication. For all her age, his dragon was in fact just an over-exuberant child.

And despite all his attempts to focus on the future, to prepare himself for the tourney, to take care of Morning, the situation with Lady Stark loomed large over him and even days after he had originally planned to return to King’s Landing, he was still on Dragonstone, hoping for her blood to come so he could send her away from his home and report to Lord Stark that there was nothing to worry about, at least not on that front.

When at last the maester had informed him that the lady’s blood had come and that it was truly the blood of her courses, not a sign of a rather different condition, he breathed a sigh of relief and went to arrange for a ship to take her back to White Harbor once her courses ended. The very fact that he was familiar with everything to such a degree had him burn with embarrassment and his insides squirm with discomfort. He firmly refused to entertain the thought of how Lady Stark must feel of the whole affair, when he felt that way about it, and only hoped she would learn the harsh lesson.

They were set to depart Dragonstone on the same day, each sailing in an opposite direction and yet, for all that he had avoided her from the moment he had learned that he would be free of her at last, he was not spared a last conversation.

Her eyes flashed as she faced him on the docks. “You should know that I will inquire after the truth and once I have the proof of your lies, you will pay for this humiliation, boy.”

His back was rigid and his face even when he replied to her mildly. “I would caution you against putting too much into a message carried by a raven and I would advise you to consider words you put to paper very carefully, lest you bring dishonor to your House. May this sorry episode serve as a lesson to you how much your actions and the perception of them matters, how dangerous it can be. To you, to your husband, to your children.”

She seemed to barely restrain herself from slapping him as she hissed into his face. “You can be sure that I have considered nothing else for the time of my imprisonment here! Once I have proof that this is all just your lies to discredit me, to discredit Robb, I will destroy you.”

It took all of his self-restraint to keep his voice even. “I assure you, my lady, if there are lies at play here, none of them are mine.”

She drew back and cloaked herself in dignity that mattered little now. Ser Rodrik would be staying here , and she would be escorted back to Winterfell by his guards from it. He had little doubt the guards that had accompanied him in King’s Landing had had ample time to share with them all that they had learned. She would be well-watched and should she be fool enough to try anything, there would be little consideration paid to the authority she believed herself to have.

Arriving back in King’s Landing, free of Lady Stark, and ready to embark on the course for the bright future, he was giddy with excitement. The future was ripe with possibilities and for all the potential danger that lurked in the shadows, there was little to worry him in the now.

Now, there was a beautiful girl to bed and melee to win. Everything else would come only after. Everything else could wait.

Yes, he was giddy with excitement , and he could not wait to share it, so when he was settled into a chamber in the Tower of the Hand instead of the inn out in the city, he slipped out of it soon enough, heading for the chamber of his girl.

There was a future ahead of them where they would part after the tourney when he returned to Dragonstone for good, but that future was not here yet and they better make good use of the present left to them.

Chapter Text

“I cannot give you your coin back.” Lord Stark’s face was deeply troubled, and he seemed to have aged a decade in their time apart.

He paused in his perusal of the book left open on the table and frowned at him. “Oh? Whyever not?”

“Did you not hear? The crown is six million in debt. More, truly.”

His brows rose in bemusement because this sounded eerily like a conversation they had had before he had left. “I see. That is most unfortunate.”

“It is, and yet I must ask more of you.” His brows climbed higher as Lord Stark paused. “With the tourney so close, the City Watch is having trouble keeping the peace. I promised them you and your men.”

He choked. “All of my men?” He had brought far more men than before, intent on taking part in the tourney, but he had… His frown returned. “Me?”

“Yes, and I am sorry to be troubling you with this, son, but I see little choice otherwise. Though I would hope to redeem myself by getting you something.” A smile appeared on Lord Stark’s face, and he seemed to relish his bewilderment. “Come, there is an armorer that comes highly recommended. I am sure you will be able to find something of value.”

His voice was flat. “Armorer. I have just had a new set of armor made.”

“A blade then.” 

He stared at Lord Stark silently, wondering what was going on, before conceding reluctantly. “A man can never have enough blades.” And by that, he meant daggers. A sword he had, and a fine one, but one could never have enough daggers.

Lord Stark gave him a small smile and rose from his seat, heading for the door. “Come then, Varly and Jacks are waiting.”

He followed, utterly perplexed, all the more so as they rode through the city with just the two Stark guardsmen to accompany them and Lord Stark kept shooting searching glances behind himself, his eyes restlessly darting around.

When they dismounted in the Street of Steel, in front of a shop with two stone statues wearing exquisitely crafted red armor, an amused smirk tugged at his lips. Highly recommended indeed. The most expensive and ostentatious armorer in the whole bloody realm. Lord Stark would be the one paying here.

He listened with half an ear as Tobho Mott ordered wine to be brought for the Lord Hand and paused himself and his skill to high heavens, his interest only alighting once Valyrian steel was mentioned. Now, there was a thought. A true smile tugged at his lips and when the man declared that he could fashion Lord Stark a direwolf helm indistinguishable from a live one, he laughed a full belly laugh, startling the two men and drawing their attention.

“Pardon me, master Mott, but I have a live direwolf outside the shop, and I do believe he would rather disagree with that.”

Lord Stark spoke up with a conciliatory smile. “Regardless, I have no need for such a helm. Though I am most curious, did you make a falcon helm for Lord Arryn?”

He blinked as the man’s countenance shifted and cooled considerably. “The Hand did call upon me, with Lord Stannis, the king’s brother. I regret to say, they did not honor me with their patronage.” When Lord Stark remained silent, watching him amiably, he reluctantly continued. “They asked to see the boy, so I took them back to the forge.”

They were taken back through a narrow courtyard to the boy at the Hand’s request, and he observed the apprentice’s interaction with Lord Stark with great interest, though he remained but a shadow throughout.

The boy was a bastard, of that he had no doubt, but he had known his mother and a wave of bitterness and jealousy rose in him. He had not known her well, but well enough to remember her some, and that was already far more than he himself had of his own mother.

His mind swimming with bitterness and memories, he almost burst out laughing once more when the master named the boy such a strong boy. Had the Strong boys looked anything like him, there would be little doubt of their paternity. All mirth left him as the thought truly registered, and his eyes landed on the boy once more. He had a Baratheon look. He was a bastard.

His eyes shifted to the King’s Hand. Why was the King’s Hand speaking to the king’s bastard? Why had the former one?

He spoke up once Lord Stark made his offer, likely making ready to depart. The offer of a blade might have been a mere subterfuge, but he was not above making use of it, not now. “You said you have some skill with Valyrian steel. How about making a replica of it?”

Tobho Mott blinked at him, plainly startled. “No one can make Valyrian steel, my lord. I can only remake old pieces of it.”

His smile widened. “Oh, I understand that. But I am a bit of a student of history, and I was always fascinated with Dark Sister and its famed history, and would just love to have a sword just like it. You have knowledge of Valyrian steel, and you are the one to make blades for Thoros of Myr, are you not? I want a sword that would share some of the same ability to resist fire and look like Valyrian steel blade, specifically Dark Sister.”

The expression on the man’s face warred between greed and pain. “Dark Sister has been lost for well over a century, my lord. I cannot make an exact replica.”

He shrugged carelessly. “Then make as good a one as you can based on historical accounts.” He pinned the man with a stern glare. “Based exactly on historical accounts. I am not interested in any embellishments. I want as close a copy as you can make, and I want it ready before the tourney begins.”

Mott’s face settled on greed, and his gaze drifted to the sighing Lord Stark. “Have it sent to the Tower of the Hand once it is done. It is to be my gift for my son, the new Lord of Dragonstone.”

The armorer was all smiles as he led them out of his shop and bade them a good day, but the moment the man’s back was turned, Lord Stark’s face turned grim, his eyes worried and unease grew in him. It could not spell anything good, if King’s Hands were visiting the king’s bastards. Nothing good, and yet he had little idea what it could mean here, when the bastard had been plainly unexpected on the part of Lord Stark.

Lord Hand was swallowed by myriad duties once they returned from the shop, and he was left to take his men and go looking for the Commander of the City Watch and finding him in the Red Keep barracks, in a foul mood, giving him a hostile glare when he approached him.

“Lord Hand sends me and my men to assist you, Commander. He believes you can make a good use of us?”

The commander was harried and seemed quite ready to tear out his hair at the sight of him. “What use are you going to be to me?”

A smile came to his face, undeterred in the face of such skepticism. “Assign us Flea Bottom, and we will take care of the petty crime there. You can use your watchmen elsewhere in the meantime.”

The man let out a great sigh. “Flea Bottom is the least of my worries now.”

“Let it be no worry at all. Your men will not be needed there, I assure you.”

The Commander of the City Watch sighed and rubbed his face. “Very well, boy, I will send the word to my men that you will be relieving them.” He paused as he regarded him, flanked by the men of his guard, dressed in black tabards embroidered with Dragonstone’s new sigil. “ Who are you lot?”

His smile turned into a grin. “Jon Stark, Lord of Dragonstone, and this is my guard.”

The man paled considerably. “Give Lord Hand my most humble thanks for his assistance, my lord.”

He nodded solemnly. “I will. Send the word. We will be heading to Flea Bottom now.”

They had not gone far from the barracks when one of his men gained enough courage to speak. “ How are we to take care of the petty crime in that pigsty, my lord? It is a lawless pit at the best of times.”

He did not mind the question, not at all, so he turned to the guard with a laugh. “Do you know what is the key to the crime in Flea Bottom?” At the man’s hesitant headshake, he told him. “Food. It comes down to food. Most of the petty crime is children stealing food or coin to feed themselves. Feed them, and that crime is gone for the duration. Give them more food for sharing information on crime and see what happens.”

Children, when motivated, were truly incredible sources of information.

It did not take long for his little venture with food to bear fruit. Not immediately, not that, never that. There was little trust for well-dressed and well-armed men in Flea Bottom, much less with the gold cloaks gone, but children were a curious sort and their noses smelled warm tarts from a mile away. It did not take long, not long at all, for the bravest or the most desperate of them to approach hesitantly as a dozen more looked on and waited for something to happen. But nothing did and eventually, more and more dared to come forward.

 Today it would be tarts, tomorrow bread and apples, and the day after something different again. There were many going hungry in King’s Landing now and before and there was nothing to be done about all of them, but he could do this and even that would bring a measure of peace. For a time.

For too short a time as a skinny girl with matted hair and in a ragged robe darted forward and snatched a tart, and it was with a bile rising in his throat that he realized as she bit into it with gusto that there was no tongue in her mouth. His eyes burned. Too short a time. 

His blood was simmering at the conditions in Flea Bottom after spending his days there and much of his nights too, falling into his bed utterly exhausted and fully dressed more often than not. He had had no time to spend with Margaery, no time at all since he had been given to the City Watch and for all that he wanted, the need to sleep was simply too great.

It was a good thing he had trained so hard while in Dragonstone, because there was no time for him to train once here at all and all his optimism regarding his chances fell away the less sleep he had, until he resigned himself to the truth that to compete one had to have at least a good night’s worth of sleep and so, while his men went out to Flea Bottom without him and his sisters went to the tourney grounds to watch the proceedings, he went to sleep.

And, once the night fell, he was at last entirely refreshed and quite desperate for a lady’s favor.

The sound of stone moving had woken her once more, and when he stepped into her bedchamber, a frown marred her pale face. “Whatever have you come for, my lord? I am quite tired.”

He rolled his eyes at her. “And I was too. Flea Bottom is a tiring place. But now I am rested and came to ask for you to bestow your favor upon me.”

She let out a soft sigh and laid back on her pillows. “My brother rides with my favor.”

“In joust. I will compete in the melee. And besides, I think you know well enough that is not the favor I speak of.”

“Is it not? And why should I bestow my favor upon you? You have left me alone! I am not of a mind to give it to you, and you have certainly not earned it! And what is it that you mean to do should you win with my favor? Hm?”

He crawled into her bed and grinned down at her thoughtful face. “Great things. I mean to do all manner of great things.”

She heaved a great sigh and raised her hands to frame his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks, and he closed his eyes to savor the gentle gesture. “I suppose I should grant it to you, then.”

He nodded seriously, barely suppressing a smile. “You should indeed.”

He had not expected to be given a true favor, not at all, but he had been given one, and he fingered the green fabric embroidered with an intricate golden rose warily before putting it inside his gambeson. This was wrong, he was sure. This was not how a paramour should act, should feel. Lady Margaery was too confusing, and he supposed it was a good thing they would not see each other again for a very long time, if ever, soon enough. There was enough confusion in his life already.

A fresh wave of uneasiness came over him when he searched out his family in the stands and found them to be seated right next to the Tyrells, his sisters glued to Margaery’s side, watching the matches. This was most certainly not how a secret paramour was meant to behave in public. Surely they were not meant to sit with their lover’s sisters, surrounded by both of their families.

He took a bracing breath before approaching the stands to join them to watch the last matches with them. There was not much more he could do to prepare himself, and it was too soon to don his armor in this damned heat. The Tyrells paid him no mind when he sat down, but Lord Stark gave him a small smile and a nod of greeting, while his sisters gave him twin smiles filled with excitement. The smile given to him by Lady Margaery was very warm and very disconcerting, and had him turning his attention determinedly to the joust.

And it was good. It was a pageantry more than anything, if one were to judge by the Knight of Flowers, beloved of the commons, slender as a reed, decked in blindingly-polished silver armor with a pattern of black vines and tiny blue forget-me-nots, and he wore a heavy cloak woven of forget-me-nots, hundreds of flowers sewn to a heavy woolen cape. He almost choked on laughter at the ridiculous sight, but conscious of the knight’s family close by, he fought to master himself.

The laughter froze in his lungs as his gaze fell on his opponent, Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, and hatred froze the blood in his veins for a moment, and he watched his every movement with loathing simmering in him, blood rushing in his ears, and his lips twisted in grim satisfaction when he was unhorsed in the very first tilt against the young knight.

Even that was gone soon enough and as gasps rang out and Gregor Clegane strode toward the victorious Knight of Flowers, he was over the railing in a flash, rushing forward even before the orders to stop the man rang out. He was still too late to do anything but watch him fall, but when the monster raised his sword for the killing blow, in a spur of madness, he kicked the back of his knee with all his strength.

He cursed himself for the fool that he plainly was when the man did a half-step forward and turned toward him with a roar as he spun away from the blow. The man was mad, and growing madder still as his prey danced and ducked and rolled away from blow after blow, unable to so much as draw his fucking sword, and he was going to fucking die, unless he did something and did it fast.

And so, he took a chance to draw his sword at last, promptly fumbling it. And as he grabbed for it to arrest its fall, he stumbled and went to his knee, falling dreadfully short of the sword. A slow cruel grin split the monster's face, and he raised his sword for a double-handed overhead blow, leaving himself wide, wide open. There was nothing but serenity as he reached into his boot and launched himself up and against the man’s breastplate, burying his dagger deep into his armpit, chainmail and boiled leather doing nothing to stop the Valyrian steel.

By the time the king’s voice sounded out over the tourney grounds, as he stepped in, accompanied by a score of men with their swords drawn, he was two steps past the knight swaying on his feet, falling to his knees and glaring at the ground, hatred boiling in him just below the surface. He stuffed the dagger back into his boot while at it, blood and all, lest he use it again.

There was a great rush around him, maesters and squires hasting forward to the man that was if not dead already then very close to it. The king laughed and bade him rise and slapped him on the back and the hatred boiled and boiled and yet a curious numbness enveloped him. He had not seen the look in his eyes when he had realized his mistake. He wanted to cherish that look, but he had not seen it. And the king was speaking to him and robbing him of the opportunity to see the light leave the monster’s eyes. Resentment grew.

When he returned to the stands at last, to sit with his family and perhaps bask in the warmth of Lady Margaery’s smile, hopefully melting away the strange fog he found himself in, he found her curiously gone. He turned to his father’s frowning face with his brows raised, feeling a little lost boy. 

“Lady Margaery swooned when her brother was attacked. Her family is attending her.”

He nodded in understanding, leaving his head bowed, his eyes burning, and reminding himself fiercely of the truth. Lord Stark was not his father. His father had been killed by the man that had just rejoiced at his triumph over the man that had killed his infant brother and had raped and killed his father’s wife. The man that had served the king’s goodfather, had served the king.

Chapter Text

The young maester was looking down at her with a hesitation plain of his face. “My lady, if you would allow me to examine you more closely…” He gestured somewhat helplessly toward her nether regions, but she was having none of it. “The diagnosis would be more definite.”

Margaery opened her eyes wide and regarded him with a look of utter puzzlement, only too aware of Nysterica that remained in her bedchamber to keep her company. “How would that help? What could that possibly have with my fainting spell?”

The master blushed and stammered through an answer. “My lady, the symptoms you have described to me may indicate a certain condition…” He trailed off as Margaery’s brows climbed in polite confusion.

“Symptoms? Do you mean tiredness and headache from it? What condition could they possibly point to that you would wish to…” She trailed off with the gesture toward the regions she would not allow anyone but her husband-to-be to touch, and hoped with all her heart the confusion would be enough to halt that line of inquiry.

She had certainly not considered the tiredness and the headaches to be of any concern, certainly not in relation to the condition the maester so heedlessly forged on toward. No one ever mentioned that as a sign!

The maester let out a heavy sigh. “If my lady is certain that there is no possibility-”

It was Nysterica that spoke up in a stern voice and with a fierce frown. “I would caution you to measure your words carefully, maester. If you mean to question her honor, I vouch for it. My lady is a proper lady, always accompanied by me, except in sleep when I am just beyond the door.”

He sighed once more and nodded to himself. “In that case it must be the heat, my lady. The heat and the shock, I would venture a guess. You should be well as long as you stay away from the lists and drink plenty of water. Water, mind you, not wine or ale or beer. And do not venture out into the sun for a few days, my lady. I would even advise to close the shutters to better shield from the sun.”

Margaery nodded her head in acknowledgement and hid her trembling hands under the blanket while Nysterica escorted the man out.

Nysterica came to sit on her bed, her head shaking, and her brows set in a frown still. “The nerve of that lecher! To wish to examine you so and then advise drinking more water! Pardon me, my lady, but we should have taken Maester Lomys with us, I think.”

Margaery nodded mutely and thanked all the Gods that they had not. Lomys had known her since the day she had come into this world and would have seen through her easily enough. She sighed and burrowed into her pillows. “Would you close the shutters, please? I wish to rest.”

Her septa gave her a small smile and rose to do as bidden and then closed the door softly behind her, and Margaery allowed herself to crumble at last.

A child. She could be with child. It could be growing in her belly right now, and she had not even considered it! They were meant to be safely wed or at least betrothed by now, yet events kept getting in the way, and now she could be with child out of a wedlock.

She had to tell him. She had to tell him the next time she saw him. Whatever his plans may have been, they were out of time now. And she would not be allowed to go watch the melee anyway or go to the closing feast, and it was maddening. Were he to ask for her hand there, her father would not be able to refuse, not after he had saved Loras’ life in such a way and Margaery could have appeared surprised and flustered by it all and blushed prettily and there would be nothing to worry about.

But how could she not have fainted when first Loras and then Jon had had their lives threatened by the most dangerous beast in all the realm? And he had not even worn any armor to protect him, had not even had the time to draw his sword. Oh, she could not have born it. She had not, and so she had fainted, and now she was fretting over how she could be with child instead of basking in the attention heaped upon a newly-betrothed young lady, whose handsome knight had saved her gallant brother and then asked for her hand.

Urgh! It was maddening. More so that it was Margaery’s own doing that none of it could happen as Jon had planned, better than he had planned with him slaying the Mountain to rescue her brother. The whole realm would have spoken of nothing else, and there would have been songs sung of his gallantry and a great love that sparked upon the first meeting of their eyes at the tourney. Now, none of that would happen.

Still, she prayed that he would come in the night so she could tell him, and he would urge his father and all would be well anyway. Merely not quite as well as it could have been had she not swooned. But when her mother joined her in her bed for the night to assure herself of her health, her prayers shifted to him not coming in the night. If he took part in the melee as he had planned, he would be too tired for a visit anyway, she was sure.

It was no easy task to convince her family to let her go visit with the Hand’s daughters as was her usual after the scare of yesterday, and she had to promise to drink enough water and not to go riding and not to exhaust herself. And yet when she reached the Tower of the Hand, it was to find it in chaos.

“My word, what is going on here?!”

“Lady Arya is missing, my lady. We are looking for her.”

She barely restrained a smile. Therein laid her chance, and so she offered herself and Nysterica in assistance and slipped from her septa’s sight in the chaos, the moment her eyes landed on Jon. It would not matter, if they were to be caught speaking by Nysterica now, not anymore. But she did need to speak with him, to stress the urgency of the situation.

He seemed startled to see her and by her request to speak in private, but he gave her a mischievous wink, and led her into yet another hidden passage, taking her to the cove. He did not seem worried for his sister in the least.

“Are you not worried at all?”

“No, not a bit. Arya is like to disappear and reappear when it suits her best, and nothing we can do will change it. Best let her hide until she is ready to come out. Much less mischief that way.”

She gave him a wan smile and turned her eyes to the sky. The urgency was great, but she could not make herself speak, not on that matter. “What do you think it means?”

He gave her a strange look and cocked his head to the side, his brows raised. “Hm?”

“The comet. What do you think it means?”

His eyes did not stray away from her face even once, not even to glance at the comet. “Nothing. It is a comet. It is too far to mean anything.”

There was something strange in his tone, in his eyes, in the way he would not look up, and it annoyed her to no end. Talk of the comet was supposed to be a distraction, a way for her to ease into the topic. Its blood-red tail could be used as a bridge to mentioning that there was blood in the sky, but her own had not come, and she had not paid it any heed until the maester. 

What a silly girl she was, she would have laughed lightly, and he would have laughed too, but now… Now, there was uncertainty in her. Something queer was going on, and she knew not what, but there was something pressing down on her chest, restricting her breathing, and she sank to sit in the sand and clutch at her breast.

He sank down to his knees next to her, and his voice was so incredibly gentle, as if speaking to a fragile thing, a spooked animal like to bolt at the slightest shadow of a threat. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

She looked into his soft eyes and made herself talk. “I might be with child.” Might, because she did not let the maester inspect her properly, so she did not know.

Confusion clouded those dark eyes and a frown appeared on his face. “Do you have a cause to think the moon tea did not take?”

Margaery stared at him, barely breathing. “What moon tea?” He could not mean that she take it now, surely?

His face twitched, and he tilted his head, and when he spoke, his speech was deliberately slow. “The moon tea you should have been drinking to prevent… consequences.” He gestured vaguely toward her middle, and she wrapped her arms around herself.

“But…” There were tears in her eyes and her breath shook. Moon tea was not for her. Moon tea was for lightskirts and she was not a lightskirt. She had only given herself to him, and she had every intention of marrying him. What did it matter that the sequence of events was not entirely as it should be? “ Why? ”

He closed his eyes as if in pain for a few moments before he responded even more slowly. “Because you are unwed.” 

Anger entered her and she threw her arms up. “Well, then we should do something about that, should we not?! And soon. ”

His nod was slow too, and his eyes started to dart up before he seemingly remembered himself and pointed them to the ground in a glare. “I suppose so.”

“If… If your father asks in your name, father will not be able to refuse him, not after you saved Loras.”

“And he would otherwise? Because of… the previous arrangement?”

“I was not promised to anyone, not truly. It was just a hope. Now, with this… It is not even that.”

His eyes lifted to her belly, something incredibly sad in his face. “I am sorry. I am sorry, I did not mean to ruin everything.”

She laid a hand on his cheek and told him with a teary smile. “Nothing is ruined. It was not my hope, and all is as it should be. So long as we marry swiftly, no one will be any the wiser.”

He sighed. “There will be danger.”

Margaery shook her head resolutely. “There will be no danger. No danger at all. As long as it is the King’s Hand that asks.”

He looked into her eyes with something akin to resignation. “That is not the danger I spoke of.” His lips lifted in a tired smile, but there was a flash of amusement in his eyes. “But I suppose you are right. We are both brown of hair.”

Her brows furrowed minutely, and she was confused once more. What was that supposed to mean?

They walked through the dark tunnels quietly, not speaking even once, with Margaery hugging herself and following after, barely keeping up with his long strides. He was not happy, not happy at all. He had not kissed her, or touched her or even spoken to her after they had left the cove, and she dared not speak herself.

There were tears in her eyes begging to be spilled, but she was afraid a sob would break the terrible silence and everything would crumble in truth, so she bit down on her lip and held fast. She kept her silence until he stopped abruptly, too abruptly, in front of her, and she almost walked right into his back, freezing just short of running into him.

She wanted to ask what was wrong, but was rendered unnecessary a mere moment later as she heard a voice, echoing strangely, and froze in terror and then wrapped herself against his back, hiding her face. They would be discovered!

“… found one bastard. The rest will come soon. A day, two days, a fortnight …”

“And when he learns the truth, what will he do?” There was a second voice too and she squeezed her eyes shut desperately. Oh Gods, it would be one thing to be discovered alone by Nysterica or even someone from the Hand’s household but to be discovered by two unknown men…

“The gods alone know.”

“The fools tried to kill his son, and what’s worse, they made a mummer’s farce of it. He’s not a man to put that aside. I warn you, the wolf and lion will soon be at each other’s throats, whether we will it or no.”

They spoke of murder, worse, they spoke of wolves. And lions. And Jon had spoken of danger. She found herself pressed into a wall, a hand covering her mouth, a forehead pressed against hers, and it was all she could do not to cry, especially once the next words were spoken.

“Too soon, too soon. What good is war now? We are not ready. Delay.”

Gods, war? War now? What good war ever was?

“As well bid me stop time. Do you take me for a wizard?”

The man’s chuckle sounded ominous. “No less.” 

“What would you have me do?” The question echoed in the darkness, and she wondered at it herself.

“If one Hand can die, why not a second? You have danced the dance before, my friend.” No. No, that could not be. Surely…

“Before is not now, and this Hand is not the other,”

“Perhaps so. Nonetheless, we must have time. The princess is with child. The khal will not bestir himself until his son is born. You know how they are, these savages.”

A loud rumbling groan of stone against stone was heard and just when she thought the horror was at an end, it continued.

“If he does not bestir himself soon, it may be too late. This is no longer a game for two players, if ever it was. Lysa Arryn has fled beyond my reach, and the whispers say she is gathering swords around her. The Knight of Flowers brought his sister to court. The girl is a maid of fourteen, sweet and beautiful and tractable, and Lord Renly and her family intend that Robert should bed her, wed her, and make a new queen. Littlefinger… the gods only know what game Littlefinger is playing. Yet Lord Stark’s the one who troubles my sleep. He has the bastard, he has the book, and soon enough he’ll have the truth, thanks to Littlefinger’s meddling. Delay, you say. Make haste, I reply. Even the finest of jugglers cannot keep a hundred balls in the air forever.”

Dark, impenetrable eyes watched her intently and whatever the horror of the words, she could not look away, not even with the tears having spilled over at last.

“You are more than a juggler, old friend. You are a true sorcerer. All I ask is that you work your magic a while longer.” 

“What I can do, I will. I must have gold, and another fifty birds.”

Perhaps more was spoken and had she strained, perhaps she would have heard them even as they walked further and further away and their voices faded, but she could not. Blood was rushing in her ears, humiliation painted her cheeks, while tears streamed down her face. He knew. Oh Gods, he knew.

When the voices faded entirely, he removed his hand from her mouth and stepped back, watching her silently and she, lacking any strength, any dignity, slid down the rough wall to collapse on the ground and sob miserably. It was not just him that knew. Others knew too. Others knew that she had been brought to court to whore herself out to a married man.

She had thought herself better than a lightskirt, but all the court knew the truth of her presence. All the court knew, and the man she meant to marry knew too now. Oh Gods, how had it come to this?

His body seemed to freeze once more, and then he was gone, and she was left alone in the darkness, and she drew her knees to herself and there was nothing left to her but weep bitterly. Maid of fourteen, sweet and beautiful and tractable. Maid of fourteen, bedded and not wedded, just as she would have been had she followed her family’s instructions and seduced the king. 

The very thought of it, of the fat big king looking at her with his lecherous look, touching her with his meaty sweaty hands, made her shudder in disgust and bile rise in her throat and she retched pitifully. When the thought of more occurred to her, there was no more for her left to retch, and darkness pressed down on her, making it near impossible to draw breath and her ears and fingers went numb with cold as she gasped and struggled and could not draw breath, clutching at her breast desperately.

But then there were arms wrapping themselves around her and bringing her into a warm embrace, a soft voice whispering reassurances into her hair as she buried her nose in the crook of his neck and as warmth slowly seeped back into her body from the furnace that was his, she could breathe once more.

“What is wrong with her?” The voice was youthful and high and echoed in the dark tunnels, and her heart seized in pain.

His voice was full of exasperation. “Nothing is wrong with her. She is just…” He trailed off awkwardly and sighed, and even Margaery knew that she did not cut the picture of nothing wrong with her as he hoisted her up to carry in his arms, and she snuggled into his chest.

“What are you two doing here?” There was not a drop of suspicion in Arya’s voice, just curiosity, and she was immensely grateful for that.

Jon’s voice as he answered his sister was carefully neutral. “We were looking for you. The whole household is.”

The way back to the Tower of the Hand was never-ending and when she was let down at last, she scrubbed at her cheeks to remove the signs of tears, but judging by the silent stare Arya was giving her, she was far from successful.

“You are too nice for the king. But don’t worry, we will not let him have you. And father will be safe too.”

Margaery burst into a fresh bout of tears, and Jon let out an exasperated cry. “Arya!”

Chapter Text

The cheers for the young knight turned to shrieks in a heartbeat as Gregor Clegane strode toward the Knight of Flowers with his bloody sword still in hand, his black fury plain to all and then Jon was gone from his side in a blink of an eye and when he shouted, he did not know who he shouted for, Jon or Clegane.

“Stop him! Stop him!” Ned shouted and shouted, but his cries were lost in the roar of the crowd. Everyone seemed to be yelling as well, Sansa was crying, and he had to reach out and catch Arya before she ran after her fool brother and hold her tightly, kicking and screaming and crying too.

It all happened so fast. Too fast for belief. Jon reached the Mountain just as the Tyrell boy’s courser bolted, and delivered a powerful kick to the back of the man’s knee that would have brought any other to knees. The Mountain merely stumbled forward half-a-step and turned in fury toward his fool, unarmed and unarmored son, swinging wildly as Jon weaved and danced out of the way, leading him further and further away from the fallen knight.

When Jon drew his blade at last, and it fell out of his hands, he gasped with the crowd and fell into his seat with his eyes closed in pain. He could not watch. Oh Gods, Lyanna. Gods, do not let him fail her now, not like this. He had not even lived yet, not truly.

His eyes snapped open when the screams turned into wild cheering a moment before Robert’s voice boomed out over the tourney grounds, ordering a stop to the madness, his battlefield voice wasted. Wasted, for as Ned rose back to his feet, still clutching Arya, Jon was on his knees in front of the king and the Mountain was swaying on his feet with the wind before he fell to his knees and then forward to plant his face in the dirt.

It took three men to turn the knight over and by then, he had long ceased moving and Ned was barely breathing awaiting Robert’s reaction, but the king, surrounded by his Kingsguard and many swords, let out a boisterous laugh and laughed and laughed and drew Jon up to his feet and thumped him on the back and Ned’s feet were planted to the spot, hugging his daughters to himself, kissing their hair, and relieved beyond words.

There was some fuss to the side, and it was not until the excitement died down some that Lady Margaery was collapsed on the ground and her mother was collapsed in her seat looking about to faint herself, Mace Tyrell fluttering between his daughter and wife, only the diminutive Lady Olenna keeping her head and ordering attendants around imperiously as they bustled off.

He had noted it all, but his eyes were fixed on Jon, his arms wrapped around his daughters and his heart still in his throat, waiting for him to come back to them. He could not go to him, not now, surrounded by so many knights of great renown, not when he would have taken him in his embrace, squeezing him for all his worth, and upbraided him for his rashness and for his foolishness and caused him no end of embarrassment. Jon was a lord in his own right now, and there was no place for a concerned father in front of so many judging eyes.

And so he waited in the stands for his son to return to him victorious, when he should be dead by all rights, and thanked the Gods for the fact that return he would. Pale and shaken, he was when he did so, but he did, and when he sat down next to him, looking like a lonely little boy he had turned into somewhere along the way, he laid an arm around his shoulders and brought their heads together to tell him in a soft voice. “You did well, son.”

The Hand of the King could not rejoice at the death of an anointed knight at the hands of his son in a tourney, but he could still let him know, so he squeezed his shoulder and did not let go. There was no need for scolding, judging by Jon’s disposition, he knew his own foolishness well enough, so he held on and did not let go until the joust ended with Ser Loras declared the winner, with Sandor Clegane whom he was to face in the final match declared the second as he conceded the match to attend to his brother’s body as was only proper.

“You should bow out.”

Jon was staring at him with his jaw set stubbornly. “I came back to the city to fight in the melee. I will not bow out now.”

Ned sighed, because that mulish set of the jaw had been well-known to him, once upon a time. “You meant to appear no threat, did you not? Now that you have killed the Mountain, none of them will think you no threat. Show some sense. Pull out.”

Jon was still pale, though no longer seemingly lost and small, strangely aloof now, shrugged his shoulders without care. “I am still young, still lean, and weak and unknown to them. Nothing changed, except that now I am not entirely unknown to them.” His eyes met Ned’s and something in him softened and Jon sighed. “I will be careful. You have nothing to worry about.”

Ned let out a short laugh filled with disbelief. “Nothing to worry about? It is melee. ”

Jon let out a hollow chuckle and laid a gauntleted hand on his shoulder, his eyes lacking any sign of amusement. “Worry not, I say, my lord. This is not how I die. Gods have a grander, more terrible fate in mind for me.”

The words had the ring of truth to them. A grander, more terrible fate. He remembered with dread Jon’s words a lifetime ago. Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord. He had killed Sansa’s, and Arya’s ran off, and there was ice in his veins. If the Gods had terrible plans for Jon, and if the Gods had sent the direwolves to them, what folly had he done? Bran’s wolf had saved his son’s life and Ghost was right there with Jon, but his daughters…

He could argue no more with Jon so set on his path and when his mind had gone down a dark path, and so he was left to watch the melee with his direwolfless daughters, watching the three hours of mud and blood and chaos at the edge of his seat.

Whatever sorcery Jon had woven, he had remained ahorse until the very end, until only him and Thoros of Myr, a madman who shaved his head and fought with a flaming sword remained, and he was amazed to see the palfrey so calm when so many of the horses reared away from the green flames and even as the red priest’s bigger horse charged her, she did not spook. She did not spook even as her fool of a rider pulled the priest down from his saddle and down, down, into the mud, falling with him, the green flames sputtering out in the mud. Jon was young and lean and nimble, back on his feet in a flash, while the priest was tall and fat and heavy and as he struggled to his feet, Jon laid a heavy sabaton on his chest and put a sword to his throat and won.

The final tally of the melee was three broken limbs, a shattered collarbone, a dozen smashed fingers, two horses that had to be put down, and more cuts, sprains, and bruises than anyone cared to count, many of them doubtless Jon’s, all of which had Ned desperately pleased that the king had abandoned the idea to participate and yet Jon, a boy of fifteen, won. It would seem that the words had been the truth. The Gods had grander plans for him, and he dreaded already what they might be.

For all the apprehension growing in him, he could not not rejoice with his daughters, not when even Sansa abandoned all pretense to dignity and threw herself around Jon’s neck and congratulated him heartily, not when Arya grinned up at him and jumped sound and hugged him and even her sister, not when Jon was grinning in a way he had never seen him grin before, and not when he knew that one of the too fat a purse Robert had insisted on would serve to heal the wound the Crown had inflicted on Jon’s coffers.

Ned felt drunk, drunk on happiness, on the joy of all of them being so amicable for once, when he left the celebrations in the company of his happy children, to put them into their beds, lord and all, and when he ascended the steps to his own chambers and fell into his bed, he found it to be the first good day since their arrival into the damned city. 

The arrival of the Spider, unannounced and unwelcomed, was all the more jarring for it even before he started to spin his tale and as he listened to it, he was left to wonder how much of it could be believed.

Had Cersei Lannister truly wished to do away with the king in the melee? Had the tears of Lys truly done away with Jon Arryn? And perhaps most importantly, how had the man slipped past two sets of guards only to be stopped by the ones at his very door? Why had he?

The sleep did not come easy that night, and when he woke and Arya disappeared shortly after they had all broken their fast, he was not surprised in the least. He would not be afforded any happiness, any peace here.

Eddard Stark was quite tired and there was a headache building behind his eyes when Arya was brought to him, Jon’s hands guiding her into her father’s solar, Lady Margaery, her head bowed demurely, stepping in after them and he greeted her perhaps a touch brisker than he should have, considering the way she flinched at his tone, a feeling of remorse springing up immediately. But there was no space for remorse, not now, when Arya freed herself from her brother’s hold and launched herself at Ned, her eyes impossibly wide.

“I was down in the dungeons, only they turned into this tunnel. It was all dark, and I didn’t have a torch or a candle to see by, so I had to follow. I couldn’t go back the way I came on account of the monsters. Father, they were talking about killing you! Not the monsters, the two men. They didn’t see me, I was being still as stone and quiet as a shadow, but I heard them. They said you had a book and a bastard and if one Hand could die, why not a second? Is that the book? Jon’s the bastard, I bet.”

“Jon? Arya, what are you talking about? Who said this?”

Jon drew breath, but Arya rushed on with her talk. “They did. There was a fat one with rings and a forked yellow beard, and another in mail and a steel cap, and the fat one said they had to delay, but the other one told him he couldn’t keep juggling and the wolf and the lion were going to eat each other, and it was a mummer’s farce. The fat one said the princess was with child. The one in the steel cap, he had the torch, he said that they had to hurry. I think he was a wizard.”

“A wizard.” Ned was unamused. “Did he have a long white beard and tall pointed hat speckled with stars?”

“No! It wasn’t like Old Nan’s stories. He didn’t look like a wizard, but the fat one said he was.”

“I warn you, Arya, if you’re spinning this thread of air—”

“No, I told you, it was in the dungeons, by the place with the secret wall. I was chasing cats, and well… well, I went in this window. That’s where I found the monsters.”

“Monsters and wizards. It would seem you’ve had quite an adventure. These men you heard, you say they spoke of juggling and mummery?”

“Yes,” Arya admitted, “only—”

Jon stepped up and covered her mouth with a sigh. “You are making a right mess of telling the story, Arya. Why don’t you go clean up and eat something, and we will tell Lord Stark what happened, hm? And don’t tell anyone else what we heard. You must promise me this.”

A hand covering her mouth still, she nodded, her eyes still very wide and Ned’s eyes narrowed. Was there something to the story?

When she was gone, he finally remembered his manners and bade them to sit, eyeing the downturned pale face of Lady Margaery with some curiosity. Why was she here? What was her place in all of this? But he did not ask, not yet, hoping for Jon to bring some clarity into Arya’s fantastical story of mummers and wizards.

Jon grimaced and rubbed his face, and then turned his face to the ceiling as he started speaking. “There were two men, and they did speak of killing you and of wolves and lions eating each other. They also spoke of the lions trying to kill your son once already and making that into a mummer’s farce.”

Ned drew a shocked breath and his eyes darted to Margaery Tyrell, sitting quietly, forlornly, in her seat, her shoulders hunched. The words were not a surprise to her. His gaze returned to Jon with a frown. They should not speak of that in front of her , and yet she knew already. And Littlefinger and Catelyn might have spoken the truth of who was behind the attack on Bran after all. He closed his eyes in pain for a moment. Oh Gods, Catelyn.

Jon was frowning fiercely. “And they did speak of princess being with child. And a khal of all people. The khal will not bestir himself until his son is born, they said, so delay the war they must. Delay, because it would be of little use now. ”

He paused in his speech and went to the window, resting against the windowsill, his arms folded. “And they spoke of Lysa Arryn gathering swords around herself and Littlefinger meddling and you having found one bastard and soon enough you will find others and that you have the book and soon enough you will have the truth.” His face twisted. “ What book they spoke of I have no idea but unless you are hiding other by-blows somewhere, I cannot be the one they spoke of.”

Their eyes met for a moment and then Jon’s eyes turned eerily cold and when next he spoke, his voice was colder than the heart of winter. “And they spoke of Tyrells.” 

Lady Margaery flinched once more and grew so pale he feared she might faint once more, and he went to chide Jon for his cruel tone, but he continued, and he was robbed of voice as he watched in horror as his son’s face twisted in hate and his eyes blazed with a cold fire he had never seen in him.

“They spoke of the Tyrells bringing Lady Margaery to court, so the king could bed her, wed her and make her a queen. How queer, is it not? To do so when a queen lives still.” His voice was soft and unlike anything he had heard from him ever before, and he glided toward the sitting lady with unnatural grace to lay his hand on the armrests of her seat and hiss into her face. “In fact, I know of only one instance when a girl was brought to court to seduce a king already married and was made a queen after. It did not end well for the realm. Not well at all.”

At last, Lady Margaery seemed to come to life and her eyes blazed as she glared at Jon. “I am no Alicent Hightower.”

There was a note of amusement in Jon’s voice. “No, you are not. You are much prettier, for one. Much wilier for another.”

The lady drew back as if struck. “How can you-? I do not want the king! I have never wanted the king!”

“But you have never wanted me either, have you?! You merely saw a way out. ”

She opened her mouth to defend herself, but Ned spoke up, because there was something going on between the two , and he had an ugly inkling where the conversation was heading , and he wanted no part of it, especially when both of them had seemingly forgotten about his presence entirely. “Regardless, there is a queen. Why would the king have a need for another?”

Margaery Tyrell’s eyes were red when she pointed them at him at last and spoke in a hushed voice. “Because the king has no trueborn children. Lord Renly… Lord Renly says that is why his brother and Lord Arryn died.”

Eddard Stark reared back, shocked beyond belief. That could not be… And yet… “Lord Renly knows?! ”

Her nod was hesitant and distracted, and she turned to Jon, who had retreated back to the window to glare out of it with folded arms, something desperate in her face. “Please, you have to believe me! I can’t… Oh Gods, please do not let them… Please, I…”

Jon drew a deep breath and his back was rigid. “He will not have you and they will not take you. The babe is mine. I will not have it be born a bastard and I will not let anyone take it away from me.” 

Ned closed his eyes in horror at the words and at the spite in his voice. No. Not this. How had it come to this?

There was an ironic twist to Jon’s lips when he turned back to face them. “She needs someone that speaks with the king’s voice to arrange the marriage. That is you, Lord Stark, so she caught herself your son to achieve that. We should not let her efforts go to waste, should we?”

“Jon! That is quite enough! I will not have you speak like this anymore!” Not when Lady Margaery was weeping openly and flinching with every word, not when she was…

He gentled his voice and spoke to her. “I will have my men escort you to your family’s chambers. We will say that you had a scare when you were lost with Arya. You certainly had one. Let me deal with this. I promise you have nothing to fear. All will be well.” Promises. There were too many promises and too many plots.

Jon remained stubbornly silent while she was escorted out, staring out over the courtyard, and Ned was grateful for it. He had not recognized the person that had spoken to a girl, plainly in a great deal of distress, so.

“Jon-” He cut himself off when Jon started laughing, a queer sound that had him bent over, hands rested on his knees.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I let myself be led by my cock again. Oh Gods, how could I let myself be fooled like this again? ”

Breath froze in Ned’s lungs. “What do you mean again?! ”

Jon straightened and blinked at him, eyes clouded with confusion. “What?”

Ned spoke through gritted teeth. “What do you mean fooled like this again?”

Chapter Text

Jon stared at him blankly for the longest time , and then he shook his head dazedly. “I… I need to… go.”

Ned was dumbfounded as Jon dashed past him and to the hearth, only to see him open the wall and disappear into the opening that appeared. Though startled, he hastened after him, suddenly enlightened as to the likely way Varys passed his guards without notice the night before and not pleased by it at all. His solar was far from secure, it would seem.

He had to follow swiftly lest he lose the boy who was all but running on ahead of him. The dark twisting tunnel seemed endless, splitting off every so often, and a few times he was left to wonder whether he was truly still following Jon before a flash of movement or a sound assured him. It was a folly he had come to realize. Were he to be lost there, he would not find his way out, perhaps not even for days, perhaps not ever.

As the darkness started to lighten at last, he breathed a sigh of relief and hastened his steps, eager to be out in the light of the day once more. He found Jon standing on the beach, just beyond the reach of the sea and staring out at it with his hands clasped behind his back, and he sighed to see him so.

“Will you tell me now?” Whether of how he came to be so familiar with Lady Margaery or with the hidden passages of the Red Keep. He needed to know.

His back stiffened , and he did not turn to face Ned. “Tell you what? There is nothing to tell. I am a fool.”

Ned suppressed a sigh, clinging to his faltering patience. “How about you being led by your cock. Again, you said. Fooled like this again.”

Jon’s shoulders rose and fell. “There truly is nothing to tell. I let myself be led by my cock. By my desires. By my weaknesses. I knew the dangers and I disregarded them. She was a highborn lady and though I was a lord, I was a minor one and only recently legitimized at that. There was nothing she could gain from a union with me so she did not seek a union with me, only dalliance, I assured myself. And so there was no danger, I convinced myself. There was nothing to be gained.”

His voice dripped with bitterness. “There was nothing to be gained but me, my companionship, the pleasure of my company.” Ned stood and looked at Jon’s twisted face with pity. “I let myself be fooled into thinking it was me that mattered, that it was I that had value to someone, but no. No. It was the Hand of the King that mattered. The Hand of the King and freedom. Just not mine.”

He shook his head and wondered what to tell him as he laid a hand on his shoulder. The boy was plainly wounded deeply by this and there was nothing to ease the hurt, nothing he could think of at least. “You do have freedom. More than she does now. You can let her go. You can let her family take care of this. You can leave for Dragonstone or even Essos now and there would be nothing anyone would be able to do about it.”

“I will not forswear my child! And I will not let it be born a bastard!” 

Jon seemed affronted by the words , and he was so very grateful. Whatever mess he found himself in, he was prepared to face the consequences, to take responsibility. He knew his duty, and reminding him of it now would serve nothing but embitter him more. Instead, he needed to understand that there were choices and that he was the one making them freely, so he reminded him gently. “Her family would likely not let there be a child.”

Jon gave him a deeply betrayed look at that, and Ned almost smiled at him. “You have some choices to make regarding Lady Margaery and the babe. It looks like you have made them already. Now, accept them as yours and do not blame her for them. Not when it seems to me that even you understand your own part in it all.”

The boy kicked at the sand and muttered mulishly. “I thought there was no danger.”

Ned barely withheld a growl, and his voice snapped like a whip. “You fooled yourself into thinking there was no danger.” He took a calming breath and continued. “Now, the danger is here , and you must tell me truly. Do you wish to wed Lady Margaery? If I must convince the king into supporting it, there will be no way back.” 

Jon took a deep breath and nodded, and Ned was relieved. His foster father had been murdered, there was treason afoot, he hardly recognized the boy he raised as his own, he did not recognize his erstwhile brother at all, and now there was a young lady and a babe added to the mix, but he was relieved. Everyone made mistakes. It was only to be expected, especially of young men, away from home and supervision, but he had taught his sons their duty well enough.

The boy understood his duty , and now it was up to Ned to convince the king that the match had to happen without soiling the lady’s reputation. Lord Renly’s accolades for her beauty had sounded queer to him when he had heard of them from Robert, but now that he knew… All was clear now , and yet he had no proof still. Nothing to show for all his knowledge. 

Varys had confirmed that Jon was poisoned and that the squire died to stop him asking more questions, but had the Master of Whisperers had a proof, he would have come forward, would he have not? And if the lions truly were behind the attempt on Bran, why? He had no proof of that either. The dagger was a trap, he was sure of that, and Littlefinger, though openly mocking, was stringing him along , and he let himself be led for now despite the burning knowledge of the rumors. And there were rumors when one thought to listen to them. 

So, he was left with a bastard, and he would likely be led to others soon enough, and there was the book of lineages. Not much of a proof. Better than nothing, but hardly something one could use as irrefutable proof. And there was war on his doorstep, and he would have to tread carefully to avoid it. Littlefinger wished to hasten it, the men Jon and Arya and Lady Margaery had overheard meant to delay it so they could use it. Everyone wanted war in the Seven Kingdoms, it would seem , and he had no allies other than family. Family that was to grow and increase the danger of war. There was more than one treason afoot, after all.

Jon made no movement to return to the Red Keep, still brooding, and he would not be able to return on his own, so he dropped heavily into the sand and considered the mess he found himself in as the waves gently washed ashore, bringing peace to a troubled mind.

Peace was always short-lived in the Red Keep, he came to learn. The princess was with child and the khal would not bestir himself until his son was born. He had heard the words , but he had not paid them enough mind. Not nearly enough, he came to realize as Varys made his report to the council, to the king, present for once.

“I want them dead!” The king’s voice rang out, and Ned closed his eyes for a moment, determinedly not thinking of bodies wrapped in crimson cloaks.

“Robert, I beg of you, reconsider. You speak of murdering a child.” His conciliatory tone did little to calm the storm.

“The whore is pregnant!” The king’s fist slammed down on the council table, loud as a thunderclap. “I warned you this would happen, Ned. Back in the barrowlands, I warned you, but you did not care to hear it. Well, you’ll hear it now. I want them dead, mother and child both, and that fool Viserys as well. Is that plain enough for you? I want them dead.”

Oh, it was plain enough. It had been plain enough for a long time , and it had been plain enough for about as long that quarreling with him about it would amount to nothing, but he could not not try. The queen meant to do away with Robert in the melee by forbidding him to participate, Ned recalled only too clearly, and yet he could not agree either. 

There were many reasons he regretted coming to King’s Landing, but having his eyes opened to the man he had thought of as a brother once… It was certainly one of them. He had remained silent when Robert had waited on him to agree that he was a good king, and he had remained silent when he had told him to say that he was a better king than Aerys had been. He had not known the answer, and he did not know the answer still. Aerys had been mad. Robert had no such excuse. He suppressed a dejected sigh. It had been easier to believe in Robert from Winterfell. 

But now there was more than just a babe of Daenerys Targaryen to consider, so he appealed to the king’s reason rather than honor. There was no place for honor where Targaryens were concerned for Robert.

“Robert, a girl wed to a horse lord half a word away is no threat to you, nor is her babe. A babe not yet born. A babe that will not even carry the Targaryen name. Dothraki will not cross the Narrow Sea and even should all of them do so, we will smash them into the sea. All Dothraki in the world would not be able to stand against the armies of the Seven Kingdoms.”

The king’s eyes blazed. “Others take you, Ned! How many times must I tell you?! There are still those in the Seven Kingdoms who call me Usurper. Do you forget how many houses fought for Targaryen in the war? They bide their time for now, but give them half a chance, they will murder me in my bed, and my sons with me. If the beggar king crosses with a Dothraki horde at his back, the traitors will join him.”

“Would they? Would they truly? And who would be these traitors you speak of?”

“Whole of the fucking Reach to start with! Dorne! The Houses on the Narrow Sea and half the Riverlands too! It is only the Stormlands, the West and the North that I can be sure of now that Jon is gone.”

“Whole of Reach, you say. Most of the realm's knights come from there. Why not bind it closer to the throne?”

The king chuckled darkly. “Do you not think I would if I could? The Knight of Flowers has long since outgrown his squireship , and I am short a hostage. And if you dare suggest I wed Joffrey to the girl, lovely as a dawn she might be, instead of your daughter, you are fucking insane, Eddard Stark. I will not reward treachery.”

It would be sweet to have Sansa free of the betrothal, but this was not the way to achieve that, and he had known it. “Not reward them. Bind them, I say. My daughter is to wed your son. Wed Lady Margaery to my son Jon and you will not only tie Reach closer to the throne, with the strength of it behind him, you will ensure the loyalty of the Houses of the Narrow Sea too, should there come a time when it comes to question.”

Robert blinked at him and leaned back into his seat, his brows drawn in a thoughtful frown. Lord Renly observed it with alarm, paling and leaning forward, speaking quickly. “Robert, you cannot do that. It would be an insult. It would not bind the Reach to you, it would turn them against you entirely.”

Ned almost smiled. Tell Robert Baratheon he could not, should not, or must not do a thing, and it was as good as done. 

“Pox on them! If I cannot have their loyalty, I will have their blood! Better it be a maiden’s blood than that of men spilled on a field of battle, is it not? And the boy saved their flowery knight too.”

“Robert,-” Lord Renly’s voice was pained.

“No! I will hear no more! Is it an insult to wed their daughter to the man that saved their son? No, I say. Both are in the capital still, are they not? Good. They will wed tomorrow.”

Ned blinked at that, apprehension rising within him. “Tomorrow? There is hardly a need to rush so.”

Robert smiled at him, too satisfied with himself. “You do not know these roses. Give them time , and they will find a way to weasel their way out. Besides, I tire of your whinging about coin for your son. Tyrell dowry should shut you up well enough, I think.”

There was little he could say to that. Tomorrow then. Jon would not thank him for the lack of time , but Lady Margaery would likely find herself quite relieved. The king would not support the marriage. He had commanded it, and there was nothing they could do about it now.

His household was all aflutter with preparations for the wedding to take place the next day, when Littlefinger appeared with a smile.

“I must applaud you, my Lord Hand. You have distracted Robert quite handily from the enemies abroad by the enemies at home. Who knows, in a few days, when he wakes up from the drunken stupor this wedding is bound to invoke, he may not even remember Daenerys Targaryen.”

The man set his teeth on edge. “Say what you came to say, Lord Baelish.”

“Oh, I truly came only to congratulate you. Your son seems to be doing quite well for himself. I wonder what Lady Margaery thinks of the match herself.”

Ned gave him an anemic smile. “I would hope she does not curse me for it.”

Littlefinger let out an amused laugh. “Oh, she is too well-bred for that. It is almost a shame to waste her so. The Tyrells will be most wroth. I would be on the lookout for trouble, were I you.”

“I will keep that in mind, Lord Baelish.”

Baelish paused as if waiting for something , but then let out a laugh. “Worry not, my lord. I do not mean to detain you long, I am on my way to dine with Lady Tanda. Lamprey pie and roast suckling pig. She has some thought to wed me to her younger daughter. I only meant to offer my assistance. Your man Jory has been searching for a certain brothel quite ineffectually. I would be happy to show you to it sometime.”

He had no doubt he would be. He only wondered why.

Chapter Text

Her family was most concerned after she had returned to them in such a sorry state from her visit to the Tower of the Hand and after having disappeared from Nysterica’s care too, and she was unsure how convinced her grandmother was of the Hand’s apologies for his daughter’s behavior. Grandmother seemed quite distrustful of Margaery as of late.

Her mother slept with her in her bed once more, caressing her hair and humming a lullaby as if she were a child once more, and she could not be more grateful. “It seems to be a shock after a shock for you, sweetling, and I am so sorry for that. If there was anything I could do-”

Margaery turned over to face her mother. “I do not want the king. Please, do not make me. I am no Alicent Hightower.” Tears sprang to her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. “I am not, I swear. And people know. They know, and they talk, and I heard them. ”

Her mother’s eyes were pained as she smoothed a strand of her hair back behind her ear. “Is that what has you so distraught? People talking?”

She nodded mutely, because she could not tell her mother the truth. It was not just people talking. It was not just people knowing. It was Jon knowing. It was his father, the Hand, knowing. It was little Arya Stark knowing and pitying her.

Jon had been so cruel. He hated her now, she was sure. She had hoped to have a happy marriage. She had truly believed they would do well together, and now he despised her and were it not for the babe, he would likely not even look at her ever again, much less wed her. Were it not for the babe that might not even be. Oh Gods, what if they wed and there was no babe?

She could not tell her mother any of that, though, so there was little else to do but nod and weep. Margaery had been a pride of Highgarden, the pride of Reach, and proud of it. Now, everyone would think her a whore, whether she made an attempt on the king or not. Because they knew already, and she had not even seen him yet, much less done anything. 

Margaery cried herself to sleep and when she woke the next day, it was with a terrible headache and so even though she dressed, her shutters remained closed, and she hardly ventured out of her bed, her mother still worried and still at her side. She could not cry anymore. She felt as if all her tears had been shod already, and now she was just tired of it all. Tired of endless waiting, tired of her headaches, tired of tiredness.

Her melancholy mood did not improve, no matter what her mother tried and Butterbumps proved an exceptionally poor attempt at lifting her spirits considering the ache behind her eyes, but when the queen was announced, it was swiftly replaced by horror. People knew. Did the queen as well?

Margaery greeted the queen by her mother’s and grandmother’s side, her curtsy perfect as ever and her eyes pointed determinedly to the ground, not willing to chance finding knowledge in those predatory green eyes. Margaery’s eyes were pointed to the floor and so when cold slender fingers touched her cheek, she barely held herself from flinching.

“Such a pretty little thing you are. It is almost a shame to waste you so.” She was barely breathing as she listened to the queen’s soft voice. “Never matter. I came to invite you to join me and my ladies in our sewing, dear one.”

She knew. Margaery was sure she knew now, and she did not want to go, not when she knew, not when she felt as she did, but she could not refuse the queen’s invitation, not truly. And she wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to. But when her eyes darted up, and she could see there was a Kingsguard knight at her back and more guards with red cloaks accompanying her, she knew there truly was no choice. Neither Loras nor her father was there, and even they would not do anything in face of such an innocuous invitation delivered in such a soft and sweet tone.

Her grandmother’s lips were pursed in displeasure and her mother made a valiant attempt to invite herself along, but it was no use. The queen was dismissive and arrogant and very much in her element, her eyes flashing with amusement, and so Margaery followed after her, her head lowered demurely and her stomach churning with nerves, no longer able to hold herself back from wincing when the massive door to the Maidenvault closed behind her with a deep groan and a heavy thump.

And yet, despite whatever horrors she imagined, there were only ladies busy at sewing and the queen bade her to join them as she herself seated herself on a chaise and motioned for a servant to fill her cup. Needless to say, Margaery was beyond confused as she joined the ladies, and her confusion only grew as she came to recognize what it was the ladies were sewing. A cloak. They were sewing a green cloak with a golden thread, a sigil of House Tyrell, slowly but surely starting to take shape.

“I… I do not understand, Your Grace.”

The queen’s smile was very, very sharp. “Oh, do you not? I would have thought Renly would have rushed to tell you. He must have been waylaid by more pressing matters.”

Margaery’s brows drew together, no closer to understanding, and the queen’s smile stretched further. “You are to be wed on the morrow, sweetling. The king ordered so. It is such a short notice, I ordered my ladies to help sew your maiden cloak. Seamstresses will be with us shortly, so a wedding dress can be made in time as well.”

Fear and hope battled for dominance. Surely… “Wed, Your Grace? To whom?”

The queen let out a disgusted sigh. “You truly are such a perfect little lady, are you not? To the Hand’s son, the bastard Lord of Dragonstone.”

Margaery kept her face carefully blank. “Thank you, Your Grace. Though I was under the impression that the Lord of Dragonstone was legitimized by His Grace, the king.”

The queen’s lips twisted in displeasure. “He was. Hardly changes the fact that he had been fathered on a common whore.”

Margaery’s cheeks burned, and she lowered her head once more, so the queen would not note her glare and, lacking reaction, the vile woman continued. “You will be my guest here until the wedding. With the wedding to take place so soon, we would not wish to incite anyone to foolishness, would we?”

Sweet and beautiful and tractable, that was what Margaery was supposed to be, and so that was what she showed the queen. A good daughter, a perfect lady, unperturbed by the news of an unexpected marriage to a lord below her station. A true lady, bearing her heavy burden with great dignity. Oh, but on the inside… Somehow, Lord Stark had done it. He had promised her that he would, that all would be well, and it was well on its way to it, for surely he would not have done this, not like this, were Jon truly averse to it. Surely there was hope for them yet.

Neither her mother nor her grandmother had been allowed into the Maidenvault and Margaery only met her father in front of the royal sept where she was to be married, already dressed in her wedding dress and cloaked in her maiden’s cloak, and it was only for the best. Her mother would have sought to soothe her, her grandmother would have strung plans to free her, and she wanted none of it. 

They must know now. With the king’s order for her to wed someone else and so swiftly, they must know that their plan had no chance of success anymore. With the hall in front of the royal sept lined with guardsmen of Baratheon and Lannister and Stark, they surely must know.

The expression on her father’s face was grave when she greeted him and laid a hand on his arm to be led inside. “I am sorry it came to this, my little rose.”

She did not dare look him into his eyes, but she allowed a small practiced smile to grace her lips. “There is nothing to apologize for.” Not this, at least. “The Lord of Dragonstone is an honorable man, and he saved my brother’s life. To wed him is a small price to pay for Loras’ life.” She allowed herself a dig as well. It was too late for them to do anything anyway. “And he is my age and rather handsome, unlike some other prospects.”

She was brave in the face of her father, in the face of her family, but the closer she came to the front where the septon and her husband-to-be awaited, the greater her reluctance grew. She had not faced him since he had spoken to her so cruelly, since he had learned… Margaery felt blood draining from her face with each step and when she reached the dais, she was not even brave enough to raise her eyes to see his face as they spoke their vows at the marriage altar between the statues of the Father and the Mother, and she was sure there were tears in her eyes when her father unfastened her maiden’s cloak and a heavy cloak of black settled on her shoulders instead, but her voice was clear and even as she spoke her last words of the ceremony and finally dared to raise her eyes. “With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband.”

His eyes were serious and there was a shadow in them, but there was no loathing that she had so feared to see. “With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife.” He leaned forward, and their lips touched in a chaste kiss, barely more than a peck, but more still, and she took heart in that. All would be well. He was not happy, but he did not hate her, not truly.

The septon raised his crystal high, so the rainbow light fell down upon them. “Here in the sight of Gods and men, I do solemnly proclaim Jon of House Stark and Margaery of House Tyrell to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them.”

All would be well, she would make sure of it. She would be the best wife there ever was, and she would never give him any reason to complain of her.

The Small Hall of the Tower of the Hand where the wedding feast took place was full to the brim. It was filled mostly with the vassals of House Tyrell, and many, many courtiers seeking the Hand’s favor. There were even some guests bedecked in the colors and the sigils of the Houses of the Narrow Sea. But even here, even in the hall where the wedding feast took place, there were red cloaked guards and neither the ones cloaked in green, nor in gray could hope to match them in numbers.

Margaery took care not to show her discomfort in that and as toasts were spoken and as courses were served, she could not help but curse her dress. It had been made to torture her, she was sure.

The dress was of a simple cut yet pretty, almost entirely made of light green silk that left her feeling almost naked, and she hated the immodest deep slash in its bodice almost to her belly button with an uncommon passion. The only allowance for gold had been the almost sheer Myrish lace that filled the slash, and it chaffed at her breasts, making her squirm, with every movement. There had been no place for a shift under the light silk and the near transparent lace.

She had hated the dress from the moment she was dressed in it, and she hated the queen for making her wear it, when there were many of Margaery’s own gowns that would suit just as well. But the queen seemed determined to humiliate her and so the horrid dress she wore, and she cursed it, and she hated it, but when she was led out to dance the first dance with her husband and his eyes kept drifting, her smile turned real and her hate for the dress lessened.

He even smiled at her, a true smile as they danced, and he forgot himself and then there were even more smiles when she returned to his arms after dancing with her father and brother and her good-father and the Redwyne twins, and he even drew her against himself, and she almost sobbed in relief and in frustration and had to push herself away from his close hold lest she make a fool of herself at her own forced wedding. There were no more smiles after that.

There were no more smiles after that, but when the call went out to bed them, and she stiffened in alarm, there was nothing but glares left. She had nothing but smallclothes under her gown, and it seemed her husband was well-aware of that too as he protested loudly and lifted her up into his arms and dashed away from any who would pursue.

And pursue they did with laughter and lewd japes thrown after them, and following them even through the thick door of their bridal chamber that was unceremoniously kicked closed in their face and then barred for good measure and Margaery beamed at her husband, her heart full of gratitude.

He grinned back at her a moment before he sobered and walked to the bed, waiting for them with the blankets drawn back, and took out a dagger. She let out a soft gasp and looked at him askance, and his eyes darted to her, and he let out a frustrated sigh. “There must be blood. The babe will come a touch too soon and if there is no blood now, there will be questions. I want there to be no questions.”

“Should we not… Should it not be… done after? For…” Her voice failed her. This was to be their wedding night. Were they not to lay together? Were they not to lay together for the first time freely and without the fear of discovery hanging over them?

His eyes darted to her and even then they drifted to her breasts, barely covered by the light silk, before he caught himself, glaring at the wall, and spoke in a carefully neutral tone. “You must be tired.”

She smiled at him and stepped up closer to him, her skirts brushing his legs, her movement drawing his darting gaze once more, and she barely believed her own daring. “Not tired at all. And it is expected of us. Surely they will wonder if there are no sounds coming forth soon enough.”

His eyes darted to the door with a frown, and she took the opportunity to lean yet closer, pressing against his arm and his breath stuttered and his eyes, blazing with scorching heat, finally met hers and she rejoiced. The dress had tortured her long enough, the fire in her belly felt unattended for far too long, so she drew his head down for a hungry kiss.

He let out a resigned sigh when they parted, and she almost crowed in victory. “I suppose you are right. It would not do to have them question the validity of the marriage due to a perceived lack of consummation.”

Chapter Text

Margaery’s chest rose and fell with each breath, her face illuminated by the light of the rising sun, peaceful and seemingly giving out a glow of its own and his eyes glided all over her, inspecting her for any signs of mistreatment at the hands of the queen. She had been pale and downcast the day before, enough to make him wonder at her health, but her mien had improved after the ceremony and while her appetite had been far from healthy, she had shown no signs of being unwell when dancing and certainly none after.

It had been jarring to have Lord Tyrell thunder into the Tower of the Hand, his son and personal guard in tow, demanding the return of his daughter, and he could not help but admire Lord Stark for keeping his wits about him. He had not. His head had gone to the information Margaery had shared with them the day before, had gone to the conversation they had overheard, and had gone to a dark place. What if she had been overheard? What if they were all in danger, even greater than he had believed, greater than he had feared?

He had not truly wondered before, but there were plainly people using the hidden passages. He had never seen nor heard anyone there, but he had only used them after nightfall before, after the castle was asleep. The one time he had used them during the day, it had been quite the encounter. And so he had returned to the tunnels under the cover of darkness and carried a lamp with him to light his path, to show what had remained hidden when he walked them guided by memories.

The passages were being used and interestingly enough, that included the ones one needed to crawl through. Sometimes, he wondered what Maegor had been thinking when he ordered them made. None of those low and narrow passages could be used by someone of Maegor’s build, some of them were almost too tight for himself already, and he was quite lean and not fully grown yet. So, someone was making use of the passages to spy on the occupants of the Red Keep during the days, but likely not during the nights. Or at least not of the ones he had used for the secret trysts with his… wife now.

Someone could have been listening in on their conversation, but they had spoken quietly, Margaery’s voice weak and his deliberately low except for the time when the emotion had won over him and that could surely not be dangerous. Had anyone overheard that, all they would know would be that two young fools fell in bed together and made a child. Hardly a tale worth telling, even when they were both scions of Great Houses.

And there was a child in her belly, there was no doubt of it in his mind. There had been none, not since the moment she mentioned the possibility, but Ghost had smelled it on her the night before as he patiently weathered the attentions and bribes of his master’s sisters at the wedding feast. It was not coming to pass as he had dreamed once, none of it was happening as he had hoped, but he did have a pretty wife and a babe on the way now. It could have been worse. He remembered it being worse. 

He could not trust her, not now, not yet, perhaps not for a very long time, but they could do well together. She was not an empty-headed ninny to drive him spare like some other girls, nor someone who believed his very existence to be a sin or an abomination. And her mother had very pale hair, as he had noted last night. That could only be good should this babe come out the way he half-way expected. The Gods loved to make a jape of him, he was sure, and so that babe was going to be pale-haired and purple-eyed, and he would stake almost anything on it.

And there was the dragon and her eggs. There was to be a babe, and he was so, so tempted to put an egg into its cradle once the time came. It would not even be too dangerous, the treacherous part of his mind whispered to him. It would not, not with the queen committing treason and the king lacking heirs, not with him wed to the Rose of Highgarden and with Lord Stark the Hand. Whenever the truth of the queen’s children came out, there would be chaos, if not outright war, and no one would be paying too much attention to a minor lord and his eccentricities.

He was a fool. He knew he was a fool. A naive one at that. Were he to do that, he would paint a target on his back. And it was still so early. There were so many dangers to a babe before it was born into this world, and there were yet more after. Which was why a cradle egg was such a temptation. The eggs, the hatchlings… They offered some kind of protection from ill health, and he wanted that for his babe. He wanted it with all his heart. He wanted it for Margaery too because she was too young for this.

The fear was overwhelming. The desire was as well, but there was not much to be done about that, the babe would come on its own time. The fear though… The fear was overpowering at times, and he had barely held himself back from rescuing Margaery from the Maidenvault and sailing her to Dragonstone and damn the consequences. There was no better place for the babe than Dragonstone, he was sure, not with the possibility of an egg, not with the magic that suffused the island once more what it should always have been… friendly to the blood of the dragon.

A beam of sunlight tickled a nose, and it scrunched, and then his wife was no longer asleep, stretching herself languorously and giving him a pleased smile that turned mischievous in short order as his eyes followed the movement and his lips stretched into a smile without a thought.

“Are you pleased, husband?”  

Was he? He was. He was also scared out of his wits and wanted to sail for Dragonstone right that moment. She seemed well. She seemed healthy and even happy. That was good for the babe, surely?

Her smile lessened as the silence stretched, and his lips turned down, and she let out a heavy sigh. She certainly no longer seemed happy. “Will you ever forgive me? What if… What if there is no babe? Will you-?”

He interrupted her in a soft voice. “There is a babe.”

She stopped speaking and gave him a queer look. “There might not be. I did not let the maester examine me and the signs can point to other conditions too.”

He was shaking his head even while she spoke. “There is a babe.” He could not tell her of Ghost, she would think him quite addled, but there were other signs. “Your breasts, they…” His voice failed him as color rose to his cheeks. They had lain together plainly more than enough times, and yet he could not speak of her breasts without blushing like a maid.

Margaery frowned and crossed her arms protectively over said breasts. “What is wrong with my breasts?”

His ears burned. “Nothing is wrong with them. They were like… apples. Now, they are like… larger apples.” He sounded like a fool. “And they are…” He coughed helplessly. “More sensitive.” His voice was barely a whisper.

Her jaw became loose, and she gaped at him for quite a while why he turned redder and redder, and when she finally found her voice it was to speak through gritted teeth. “That was the blasted dress. It could be used as a torture device, I am sure of it.”

His eyes darted to the discarded gown and he poked the bear. “That merely proves my point, I think.”

A low growl escaped his Southron wife, and he deemed it a good time to vacate the bed and put some distance between them. “Do you think you can be ready to set sail today? I want us to be on our way as soon as possible.”

“Wha-?” She was pulling back a pillow to throw after him, no doubt, but she let it be and stared at him. “What do you mean set sail? If we leave now, everyone will think the wedding was hasty because I am swelling with child!”

He almost choked on a laugh but thought better of pointing out the obvious. “The wedding was hasty because the king ordered it so.” And he had yet to draw it out of Lord Stark why he had ordered it with such enthusiasm. There had been too much to do and too many people to do it fluttering around constantly and there had been no opportunity to speak safely.

“Do you truly think people will care about that part?! They will think me a fallen woman!”

He sank back onto the bed with a sigh. “What does it matter what they think? Talk will not reach us on Dragonstone and talk hardly matters.”

There were tears in her eyes and her voice broke. “They will question the legitimacy of the babe. They will question its paternity. They will-”

“What does it matter when I will not?”

She gave him a steely glare. “They will think the babe the king’s.”

He did choke at that. “What? Why would they-?”

“Because it is the king that ordered a hasty wedding of the most eligible maiden in all of the Seven Kingdoms to the Hand’s recently legitimized son, and it was the queen that had me guarded in the Maidenvault. And because people know what I was brought to the capital for.”

“It was you that wanted the king to support the match.”

“Support, not order. Support, not lock me up under heavy guard in the Maidenvault. Not have a heavy guard at the wedding and even after, at the feast. It looks bad already. If we leave so swiftly… No one will believe your heir to be yours, no matter what we know. He might even be in danger.”

Despite the topic, a smile tugged at his lips. “He? So sure of yourself?”

Her chin rose in defiance and her glare was vicious. “ I will be the best wife you could ever hope or dream of. The best anyone could dream of. I will give you as many sons as you could want.”

He blinked at her, bemused. “I do not think determination is what makes a babe come out a boy…” He blinked again and frowned, because something occurred to him. “And what does that have to do with you being a good wife?”

Her glare did not lessen. “Not good, the best. My mother gave my father three sons before I came along. I shall do better.”

He shook his head at her. A son had always been the dream, but he would not be unhappy with a daughter. Not unless she came out like Arya. There was much enjoyment to be found in being Arya’s favored sibling, not so much in being her parent. He would much prefer it if his daughter was like Sansa. Or perhaps even better, like Margaery. Margaery seemed much more pragmatic than either of his sisters. 

Margaery also seemed much more aware of court matters and certainly court gossip than himself, so perhaps there was a grain of truth to what she had said. Perhaps it was truly not the best idea to sail to Dragonstone quite so swiftly. And there was the breakfast with his new good-parents to attend. He had not spoken with them much so far. There had been little opportunity for it at the wedding feast, when he had avoided them, and there had been none when Mace Tyrell thundered at Lord Stark until he ran out of breath and gave the Hand and himself the chance to find out what all the yelling had been about.

He grimaced. “Do you think you can act a freshly deflowered bride, then? Well enough for your parents to believe it?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “It is not my parents you need to worry about. It is my grandmother. She is exceedingly suspicious of all the time I spent in the library.”

His brows rose at the revelation, but his voice was dry. “Clearly not suspicious enough. Shall we do something about it?”

Margaery gave him a look that plainly named him a fool. “We shall not. Grandmother likely fears me with child already, and thanks the Gods I could make such an advantageous alliance still. Once we announce it, she will be relieved beyond measure.”

His lips twitched. “She will believe me a cuckold and be happy for it?”

“ Relieved. She will be relieved. She will never be happy with me marrying a b-” Blood rushed into her face as she cut herself off and her gaze cropped to the floor, and she finished in a whisper. “She will not be happy about it, but she will bear it. And you are the Hand’s son, so our standing in court should improve whatever your birth.”

A bitter chuckle escaped him. “ Our. ”

Her brows crunched, and her gaze returned to him full of confusion. “What do you-?”

“Not ours. Not yours. Your family’s. You stand apart from them now. You decided to stand apart when you settled on this course for yourself. You are a Stark now, a Lady Stark of Dragonstone. Margaery Stark, not Tyrell. You better remember that, because that is where your loyalties lie now.” He closed the distance between them as he spoke and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear as he finished softly. “You do want to be the best wife a man could have, do you not? When it comes to trust, you have quite a way to go to being a good enough wife.”

Her eyes clouded with tears. “I will-”

He covered her mouth with his hand and spoke with a low and soft voice. “I do not need words and promises. I need to see it.” There were too many secrets on Dragonstone to allow for a family such as the Tyrells to learn of them.

She nodded, her eyes large above his hand, and he removed it with a small smile and a nod of his own. “Good.”

Margaery’s early morning glow did not return after their conversation, and she turned thoughtful if not outright wary while a maid helped her dress and brushed and arranged her hair. It was only for the best. It would not do for her family to think her too happy with the arrangement she had no hand in arranging.

Her smile was preoccupied at best when they joined Lord Stark in his private dining room, and even as the Tyrells were ushered inside. It was not just her parents. Her grandmother came along as well, and he wondered whether the woman understood how terribly rude it was to invite herself along, when the invitation spoke plainly of the bride’s parents only. Lord Stark’s smile was entirely fixed as he ordered another chair to be brought to the table.

“Lady Olenna, what an unexpected pleasure.” Lord Stark’s greeting was markedly more polite than his own would have been had he found himself in his place.

“I do not see why it would be. I can hardly let Mace talk to you alone.”

He stared, and Lord Stark’s brows rose. “I do not see why. We have spoken to each other before.”

The diminutive lady snorted and went to seat herself, and he traded a bewildered look with Lord Stark as they moved to invite the invited Tyrells to the table. 

The breakfast was painful to endure, with Margaery poked and prodded by her grandmother who liberally snapped at her good-daughter whenever she gently intervened and attempted to steer their conversation in a different direction and his lips thinned, and his jaw started to ache while he tried to listen in over the boisterous voice of his good-father.

Lord Stark, sitting at the head of the table, kicked him under the table, and he turned his gaze on him just as Lord Tyrell seemed to be winding down from his speech. “… grateful for what you did for Loras, of course. Very grateful. Har. Margaery’s dowry will surely show some of that appreciation.”

He blinked at the lord. “Dowry?”

The lord blinked right back, startled by the question. “We may have not spoken of it, but Margaery’s dowry has been set aside for a long time. The wedding might have been hasty, but it had not caught us unprepared in this area! No, certainly not! Let no man say that Mace Tyrell does not care for his daughter’s future! I already sent the word to Highgarden to send the gold on to Dragonstone.”

He stared at Mace Tyrell and his fingers wrapped tightly around his eating knife. Was he meant to believe he cared for his daughter’s future now? When he had tried to make her a whore of Robert Baratheon? He made himself release the knife and gave the man a wan smile. “I somewhat expected that the wedding being ordered by the king would make you unwilling to pay the dowry.”

“Har. We are all but the king’s humble servants, and I would not have my sweet Margaery suffer for the king’s order.” 

His eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion and the apparent lack of offense in his good-father and then darted to Margaery, still smiling pleasantly at her grandmother despite the endless prodding doubtlessly grating on her, and he nodded thoughtfully. “I assume you would not.”

“Which is why Loras will be going with her once you decide to return to Dragonstone. My heart could not bear the knowledge that my little rose is entirely among strangers, with no one but her husband to rely upon.”

He choked. He was being saddled with a good-brother as well. His voice could not be drier when he reacted to the news. “How delightful.”

Mace Tyrell beamed at him. “Indeed!”

The Tyrells were a family of menaces. He was half-convinced his good-father merely played at being a fool, the dried-out Lady Olenna was a nagging harpy of a woman and Lady Alerie served as the reasonable conciliator for all the world to see. They were all artifice, and he was only too happy to see them go. If only he could get rid of the petite fiend at long last.

“You seem like a good boy. What a pity that you are Dornish.”

He gaped at her before he managed an offended retort. “I am not Dornish!”

The wrinkled nightmare hummed in understanding. “Half-Dornish, then.”

“Not half-Dornish either, my lady.”

“Are you sure?” He was very sure. Her grating voice became tinged with nostalgia. “What pretty curls you have.”

Mortally offended by the batty old lady now, he opened his mouth to snap at her only for her to turn her back on him and walk away, the door closing behind her, robbing him of the opportunity to entirely ruin her opinion of him forevermore.

Silence reigned for only a moment as Lord Stark let out a heavy sigh. “I never thought to consider it good fortune that my mother was no longer with us when I became the Lord of Winterfell.”

He closed his eyes and fought valiantly against the need to laugh at the misery in his voice.

Chapter Text

“I wish to go with you.”

His movements stilled, his gambeson half-way up his shoulders, and looked at his wife and her big eyes, her pouting mouth and her slight lean forward to best display the tops of her breasts peeking over the bodice of her dress and spoke resolutely. “No.” He knew when he was being manipulated and there were times when he was willing to indulge her, to indulge them both in truth, but this was not one of those times.

Her pout grew more pronounced , and she leaned forward slightly more, widening her eyes yet more. “ Please, I wish to spend the day with you, to see where you go, to see what you see.”

He snorted and shook his head. “You truly do not, and certainly not dressed as you are.”

Her look turned wounded , and she leaned back to fold her arms and bite her lip with a frown. “I wish to be useful to you. How can I be useful, if I know nothing of what you do?”

He gave her a flat look. “You are useful to me and Lord Stark both. You have no idea how relieved everyone is thanks to your interference between Arya and Sansa.”

She threw her hands up in the air and then threw herself around his neck. “Oh, please, have mercy on me. I have spent near every day with them since you left for Dragonstone and for the sake of my sanity, I beg you, take me with you wherever it is you are going. Please. Oh Gods, please, take me away from them , or I fear I shall scream. Or be violently sick. Either is an option.”

It was a fight to keep his lips from twitching at Margaery’s woes, though he did feel some pity for her. He was not one to be often in the company of both and hardly ever without the supervision of their parents, and yet even he knew it to be a considerable pain. She had been largely left to their tender mercies, all others fading into the background at first opportunity, too grateful for the opportunity afforded them.

He sighed and unclasped her fingers from the back of his neck to bring her hands between them, and hold them there in his own. “I feel for you. I truly do. But I am going to Flea Bottom and you wear too much gold. So no. No matter how appealing you make yourself, no matter how nicely you display your bosom, no matter how tempting your lips, I will not take you with me.” It was one thing to go to Flea Bottom and be known for a highborn. It was quite another to go and be known for a rich highborn. He had no wish to risk an attack in her condition.

Her face brightened immediately and she bounced. “Oh, well, why did you not say so straight away? I will change into something more appropriate , and we can go!”

He was given no more chance to protest as she moved past him and opened the door to summon a maid in a flash, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I doubt you have anything truly appropriate.”

“Oh, do not worry. I did take at least one dress that I wear when visiting the orphanage.” She paused for a beat. “I hope. I ordered them packed, in any case.”

His hand dropped away from his face in sheer amazement. “ You have dresses suited for Flea Bottom? Why? And why would you have them packed for the capital?”

He ignored the fact that there was a maid now fluttering about the room, listening to every word though Margaery did not, giving him an annoyed glare heavy with meaning, but waving his question away with a light laugh.

“Oh, I do. A lady should be prepared for all… contingencies.”

Contingencies. He turned the word over and over in his mind and grew more displeased with it the more he pondered it. He had amounted to her escape plan, he knew, though apparently not her only escape plan. She was very, very lucky this one worked out for her as well as it had, because literally running away to hide in a city she was unfamiliar with and that was quite dangerous on a good day, would not end well for her at all , and she would have come to learn the folly of her actions sooner rather than later. 

His brows pulled down in a frown and his arms folded across his chest. “I see.” 

He could have left her while she dressed and gone off on his own. He could have , and he should have, but he stayed , and he watched as she changed her dress and removed any ornaments and let her hair be pulled into the simplest of braids. He stayed , and he regretted it as she twirled in front of him with a beaming smile in her simple dress of dark green with a modest neckline.  It was the least flattering thing he had ever seen her in, and his frown deepened.

“You’re too beautiful.” He turned away to leave at last, his mood properly spoiled. The dress was made from a fabric of a rougher spun than was her usual , and it hid her figure rather than showed it to the best advantage the way her other dresses did , and she looked younger and more innocent in it than he knew she had any right to. She was still way too beautiful for Flea Bottom. With her dazzling smile and the light shining in her eyes, she was just too beautiful for anywhere and anyone , and it was… disconcerting that she was his.

What was he to do with her? He had only ever hoped for a pretty wife, but she was far from merely pretty. She was trouble. Her family was trouble too, though of a less enjoyable kind. The schemers that they were, they were also unlikely to let him live his life in peace and obscurity, working on building Dragonstone back to its former glory and bringing forth a new generation of dragons and dragonriders.

Margaery caught up to him swiftly, twining her arms around his , and she beamed up at him, and his stomach plummeted. “You have the oddest way of saying the kindest things. They sound almost like a condemnation.”

He sighed. “Not quite a condemnation, merely an observation. Someone looking like you has no business going to Flea Bottom without a sharp blade or two. Or a dozen. Two dozen.”

Her eyes clouded with confusion. “I have you and I have your men.”

His shoulders rose and fell, seemingly without care. “And what if we become separated?”

The confusion cleared , and the smile spread over her face again. “Then I shall have to hold on to your arm steadfastly.”

Her good humor did not reassure him in the least. Something was very wrong with Flea Bottom, but he was too unfamiliar with what the city, what Flea Bottom itself should look like under Robert Baratheon , and so he shied away from making hasty judgments, but his skin prickled , and his stomach churned with uneasiness every time he visited. And now he was to visit with his wife, the wife that carried his child, because he was unable to give voice to the feeling. Ghost would be coming with them at any rate , and he would not allow himself to be parted from Margaery even if his master would.

The children liked her. Of course, the children liked her. Though her smile lost quite a bit of its shine by the time they dismounted, the note of it was still enough to make her seem kind and, with how young most of them were, even motherly. Guilt was a living thing inside him , and he could hardly stay still and could not bear looking at her and her court of little admirers for more than a few moments at a time.

“I hear you are looking for men.”

The gravelly voice next to him startled him , and he barely managed to suppress the instinctual jerk, though he did not bother stopping the hand that dropped to the hilt of his sword and drew it a few inches out of its scabbard. Being too slow on the draw could kill a man , and he found himself with a good enough reason to live.

Turning his way to the side slightly, he addressed the stocky gray-haired man. “I might be. What interest is it of yours?” 

A corner of the man’s lips turned up. “I might be interested.”

His brows rose in sheer amazement. Who was this man? Why was he even talking to him? Jory was the one appointed to look for more household guards for Dragonstone. The man’s boots were scuffed , and his leather jerkin had seen better days, likely even decades. “But would I be?”

The man grinned at him, and his squashed nose made it a strange sight. “I am Lothor Brune, you could see me fight in the Hand’s tourney.” Well, he had not seen the joust except for the final matches and this man had not been in those for certain.

His wife’s arm wrapped around his , and he was startled once more and gritted his teeth in annoyance and cast a dirty look toward his traitorous direwolf grinning at him with his tongue lolling out of his mouth, as she spoke in an entirely pleasant voice. “Husband, this man won over your father’s man on the king’s judgment and fought Ser Aron Santagar to a draw.”

The pleasant tone of voice was not reflected in the way she held onto his arm as the man inclined his head to her in greeting. Both the man’s and his wife’s demeanor cooled considerably in each other’s presence.

“Indeed? Which of my father’s men?”

“The captain of the guard.” There was something sharp in Margaery’s eyes as she responded.

Ah, that would likely be why he thought to speak to him directly. His interest in the man increased. “You have my congratulations, then.” Jory was a stubborn opponent, as he and Robb both had come to learn in their lessons, and Ser Aron Santagar was the Red Keep’s master-at-arms. Margaery’s hold on him tightened , and he laid a hand on hers to gently pry her fingers from his arm with a smile.

“Sweetling, I fear your captive audience is waiting for you to finish your story.” He patted her hand for good measure and inclined his head toward them.

His wife’s gaze carried a clear warning as she gave a light laugh and rose to her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek and hiss into his ear. “Do not dare. He is a freerider.” Well, he gathered as much himself. He had merely not realized that that was the root of her hostility.

The man’s eyes were wary as he watched her go, and the wariness shifted to resignation as his gaze returned to him. “I suppose you have enough men already.”

He could not help it. He laughed. “I need more men than I am likely to get. Not just guards, but workers too. If you are searching for a hearth and home, I can provide that with a good pay too, and all I ask in return is undivided loyalty. If it is travel and adventure you seek, I fear I have to disappoint you. Once I return to Dragonstone, I have every intention to remain there.”

The man straightened to his full below-average height and there was a steel in his eyes he liked to see , and the ghastly grin was back on his face. “Undivided loyalty I can give you.”

“Well, in that case I suggest you report to Jory Cassel. He is in charge of housing arrangements for my men.”

The man’s grin widened as he gave him a shallow bow as he spun on his heels and walked off and Margaery reappeared at his side the moment he was no longer in sight, her smile fixed, her voice low. “Why would you do that? You should have sent him away for daring to approach you so, not offer him a position.”

He blinked at her, and his eyes darted to the children waiting for her return once more, their weathered clothes speaking plainly enough as to their low station, clearly recalling the lively chatter that preceded the storytelling and his brows scrunched in puzzlement , and he brought his lips closer to her ear. “What do you mean? You are speaking to those of much lower standing with grace yet a freerider may not come to speak to me?”

Her smile had a touch of pity and a touch of condescension in it. “That is precisely how it is. He is as much below my notice as he is above it. He is even further below yours. He is not in your service , and you are a lord, not expected to engage in charitable works. He truly should have known better than to speak to you.”

A snort escaped him. “When he beat Jory on the king’s judgment? I think not.”

She shook her head at him in disappointment and leaned her head on his shoulder to speak lowly further. “You cannot take into service someone that does not respect the way things are.”

He laughed at that and put a finger under her chin to raise it and give her nose a peck. “You have a rather high opinion of how many men seek a position in my service if you think I can afford to turn any away for having the nerve to speak to me.” He raised his voice to be heard by the many curious ears around them. “I have room and board on Dragonstone for any that seek honest work. I reopened the old mines and I have more plans yet that require more hands than I have.”

Margaery rolled her eyes at him. “And how do you expect any such hands to get there? If anyone is poorly enough to seek work in mines, they are not likely to have silver to buy themselves passage anywhere.”

She was truly a delight , and he gave her nose another peck. “I ordered any ship of Dragonstone heading home to take those willing to work there free of charge.”

Her brows twitched, but then her forehead smoothed. “You did?”

“Indeed, I made the arrangements before coming for the tourney.”

She hummed thoughtfully , and her gaze dropped to his waist. “I did not notice it before , but you had a different sword when you saved Loras.”

He gritted his teeth and could already feel color rising to his cheeks at the memory of his fumble with the sword. “Yes, I had my tourney sword at the tourney.”

A gasp left her and her eyes were large with shock. “Even when you… against the Mountain ?!”

“Yes, you might have noticed I did not use it then.” Gods, his ears were burning.

Her haze turned cool. “I believe I did not see that part, thank the Gods.” A wrinkle appeared between her brows. “Why was your tourney sword so different though?” 

Because he was a bloody fool. He had wanted to use Dark Sister in a melee in a tourney. How he had managed to overlook that little detail in all his planning was beyond him. He wondered when exactly he would have realized his error had the blade he had had made for the tourney not arrived just as it had. Blunted. Because it was a fucking tourney sword.

He coughed uncomfortably. “It was because of Thoros of Myr. I had a blade made that would fare better against his wildfire than regular steel would.”

Her face cleared and there was a note of new-found respect in her voice. “Oh, that was clever.”

His ears burned fiercer still.

Chapter Text

Ned was beyond relieved to have Wyman Manderly join him in King’s Landing at long last, to have him there in his solar and to have his shrewd mind and his men to count on as well as his own and Jon’s. A great weight lifted from his shoulders, though a great weight still remained.

He could see now that he had made many mistakes before ever even leaving Winterfell. He should not have taken Vayon Poole along, nor the captain of the household guard. They were good men, true, but they should have stayed in Winterfell. Should have stayed and should have helped guide Robb and take care of the castle as they always had. Instead, he had taken them to the capital, to a place where their value was lessened by their lack of knowledge of the environment, crippling them and thus crippling himself.

Worse, Vayon’s daughter came south with her father, and the guilt gnawed at his insides. He had taken his daughters and that was his own folly, but they were highborn and of high value, should they fall into the hands of his enemies. His household… His household was of no value to anyone but him here. He was of half a mind to send Vayon and his daughter back home and yet could not do so any more than he could send his own daughters away, not without it being a harsh rebuke to his steward and he could not bring himself to pay him back so for the many years of leal service.

But he was not alone in the viper’s pit anymore. Wyman Manderly was there now, and he could stop relying on Jon and his men and his knowledge of the capital. Lord Manderly had ever been an ambitious man, but an ambitious man that knew his oaths well enough, and his loyalty to House Stark and the North was unquestioned.

When he greeted the lord in his solar, he did so with a smile. “You are a most welcome sight, my Lord Manderly. I hope the sea was kind to you.”

The corpulent lord laughed uproariously. “The sea is always kind to me, my lord. Though I must admit, I had not expected to travel to King’s Landing once more in this lifetime. Not at my age.”

And that was the root of it. That was why Wyman Manderly was better than any other to join him in the treacherous Red Keep. “You know well how it goes, my lord. We are nearing the end of a long summer. Winter is coming, even here in the capital, and we best prepare for it lest we find ourselves in need to go hunting.”

The lord’s gaze sharpened even as he leaned back into his seat. “Indeed, this coming winter promises to be a cruel one, after such a long summer. I suspect I will not live to see the end of it, but I would still have my people ready for it.”

“I commend you for that, and I believe you would serve them best here, as the Master of Ships. There are some… issues that need to be addressed regarding the royal fleet, and I trust in your ability to do so.”

Wyman Manderly’s eyes shone, and pride warred with greed and wariness for dominance in them as he puffed up even more. “My lord honors me.” The wariness won out and the gaze sharpened once more. “I suppose it would only make sense were I to order more ships to be built in White Harbor were I to take on such a role. And to reinforce the harbor, of course.”

Ned nodded agreeably. “Indeed, I would consider that reasonable. Especially since there are those issues with the royal fleet I already mentioned.”

Manderly’s eyes were mere slits below his furrowed brows. “What issues can the royal fleet have?”

“Wages, my lord. They were owed wages and my son, as the new Lord of Dragonstone, foolishly decided to pay them out of his own coffers, believing the Crown would compensate him soon enough.”

When he paused with a frown, Wyman Manderly obligingly jumped in, his own brows raised. “It did not?”

“It did not, and I was informed it will not. The Crown is too deeply in debt to allow for that, I was told. Jon is willing to forgo compensation in coin if he is given leave to use a certain part of the royal fleet for his own purposes.”

Lord Manderly took a little time to choose his next words. “That is most gracious of him, my lord.” 

He did not say more, but there was a question in his eyes plain as day. “I cannot approve such a request for obvious reasons, and I fear neither should you. However, I would greatly appreciate it were you to raise your voice in support of it should such a topic arise in a council meeting. And move a certain number of White Harbor ships to King’s Landing and Blackwater Bay to alleviate loss of any patrol ships to the venture for the duration.”

“Most reasonable, my lord. Most reasonable.”

Ned ignored the platitudes and went on. “And I do believe it for the best to build a canal across the Neck from the Fever river all the way to the eastern shore.”

Lord Manderly choked. “A canal?! That is …”

“Quite a venture, I agree. It will take many men and many years to achieve, I am sure. It will be a long and strenuous journey, but each journey begins with a step and for us, that first step is to rebuild Moat Cailin as that does seem the most convenient place to house the workers and the soldiers to defend them against bandits, would you not agree?”

He quite enjoyed the wide-eyed look Wyman Manderly was giving him. It was not often that he surprised the wily lord. “I would, my lord. I would. As I said. Most reasonable. Most reasonable, indeed.”

“Good. I am glad we agree on what needs to be done to prepare the North for a harsh winter.”

Lord of White Harbor nodded mutely, his eyes turned to steel. 

It was nigh noon when he was admitted into the king’s presence and Robert’s form was covered only by a dressing gown as he sat at a table, inviting him to join him for a meal and there was a whore in his bed. Ned’s stomach turned at the smell of him, and he politely declined the invitation to eat, sitting down into the seat proffered with no small dose of resignation.

This was the king they fought to seat on the throne. Aegon the Unworthy come again. His mind went to Barra’s mother and his stomach turned again.

“Tell me, Ned, has your son broken that pretty wife of his in already? Ah, I could hear the Reachmen grinding their teeth at the slight and Cersei! Can you imagine! For once that woman makes herself useful!”

He barely suppressed a wince. “They seem content enough together.”

The king spat out black ale he was drinking as he laughed. “Har! Content! They should not leave their bed at all!”

“They are both kind and honorable, and they know their duty better than most. They went visiting orphans in Flea Bottom.”

“Pah! Her duty is to be bedded and bred. The sooner there is a squalling babe tying the Starks and the Tyrells together, the better, I say.”

He had nothing but sympathy for the poor girl. He could not hope to see Robert through the eyes of a girl quarter of the king’s size at best, but he could imagine at least some of it well enough. It had been dishonorable of her to try and entrap Jon so, but Jon had gone to his doom happily as far as he could see and truly… Could one blame a girl for attempting to flee such a man the only way she could?

He thought of Barra’s mother, waiting for her babe’s father to remember her. He thought of Lyanna’s sad smile. Love is sweet, dearest Ned, she had said, but it cannot change a man's nature. He had thought her cruel then, too harsh, too quick to judge a young man for follies of youth. She had seen Robert more clearly than him even then. 

It had been more than sixteen years since that night, and he still did not know the man they had made king half as well as Lyanna had back then. He wondered whether he should tell Jon. The boy only knew the names of his parents now, not much else, certainly not how they had come to be and neither did Ned, but he could tell him. He should tell him that for good or ill, Rhaegar had been his mother’s choice and so had Jon.

Ned’s mouth moved before he could think better of it. “You have a daughter. Her mother named her Barra.”

Robert flushed and grumbled. “Barra. Damn the girl. I thought she had more sense.”

Ned gave him a look filled with disbelief. “The girl is half a child herself and a whore, and you thought she had sense? The fool child is in love with you, Robert. I promised… I promised her mother the child would not go wanting. I mean to send them with my son to Dragonstone, for the mother to find honorable service there.”

Robert waves his hand around dismissively. “Do as you will. I care not.”

But Ned was undeterred. “She looks… She looks just like that first girl you fathered. The one from the Vale. Do you remember?”

The king disliked the subject greatly and his fierce glare spoke loudly of it. “Damn you, Ned Stark, do you truly have nothing else to speak of?”

His smile was merely a sad upturn of his lips. “There is the matter of the royal fleet. We cannot go without a Master of Ships any longer than we have.”

Robert roared. “So name someone, damn it, before I pin that on Jaime Lannister!”

His smile became a touch more real. “Lord Wyman Manderly is in the city, and I would put his name forth for your consideration. He is a good man and leal. You will not find a better man for the post, not if you searched all the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Done. There. You have your Master of Ships, now. Does that please my worrywart of a Hand?”

A chuckle escaped him. “Quite so, Your Grace. Though there is one more thing.”

Robert gave him an annoyed glare. “Well, go on, before you make me lose my appetite.”

“There is the matter of wages-”

Robert’s hands flew into the air in dismay. “This again. You were told time and time again. There is no more gold to give out.”

“It is a good thing it is not gold that is asked, then.” A corner of Ned’s mouth twitched and Robert’s eyes caught it, and he folded his arms across his wide chest with a fierce frown. 

“Well, what is it, then?”

“Jon asks for select ships of the royal fleet to be given over into his use for two years. In this time, all wages and supplies would be handled by Dragonstone, but should a conflict in which they are needed arise, they would be recalled to serve the Crown with all haste. All debt to Dragonstone would be erased by this.”

“You mean to take ships away from Blackwater Bay? Just when the fucking Targaryens seek to come back?”

He could have rolled his eyes. He wished to roll his eyes, but he knew better. “Which is why I asked Lord Manderly to order some Manderly ships to come and serve as their replacement.”

The king’s frown did not lessen much. “Manderly. Manderly is hardly the one with the largest fleet. What of Arbor? Redwyne should send me some ships and a whole lot of that fine wine.”

He shook his head somewhat exasperatedly as the king chuckled to himself, pleased by his wit. “White Harbor may not have many ships, but it holds a great advantage over Arbor.”

At Robert’s questioning look, he barely withheld a growl. “It happens to be on the same side of the bloody continent, Robert.”

He resented the way his erstwhile brother’s face cleared a great deal. They had fought a war to make this man a king and somehow, the realm was worse off than under Aerys, millions in debt and war looming on the horizon once the lack of a trueborn heir came to light. If Eddard could gather enough evidence of it. If the king did not drink himself to an early grave before he did. How had Robert even managed it? And how had they all let it happen? How could Jon Arryn have let it all go as far as it had? How could he hope to stop it now?

“Your son can have as many ships of the royal fleet as he wishes.” The king’s approval was all they had hoped for, and yet it provoked a fresh wave of resentment in him. Somehow, for all his faults, he doubted Rhaegar would have turned into this. If only he could turn back time and not vouch for Robert to his father. If only he had listened to his sister.

He could not pass the chance to sup with his family, not when he knew well that Jon wished to leave for his new home as soon as it would not raise too many eyebrows at court, and not when he knew there was little that Arya wished to do more than go with him. Not when he wished he could send Sansa with them and have her safe and happy without raising brows himself at sending her all the way back to Winterfell when she was to get to know her betrothed. The betrothed she would not be marrying now, nor ever, as long as Eddard had anything to say on the matter.

He could not have them all safe, not yet, but once the time came… Once the time came, there would be Manderly ships at hand to take them to safety. Once the time came…

“It was all so very strange.” Lady Margaery was speaking, and he smiled at his daughters as they hanged on to her every word. “You must understand, I am used to visiting orphans and poorhouses, but I have never seen something as strange as this.”

A smile was fighting its way to Ned’s face, at least until he noted the thoughtful frown on Jon’s face as he listened as well. Something did not seem quite right, and he could not help his curiosity, not even when his daughters gave him identical glares filled with annoyance. “What was it that was so strange?”

Lady Margaery bit on her lip and hesitated, shooting a glance to her husband, whose frown deepened. “Oh. There were too few older children, you know? There were so many young ones. Too many, I suppose.” A wrinkle appeared on her forehead. “It just seemed so strange. There were almost no very young children, and almost none over… ten? Ten at most, I would say. Eight seems more likely. And it was just very strange.”

“I do not believe I understand.” He spoke kindly, but a dread was growing in him, ice spreading through his veins as Jon seemed more and more displeased.

Her eyes were big and shining with concern. “They had their tongues out. Most of the children. Other than the very young ones and the ones over eight? Eight, I think. All the older children had their tongues. And I asked. Because how could I not? Why would someone take children’s tongues? And all we were told was that that is just how it is. New children with their tongues out appear on occasion, and they are around for a few years and then just disappear never to be seen again. At least not in Flea Bottom. Most seem to think they end up in the bowl of brown sooner or later.” 

“A bowl of-” His voice failed him, and Lady Margaery’s gaze was apologetic.

Arya’s eyes were wide and fascinated. “May I go with you next? May I? May I? Please?”

“No!” The barked refusal echoed as Jon spoke as sharply as Ned himself, and even Lady Margaery shook her head.

“Someone is maiming children, likely worse. You will not go anywhere beyond these walls without proper supervision. Am I clear?”

The disappointment was plain in her eyes, but she looked into Ned’s eyes and, despite his previous experience, her gaze carried resigned acceptance.

He sighed heavily and turned to Lady Margaery. “I wish you had not spoken of such at the dinner table, my lady.”

Her face colored slightly at the gentle admonishment, and her gaze dropped to her plate. “I did not truly intend to, but you did ask, my lord Hand.”

The silent rebuke rang in his ears. Whatever went on in Flea Bottom, it was on his head too now.

Chapter Text

He was far from surprised when Lord Stark called him aside one day after returning from Flea Bottom. He had been expecting it ever since the day he had first taken Margaery along, but still he had hoped for more time, for more answers before the summons came.

Lord Stark expected him in his solar and when he met him there, there was a lantern standing on his desk waiting to be lit and speaking plainly of his expectations, and so he closed the door and secured it behind him.

“I would have you tell me of the children… and I would tell you of some other things, but this is perhaps not the place to do so. I find myself craving a fresh sea breeze to lift this appalling heat.” A corner of his lips curled upward, and there was a note of amusement in the Hand’s eyes as he spoke that had his own lips twitching as he nodded silently and moved to open the passage while Lord Stark lit the lantern.

They did not speak as they walked, and even their steps were careful and quiet, seemingly shy of disturbing the silence between them. He knew this path well and while the lantern made things easier for his companion, the dancing shadows merely cast his mind to dark places, bleeding stars and old prophecies and his chest tightened, desperate for comfort of the known over the unknown, and his feet took a turn toward Caraxes, his heart calling out to him.

The action was done without thinking. It was his feet, his heart, that guided him, not his mind, surely, for he would not be so foolish otherwise. He knew there were others using the passages during the days. He knew. And yet, he stood frozen in shock as he found himself staring down into the startled wide-eyed face of a dirty child, his mind desperately trying to understand, and then between one blink of an eye and the next, the child was gone as if it had never been there in the first place.

Had it been there? He shook his head to clear it of cobwebs plaguing him and looked back at Lord Stark, giving him a concerned look, before shaking his head again.

There was a warm hand on his shoulder. “Is anything amiss?”

The words were filled with concern and spoken so, so softly, they could have belonged to a ghost. He blinked and turned his head to look back at his fath- Lord Stark, unmoored, and blinked again. A ghost. That had been what his feet had carried him toward, and that was what he had seen. Gods, he was seeing things now even while awake. He could feel his very sanity slipping through his fingers and unlike on Dragonstone there was nothing to anchor him, only unsettling shades of past and future flickering at the edge of consciousness, nibbling and chipping away.

Shaking his head again, he shook off the hand as well. “Took a wrong turn. We need to go back.”

Lord Stark’s eyes were worried as they regarded him, but he moved aside to let him lead the way once more without asking more questions, and he was so very relieved. Out in the light of day, out in the city, there were so many distractions, so many things one needed to give their attention to that is had been almost easy, and with Margaery there were so many opportunities to get lost in the fun and the pleasure and just forget, but when it was just him and Lord Stark… Worse, when it was just him… There was no escape.

But when they stepped out onto the sandy beach, there was the red star still, a bleeding wound in the blue, blue sky, an ever-present reminder that there was no true escape and his stomach turned, and he sank to the ground, his head spinning and the world with it, tears gathering in his eyes. He needed Morning. He needed to be back on Dragonstone, anchored to the here and now by the steady and welcoming warmth of the island. He needed to… He shut his eyes and hugged his knees to himself and did not flinch, only curl into himself further when a warm hand laid on the back of his neck and a defeated voice spoke to him.

“Jon, please, tell me what is wrong. I cannot help if I do not-”

He shook his head resolutely. “There is nothing to help. I need to return to Dragonstone and that is it.” He was fine. He was managing well enough on his own. There was nothing wrong with him. And he would be just fine if only the mess that was King’s Landing did not insist on sucking him in and delaying his return to Dragonstone and Morning.

There was more Lord Stark wanted to say, but he did not want to listen, so he spoke first, cutting in before he even finished drawing a breath. “There is nothing to tell of the children. We visited every orphanage we could find, and none had children with missing tongues.” That meant little of itself. There were many places children like that could be kept in Flea Bottom, orphanages were merely the kindest option, and the only one he had been willing to take Margaery to.

“But I did not find any of them working in brothels or fighting pits either, and no one seems to know where they go to sleep.” No one seemed to know whether they slept at all. He had been as careful as he could be, but when speaking of children, sooner or later they would be mentioned, and the speaker would shiver and invoke the Seven and hastily turn the conversation to something else. There were some in Flea Bottom that believed them to be soulless demons sent to haunt the living, ever-watchful, ever-judging, but ever-silent. And for all that some in Flea Bottom feared them, the others, the rest of the city, indeed, seemed blind to their presence entirely.

“Someone likes them young and silent.” He spoke the truth grimly, but it was grimmer still. He had not found them even in the seediest of all brothels. What kind of depravity would require maiming its victims so? And why would they return to their torturers? And they had to return to them, because before he had brought pastries and fruits and sweetmeats, all agreed no one had seen them eat, fuelling the talk of demons. All agreed it was queer to see them gathered in such numbers and with other children as well.

A gust of sea breeze, carrying tiny droplets of water and salt with it had him shivering himself and when he turned his head to glance back toward the tunnels and shiver again, the breeze carried whispers on it. “So young … die so easy …  younger … safer … treat them gently … if they kept their tongues …” The whispers swelled and swelled and swelled, and there was no escaping them. No escape at all, not even when he buried his face in his arms.

A heavy weight dropped next to him and arms wrapped around him and brought him against the solid and warm side of Lord Stark. “Have you ever heard the story of the Knight of the Laughing Tree?” He did not raise his head, not for a cheap attempt at distraction, and Lord Stark continued after only a short pause. “I do not believe you would. That time is not spoken of at Winterfell.”

There was a heavy sigh, seemingly carrying the weight of the world. “It happened in the year of the false spring. I was eighteen, down from the Eyrie for the tourney at Harrenhal. Robert came as well, as did many other lords and ladies and countless knights, even the king left the capital with the queen to attend. But none mattered as much as my brothers and my sister to me. I had seen them only rarely over the years I had spent in the Vale, and they all came for the tourney.”

He swallowed dryly as he listened with bated breath. Lord Stark never spoke of his sister. Never. Not to him. And Harrenhal was where it had to have all begun.

“It was there that I met Howland Reed for the first time. It was there that Lyanna introduced us.” A chuckle sounded overhead and he could not understand. What was there to chuckle about? Terrible things happened after. But there was fondness in the voice. “We came upon them, Brandon and Benjen and I, as she was binding his wounds. He had been attacked by three squires, all larger than him, and Lyanna came to his rescue with a great roar and a tourney sword.”

The chuckle that sounded then was a rather wet one, and he did not dare raise his head then to see. He did not want to see, he did not want to interrupt. This was his mother, and he knew precious little of her. “She had wolf’s blood, you see. She and Brandon both, and I see the same wildness in Arya. I see it and I dread it.” There was another pause. “There was a feast… The Prince of Dragonstone sang a song, and it enchanted everyone that heard it. I do not remember the words. I do not even remember the melody, but it was so hauntingly and achingly beautiful… I never heard its like. Lyanna wept and Benjen, the young fool that he was, teased her for it mercilessly until she poured a cup of wine over his head.”

There were two wet chuckles then.

“I did not know it, not back then, but Lyanna and Benjen wanted Howland to avenge himself, had tried to cajole him into taking part in the joust to humble the squires, but there is little need for crannogmen to ride, much less learn to joust and Howland knew there would be no vengeance, only more humiliation, and so he resisted them.”

There was another pause, longer than before. “Those two fools gathered odd pieces of armor and bought a horse, and so made a mystery knight known as the Knight of the Laughing Tree.” Lord Stark hugged him closer to himself and laid a cheek on top of his bowed head. “The knight challenged the three knights the squires served and won over each of them and when they came to ransom their horses and armor, the knight demanded that they teach their squires honor.”

Another heavy sigh followed. “There were some that swore to unmask the knight and Aerys himself declared the knight no friend of his, but the knight was nowhere to be found the next day. The king was furious and ordered the knight found, setting even his son and the Kingsguard to the task, declaring the knight a traitor that would bring doom to House Targaryen.”

That made no sense. Why was he even hearing this? He had hoped to hear more of his mother and here he was being told a tale of a mystery knight. And why would Aerys think-

“Unknown to all, Rhaegar found the knight. He found the knight trying to get rid of the evidence, but he only took the knight’s shield and the mismatched armor and brought it to the king and lied. And then, when he became the champion of the joust, he rode past his wife to crown the knight the queen of love and beauty.”

He froze and blinked and then frowned and freed himself to raise his head and look into the wet face of Eddard Stark. There were not many things he knew of the tourney at Harrenhal, but he did know who had been crowned the queen of love and beauty, and it was no knight.

Lord Stark’s eyes were serious as he looked into his own. “That is how they met. I do not know more of it, and even this much I learned much too late. It was Benjen that she hatched the harebrained scheme with, and it was him that helped her after, but he would not speak of it, not then and not now and not to me.”

His brows furrowed, his mind catching on a word. “What do you mean helped her?” And what did he mean, after?

Lord Stark heaved another sigh, and his eyes sought the sea instead. “Lyanna despised Robert. He believed himself deeply in love with her, he still does, but she resented him upon setting her eyes on him for the first time. She was wild and free, and she would not allow herself to be bound to a man that she was sure would crush her spirit. And so she sought to escape.” 

His face turned away from the sea to face him once more, and a corner of his lips lifted in a half-hearted smile. “In that much, your wife much resembles your mother. I did not understand back then, but I do understand now. They were not wrong about him. Neither of them.”

His mother had used the Prince of Dragonstone the same way his wife had used the Lord of Dragonstone, it would seem, at least according to Lord Stark, but there was a certain difference. “He was married.” And he had been. How could his mother name him Daemon Targaryen when the prince had been married already? There had been the doctrine of exceptionalism but, even with dragons, it had never been pushed so far as to make a daughter of a Great House a second wife of a prince.

He had never heard Lord Stark sigh quite as much. “I know. But I also know what your mother named you and I know that the three Kingsguard knights guarding you believed to be exactly where they were meant to be, guarding their king. I do not know much of anything of what happened before or even during the Rebellion, but I do know that. I know that with her dying breath, my sister begged me to protect her son, to keep him safe, to keep him from those that would seek to harm him. She was too weak to hold you, to hold my hand even, her skin clammy and cold and growing colder still, and she begged and begged and begged for you.”

He gave a single nod, and he mulled it all over. He had come to realize that she must have died of childbed fever, that he was the reason she was dead. As much as the hated babe Aegon had been the reason Alyssa Targaryen had died. He had come into the world and taken the place of a person that could never be replaced.

His gaze drifted up to stare at the bleeding wound in the sky. Aerys, the Mad King, had named the Knight of the Laughing Tree the doom of House Targaryen, and he had been right. Had he been a dreamer too? Was that the reason behind his madness? Was that his own fate as well? He had been dreaming for an eternity, of the past, of the crypts and now of other things as well, and he could feel cloying darkness creeping upon him, reaching for him, seeking to entrap him. He had been safe from it on Dragonstone. After that first night, it had not dared to reach for him. Not there.

He sighed heavily and spoke to the sky. “There is a prophecy. Its words are etched into that Valyrian steel dagger that you gave me.” 

He could feel eyes seeking to burn holes into the side of his head. “There are no markings on the blade.”

“No. There are none that can be seen unless looked for. The prophecy was hidden by means of blood magic. It can be read only when the blade is heated. And it is written in High Valyrian anyway. From my blood comes the prince that was promised, and his will be the song of ice and fire.” 

Here he was, an alleged prince, born of the union of ice and fire, and there was a bloody comet in the sky, announcing for all the world to see the dragons waking from stone. He might be coming unraveled, but there were too many signs, and even he could ignore only so much for only so long.

“It is only a part of it. The part that does not mention why there would be a need for a promised prince.” He got to his feet and walked closer to the sea and the waves washing the shore with unrelenting patience. “You should leave, my Lord Stark. Leave and go to Winterfell with all haste and secure the North against all threats. This promised prince is meant to fight a doom of men, you see, the second coming of the Long Night.”

Lord Stark did not gasp, nor did his face turn any grimmer. No, he came to stand by his side and laid a hand on his shoulder with a slight smile. “You are too young to fight a second coming of the Long Night. I forbid it.”

He did not believe him! “The Night’s Watch deserter spoke of the Others.”

Lord Stark sighed and the smile disappeared. “He was mad with fear.”

“Not the fear of dying.” He did not believe him still, not truly, though a shadow of doubt appeared in his eyes and he seized the chance. “Secure the North. Secure it, and should you ever believe it in danger of falling, come to Dragonstone.” 

Dragonstone was safe. Dragonstone was an island with a volcano and a dragon and the warmth of protective magic an indivisible part of every grain of sand. The Conqueror had been wrong to ever leave the island. The Seven Kingdoms had brought nothing but death and suffering to his descendants and their dragons, nothing but death and suffering to the Conqueror himself. He would not repeat the same mistake.

The Conqueror had sought to protect too many, had sought to save those that had no interest in being saved from a threat too far in the future to believe in, had sought to unite a continent eternally seeking to be divided, and his line had suffered the consequences of his folly. 

He would not allow his babe to suffer the same. He was a lord, not a king, not even a prince in truth, and his duty lay only with his family and his few vassals. And he could protect all those from Dragonstone well enough, should it ever come to it.

Chapter Text

Surprisingly little changed in how Margaery spent her days after her wedding. She had had no duties to attend to before the king returned to the Red Keep from his journey North and then after, before he emerged back into court from his drunken stupor he had fallen into while on it. She had had only her goal and the hope that endearing herself to the Stark sisters would smooth her path toward it.

Margaery was married now, though, and for all that she had come to care for the Starks, the girls, when together, had proven especially vexing, and their care had become her duty now that she was a Stark too. And there were few distractions, few other duties to attend to to escape the headache that the sisters aspired to be.

There had been a respite in the days she had spent with Jon in Flea Bottom, feeding hungry children and then visiting orphanages throughout the city, looking for the strange children they had come upon. But there were no other distractions. She had received no invitations to tea or embroidery sessions, and she had received no visitors or congratulations beyond the wedding. She was being shunned , or her husband was, and it mattered little in the end the outcome was the same.

But Jon did not care, he only seemed interested in returning to Dragonstone and finding where the children had come from, and for all that she knew the Hand had to be investigating the claim she had made against the queen, the claim the king’s brother had made, she had not truly seen any signs of it, Lord Stark buried under piles of books and parchment, her husband devoutly joining in whenever not out in the city. 

She was married , but her husband barely spent any daylight hours with her , and she had few duties to dedicate herself to other than the one she sought to flee. Feeling superfluous and lonely, she wanted to go to Dragonstone and take charge of her husband’s household and show her worth and do it now, before she started to believe herself worthless. Even her family had forgotten her in the wake of the wedding. She had not seen them, any of them, since the breakfast the morning after and that perhaps stung most of all, because she knew her father had been by to speak with Lord Stark on multiple occasions, always when she had been out in the city. They would have thrown her to the lions and now that their plans had failed, they had no more use for her.

Margaery was sorry to have wished for a distraction, to have wished for an invitation when an invitation did arrive for Lady Sansa to join the queen and the princess in their embroidery and Lord Stark had asked her to accompany his daughter, his eyes filled with worry , and she found herself unable to refuse him. The queen was dangerous, too dangerous for an innocent like Sansa to face alone, whatever the queen’s intentions, whatever the likely cost to Margaery. She was safe now, wedded and bedded and carrying her husband’s child and soon to be departed for her husband’s keep. Unless the queen’s treason was made known, poor Sansa would be in her grasp forever.

Her back was straight , and her head held high as she walked into the hall where her brief imprisonment began arm in arm with her goodsister and a well-practiced smile on her face to meet the queen’s sharp gaze and pay her appropriate courtesies.

“Ah, Lady Margaery, you are still here? I would have thought your husband would steal you away with you to hide on his little island at first opportunity.”

Margaery’s smile at the queen was a tad strained. She did wish to be there already, but it was her own advice her husband followed in delaying the departure, and so here she was. “There were some duties my husband had to attend to , and then I begged and begged him until he took me to visit orphanages in the city. There are so many of them it took us days to visit all of them , and yet they all seem to be so much worse off than the ones in the Reach.”

The queen’s eyes sharpened, but then she threw her head back and laughed in earnest. “Oh, what a match my husband made. Two bleeding hearts. You will have less time for such nonsense once you whelp a pup for your lord husband.”

Sansa’s breath caught at the queen's words, but Margaery only thought of the service the queen had done her in the dress that had been a torture device but had seemingly rid Jon of his anger and gave her a sweet smile. “I pray for my womb to quicken every day and night, Your Grace. I take my duty to provide an heir to Dragonstone most solemnly, as does my husband.”

The queen’s smile was mocking. “As you should, dear child. It is the most solemn duty.”

Margaery nodded her bowed head. The gall of the woman. She had not only failed in her duty to provide heirs to the king, she had committed treason , and she dared to speak of duty to her? She?

Fortunately enough, the queen turned her attention away from her and toward the topic of the king’s heir, the brave prince Joffrey , and she bit on her tongue to maintain her pleasant mask at that. Brave. Her husband had faced the Mountain with a tourney blade to defend her brother, who, but a year his elder, was a renowned tourney knight already. What had the vile prince to recommend him? What claim to bravery?

Sansa was silent, smiling shyly, her head bowed timidly, as the queen complimented her looks and her embroidery and praised her own daughter as well, handing out a backhanded insult at Sansa’s dress that did not show her figure to her best advantage and Margaery’s blood boiled as she watched Sansa’s ears redden and recalled her own wedding gown , and she could not hold her tongue anymore.

“That is for the best, would you not agree, Your Grace? With my goodsister betrothed to Prince Joffrey, it would not do for others to get to admire her figure before she weds, and her husband’s strength protects her from any undue attention.”

The queen’s eyes flashed. “Joffrey’s name should protect her well enough already.”

Margaery gave her a well-bred shrug and hummed agreeably. “That is true, Your Grace, but betrothal is not a marriage. It can be broken easily enough and so it provides lesser protection.” All it took was breaking one’s word, besmirching one’s honor, and everyone knew the Lannisters cared nothing for honor.

“Indeed, you would know, having skipped betrothal entirely, would you not?”

Margaery’s shoulders rose and fell once more. “It was as the king willed. I am but His Grace’s humble servant, bound to obey, for better or worse.”

Sansa leaned forward and grasped Margery’s hands in her own with an earnest smile. “For better. For best, even. You are the best goodsister I could hope for , and I’ve never heard Jon laugh so much as he does with you. I will consider myself blessed by the Gods if I find half as much happiness in my marriage as the two of you have.” 

That was a sweet sentiment, especially considering Margaery’s own doubts, but she appreciated the words for the intention behind them and all the more for the burning resentment in the queen’s eyes. There was a petty part of Margaery that gloried in the knowledge that the queen was resentful, perhaps even jealous, of her happiness. She might not be a queen, but she had Jon and the queen was left with the king and her rank , and once her treason came to light she would have neither, while Margaery would still have her husband, her happiness and, Gods willing, even a babe, an heir for her husband.

There was pure venom in the queen’s eyes as she gave Sansa a strained smile. “How sweet.” She held her breath and waited for her to continue, but no more came, and the queen’s attention turned from them at last, ignoring their presence entirely.

It should not have come as a surprise to find her grandmother calling on her that very afternoon, but it did come as a disappointment. She had believed herself her favorite grandchild, her favorite granddaughter, and now she found that she had been in fact worse off than her cousins below the Queen of Thorns’ notice.

She greeted her grandmother in an airy solar meant for the Hand’s wife, but with none present and Margaery acting in her stead anyway, she felt comfortable enough to use it, somewhat anxious to keep her grandmother from her marital chambers.

“Grandmother, I did not believe you still in the capital, I know how you dislike staying for too long. I hope the city air does not disturb your humors too much.”

She found herself on a receiving end of one of Lady Olenna’s baleful glares and a harrumph as she seated herself comfortably into the proffered seat and one of her guards set down a basket on the tea table between them, and she steeled herself for a fight when the twins were unceremoniously sent to stand guard outside the door.

“You look well, sweetling. Marriage does you good, it would seem. Why, you are glowing!”

Margaery raised a doubting brow and barely withheld an inelegant snort. Glowing? After the grueling morning in the queen’s malicious company? “You must be jesting, grandmother. I feel farthest from glowing.”

Another harrumph answered her. “Well, no matter how you feel, that is how you look. Come, I brought some refreshments to enjoy while we speak.” When Margaery opened her mouth to protest, her grandmother forestalled her. “Not that I think they do not feed you, but their tastes are surely more plain than what you are used to? Come, some delicacies are surely in order?”

Whatever her loyalties, she could not argue with that. The fare was plainer than what she was used to , and she had little doubt it would be plainer still on Dragonstone, it being an island. And she craved fresh fruits so common with every meal at Highgarden, her mouth watering at the very thought of tasting sweet juices on her tongue. But it was not fresh fruits her grandmother brought. Oh no, it was cheeses and lamprey pie and jellied eels , and she could feel color draining from her face as she removed the cloth covering the basket and the various smells hit her and her stomach turned.

She threw herself away from the basket, her eyes closed , and her mouth covered by her hand, and breathed very carefully through the nose, not daring to open her mouth. Oh Gods, please, do not let her be sick in front of her grandmother.

Her grandmother’s voice was thick with innocent concern. “Is anything amiss, dear?” 

Oh, she hated her at that moment . She had not been nauseous at all before. It was one of the signs she had known to watch for , and she had watched for it like a hawk, but it had not come and despite Jon’s assurances and the growing delay in the appearance of her courses, she had doubted because there had not been this one sign she had known was to come. And now it had come at her grandmother’s gleeful inducement.

Margaery kept her eyes and her mouth closed, and her grandmother, encouraged by her silence, dropped her little playacting. “I would have a name out of you. I will not allow anyone to put you at risk and secrets like this are rarely kept. Men like to boast of their achievements.”

“There is no risk. My husband knows that I have not been with any other man. He knows that I came into his bed a maiden , and he will never doubt me.” Margaery kept her tone light , and she did not let even a trace of amusement shine through.

Her grandmother snorted. “There are any number of things husbands know for a truth that are not so , and they can remain a truth only so long as no one speaks out of turn. Now, give me the name. I promise I will take care of it myself and not tell your father or your mother. They are worried about you enough as it is.”

“There is no name to give.” None that she would be willing to utter anyway. Her grandmother was practical , but she hardly ever gave up on vengeance on those that dared thwart her plans and there could be any amount of foolishness she could get up to should her relief turn into spite. She opened her eyes at last and pinned her grandmother with a stern gaze, her voice dropping lower. “Any child I bear will be my husband’s and there will be no doubt about it in anyone’s mind, not with the bloody sheets seen by all with eyes to see.”

Her grandmother shook her head in disappointment. “Do you even realize what danger you put us in, you foolish child? The king ordered your wedding to assure your father’s loyalty and should you bear a child that does not resemble the Hand’s son, that loyalty will be swiftly put to question. He dared to order the match. What do you think will happen if you prove the boy a cuckold instead of giving him an heir?”

Margaery rolled her eyes at the needless fretting. “You worry too much, grandmother. There will be no such proof.”

Grandmother’s gaze sharpened and her eyes narrowed. “So the man had the same coloring as your husband. Or your own, I suppose. Hmm.”

Heat entered her cheeks at last. “Grandmother, I beg you, let it go. There will be no proof and there will be no doubt. I swear to you, all will be well.”

“It is a good thing your brother goes with you. I did not agree with Mace sending him along, but you plainly need looking after, and time away from Renly Baratheon should do him good and teach him to use his head some once more.”

“There is no need for Loras to come.” Margaery did not want Loras to come along. She had needled Jon about it , but her husband was determined not to take on fights not worth fighting , and he believed this one to be such, with little to gain and a lot to lose. 

Her grandmother’s eyes were shards of glass. “There is every need, you foolish child. Be glad I am not forcing moon tea down your throat.”

Margaery was too shocked to reply, her throat suddenly tight and her eyes filled with tears. It was her babe. What did it matter who the father was? It was hers and had they loved her as she had thought they had, they would never even dream of doing such a thing. A pained sob tore out of her and then the tears were streaming down her face freely.

“Oh, cease your weeping. I am not doing that, as you might notice. I am not doing that , but you need to give me a name. We must ensure this does not get out.”

“There is no name to give. It was my husband that had taken my maidenhead , and it is his child I carry.” She spoke in a wet, trembling voice and her speech was broken by sobs , and she resented her grandmother with all her being. She had doubted and feared for weeks and now that she knew for sure that there would be a babe, there was no celebration or even relief, there were only tears.

There was a thump on the door and one of the guards called out, uncertainty clear in his voice. “Uh, my lady, there is a wolf, uh, demanding entrance.”

Her grandmother’s brows furrowed , and she opened her mouth to rebuke them, but Margaery was quicker. “Let him in!”

The moment the door was ajar, a streak of white bounded through and toward Margaery, a warm coarse tongue lapping at her tear-stained cheeks even before the door closed behind him, and she abandoned whatever dignity she had left as she sank from her seat to the ground and buried her face in his thick coat, wrapping her arms around him, and wept all the harder. This was meant to be a happy day.

Her grandmother tried to soothe her at last, but a silent, sharp-toothed snarl had her taking her basket into her own hands and retreating ignominiously. Her grandmother was never one to leave without having the last word, though , and so she turned at the door. “We will speak more once you have regained some sense.”

Margaery almost fell on her face as Ghost launched himself after the suddenly spry woman and snarled viciously at the door slammed shut in front of him, and a startled giggle left her. She slapped a hand and then another over her mouth to block the sound, but she could not help it. It was just so… She dropped her hands and wrapped her arms around Ghost once more and giggled into him uncontrollably. She was a wolf too now, it would seem. 

When her husband returned that day before the evening meal, she met his concerned gaze with a smile and when his thumbs traced tear-tracks that she had washed away long ago, she grasped his wrists and told him, her voice strong. “I am with child.”

Amusement sparked in his eyes. “Are you certain?”

She could feel blush dusting her cheeks. “Yes, I am now. And I think it is time for us to go home.”

“Is it not too soon?”

She had been one to ask him to stay, but it was not worth it. The island was where they would have peace, not the Red Keep. There was nothing to be gained by staying, not truly.

Chapter Text

There was a silent war going on in the Red Keep. There had been a silent war going on for years in the Red Keep, it seemed to him, and it astounded him that Jon had lasted as long as he had, had kept the realm together as well as he had. But he had not kept the matters half as well as Eddard would have liked.

The Crown’s debt worried him greatly, all the more that it had grown to such proportions in a long summer. Every Northman knew a long and bitter winter would follow. Every Northman knew to prepare for it, yet here, in the South, there seemed to be no thought spared for the future. If the Crown had fallen into a horrific debt to last a summer, how would it survive the winter to come?

Some creditors were worse than others. The Lannisters, as much as it pained him to admit it, were among the better ones. They would likely forgive a lot, considering they were to hold the throne soon enough and that little Prince Tommen was likely to be the next Lord of the Rock. The Tyrells were among the better ones too, being vassals of the Crown and unlikely to rise in rebellion over an unpaid loan, unlikely to win enough support for it, not with such a cause.

But there was the Faith and the Iron Bank of Braavos that worried him. There were the Tyroshi moneylenders and the Pentoshi magisters that were at question too, but the Faith… What would the Faith do once the winter came and smallfolk flocked to the city and starved? What would the Faith ask for once there was no more coin to be had?

There was a silent war in the Red Keep, and he was uncertain how long it would remain so. The men Jon had overheard in the tunnels had believed a not-so-silent war to be imminent. A war between the lions and the wolves and whatever the truth of the queen’s children, they believed the Lannisters behind the attempt on Bran’s life as well.

It had seemed his duty to find and punish Jon’s murderer. His duty to his foster father. His duty to the realm. But Jon had been surrounded by enemies, visible and not, had likely balanced on a knife’s edge for years and just before his death, he had been investigating the king’s bastards. And the queen’s.

What had he meant to do with the knowledge? Tywin Lannister was the queen’s father, and he would not let his daughter be declared a harlot and a traitor, would not let her be beheaded and her children declared bastards. Tywin Lannister was the Crown’s largest creditor by far, should he call in the Crown’s debt, he could already imagine what would happen, could already see the storm. Robert would refuse to pay anything, and while that would serve Tywin Lannister right, the other creditors would be greatly discomfited and would seek assurances, or worse, concessions. 

The realm was on the brink of a catastrophe and the moment the white raven telling of the changing of the seasons flew, things would turn for the worse. Even without the matter of the Lannister bastards becoming known to the king.

To the king, because it would seem all and sundry knew of it already. Robert’s brothers knew, as did the Tyrells, the two foreigners in the tunnels, Jon and likely Lysa, his wife, as well, Littlefinger and surely Varys too. Servants would know too, as would at least some guards. Would the queen’s ladies know of the treason too? Would Robert’s Lannister squires?

The Red Keep was full to the brim with Lannister lackeys, and they all likely either knew or made certain not to. Robert’s own squires were Lannisters, and his Grand Maester was a man well-known to be Lord Tywin’s. Eddard brought a sizeable guard, but they would be easily overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of the Lannister ones. Should he add the Dragonstone, the Tyrell and the Stormlands guard, though… 

He would have to secure the numbers before telling Robert. If he told him. If he ever gathered enough proof. If there was any proof to have.

The longer he stayed in King’s Landing, the more he learned of the state of affairs, the more he thought on following Jon’s advice and returning home, but duty kept him there. Duty to the North. Should a war come, the North would pay in blood and many would die before winter ever came. It was better to avert a war than to fight one, however well prepared.

It was duty to and care for his lands and his people that kept him in the South, attending endless council meetings, bandying words with men that cared for nothing and no one but themselves, dancing on a knife’s edge himself, and were it not for his children, nothing good would have come of his position either. But there were his children and Jon was wed now with a babe on the way, and Sansa and Arya both seemed happy with their lessons and more willing to put up with each other in the presence of Jon’s charming bride.

It was memories of Arya’s and Sansa’s eyes shining with unbridled joy while in each other’s presence that let him survive council sessions in good health. He clung to those memories with desperation as a beaming Robert entered the council chambers, Varys following closely on his heels, as weariness set in. Robert’s presence rarely meant anything good. Robert’s good mood spelled more worries for him, he was sure.

“Tell them! Tell them the news!” The king seated himself in his ornate seat at the head of the table and drank heavily of the wine offered to him swiftly, ignoring Ned’s disapproving gaze.

The Master of Whisperers simpered as he seated himself as well. “Viserys Targaryen is dead. The Dothraki crowned him at last. With molten gold.”

There were chuckles and witty remarks around the table, but he did not join in. No, he could not join in, he could only close his eyes and breathe a silent sigh of relief. The little princess and her babe would be safe now. There was no need for Robert to send assassins after them when they could no longer buy Viserys an army.

The mighty slap on his back caught him unawares with his eyes still closed. “Gods, annoying you may be, but you were right! The Dothraki will never come to our shores now, not without the begging fool to lead them here. And to think the whore’s own husband did it!”

Ned gave him a weak smile and wished the king would stop slapping him on the back, lost in good cheer,

“Just imagine, once the little whore is dead as well, we will be free of the dragonspawn at last!”

His brows twitched toward a frown. He misliked the sound of that. “There is little need to imagine. Any children she bears will be no Targaryens. House Targaryen is gone already.”

Robert waved his words away as if they were a buzzing insect causing irritation. “I ordered both their deaths. We spoke of this weeks ago.”

“You ordered Mace Tyrell’s daughter to wed my son. We did not agree to send assassins. We very emphatically did not agree to send assassins.”

“ You emphatically disagreed. I am the king, and I ordered Varys to let it be known that any and all that would bring about the demise of the last two Targaryens, would find themselves a lord of sizeable lands.”

He could hardly believe what he was hearing. Robert had gone behind the council’s back to order Varys to… Robert had gone behind his back. He had known that Ned, his Hand, did not support it. He had known Ser Barristan, the Lord Commander of Robert’s Kingsguard, did not support it. Robert had known , and so he hid it from them.

Ned could not even summon anger. He was disappointed. Disappointed in his friend once more and oh-so- tired of it. His hand went to the pin denoting his office and his fingers wrapped around it. What was he even doing here? Robert would do as he had always done. He should go home and prepare the North for what is to come. Somehow.

Wyman Manderly harrumphed loudly. “Your Grace means to make a Dothraki khal a lord? Is that… wise?”

Ned’s fingers unwrapped themselves and his hand dropped, staring at the lord along with the rest of the members of the council until Robert burst into uproarious laughter. “Har! I should, should I not?”

There was nothing to be achieved in the council after, among the laughter and the japes, and resentment festered in Ned as he stared at the stony face of Ser Barristan Selmy and Wyman Manderly’s thoughtful one.

He did not remove the pin, there was no point. Not now. But he did rise and left the merry king and his court of fools behind, the Lord Commander rising and excusing himself behind him, along with the Master of Ships, who caught up to him with surprising speed.

“There are things a man can change and those he cannot, my lord. Wisdom lies in the ability to discern which is which.”

A corner of his lips lifted in a humorless smile. “Are you calling me unwise, Lord Manderly?”

“No, not at all, my lord. Merely reminding you of the nature of things. There are many things that can be changed. Many that should. Let us be wise and attend to those when there is an opportunity, rather than dwell on those that we cannot.”

He gave a hollow chuckle. “Many that should, huh?”

Wyman Manderly nodded enthusiastically. “Indeed. I would show you, if my lord would be kind enough to accompany me to the docks.”

Ned almost choked. “The docks?”

“Aye, the docks. That is where the Master of Ships should have his offices, is it not?”

Rage simmered in him at the injustice of it all. How could have Robert allowed that? How could have Jon? 

The North had been largely left to its own devices after the Rebellion, Ned himself only venturing out beyond it to aid in squashing the Greyjoy Rebellion. For the North, there had been no changes in how it was governed, no matter whether there was a Targaryen or a Baratheon king. The Starks had held little regard for Targaryens and their excesses and Ned had been too proud, too honorable, to ask Robert for anything while committing treason.

He had been wrong. Things had changed and not for the better.

Fucking import duties. On grain. In winter.

Every long winter had the North importing grain in large quantities, and never had there been a fucking import duty.

He had worried how the Crown would lose its incomes during the upcoming winter. He had been wrong to worry. The Crown had already assured its fucking incomes by instating a fucking import duty on grain in winter. That duty was waived in the ports designated by the Faith. Which covered all major and many minor ports. Except the ones in the North. Not one port in the North and the Iron Islands was included, though he hardly cared about the Iron Islands. In any case, the Ironmen were not very likely to pay import duties.

How could the men that knew him, that he had cared for and thought to be as close as blood, put such an atrocity into law? He snorted to himself. He supposed he need not wait for winter for the Faith to show how it would use the influence it gained as one of the Crown’s chief creditors.

This had to be Baelish’s doing. The Faith’s too, but mainly his. It would have been the Master of Coin that would have written the law, and there was nothing in it that would be seen to bring undue burden on the North. Nothing but the Faith’s ability to exclude ports from the duty.

Jon had been right. The man hated the Starks and the North with them. With him.

He fumed as he stormed through the Red Keep and toward the Tower of the Hand, the guards that had accompanied him not daring a peep and Vayon Poole re-thinking his intention to approach him the moment he saw him back in the tower, and he cared not, heading to his solar to simmer in his rage in peace.

But he could not. He found himself not alone in his solar, and he regretted the force with which he closed the door behind him upon his eyes alighting on one of his children.

Jon’s back was very straight and tense and turned to Ned as he gazed out of the window, unperturbed by the sound of a slamming door. “Margaery and I will be returning to Dragonstone in the morning. The tongueless children will be coming with us, you need not worry about them anymore. There will be no more.”

A heavy stone fell from his chest and despite everything, a smile formed on his face. “That is most welcome news! Did you find the culprits already? However did you manage it?”

Jon’s hands were clenched into tight fists behind his back, and they tightened yet more at Ned’s words. “They were slaves. Bought and paid for in the Free Cities. No more will be coming.”

He could not believe his ears. “Slaves? Here?!”

Jon’s gaze remained stubbornly fixed out the window. “Yes, slaves. Yes, here. Bought with the king’s own coin.”

Ned sank into the nearest chair, suddenly unsteady. “ What?! ”

“They were the famed little birds Varys employed. His little spies. He removed their tongues himself, down in the bowels of the Red Keep. To keep them quiet.” Jon’s voice was queerly even, and it unsettled him perhaps even more than the words themselves. So queer, so even, that it took a long moment for Ned to realize what it was that Jon had just told him and for rage to take hold once more.

He jumped to his feet and made for the door, only to be stopped in his tracks by Jon’s cold, cold voice. “He is dead.”

Ned blinked at the door dumbly, and then blinked and blinked again. He shook his head and repeated the words to himself silently, turning them round and round in his head, trying to make sense of them. Varys was maiming children, likely doing worse to them too. Why? Varys was dead. How? How could he be dead? He had been in the council meeting earlier that day. He could not be dead.

Turning back to face Jon’s rigid back, the cold fury in him coiled and snapped and floundered. “Did you kill him?” He did not know what it was he hoped to hear. He did not wish for Jon to have killed another man, no matter how much the man needed killing, not when it affected him as much as this plainly did.

Impossibly, Jon’s back grew even more rigid, yet his voice was strong and proud and defiant when he spoke. “I did. He needed killing.”

Ned sighed as Jon echoed his own thoughts. There was little justice to be found in King’s Landing. He only wished it had not fallen to his son to deal out the little there was, and so he laid a hand on his back and spoke ever so softly. “I am sorry.”

Jon’s head whipped around to look at him, eyes wide and showing utter bafflement warring with hesitant hope. 

I am sorry, Ned thought. Sorry that I failed you, that I failed the North. Sorry that I must rely on you so heavily. Sorry that you must do what I cannot. Sorry to have come here. Sorry to have to stay.

When Jon opened his mouth to speak, he brought him in for an embrace and spoke instead. “I am proud of you, son. I am sorry to say it now , but I am.”

And he was proud. Jon had flourished away from Winterfell, when Ned had only floundered. Jon had come into his own, had become his own man and remained his same dutiful conscientious yet deeply insecure self, while Ned was losing himself more and more each day.

There were unshed tears shining in Jon’s eyes when they separated, and his voice was ever-so-soft. “Thank you, father.”

He pulled his son back into his embrace and did not let go for a long time.

Chapter Text

Margaery might have deemed it the time to depart, but there was still much to do before they could. Or rather, before he felt that they could. There were affairs to attend to still.

He had spent coin and time and men feeding the hungry children in Flea Bottom, and it had taken time to build their trust in him, Margaery’s visits with her stories and her smiles helping his efforts immensely. But he was to depart and leave the children to their own devices again, and he was loath to do it. He was not going to do it.

Most importantly, Lord Stark agreed with him, and so he had men to continue the work even after he and his own returned to Dragonstone, though it would take a few days more before the children came to associate the new men with him as well, and, though hesitant at first, they seemed to take well to both Jory and Alyn who would take turns in charge in his stead.

The burden felt lighter as he could come with the men and, once seen properly, leave the Winterfell men behind with their own commander and attend to all the matters that he had had little to no time before. Like the books. He had poured over them endlessly, but he had scarce time to investigate their contents and compare them to reality in detail.

The increase in the Crown’s revenues seemed unlikely when first mentioned, but seeing the recorded numbers made his ire rise. The Crown had bought wagons and trading ships and shops and houses. It had bought wool from the North and linen from the South and made a business of storing, moving, dyeing and selling it. The Crown was reportedly doing the same with lace from Lys, and he had chortled when he had read those entries for the first time. Lys was known for many things, but lace was certainly not one of them, and no able merchant would load it onto a ship to take up space and bet his livelihood on it.

He had chortled the first time he had read it, but he had not the time and time again it appeared in the books, and he had come to realize the truth. No, it was not lace the Crown was buying in Lys and his ever-growing resentment turned into a burning hatred for Robert Baratheon and his Master of Coin as sales were recorded too.

And yet for all the business and all the trading, even resorting to flesh trading, the Crown was still short on gold and other avenues of income appeared in the books too. Some royal positions were sold at fixed prices, some to the highest bidder, and he ground his teeth and fumed at that. Once upon a time, a man could have made it far, if only they worked hard and proved their worth. Not so much now and his blood boiled when he recalled the cost of becoming an officer in the City Watch, a captain of one of the gates, and he preferred not to think on the price of becoming the commander of it.

The corruption was not only entrenched in the Watch. It was established and supported by the Crown itself, and not just in the City Watch. He fucking hated what had become of it, and he hated what had become of the city. The rot had grown through each and every layer of life in King’s Landing, and he could not wait to be gone from it.

He could not clear out all the rot, he could only hope to lessen it some, and the very beginning of it would be to prove the Master of Coin the crook he knew him to be. The proof was not in the books alone. No, they were masterfully done, the coin moving around too much to be able to say with certainty that anything in them was untrue, and the numbers added up.

But no crook, no matter how talented at bookkeeping, could alter reality, and so he would finally look at some of those expenses with his own eyes, and he would start in the Red Keep itself. While the expenses for the running of the Red Keep and the royal household itself were in the hands of the queen, rather than the Master of Coin, there were others the queen had certainly no hand in, and he even had a good reason to be curious about.

The dungeons were eerily quiet, footsteps echoing as he walked in the low light toward the warden’s office where he was greeted by an old bent chief undergaoler, he had been informed, with age-spotted head, thin white beard and delusions about the grandeur of his ancestry.

The man also had some queer notions as to the reason for his presence there, puffing up importantly. “Lord Hand is most wise to give attention to my reports. Most wise. Truly, this had gone on long enough, I say. I wrote reports to the chief gaoler and the King’s Justice, some even went to the Master of Coin and to the Master of Whisperers both, yet no one had done anything about him for years. Years! He had been here for years already when I first came, over a decade past. He held his appointment from King Aerys, you see.”

“I see.” He did not. He had no idea what the man was ranting about. “How about you begin by repeating to me what the reports say to ensure that they have been relayed to the Hand correctly?”

“Of course, my lord, of course. It is Rugen, one of the undergaolers on the third level. “Unkempt, unshaven, coarse of speech. I mislike the man, ’tis true, I do confess it. He is seldom here. He comes and goes as he wishes. I have complained of him ever since I came, but nothing ever came of it. It has always been so in the dungeons. I make note of his comings and goings in my report, you can take my words on it, my lord, the word of a man with royal blood.”

The urge to roll his eyes at the incessant mentions of the man’s royal heritage was strong, and he was grateful for the low light helping to hide his expressions. “I see. You did your duty well, good man.” It was others that failed, though this particular rot could not be blamed on Baelish, not if his appointment was when Aerys still lived. 

“How about you tell me the rest? How many prisoners do you keep here?” The words echoed along the footsteps in the darkened corridor.

The man puffed up even more. “There were three common men, but Lord Hand gave them to the Night’s Watch. Ever since, there are none. I did not think it good to free those three, but the papers were in order. I made note of that in a report as well, if I may say.”

He blinked. The man from the Night’s watch had been by weeks ago. Had there truly been no prisoners since? It hardly seemed likely that no crimes inviting it had been committed in the meantime, and that only further served to lower his view of the City Watch. They were not even making much of a pretense of fulfilling their duties, it seemed to him.

“Tell me more of this gaoler.”

“Gaoler?” The man sounded offended. “That is no gaoler, merely an under gaoler. The Crown pays wages for six undergaolers, two for each level, but there are only three.”

“You and two others?”

The old man sniffed. “I am the chief undergaoler, my lord. I am above the undergaolers. I am charged with keeping the counts. If my lord likes, he can look over my books, and he will see that my figures are exact. There are meant to be twenty turnkeys as well, a full score, my lord, and the Crown pays for them too, but there have never been more than a dozen. Not in all my time here.”

The dungeons were empty of prisoners while the Crown paid wages for twenty turnkeys, six undergaolers, a chief undergaoler, and a gaoler on top of however many men stood above them. And many of those positions were not even filled. It was little wonder the Crown was in debt. This had gone on for years directly in the Red Keep, despite the man’s plentiful reports.

He sighed and shook his head. Was it any wonder that an undergaoler had taken his duties lightly if that were the case? “Let us get back to the matter of this Rugen.” The undergaoler was unlikely to be connected to Baelish, but something did not ring right in the story.

“Of course. Of course, my lord. If you would follow me, I will show you to his sleeping cell.” 

He had been a fool to accept the man’s invitation, he came to realize as he stood in the damp and dreary cell, the stench of overflowing chamber pot and mildewed straw mixing most unpleasantly, and he found himself back in the torchlit corridor swiftly enough, door slamming behind him. He was half-way down the corridor, along with the not-nearly-enough-apologetic chief undergaoler when he stopped in his tracks and turned back to consider the door of the sleeping cell, counting in his head.

“Is something the matter, my lord?”

He blinked and counted again. “No. I merely realized I would like to inspect the dungeons some more.”

“Oh, I will-”

He did not care to let him finish. “Alone.”

The man opened and closed his mouth a few times, likely searching for the words to stop him, but finding none, he nodded and went on his way. He did not move until the old man was gone entirely, no longer in sight, no longer in hearing, before he returned to Rugen’s sleeping cell, stalling for endless moments before opening the door once more.

There was a maze of hidden tunnels within and under the Red Keep, and he had been to most of them, but their maker had been Maegor the Cruel and the moniker had been well-deserved. He had not gone to the hidden cells and the torture chambers he knew to be there, but that were connected to the rest of the tunnels only by wide vents, too small for him to pass through. There had been no need to go there, he had told himself, but if this undergaoler knew of them…

Any number of nefarious going-ons could be hidden down there and the entrance was right here. 

He kicked the molded sleeping pallet aside and counted the stones in the wall to push against for the ground to shift aside, and then looked on grimly as it moved. The mechanism behind it had to have been oiled, for it did not grind and groan nearly as much as it had in his memory. The entrance had been used and rather recently too.

His lips were pressed together in a tight, angry line as he descended into the horror-filled parts of the dungeons, and they pressed together even tighter as a shadow flickered ahead of him. Darkness and shadow danced together where no shadow had any right to be and yet a shadow flicked again and again until there was no doubt in him that a torch was burning far out of sight, and he followed silent as Ghost intent on his prey.

The muted sound was the first sign his eyes were not playing tricks on his mind. There was ever-so-soft shifting of air as it moved with breaths not his own and nearly inaudible sniffles first. Then, as the darkness lightened, and the sniffles grew only slightly louder, he could hear a crackling of an unseen fire, not just a torch, and he hesitated for the first time.

Someone was crying down here and trying not to be heard. If someone down here was hiding their sounds, there had to be someone they were hiding them from. He knew of Rugen, had come here expecting to find signs of his presence, but what if the undergaoler was not alone? What if he had accomplices for whatever nefarious deeds it was that he was committing here?

He moved forward regardless, only to freeze and watch light flicker in the thin slip below one door, and reconsider his actions once more. There was no more space to reconsider once a pained sob tore through the stillness, and he barged into the torture chamber to confront the man.

There was a child strapped to the torture table, a round man bent over the small frame, turning to face him. The smell of blood was near overpowering, the taste hitting him as well as he bit his tongue and he saw red, drawing his sword in a flash. 

He froze in surprise, staring at the man, utterly befuddled. The man was not afraid in the least to be discovered. He was smiling at him, a slight upturn of lips. “Tut-tut, my lord. Such a shame for you to be set upon by catspaws, but such is the fate of those that dwell too often in Flea Bottom.”

He blinked and blinked again trying to make sense of the words and annoyance flashed across the man’s face after just a short pause. “Well? What are you waiting for? Kill him!”

He spun around on instinct, looking for the threat. They were not alone, he found. There were several children with dirty faces in the chamber with them, standing still as statues, eyes shining.

“Kill him! Now!” The man’s voice was sharp, angry, and commanding, and at long last the pieces fell into place. He knew those faces.

Confusion morphed into blind rage, and he was upon the man in a wink, lifting him off his feet and slamming him into the wall as he held him by his throat against it, squeezing viciously, ignoring the feeble hands that beat at him and the weakening kicks of floundering legs, squeezing and squeezing even as the flailing of limbs stopped and squeezing still even as the light left the man’s eyes. It took a long time for him to stop squeezing and when he did, he slammed the man against the stone one last time, still so very angry even as he watched the lifeless body fall to the ground.

He likely would have stood there for an eternity, staring down at the corpse, had a gurgling sound not startled him out of his strange state. The corpse was a corpse. It had no business gurgling. He blinked dumbly, and then remembered at last that he was not alone with it.

There had been a child strapped to the table in pain and bleeding when he had barged in, and he had managed to forget entirely about it in his rage. He moved to remedy his oversight swiftly, striding to the table and checking upon the child in question. There was blood in the child’s mouth, enough to be seemingly choking on it, so he unmade the straps holding the chin and the head in place first, before freeing the limbs as well.

Only when the child spat out a blob of meat among the torrent of blood and his eyes found the stoic faces of the other children, did he realize where all that blood was coming from and cursed most foully in the trade talk as he frantically searched around for something to stem the bleeding, finding it in the red-hot tongs resting in the fire. He froze and stared. 

Fuck.

He laid a hand on the child’s shoulder and spoke softly. “You need to lay back down. I need to strap your head in, so I can stop the bleeding, do you understand?”

The child’s eyes were bleary with pain and fright and barely open, and he was sick just thinking of what needs to be done, but there was no time, and he had wasted so much of it already. Too much, for the child collapsed under his hand with its eyes closed. His stomach churned with nerves. It was perhaps for the best. He had never done anything like this before. 

He laid the small and still body out on the table, gently opening the mouth and barely seeing anything among all the blood and with the low and flickering light. Still, there was a part of him that wished to have seen even less as he reached for the tongs and ever-so-carefully inserted them into the child’s mouth to sear the wound closed. The stench of burning flesh hit his nostrils, and oh Gods, he was going to be sick, but he held on as the sizzling lessened, and he felt it safe to remove the blasted tongs.

He sank to the ground only after he cleaned the wound as well as he could, as well as he knew to, leaning his head back against the table in utter exhaustion and closing his eyes. He wanted to weep, but he swallowed dryly and ground his teeth and swore in the trade talk once more and at length. The trade talk had such a way with foulness.

A queer sound had him opening his eyes with a frown. 

The children were… Was that a laugh? A giggle, perhaps? What were they so amused by? He would have understood joy. He had just killed their… master? Their torturer? But this was no joy, it truly seemed to be amusement. They were entertained. By him. He blinked. By his words? Was that the source of their amusement? 

He regarded them with his head cocked to the side and said a few choice words of the dead man, speaking in the trade talk again. The children’s shoulders shook, and they let out that strange sound once more, and his brows drew together into a deep frown once more. The trade talk was exceedingly common in the Free Cities, used all along the ports as far as Slaver’s Bay, and yet he had never heard it spoken in Westeros, not even among the many visiting crews, a broken common used most often. That was the reason he had chosen it for the language to curse in. There was no reason for a child in King's Landing to understand him, much less more than one.

He leaned forward and watched the children’s faces carefully as he spoke in High Valyrian. “ Do you understand me? ”

Hesitant smiles spread across their faces, and he expelled a shocked breath as they nodded, one after another. They understood trade talk and they understood Valyrian. These children were not Westerosi and bile rose in his throat. 

Fucking hells. These children were not Westerosi and the Crown was buying something from Lys expensive enough for it to be included yet concealed in its accounts. And then selling it. He had thought it to be whores.

Oh Gods, he was done with these people.

Chapter Text

Margaery supposed that there had to be some downsides to being wed to an honorable and kind man and though there surely could not be many of them, this was one. She had wished to be on Dragonstone already and yet here they were, lingering in the capital, until her lord husband deemed that his duties were attended to and well managed by those he would be handing them over to. It was admirable, and she did admire him for it, but the longer they stayed, the more she realized the folly of her previous wish to remain to avoid suspicions. 

While she was not given over to nausea, only strong smells inviting bouts of it as her grandmother not-so-kindly enlightened her, there were changes to her body to note. She began her mornings stood in front of a mirror, examining her figure closely, and fending off wandering hands and lips of her husband. There were changes to her breasts, in their size and in their look and in how they responded to even the gentlest of touches, that Jon took great delight in exploiting , and she had proven herself to be entirely powerless in the face of his questionable mercy.

Worse than the changes in her breasts had been the softening of her belly though , and she had burst into tears the first morn she had taken notice of it and no amount of kisses to dry her wet cheeks would make her stop, no amount of hushed reassurances would either. Her dresses would not fit for long , and she had almost wept at that realization too. She had been a fool. She had grossly underestimated just how soon the signs could manifest , and then she had been entirely too optimistic in how long it would take to settle her husband's affairs when she had changed her mind about staying , and she had delayed and delayed, hoping to be at Dragonstone by the time new dresses were needed.

It was silly, she told herself. It was expected of her. She was a woman wedded and bedded after all , and people would expect her to wear her husband’s colors , and surely it would come as no surprise that the new dresses were to be made with certain allowances when she could not know when she would return to the capital.

Perhaps it was a silly thing to try and make excuses for any number of things when her courses had not come after a full moon of being wed still , and she had no doubt every maid in the Tower of the Hand was well aware of the fact, but the news of gowns were far more like to reach the ears of the highborn than the servants’ chatter. Perhaps it was silly of her when her grandmother already knew. But Margaery could be allowed some foolishness in her condition, she had been assured by her husband , and so she did.

New gowns, new colors, new cuts… It all meant change and while much of what was happening was the best she could have hoped for, it was still too much, happening too swiftly. Her gowns had been her girlhood, her carefree life at Highgarden , her firm belief in the love her family had for her, and they stood in stark contrast to the black and blood-red of the new ones.

When the dresses were delivered , and she put on the black-and-red for the first time, she felt an entirely different person, and her stomach churned and churned as she examined herself with a critical eye and her lips pulled back in a bitter smile. Her family would have rejoiced at her wearing these colors, were the circumstances drastically different. Now, she stood alone with only a maid to attend her.

She could not stop the shriek that left her as the door to the chambers burst open , and her husband came tearing through it, not even casting a look in her direction and pulling open drawers, taking things out.

“What-”

“We are leaving.”

She dropped to sit on the bed heavily as she stared at him tearing through their dresser, throwing items haphazardly into chests, dismissing a wide-eyed maid with a wave of her hand, her gaze never leaving her husband. Her husband’s hands.

Margaery tried again, her voice gentle. “What… What happened?”

He stopped abruptly, straightening in alarm. “Why? What makes you think…?” His lips pressed together tightly , and he threw another load into the chest. “Nothing happened.”

Margaery rose to her feet and approached with caution, taking his hands into her own, stilling his motions. “Come, sit. Leave the packing to servants.” 

He let himself be guided to sit on the bed, his gaze blank , and she went to gather and wet a washcloth before she lowered herself to her knees in front of him, reaching for his hands once more, wiping gently, her voice hushed. “Where did the blood come from?”

His knuckles were bruised, but not nearly enough to warrant that much dried blood.

Her husband blinked his glazed eyes slowly at her and then looked down at his hands. “It’s not mine.”

She kept her voice low and fought to keep it light. “Oh? Whose is it then?”

“The child’s.”

A gasp left her and her voice rose in alarm. “What child’s?!”

Another blank blink followed. “The one I brought in.”

Her brows furrowed. “Why did you bring in a child?”

“Because it was bleeding.” His reply was slow, his words slightly slurred.

She held a tight leash on her growing annoyance. “ Why was it bleeding?” And why were his knuckles bruised?

His hazy gaze settled on her , and he gave her a startled blink as if just noting her presence. “It had its tongue cut out.”

“ What?! ” Her voice was shrill.

“It had its tongue cut out.” Her husband repeated himself evenly , and she gripped the washcloth so she would not shake him. “So it could not speak.” His gaze became sharp all of a sudden , and it met her eyes intently. “I killed the man that did it. That was doing it.”

She let out an unsteady breath, and her hold on the abused washcloth eased ever-so-slightly. “The King’s justice has been served, then.” And there would be no more tongueless children.

A wet chuckle left her husband and he blinked rapidly. “Gods, I hate this city.”

Margaery put on a smile and inserted as much optimism into her tone of voice as she could muster. “Well, 'tis a good thing we are leaving, then. I am sure your father and your sisters will be sorry to see us go, but they will understand.”

That was not the right thing to say at all, judging by the way her husband’s expression crumbled , and his hands buried themselves in his hair, pulling at it harshly. “Oh Gods, I have to tell him.” He jumped to his feet, likely to do just that, but Margaery pushed him back onto the bed with a light shove.

A light shove, that was all it took.

“Lord Stark has gone to the docks with Lord Manderly. He is not expected back for quite some time yet. Rest. Calm yourself.”

“I am calm.”

She hummed and lightly brushed her thumb over the tears in the skin of his knuckles. “What happened here?”

He bowed his head and watched the movement silently for a while. “I hit a wall.” His shoulders slumped. “Repeatedly.”

Margaery hummed once more and rose to join him on the bed and wrap him in her arms. She was all out of words, too many questions her husband was in no fit state to answer swirling in her head and competing for prominence. And so she sat with him silently wondering at the cruel, cruel world.

She sat with him until his breathing eased , and she lulled herself into believing that he finally calmed , only for his breath to hitch and her husband jump to his feet again. “I need to…” He was out of the chamber, out of the tower in a flash, leaving her behind drowning in confusion and uneasiness, her stomach rolling.

She could not stay still anymore. She could not, and so Margaery rose to her feet as well, collecting her wits and smoothing out her gown, leaving the chambers behind with her head held high, her discomfort hidden carefully behind a mask of unaffected cool.

There was no nausea, she told herself as she listened to agitated Vayon Poole speak of the child. There was no nausea, no reason to close her eyes, no reason to weep. She had seen children without tongues before. She knew they could live, did live, and so would this one. There was no reason to visit the child at all. No reason. She had other duties to attend to besides, if they were to leave.

Margaery had put off visiting her family long enough. She had not felt quite up to scratch after grandmother’s unwelcome visit and though she so wished to speak to her mother, she dreaded another encounter with the Queen of Thorns. But now they were to leave. On the morrow, if she were any judge of her husband’s state of mind, and there was no more time.

Her mother smiled at her in welcome, blessedly alone, and took her into her arms, as she was let into the family apartments, her smile wan. “Sweetling, it is so good to see you. I have missed you so.”

You could have come to see me, she did not say as tears gathered in her eyes. “I came to say goodbye, mother. We are to leave for Dragonstone on the morrow.”

Her mother’s face fell at the news. “Oh, I hoped to have more time with you now that matters have settled somewhat.”

Settled. It did not seem to her that any matters had settled. If anything, they had become un settled.

She shrugged, impassive. “It is high time I get to see my husband’s keep. My new home. We have lingered here long enough.” Too long.

Her mother guided her to sit with her on a settee, tears in her eyes. “I can hardly believe you are a woman grown and wed now.” She hesitated and then squeezed Margaery’s hand gently as she lowered her voice. “And with child already.”

“Grandmother told you.” She hardly even recognized the dull voice as her own.

“Yes, she did.” Concern and hesitation warred in her mother’s eyes. “She…” She cut herself off and then continued. “It is such good fortune for you to fall with child so quickly. You and your husband must be truly blessed by the Gods.”

Tension in Margaery’s shoulders lessened slightly. “It is. We are blessed indeed.”

“I hoped…” Her mother’s voice stalled once more. “I hoped… At your wedding and after… You seemed to get along well enough. I hoped…” 

Margaery barely kept her lips from twisting in scorn as she blinked innocently at her mother. “What did you hope?”

The eyes that met hers were earnest. “I hoped you would find happiness. I know you did not wish…”

She blinked, taken aback. “I did find it.”

There was a pity in her mother's eyes at that as her look turned toward her middle. “For a time. After… I fear for you.”

Margaery let out an exasperated breath and gritted her teeth. They would have her seduce the king , but they would not trust her to carry her husband’s child. “There is no reason to fear for me. My husband is very kind and attentive and…” She chewed on her lip and then lowered her voice. “He is delighted by the babe.”

Her mother patted her hand somewhat patronizingly. “For now, dear.”

She let out a growl and spoke in a very low voice. “For ever. It is his babe, whatever grandmother chooses to believe. I have only ever known one man, and that man is my husband.”

There was a puzzled wrinkle between her mother’s brows as she watched her carefully and her head was cocked to the side, her voice was cautiously low as well. “Sweetling, you are too-” She cut herself off and drew back, her eyes widening , and sudden understanding alighted in them as she expelled a startled breath. “Oh, sweetling, she must never know.”

Margaery shrugged, unconcerned. “I told her and I told her.  She can hardly fault me when she refused to hear.” She could hardly fault anyone for lying when she had been told the truth. And once she realized the truth, likely years later, it would be far too late for her to do anything anymore, too late for Margaery and her youthful beauty to be of use.

Her mother let out a deep sigh. “I suppose it is for the best. I did not wish you to… You did not wish to… Let us keep this just between the two of us. Your father does not know at all and is content enough now that the lords have calmed and with Prince Viserys dead…”

Margaery blinked. “What? What does that have to do with…?” Anything, truly.

Her mother replied with a shake of her head. “The king ordered your wedding to keep the Reach, the old loyalists, in line, surely, you know that. Whatever their loyalties, did you truly expect your father’s lords to accept such with good grace? Your father has been using his new connection to the Hand to his best advantage to mollify them.”

She frowned. “I do not understand.”

A light laugh. “There are more Reachmen in positions at court now than at any time since the war ended, and the size of your dowry has been steadily increasing with each appointment.”

She bit back a disbelieving laugh. She understood matters a smidge better now. Her goodfather had expressed some puzzlement as to her dowry but had not truly elaborated and when she had given in to her curiosity, her concerns, and asked Jon, her worries had been waved away with a laugh. Now she understood the laughter at least. Far from her family refusing to pay the dowry, they kept adding to it. She wondered whether she should mention that Lord Stark had failed to note the connection between the appointments and the dowry for but a flash, though that did invite some questions on its own, questions that had her amusement dissolving swiftly.

Worrying her lip between her teeth, she sobered. “Good, King’s Landing could use pious honorable men that Reachmen doubtless are in spades.” Her mood brightened once more as a thought occurred to her. “Certainly it will be a great boon to have Loras in a position of honor here as well.”

“Oh, worry not. Loras is not one of the men your father sought to appease. He will still be joining you. Oh, I should have sent for him the moment you said you would be leaving! He must prepare as well! It would not do for him to inconvenience you.” Her mother patted her hand, dismissing her. “I do apologize, sweetling, I will send for him at once. Oh, and I must give orders to prepare a farewell dinner for you. When would-”

Margaery jumped to her feet, quite done with all of it. “No! I do not wish to have a farewell dinner. Not with you. Not with any of you! And I do not wish Loras to come with me. I do not want him! I do not!”

There were fat tears rolling down her cheeks , but she no longer cared, not even about how crushed her mother looked.

“Oh, sweetling-”

“Do not patronize me! You wanted to make a whore of me , and you are all sore that I am not! That I made my own destiny! But I am done! I am done.” Her voice became very, very quiet , and she wrapped her arms around herself. “I thought you loved me. I would have done anything for you, but had you truly loved me, you would not have asked this. You would have killed the man that dared suggest it.”

Her mother rose, tears shining in her eyes, and she spoke in a broken voice. “Oh, sweetling we do love you. I love you. You must believe that.” She raised her hand to stroke her hair, and Margaery shook her hand off mutely as tears continued to flow. What more was there to say? “Please, sweetling…” Her mother was weeping too. “You are my babe, my only daughter, my darling child. I love you. I have always loved you. Please… You must know-”

Sudden anger swelled in Margaery at the words. “ Must I know? I did know. I thought I knew! Why should I believe you now? How could I believe you now?”

“Sweetling… How… What can I do to convince you? Tell me! Tell me and I will do it!”

Margaery threw her hands up in the air. “Do you truly not understand? I want you to leave me in peace! I want none of you on Dragonstone! I want…” She stopped abruptly as an idea occurred to her and a calm enveloped her. “I want you not to tell them. Not about Jon and I and not about us leaving on the morrow. That is what I want.” 

Her mother stared at her, her eyes wide, but she nodded. After a long, long while, she nodded, and so Margaery dried her wet cheeks and nodded as well, bidding her mother a good day coldly. She had proven nothing yet.

There were entirely too many children in the Tower of the Hand when she walked in, and Vayon Poole seemed about ready to pull his hair out, hurrying to her the moment he spotted her.

“My lady, your husband brought these children in. They are to travel to Dragonstone with you. They are…” His eyes roved over the children critically. “Dirty.”

“I see.”

They stood in silence as the man looked at her expectantly. 

“What are we to do with them?”

She smiled at him, as lost as he was. “A bath and a warm meal seems a good place to start, would you not agree?”

“Yes, it does, my lady. The water is being heated already and all of them will get a shave too, but what clothes should they be put into once they have been bathed? Those rags and anything they touched is fit for burning.”

“Oh, do we not have-?”

The steward seemed offended. “No, we most certainly do not. This household does not employ children this young, and even Lady Arya’s clothes would be too big for the most part.”

And not enough by far besides. She cursed her husband and his lack of foresight in the privacy of her mind as she rubbed at her temples. 

“Let us start by shaving and washing them. They will survive being wrapped in a towel for a while, I would hope and we can… I take some servants and some guards and go buy…” Words failed her. She would be buying a whole supply of ready-made child-sized clothing in King’s Landing, it seemed to her.

The steward bowed his head in acknowledgement and sniffed. “You should know, my lady, that I will be informing Lord Hand of this… development.”

Margaery gave him a wan smile. Lord Hand could hardly fail to notice a sudden invasion of small children, no matter how quiet they were bound to be.

Chapter Text

The dead Master of Whisperers was a small thing, all things considered. There was the matter of the Crown’s coin used to bring back the evil of slavery back into the Seven Kingdoms, be it children or whores mattered little. The North had its own experiences with it, every few generations suffering a winter harsh enough for men and women to sell themselves into slavery simply to escape starving. Slavers seemed to like the North for its vast coast that offered little protection to its fishing villages and with it possessing few ships, there was little risk of getting caught.

Ned hated slavery and slavers, hated that there were Northmen that had to sell themselves, hated that there were those in the North that would sell others. Robert offering a pardon and a lordship to Jorah Mormont had been a bitter draught to swallow. To know that the Crown itself partook… Needless to say, he was beyond furious. He was disappointed and lost too. The Crown condoned this atrocity. Done overtly or not, it was still the Crown’s business. And the Crown’s business was the King’s and therefore the Hand’s. Ned had been made into a part of this, too.

Yes, the dead Master of Whisperers was a small thing and a good thing. With him dead already, there was little need for Ned to take Ice and separate the head from the body in the name of the King’s justice that he believed less and less in with each passing day. Varys was dead, and it was for the best. Should Littlefinger prove to have a hand in the flesh trade, which seemed only all too likely since it was he that was in charge of the Crown’s trade and account books, Ice would be put to good use regardless should the next shipment of Lyseni lace contain anything besides lace.

It was a good thing, truly, that there was so much to do with Jon leaving for Dragonstone with a whole horde of the freed and now lice-free children that had kept his staff occupied since the moment of their unexpected arrival and would keep them occupied even after they left, scrubbing themselves and the Tower of the Hand from top to bottom to prevent an infestation all of their own. Vayon had been less than pleased with the chaos Jon was leaving in his wake, but Ned was relieved. The chaos was a good thing too when it stopped him from taking unforgivably rash actions, which searching out and strangling the life out of the Master of Coin undoubtedly would be.

Chaos was a distraction. A distraction which allowed him to acknowledge that losing a second member of the Small Council in a day to strangulation by an irate Stark would not seem justified, no matter the arguments presented after the fact. No, it was better not to do that , and it was better still not to connect any Stark to a death of a member of the king’s council at all. The greater the distance between Jon and King’s Landing when the disappearance of the Master of Whisperers came to be questioned, the better.

“I do not want you to go!” 

For all that the chaos had been a deliverance, he had hoped to have a measure of peace at supper with his family at least.

“ I want to go with Jon! I want to see Dragonstone!” Arya was glaring daggers at Sansa , and he sighed as he realized whatever truce had been struck between the sisters was coming to an end.

Jon did not seem quite up to the task of dealing with his quarrelsome sisters, and so the answer was left to Ned. “Jon has to go, sweetling. He has been away from Dragonstone too long already.”

Sansa’s eyes were big and pleading. “Could Margaery and Ghost stay then?”

Lady Margaery opened her mouth to respond, but he fielded this question as well. “Lady Margaery’s place is by her husband’s side , and she has to get to know her new household. Ghost’s place is by his master’s side as well. King’s Landing is too hot for a direwolf anyway.”

Tears pooled in Sansa’s eyes , but she nodded, fight draining out of her and her shoulders slumped as her gaze turned down into her plate.

“Good! King’s Landing is too boring anyway! I want to go with Jon to Dragonstone!”

He turned to Arya and suppressed a sigh. It would perhaps be for the best. She was not made for the capital, the court and its intrigues, and he had intended to ask Jon to allow her a visit. He had merely not expected for Jon’s departure to come quite so suddenly.

“Oh? I was not aware that you have been invited.”

Arya’s expression fell at his words , but she perked up almost immediately as she turned to her frowning brother with a wide smile. “May I come? Please!” Seeing her brother unresponsive and poking at his food without enthusiasm, she slid out of her chair and went to shake him. “Jon! Jon! May I come with you? May I? May I? Please! ”

Jon blinked at her and then brought his confused eyes to meet Ned’s , and so he gave him a miniscule nod.

“Oh. You may.”

Arya jumped up and down and threw herself onto Jon, heedless of his preoccupation. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! You will not regret it, I swear! I will be the best guest you have ever had!”

Jon blinked at her, still somewhat lost. “That would not be such as much of a hardship as you believe it to be.”

She squeezed him once more for good measure before she skipped to Ned, her hands folded demurely behind her back and her smile small but victorious. “I have been invited to Dragonstone, father. May I go?”

Corners of Ned’s lips turned up of their own volition as he gave her a solemn nod and received an enthusiastic hug of his own.

“Sansa, would you not like to come for a visit too?” His gaze snapped toward Lady Margaery, her quiet question catching him entirely off-guard, and then to his elder daughter. His elder daughter that had droplets of water glittering in her lashes.

“Oh, I would hate to impose.” Sansa demurred but Ned was not deaf to the longing in her voice and even absentminded Jon caught on.

“It would be no imposition. I am sure Margaery would appreciate your company while she settles in and gets to know everyone.”

Sansa worried her lip and lowered her eyes once more. “Well, if you are sure… and if father approves, of course, I would be delighted to come as well.”

“Are you sure, sweetling? You so like the court.”

His daughter raised her eyes to him at last , widening her own. “Oh, I do, father, I do. But I hardly know anyone here and with Margaery going to Dragonstone to take charge of her new household , I could not let such an opportunity pass me by, could I? How often does one get to learn how to run one’s husband’s keep by witnessing someone do as much for the first time firsthand?”

Ned could have kissed her then and there. His daughters would leave him alone in King’s Landing , and they would be safe, and no one would be able to question his reason for sending them away. Not now that they both asked to go. Even Sansa’s reasoning was sound, should anyone wish to protest.

He sighed heavily. “I suppose I will have to order your trunks packed.”

Arya bounced. “I am packed already!” Ned closed his eyes in pain as he imagined the mess , and he heard Jon choke on a laugh. “Can I have my head shaved too?”

Ned’s eyes snapped open at the hopeful question. “No! Absolutely not!” Jon was no longer bothering to suppress his laughter, and the corners of Lady Margaery’s lips were twitching suspiciously. 

She was pouting at him, her arms folded across her chest mutinously. “But everyone else has!”

He would not move on this. “Everyone else needed it. You do not.” His eyes turned to Jon. “She is not allowed to shave her head. If she does, you are to send her back to me at once.”

“Father!” Arya’s eyes were big and hurt and full of betrayal, but her brother nodded solemnly , and the defiance drained out of her as the look of betrayal worsened.

He made his face and his voice stern as he addressed her. “I have time to rethink my approval yet, Arya. Do not tempt me.”

Her shoulders slumped further , and she muttered under her breath as she seated herself back at the table. “I will be the best guest Jon has ever had.”

He truly hoped so. He had already given Jon more than enough to carry on his young shoulders, he would prefer his daughters not be just one more burden he shed onto him.

It was queer, watching his children board a ship to leave him and be relieved. Lord Manderly stood by his side and Vayon Poole stood slightly behind him, having wished farewell to his own daughter too , and they watched as the ship cast off and became smaller and smaller until it could not be seen at all anymore. They were gone. His children were gone , and he was freer for it.

He was still looking in the direction the ship disappeared in when he spoke softly in an even voice. “My Lord Manderly, I would have every ship coming from Lys held in confinement until it can be searched thoroughly by my men. It has been brought to my attention that slave trade might be conducted in the capital under the guise of legitimate business from Lys.”

For his part, Lord Manderly did not startle and responded evenly as well. “It will be done as my Lord Hand commands.”

“There will be no movement from or to those ships until they have been searched. Not by anyone, I do not care what rank or orders there might be otherwise. Should anyone inquire… There were rumors of Lyseni sailors carrying a certain… disease. All ships out of Lys must be searched and all aboard examined.” There was the healer Jon had employed to care for the children still at the Tower of the Hand. He would serve as a guise well enough.

That did seem to take the lord aback somewhat. “Is there a reason to be concerned for discretion, my lord?”

Eddard turned his head to give him a grim look. “There is every reason for concern. Even members of the king’s council are not above suspicion at present.”

“I see.” He did not. Not yet. If all went well, he never would. He had become a different man since he had come south and for all that it might have been necessary, he was far from proud of it.

The Hand of the King delayed summoning the Small Council as long as he could. Lord Varys was known to be here and there and everywhere and sometimes nowhere at all. As long as the council was not summoned , and he did not fail to appear, no one would be able to say for certain that he was gone. Even then there would be confusion before suspicion arose.

But when a ship from Lys, one carrying a load of lace according to its ledgers, was searched and a load of pleasure slaves was found by his men instead, there was no more delaying. There could be no more delaying, as cold rage took hold of Ned once more.

He summoned the council , and he went to plead with the king to appear , and then he took Ice , and he prayed to the Gods that Baelish had not heard of the findings yet. Should the man decide to run… Well, Ned did not trust himself not to pursue.

He was seated when Lord Manderly arrived, giving him a grave nod. Then came Lord Renly, in friendly conversation with Littlefinger and behind them came the huffing and puffing Grand Maester. He ignored the attempts all made to engage him in conversation. Barristan Selmy had not arrived yet , and it gave him hope as to Robert’s appearance and his gaze remained fixed on the door.

When the door opened next, he was rewarded with the sight of Robert Baratheon in all his doubtful glory , and he rose to his feet to greet him, others rising with him, puzzlement plain on their faces.

“Well, what is it? What is so important that I have to be here this damn early?”

Ned’s hand fell to Ice’s hilt and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard mirrored his motion as he straightened to respond. “Thank you for coming, Your Grace. There is a matter I believe requires your personal attention, and this matter will bear no more delay.”

Robert lowered himself into his seat with a grumble. “Well, get on with it!”

Ned seated himself as well, and opened his mouth to speak, only to be forestalled by the Grand Maester. “Should we not await Lord Varys? It is most unlike him to be late. Why, he usually knows of the meeting before any of us!”

He did not wince , but it was a near thing. “Grand Maester, are you suggesting our most gracious king should wait on his Master of Whisperers?”

“Damn that! Tell me what this urgent matter is now, Ned!”

He started in a cautious voice. “I have been looking over the Crown’s accounts-”

“Copper-counting! You called me here for copper-counting?!”

Baelish, whose smile lessened somewhat as Ned started to speak, relaxed into his usual arrogant pose , and he struggled to reign in his temper. “No, not copper-counting, not truly.” 

The slightest frown flashed across Littlefinger’s face. “Worse. Much, much worse.” Had he not known better, he would be entirely fooled by the look of utter bewilderment on the face of the Master of Coin. “Lace. The Crown is trading in Lyseni lace.”

Robert burst into laughter, but his brother did not, frowning fiercely in thought, but Ned’s eyes were fixed on the man by Lord Renly’s side, paling dramatically , and he was out of his seat in a wink and had the man seized by his doublet.

The king’s laughter cut off abruptly. “Ned! What is the meaning of this?! Unhand him at once!”

Ned had no intention of unhanding Littlefinger. He shook him like a rag doll for good measure. “This man! This… This… This fucking monster is buying slaves from Lys!”

The man had the gall to laugh at him as he tried to pry Ned’s hands off the expensive doublet. “My Lord Hand is confused, I do no such thing.”

He fought for cool. “No, I suppose you do not. After all, it is the Crown’s gold you use for it.”

The damnable man chuckled. “The Crown’s gold? There is none!” His eyes flashed with amusement. “But there are the king’s whores. And after he is done with them, they earn many times their price.”

Ned’s hold loosened in surprise. Whores? Robert’s whores? What about the children?

Littlefinger’s eyes glittered in triumph for but a moment. A moment was all it took. Ned’s hold loosened and just like that, the man was torn out of his hands and smashed into the council table with a terrible crash.

“Whores? What fucking whores? Slaves! Call them what they were!”

Littlefinger could not call anyone anything as the king had him by the throat, squeezing as he smashed his head into the table again and again. He did not stop, even as there was a sickening crunch of bone. He did not stop until a queer liquid started to leak out of the man’s ears , and he let go and backed away, clearly startled.

The Grand Maester’s coughing fit broke the stunned silence the chamber fell into. “It would seem Lord Baelish is quite dead already, Your Grace.” He coughed some more. “That was the most unfortunate fall he suffered.”

Ned stared at him. “There was no fall.”

The old man gave him a disappointed look. “Of course there was. I am the Grand Maester. I assure you I know what such a death looks like.”

“Littlefinger’s crimes-”

“What crimes, my Lord Hand? There could be no crimes. Not without the Crown’s knowledge. Most certainly not without the Crown's involvement. 'Tis like I said. The most unfortunate fall.”

Ned stared at Pycelle and wished it did not all make a terrible kind of sense.

Chapter Text

“ Leave! ” The order left her mouth the moment the door closed behind the servant that had shown him into her solar.

“ No. ” His even reply was as infuriating as his mere presence.

Margaery stomped her foot in frustration. “I want you to leave! Now! ” As Loras mutely shook his head, she fairly growled at him. “My husband is the Lord of Dragonstone and you are not welcome here! Leave!”

“Come, Margaery, be reasonable. Had I, any of your blood, truly, been unwelcome here, I would not have been brought straight to you. It is just your temper talking.” Her fool brother paused for a moment, and his frown deepened as he pressed on beyond what any amount of good sense should have allowed him. “Not that I understand this fit of yours. Your husband dragged you off to Dragonstone without any farewell, without even any kind of notice to your family. What did you expect would happen? We are concerned for you.”

Her brother did seem genuine in his concern, and Margaery’s lips curled in disgust and then pulled back as she did not bother holding back a vicious snarl. “ Concerned. ” 

She could speak no more as a fit of giggles overtook her, and she slapped her hands over her mouth because she could not stop, but even that attempt at holding herself back proved fruitless, and she let go of it as she could not catch her breath and her hands dropped to clutch at her middle as tears rolled down her face. She sank to her knees still laughing, still gasping for breath and oh Gods, she was becoming lightheaded.

Loras lowered himself to the ground next to her and laid a gentle hand on her shaking shoulder. “ Gods, what has he done to you? Say the word and I will kill him.”

Her laughter left her and for a mad, mad moment as she stared into the earnest eyes of her once-favorite brother, she considered lying, telling him something terrible just to see him challenge Jon and die. She had seen both of them fight, and she knew what the outcome would be. Loras was a great swordsman, but Jon was deadly. Where Loras fought with almost otherworldly grace, he ultimately fought to impress, to showcase his prowess. Jon… Jon was graceful too, she supposed, but his movements were economical, efficient, vicious. Jon did not bother with pageantry or gallantry. He fought to win by any means, and he moved directly for a kill. Loras would be dead before he even realized it was his life in peril.

But it was madness. She loved Loras, whatever his crimes toward her, and she could not bear to see him dead, especially not by her word.

It was madness and a sudden burst of fury at herself, at him, at everyone and everything, had her springing back to her feet. “What has he done? What about you ?!”

Loras blinked at her, his confusion clear as he rose to his feet as well. “ Me ? I just came here. I have not had time to do anything yet.”

She wanted to strangle him, to wrap her hands around the column of his throat and squeeze. She folded her arms under her breasts instead , and she raised her chin and sneered at him. “Oh, you had plenty of time to plot my ruin long before ever arriving here. You, who I thought could not be closer to my heart even if we were twins. I loved you! I trusted you! And you would sell me to that… that… pig! All at the word of that… that… man!”

Loras paled. “Margaery… That… You know grandmother.”

There was a vicious beast alive in her breast, coiling and hissing and snapping, and she could feel her eyes burning as her tone cooled considerably. “Oh, I know grandmother. And I know it was you who proposed it and then convinced her. I know… I know that she never would have gone along with it had Lord Renly come to us hat in hand.”

And she would not. She would not have trusted him. She would not have trusted any Baratheon ever. But grandmother trusted Loras. Loras, the youngest and most dashing of the Tyrell brothers, who was their pride and joy and who had been indulged perhaps a bit overmuch by them all over the years. In the end, it was Loras, the youngest son, that was picked over Margaery, the only daughter. She should not have been surprised.

“You would have been queen.” There was sheer puzzlement in her brother’s voice, and Margaery barked out a short, disbelieving laugh.

“Have you seen the king? What woman would want to be a queen to … to… that? ” 

Loras rolled his eyes at her. “No crown has ever been won without some sacrifice.”

Her jaw dropped, and her eyes widened as she stared at him in utter shock. “ Some sacrifice. Some. Me, you mean.” She stepped up closer to her brother, until their noses almost touched, and hissed into his face. “Tell me, brother, considering your preferences, how would you like to have that beast over you? In you? To feel his every movement in your body, to have his stinking breath on your skin, to have his sheer weight suffocate you?”

Her brother shuddered in disgust, and she pressed on, fire burning in her. “See? You shudder to even think of it for yourself, but for me… For me, you thought that a grand fate, a small sacrifice to be made.”

Swelling bitterness had her turn away from him sharply. “And after… Have you even given thought to what would await me after? He has had dozens… scores… hundreds of women! I would have been ruined right alongside them! And if not that, if by some miracle I managed to turn his gaze and keep it, what of the Lannisters? Do you think they would let me live? Pain and ruin and death, that is what awaited me had I gone along with your plan.”

“And this is better? To be exiled here, to this dreary island to live out your life away from everything that is bright and beautiful?” He pitied her, the blind fool.

She opened her arms, hoping to encompass the whole island in the gesture. “This is not exile! This is my home! This is where I am safe and happy and free! This is my choice! And it is mine to make bright and beautiful.”

Loras raised his chin, entirely unrepentant. “ I will be a judge of that, and I will report to father on your happiness, as he requested of me.”

Margaery growled at being so dismissed. “You will do no such thing. You will leave. Today.”

“I will not.” Her idiot brother retorted with a smile.

“You will. My husband is the Lord of Dragonstone and if I say so, he will have you thrown out. Literally.”

Loras’ smile morphed into a smirk. “Ah, I do not think so. You do not wish to cause a scene, do you? That is why you have not called for guards and have me thrown out yourself. That is why you will not tell your husband anything to get me thrown out, either. Because they and he and everyone, truly, would wonder why. And you do not want them to wonder.”

Margaery rolled her eyes at his knowing smirk. “I want you gone, you fool, not dead. That is why I have not told Jon everything. That is why I have not told him I do not want you here yet.” If there was anything she had learned of her husband since she had first chosen him, it was how hopelessly confusing and unpredictable he was, the knowledge that had only strengthened since they had made their home here.

He shrugged at her. “Well, then you can hardly object to your beloved brother being your sworn sword, can you?”

“You will not be my sworn sword. I forbid it.”

Loras the Foolish was grinning. “How unfortunate that your husband seems to be in a rather desperate need of knights.”

Margaery smiled at him sweetly. “I refuse you in my service. Swear yourself to my husband’s and see how well that goes.” Whatever Loras thought, Jon was unlikely to waste the best sword on Dragonstone at her side, not once she would spare a word here and there of her brother’s talents. Her husband was a good lord that made the best use of all the resources available to him, and Loras would be no exception.

Once her troublesome brother left her solar, in search of the master-at-arms and her husband guided by the servant she had ever-so-helpfully provided for him, and she could be certain he was far enough away, she took hold of her skirts and hurried to the library, where she knew her husband to be, poring over the ancient records of trade from before the Conquest with Maester Cressen. She was huffing and puffing by the time she reached them, causing some alarm in both, but she dismissed their concerns with a weak smile and a vague wave of her hand.

It had been a little more than a fortnight since she had arrived here and so far, only her, her husband and Maester Cressen knew her condition for certain and only the three of them knew the truth of its length. The old maester had been the one to examine her, and he had hemmed and hawed his way through gently pointing out to her alone and then both of them together that the signs did not quite align with the date of their wedding while his lady regarded him with wide guileless eyes until his lord had finally taken mercy on him.

Whatever the cause, Maester Cressen knew the nature of their relationship and so Margaery felt no shame whatsoever when she seized her husband and unceremoniously announced that she had a great need of him, dragging him to their bedchamber. No servant would be fool enough to bring her brother in search of him there.

Well, not dragging her husband to their bedchamber, perhaps, as she was lifted into his arms not even half-way there once he seemingly recovered his wits and ceased his chuckles. And perhaps it was she that needed to recover her wits when she was pressed against the door and kissed silly. Perhaps the goal was lost somewhere along the way. Perhaps it changed. Perhaps Margaery needed reassurance before she needed her brother dealt with. Perhaps none of her myriad worries was worth worrying about. Certainly all of them seemed diminished in her husband’s arms, and she allowed them to melt away entirely. For a time.

An unhappy sigh disturbed the sleepy silence that settled over the bedchamber, her mind allowing only for so much respite. Urgh. Could she not have just a few more hours of freedom?

“What is it?” Her husband’s voice was entirely unconcerned, his full attention directed to a lock of her hair he was toying with.

“My brother.”

He snickered. “Hmm. What has you thinking of him now? Am I not diverting enough for you?”

Margaery turned her head to look into his grinning face. “He is here. He says he came to be my sworn sword.”

Her husband’s brows rose. “Oh? How come this is the first I am hearing of this? I would expect to hear of this before churlishly sequestering myself in our bedchamber.”

“Well…” Margaery sat up in their bed with a coy smile. “I was afraid.”

His brows rose higher. “Afraid? Afraid of what?”

She gave him an impish grin. “That you would agree without a thought to… this.”

“This.” Her husband blinked at her dumbly.

“This!” She gestured vaguely between them. “Can you imagine how… awkward this would all be if my brother was my sworn sword?”

“I have not, as you might imagine, given any thought to it before.” Jon’s reply was very dry, but then he sighed, and his tone changed to thoughtful. “Though it might not be a bad idea for you to have a sworn sword, even if it is not your brother.”

“Oh, no. There is no need.” Margaery’s voice was bright even as lightheadedness threatened her. Oh Gods, no. She was free. Free of the oversight of her family, her septa, anyone that mattered. She could do whatever she wanted, however she wanted, and as long as she did her duty, no one cared.

Margaery had not set up an orphanage for the children they had brought from King’s Landing. She had brought them directly to the keep and had assigned them a tower of their own to live in, had assigned servants to attend to it, Maester Pylos and Septon Barre to teach them, and Ser Rodrik to instruct the boys at wielding arms and no one had blinked an eye. No one had gainsaid her when she decided to lead the lessons at needlepoint herself.

There had been no one to scold her when she had agreed to her husband’s cautious offer to teach her how to keep herself safe. No one had shown the least sign of disapproval as they emerged from whatever hidden corner he had shoved her into in yet another surprise attack she would ultimately fail to save herself from. Not a single disparaging look had been sent her way when they had been found tussling in the library by their two maesters and their assistants. No one cared.

Margaery was the lady of the keep and a strict one, and she was doing any number of unladylike things and still, the staff seemed to like her and did not care about the eccentricities of their lord and his lady. But now that staff was to include her brother and she could feel her wings being clipped already without having a sworn sword following her every step.

“I think… I think your lessons serve me well enough, and there is much need for able hands elsewhere, all over the island.” No, there would be no sworn sword for Margaery.

“Hm. You have not managed to preserve your life or your virtue even once so far.”

She shrugged her shoulders carelessly. “All the more reason not to risk an armed man so close to me, I would think. And I am getting better.”

Jon wrapped a lock of Margaery’s hair around his finger absently. “Hmm. I think I might not be the best teacher for you.”

She hurried to reassure him. “Oh, no, you are wonderful! I do not think I would care for the lessons at all if you were not the one teaching me. I am not the most…” 

She had three brothers and was no stranger to tussling, to kicking shins and biting whatever bodypart was in reach. None of her brothers ever taught her where and how to wound a man so that even she could kill him , and she had never been interested in learning. Now she was. She would never be a swordswoman, but there was a dagger strapped to her thigh now, and she knew how to wield it to keep herself safe. That knowledge was paramount to freedom, she had learned.

“Not the most what?” Her husband’s brows were raised, and his eyes were alight with humor, so she sighed and shrugged inelegantly once more.

“Not the most eager student of arms.”

His eyes were laughing at her, and she turned her blushing face away from him. “You do not say.”

There would be no sworn shield for Margaery, she had decided, and there was none, no matter her brother’s insistence. All dear Loras had earned himself by the stubborn refusal to leave well enough alone and insisting that he must remain in her husband’s service to ensure her happiness was a post overseeing the security of the supplies for the trading fleet assembling on Dragonstone, making ready for a long journey east.

The victory was all the sweeter as nearly every day had him seething at being put into a position lower than the one Aurane Waters held for one reason or another. Oh, Margaery so treasured his ranting and raving in the privacy of her solar. He did not even know the worst of it, the poor dear. Lord Velaryon was petitioning for his brother to have the command of the fleet, not just the Velaryon ships, and her husband seemed entirely too inclined to allow it, confident in the loyalty of the brothers.

It was perhaps a bit naive of him and more than a bit petty of her, but the delicious outrage her brother was bound to display if that appointment went through was making her giddy with anticipation as she watched him pace agitatedly.

“— and they will not even speak Common most of the time, if you can believe it! Not even when I ask. All these Valyrian decorations and the black and red, and they seem to think they are once more a House of consequence! The arrogance of these fucking Velaryons!”

Margaery rolled her eyes and corrected him gently. “Black and white and red, brother, those are our colors.”

He shot her a dirty glare. “Have you seen your clothes? And your husband’s? You both seem to have forgotten the white yourselves.”

She pouted at him. “Can you truly blame me? You know how washed out white makes me look, and I am not a cyvasse board to dress in black and white, so black and red it is.”

His eyes were amused. “How about black, red, and white?”

Margaery made a face of disgust, and her brother let out a belly laugh. Not even Jon could make that work, preferring pure black, sown with the occasional red piping or red thread, though she had lovingly sewn a badge she had embroidered with his coat of arms on the breast of each and every of his vests, doublets, and surcoats. No one could see him and not know all his colors. A smirk made its way onto her face. No one could see him with the direwolf at his side and not remember all his colors.

A peaceful silence reigned in the solar for a long while as her brother watched her embroider what would later become a baby blanket, she hoped.

“Does it not bother you?”

Her needle paused mid-stitch and her eyes traveled up to meet his. “I miss your meaning, brother.” 

He pressed his lips together. “Each night after supper, as we speak here, he disappears Gods-know-where. Does that not bother you?”

Margaery frowned at her brother and made sure to enunciate clearly. “He does not disappear Gods-know-where. We know where he is. He goes to the beach, to oversee the sacrifice to the Merling King.”

Loras snorted and rolled his eyes. “Truly? He stays gone for hours, and you think that is all he does?”

Margaery did not truly think that was all her husband did while away from the keep every evening, but she was not fool enough to tell her brother so, not when she did not believe the cause to be the same her brother thought it to be, besides. Her husband was up to something, she was sure, and it was not chasing skirts. 

The whole affair with the sacrifice to the Merling King was a ruse, she was sure. Her husband was far from the most superstitious person she knew and even the superstitious tended to cling to custom and superstition of one religion in her experience, not three. But the sacrifices predated their hasty wedding, so it could not be that.

But Margaery had promised herself she would be a good wife and good wives did not go poking their noses in their husband’s suspicious dealings unless invited to, so she would be patient and fend off her goodsister’s curiosity and her incessant needling and now her brother’s too. Her husband’s affairs were his own until he decided to share them with her. Margaery was going to be a good and obedient wife and pray to the Seven she would not die of curiosity before he deemed to share the secret with her.

Chapter Text

Drops of seawater carried on the breeze kissed his smiling cheeks as he turned his face out toward the sea instead of watching one very pompous knight stalk away from the docks at the end of yet another day of what the entitled brat doubtless considered banal chore and while Aurane happened to consider his fleet’s supply a most serious matter, the youth’s frustration amused him to no end.

Aurane was a bastard. Loras Tyrell was one of the most famous knights in the Seven Kingdoms, son of one of the richest and most powerful families in Westeros, goodbrother of Aurane’s own liege lord, and the boy followed his bidding as if he had to. And however apparent his frustration, he had not yet complained to his goodbrother either. It was fascinating, truly. The boy was entitled and brash and proud, and it was that very pride that seemed to keep him from speaking out against Aurane’s appointment over him to his goodbrother.

It was puzzling, he supposed. It spoke of the boy respecting the person that had made the decision if not the decision itself, and it raised some interesting questions. Loras Tyrell was a trueborn son of the richest and most powerful families in Westeros, and he respected a recently legitimized bastard enough to follow his direction even if he disagreed with it. With the Lord of Dragonstone wed to the only daughter of Lord Mace Tyrell and the Knight of Flowers dutifully in his employ, the Tyrells seemed well and truly in the Usurper’s grasp. His smile faded. That opinion was certainly a point of contention between Monford and him.

The appointment of a Stark bastard over them after the death of the Usurper’s humorless brother had been ill received by all, the very idea of the Valyrian fortress to be bequeathed to a boy of no connection to its proud heritage an insult, and they had had every intention of letting the boy feel its sting. He had expected his lords to be on Dragonstone to greet him and to swear their oaths to him when he had arrived, his raves had made that plain enough, but it was only Aurane that had greeted him and what had been meant as an insult and a show of how things would go had barely even registered with their new lord.

Aurane had been unnerved by what he had seen that first day, and he had warned his brother, but his brother was a proud man, not easily cowed, and Aurane had had nothing but queer sensations to inform his warnings. He had come upon the boy lord crumpled to the ground and had thought him brought low by seasickness, derision rising in him, but when he had pulled him to his feet, the youth’s eyes had been bright and cool, his gaze even and judging him. Judging him and finding him lacking. It had taken a great deal out of him not to flinch, not to shudder under that cutting black gaze. He had warned his brother the boy was more than he seemed, but for all his brother oft valued his advice, he had ignored it then to his own peril.

Monford had ignored him and had gone on to challenge the new lord as he had planned, and it had gone badly. Not as badly as it could have, true, for his brother had kept his head and had returned to Driftmark in high spirits despite the gold he was to part with, leaving Aurane feeling hopelessly disoriented as he had seen his triumphant grin upon his return.

“This is for the best. Better a boy with some regard for our culture than an uncompromising slab with nothing but disdain for it.” 

The words had been far too practical to come out of his brother’s mouth, and he had told him so, to his great amusement, and the Lord of the Tides had rolled his eyes at him. “I am alive, brother. Gloriously alive, after naming Robert Baratheon the thief he is to a son of what he believes is his closest ally. The tides are turning , and they are turning in our favor.”

Aurane had been skeptical of his brother’s optimism in the face of the coin to be paid, but his skepticism lessened as his brother’s enthusiasm had grown with each visit to Dragonstone. There was to be a trading expedition east, and the Lord of Dragonstone had invited his lords to add their ships to the ships he meant to send. A shrine to the Fourteen Flames had been restored in the fortress and later a daily sacrifice to the Merling King had been established, and the island and the life in the Narrow Sea had changed.

The clouds seemed to part over the island more often of late, the weather seemed milder and the sea kinder, and even the people were different. Everything about the island seemed brighter and warmer, and Aurane could barely believe his eyes at just how much of a difference a young lord full of fire made compared to the grave one Dragonstone had had before.

Dragonstone had been the stuff of legends, of fantastic tales and daring adventures. Young Aurane had been most disappointed when he had first come to the island as a boy, on his first sea voyage, and he had been disappointed on every visit since, until the new lord had come and changed everything. He could see it now. He did see it now, as he walked the halls filled with ancient tapestries and as he feasted his eyes on the paintings of the greats long gone, and he wondered whether Monford might have been right after all. Perhaps the tides were turning in their favor. 

It certainly had seemed so when he had stood with his brother by their young lord’s side, and they had listened to him outline his plan for an expedition. A trading expedition, to be certain, to make their fortunes, much like the great Sea Snake once had. But not merely a trading expedition.

“I wish to see the writings. If your translations are incorrect-”

“My translations are impeccable, I assure you, my Lord Velaryon.” The response had been cool and even and there had not been the slightest sign of offense displayed by the young lord, his eyes gleaming with humor.

“You are certain the ship mentioned is the Sun Chaser?”

“Absolutely, the entries plainly state it was the Sun Chaser, though whether the claims made by the Sea Snake could be believed…” The youth had shrugged with meaning, and Monford had frowned and rubbed his chin in thought, and Aurane had sympathized. 

If the ship truly was the Sun Chaser, as the Sea Snake had claimed in the Nine Voyages, as he had seemingly claimed to the Rogue Prince along with some crucial details missing from the tome… A successful trading expedition could restore the Houses of the Narrow Sea to some of their former prominence, but the maps of the western passage… Those could be of more value than even a score of them. If they could find them.

Monford had paused and spoken carefully. “I still wish to see the original text. A mistake in the translation could be the difference between success and failure, between life and death. With respect, I would not have men risk their lives on your confidence in your knowledge of High Valyrian alone, my lord.”

Lord of Dragonstone had pressed his lips together tightly in annoyance and had seemed about to spew venom at them before he seemingly mastered himself and let out a frustrated breath. “I cannot show you the diaries, but I can write out the original text for you so you can check my findings, if it would help put your mind at ease, my lord.”

Monford’s brows had risen in surprise, and he had hesitated a beat longer than he would have expected him. “That would be much appreciated, my lord.”

The lord had muttered a few choice words in Valyrian and thrown himself into a chair, fishing out a quill from among the papers and pulling an inkwell to himself. Aurane had stared, his eyes following the quill flying over the parchment in disbelief, his shocked gaze meeting Monford’s when the boy had finished far too soon. High Valyrian was a dead language, rarely spoken these days, its use in writing rarer still. To see it written with such a practiced ease had been unexpected to say the least.

His brother had taken the parchment, and his perplexed expression had morphed into a frown once more as his eyes roved over it under the watchful gaze of his impatient liege. “Well? Is my translation correct, Lord Velaryon?”

Monford’s brow had twitched, his eyes narrowed, and his head tilted to the side as he had brought the parchment closer to his face, almost close enough for his nose to brush it, and Aurane had witnessed it all, fascinated.

“Well?”

“It would seem your High Valyrian is impeccable, my lord.” Their lord had snorted and rolled his eyes. “If I may say so, your writing is truly exquisite. Very elegant. Almost…” Monford’s voice had petered out, and their lord’s brows had risen high on his forehead. “Would you mind it terribly… I do think it would be for the best if we had both versions available to us, my lord.”

They had left their liege behind, utterly perplexed, and when they had returned to Driftmark, and he had had the door to his brother’s solar unceremoniously slammed in his face, he had sympathized with him too. Aurane had never seen his brother act quite so peculiarly.

Before that strange conversation, he had thought the strangeness had to do with his brother considering marriage once more. He had been devoted to his late wife, and he had seemed quite content with Monterys as his only son and heir, and Aurane had been quite convinced he would never wed again. But then, a few days before their liege had returned from the capital with his new wife, a Tyrell of all things, Mathis Rowan appeared on Driftmark.

Mathis Rowan had hated Lucerys Velaryon and everything associated with the man with a passion and while Aurane could hardly blame him for that, it had raised his hackles to have the Lord of Goldengrove suddenly there, quite insistent on Monford seeking the hand of his wife’s well-dowered niece, Desmera.

“I had no thought to wed again. Monterys is my pride and joy, and he will be a fine Lord of Driftmark one day. I have little need of more.”

“You must. You must. Paxter is of half a mind to give the girl to Lannisters. To a knight almost twice her age! A knight! We must not allow this mad alliance to take place! We must not! Not now!”

Not now. Aurane rolled those words over and over in his mind. Now was the best time for old loyalists to seek new alliances. Yesterday would have been even better. Viserys Targaryen was dead, and his sister wed to a savage, likely never to be seen again. Even for the loyalists, there were no other lines of claims but the Baratheon one now, nowhere else for them to turn, and his brother must have realized that. His brother must have known before even the king, and had made his peace with his new lord.

“Lord Paxter must be desperate if he means to sell his daughter so cheaply.” There had been disdain in Monford’s voice, as it always was when speaking of anything relating to the Lannisters. “I see little value in pressing a suit when it is sure to be rejected.”

“It will not be. I will speak to him, and he will forget all about that nonsense, I assure you.” The Lord of Goldengrove had been insistent. Very insistent. And Monford had let himself be cajoled into writing the Lord of the Arbor with a proposal neither would have likely ever considered had it not been for the visit of Mathis Rowan, who had seemed to be the only one not to see the writing on the wall. Even the Tyrells had been beaten, forced to sacrifice a daughter to temper their power and their ambition. There was nothing to be done anymore, no more cause to resist.

Aurane pitied his brother. Monford had been a child lord, the only progeny of the House of the Old, the True, the Brave, and had wed too young to ensure his line would continue. Despite only a few years separating them, he had been more of a father to him than an older brother, and they had clung to each other with a certain desperation, alleviated only by the arrival of the precious ray of sunshine that was Monterys. And now he was to wed again on the advice of the man that had hated their father with every fiber of his being. Now he was to give up the voyage of a lifetime to ensure this folly.

He complained, and he complained loudly the moment his brother gave his name as the one out in charge of their ships on the expedition and even Jon Stark blinked at the Lord of the Tides taken aback.

“Are you not going, my lord?”

“No.” Monford’s stare did not waver, even as Aurane’s heart sank. It could not be. It had hardly been a moon. Negotiations lasted longer. Surely, they could not have agreed already. They should have had this one last adventure together before his brother gave up his freedom to this folly. “I am to be wed soon.”

Aurane could not breathe.

“Oh.” Jon Stark blinked and blinked some more. “My felicitations. Who is the fortunate lady, if I may inquire?”

Monford’s smile was a wan one. “Your lady wife’s own cousin, my lord, Lady Desmera Redwyne.”

“Huh. I am sure my lady wife will be thrilled to learn of the news.”

Aurane wished to scream.

Chapter Text

“I will not stand for it! I will not!”

Ned suppressed a sigh and folded his hands behind him to better resist rubbing his face. Robert was a headache and while he was not happy to receive the news either, he had come to accept it as inevitable. Likely to spell more trouble along the way, to be sure, but not something that could be prevented still.

“Your Grace, there is little to be done. The betrothal is agreed and the bride and her party sail for Driftmark already.” And that alone was as concerning as the betrothal itself. 

“These dragonlovers have treason on their minds, mark my words!”

He did not bother suppressing a sigh then. That was his fear as well. “Jon claims to have established a good rapport with Lord Velaryon. He trusts him and the marriage has his full support.”

Monford Velaryon’s support of Jon was perhaps the most concerning of all. He had been but a child during the rebellion and when his father had died on one of the ships defending Dragonstone along with most of the Velaryon fleet, Jon Arryn had pleaded with Robert to allow the boy to retain his House’s seat. Despite Robert eventually granting a pardon, Ned doubted the lord felt any gratitude or loyalty to the Baratheon king. He had certainly not displayed any toward the king’s brother.

“Viserys Targaryen is dead.” He reminded both Robert and himself. “The Tyrells have been brought to heel.” He told himself as much and hoped with all his heart not to be mistaken. “There is nothing left for the rest to do but to follow you, Your Grace.” Gods, let him be right.

Robert glared at him. “For all our sakes, I hope you are right.” Then the king sighed too, and all the anger seemingly drained out of him as sudden tiredness set in. “Cersei likes it not, her own cousin rejected so in favor of a Velaryon. She talks and talks of it and of the insult to House Lannister until my ears ring.”

And then there was that. Ned would have likely found himself pleading with Jon to stop the match had it not been for that. Redwyne and Velaryon banding together was a sight better than the Redwyne fleet in the hands of the Lannisters, though.

“Fucking Varys! Where is he? He should have known!”

Ned pointed his stare to the ground and kept his mouth shut. He, for one, had no wish of knowing what had become of the spymaster’s body , and he had made a point of not asking. Robert still hoped the man would show up to answer for his failures and seek his forgiveness, certainly the only man in the Red Keep convinced that he would when all others thought him on a run. But Ned knew better , and it was his duty to keep the realm running, and so it was his duty to speak out.

“Perhaps it is time to find a new Master of Whisperers. Lord Varys has been gone for moons now. Surely, were he able to return, he would have done so already.”

Robert snorted. “Do I even need one? What use is a Master of Whisperers that allows the Crown to be robbed blind?”

“Not all Masters of Whisperers would, just as not every Master of Coin would.”

Robert growled at him for the words , and he was not surprised. It had taken much searching and more convincing to decide on a name of the new Master of Coin , and it had still taken over a moon for Robert to stop withdrawing his approval of Garth Tyrell. It had been a good thing that Mace Tyrell had not bothered to wait for the king to make up his mind and summoned his uncle and his two sons after he had suggested the man to Ned and found him agreeable , or they would be without a Master of Coin even now.

As Lord Seneschal of Highgarden had traveled up the Roseroad to King’s Landing his imperious goodsister had traveled down it, unceremoniously banished to Highgarden after a jab too many , and he had been informed by the cheerful Warden of the South that her escort had been instructed not to hasten the journey needlessly, taking every care with her old age. Even Mace Tyrell had his limits, it would seem, and had opted for a measure of peace.

Ned had had his own reservations about granting the position to a Tyrell, but there were few candidates to choose from , to trust, and the treasury was a mess. He had spent too many days shut away in his solar with Wyman Manderly trying to make sense of the books, both the Crown’s and for Baelish’s businesses, which passed into its keeping with the sudden end of House Baelish, trying to make sense of the path forward. 

After Garth Tyrell had arrived, he had quickly identified Essosi lenders he had deemed the most dangerous and sent envoys to negotiate full settlements of the Crown’s debts with them, making good use of the coin found in late Littlefinger’s establishments. It was but a drop in a sea, to be sure, but the action had already displeased the king, who had seen his coffers momentarily restored, and had further alienated the queen, whose ridiculous suggestions of the Kingslayer, her father and even the halfway-reasonable one of Lord of the Golden Tooth had all been dismissed in the favor of the Lord Seneschal of Highgarden. 

The man had weathered Robert’s displeasure with equanimity, and Ned found himself well-pleased with the choice.

He found himself less pleased with his progress in the investigation into the queen’s treason. Baelish had known, he was sure, and so did Varys. Both of the king’s brothers knew as well. He knew, too, and yet he had not a shadow of proof beyond the looks of her children and the looks of the king’s. 

If this many knew, others had to as well, and not just the Tyrells informed by Lord Renly either.

Servants. Servants had to know. Maids that changed the queen’s soiled bedsheets, that helped her bathe, that dressed her and attended to her every need. They had to know and yet were he to question them, it was bound to focus her attention on him. She might suspect his investigation now, she would know for sure then.

Why had they not said anything? The thought rose in his mind, and he cursed himself for a fool the moment it did. Words were wind. Words of a servant, spoken against the queen, were even less. When even he did not dare accuse her without proof, what hope did a servant have?

He wished to go home. He wished to see Bran, to see him and hold him and know that he was well, to hug Robb and tell him how proud of him he was, to hold Rickon, to tell him stories of great bravery and great foolishness. He wished to see his quarrelsome daughters at peace.

Ned sighed and shook his head. The realm was just barely at peace, and he had no true proof of Jon’s murder still. His place was here, in the South, at least until the queen’s treason was dealt with, until she admitted to killing Jon too. His place was here, yet he could spare a few days to see his children, surely.

“Perhaps… If Your Grace is so concerned, I may attend the wedding in your name, to remind all of your authority, and to ensure there is no treason on the minds of those present.” Jon was to attend with his wife, it would hardly be a leap for him to take his sisters along as well, all Ned needed to do was ask.

Robert frowned in thought and when a slow smile spread on his face, he cursed in the privacy of his mind. “Aye, perhaps you should go. Perhaps I should go as well, along with the royal fleet and several hundred men at my back. Remind them not just of the king’s authority, but who their king is. ”

Ned suppressed a wince and his mind raced. The former loyalists were unlikely to appreciate Robert’s presence, even without the army, and the king knew that well enough. Should he go, there would be no peace whatsoever.

“That seems… excessive, Your Grace, and I am unsure how wise it would be to have both the king and the Hand away from the capital. Surrounded by men you suspect to be planning treason, no less.”

Robert’s frown returned, fiercer than before. “You mean to walk into the beast’s maw alone, leaving me besieged by roses.”

“There is no danger to me and there is no danger to you, Your Grace. The roses merely balance out the lions. And the Velaryons are not planning treason, I am sure. My son is their liege lord, and that will keep me safe enough. Even the shadow of your own hammer hanging over them will prove more effective a tool, if you remain in the capital to wield it in truth should it become necessary.” Even if his worst fears came true, and the truth of Jon were to be revealed, the old loyalists would be unlikely to plot to kill Ned besides. He would be as safe as safe could be, and he would get to see at least some of his children and have peace for a fortnight.

The king growled at him. “You are too sensible for your own good. Where is your sense of adventure? The drive to slay the monsters and bed the fair maidens? The North froze the blood in your veins, and even this damnable heat has not managed to undo it yet.”

Ned’s lips lifted in a smile. “You seem to misremember our youth, Robert. It was you with the drive. I merely followed.” And smoothed out ruffled feathers along the way. Not much had changed in regard to that. He heaved out a sigh. “And there are no monsters to slay, merely a wedding to attend.”

Robert laughed as he corrected him. “A wedding to attend and maidens to bed. ”

Remembering tales of the wedding of one Stannis Baratheon, Ned winced at the words and retorted firmly. “No maidens to bed.”

Robert only laughed harder. “One would hope there would be at least one maiden to bed, or else our dear Lord Velaryon would be sorely disappointed.” The king seemed to be choking on his own laughter. “Or do you think… Do you think that the reason the old sour grape sends his only daughter to wed a lord with an heir of his own already? And in a marriage so hastily arranged! Gods! Oh, Gods, let it be true!”

Ned barely breathed as he watched Robert laugh and laugh. There would be no laughter should he know the truth of the queen’s children. No laughter at all.

Robert named himself besieged by roses, but he was far from it. Farther than he should be, in Ned’s own opinion. The king rested with his head in the lion’s maw, his Kingsguard inundated by knights more loyal to the Lannister coin than their king, the guards even inside the Maegor’s as often dressed in the read-and-gold as in yellow-and-black, both of the king’s squires and all of his pages Lannisters or close relations thereof.

Not for the first time, he wondered how Jon could have let this all happen. Where were all the Valemen? Lysa had forbidden her bannermen from leaving the Vale once she had returned there after Jon’s death, and he could understand that well enough if she truly suspected the Lannisters to be behind it. If she suspected she herself was in danger.

He could understand Lysa’s actions somewhat, but he could not understand Jon’s at all. There had been few Valemen named to the court offices. Too few. Baelish had been one of the few of Jon’s appointments that seemed to last, and the only Valeman to boot.

The lions were far more worrying than the roses. The lions had been furthering their own influence at court and in the capital for too long, jealously fighting for each position in the king’s proximity. And Robert did not care. He worried for Targaryen loyalists plotting even with their Beggar King dead, but he did not worry about his keep firmly in the grasp of his queen, the woman that he hated and that hated him in turn.

With the keep so staffed, one was left to wonder… Did Tywin Lannister know of the queen’s treason as well? Was this all done to protect his daughter and grandchildren should the king learn the truth? 

There was a possibility of peace still, should the royal marriage be set aside, and the children exposed as bastards. But only if the Warden of the West was not aware of the truth. If he was, and he had been readying for the truth to come to light for all these years, there would be war and it would be a bloody one.

The North could not afford war, not with the summer surely to end soon with the Wildling raiding bands coming over the Wall with increasing frequency, as they always had when the seasons were to turn for the worse. Not with yet worse to come, if Jon’s words were to be believed.

Ned’s place was in the North, in Winterfell, with his family and his people.

Ned’s place was in the South, fighting to keep the realm together, doing his best to prevent a war that was certain to bring the North to its knees. 

The North could not fight a war in the south, defend against the Wildlings to the north and prepare for the bitter and long winter to some all at the same time. They could do two of those things easily enough. They had had to for ages uncountable. But any time they were forced to do all three, there was nothing but suffering to last a generation in the North. 

His children’s generation. His children’s future. 

In winter, the old died quickly. It was the young that were left to suffer.

Gods, he prayed Jon was wrong. There could not be worse to come.

Chapter Text

“What are you doing?”

The question startled him, and he went to straighten in alarm, forgetting where he was, and slamming his back into the heavy frame of his bed. A long string of foulest of curses left him.

“And what language even is that?”

He gritted his teeth and shuffled out from under the bed to face the inquisitive stare of his wife. “Trade talk.” When her brows scrunched and her head tilted to the side, he felt a need to elaborate. “It is the best language for swearing.”

“I… see.” Judging by her still-furrowed brows, if nothing else, he rather doubted it.

“What was it you were doing down there, then?”

He bit off another string of curses before they passed his lips, and ground his teeth while his mind raced. “A spider. I saw a spider and went to kill it, but it went under the bed and…” His words faded as his imagination failed him.

“A spider?” There was a healthy dose of skepticism in his wife’s voice, and he could hardly blame her, could he? But he was set on his course, and there was nothing left to him but forge on ahead, so he nodded solemnly.

“Yes, and a rather big one too. Gave me a right fright when I first saw it from the corner of my eye.” He ended with a self-deprecating laugh. A fool. He was a fool. He had forgotten to secure the door.

There were bigger things to worry about now, though. Upon closer examination, Margaery was alarmingly pale, a hand blindly reaching behind her for the door to hold on to, and he stepped up to her to take her into his arms and lead her to bed, though her feet would not move. “Come, sit down. Lay down. Do you need water? Wine? Maester? I will call for the maester.”

“Oh, no. No need for a maester.” Her voice was very weak and very high. “I just… I don’t think I can… I need to leave. ” She was gone from his arms and their bedchamber in a wink, and he followed after, his concern growing as she rushed out of their chambers altogether, and he chased after her all the way to her sunny solar.

His heart was in his throat when he found her leaning against her writing desk, hand pressed to her chest, eyes closed, taking deliberate, measured breaths. He wrapped his arms around her, and she rested her head against his chest, and he held her in silence until her breathing evened out. 

His arms tightened around her and his voice was very soft when he dared to speak. “What is it? What’s wrong? Are you sure there is no need-?”

Fingers pressed against his lips silenced him. “I am sure. I am well. It was only a spell of fright. It is passed now.” 

His brows furrowed. “Fright. What were you afraid of?”

“'Twas the spider.”

He could not help the disbelief coloring his voice. “The spider. What spi-” He cut himself off as he recalled what it was they had spoken of just before and corrected himself swiftly. “There is nothing to be frightened of. The spider is dead.”

“You are only saying that to make me feel better.” The protest was mumbled into his chest, and as Margaery’s arms came up to wrap around him tightly, he cursed himself for a fool once more.

“I am not. It is dead.” He paused for a moment and then carried on apprehensively. “You seem so well-used to all manner of insects. I did not know you are afraid of spiders.”

“Spiders are not insects!” Her high voice was sharp. “And I do not fear them as long as they are small and at a distance. It is only when…” She pressed herself deeper into his chest, her embrace becoming yet tighter. “Oh Gods, I don’t think I will ever be able to sleep there now.”

“Truly, now, there is no spider under our bed, I swear. On the Old Gods and the New.”

She whimpered. “I don’t believe you. If it’s dead, it’s still there.”

He did not huff in frustration, but it was a close thing. For a mad moment, he thought of putting the children to the task of finding a large spider for him to kill and present its mangled body as the proof that the menace is gone. The madness passed quickly enough, thank the Gods. “I will call for the servants to sweep it out. I will ensure they sweep the whole chamber. Would that be… Do you think that would be enough for you to feel…safe?”

Margaery hesitated before giving him a hesitant nod and loosening her hold a touch, and he smiled in relief and put his finger under her chin to turn her face up and kiss her. A distraction was needed and quite desperately, in his humble opinion, and there were few distractions as good as this.

Or not. When he deepened the kiss, his wife let out a noise of distress and pushed herself away from him rather frantically, turning away and putting a distance between them, gasping for breath.

He stayed rooted to the spot, watching her warily. “What’s wrong now?”

Her breaths were very deliberate once more, and it was a while before she deemed to respond. “It is… Nothing is wrong. I just… I needed to breathe.”

“But… Don’t you like being kissed?” His confusion turned the question into a whine, and he would have burned with shame at how much like a child he sounded were it not for the utter jumble his mind turned into.

Margaery let out another sound of distress, and his stomach dropped. “I like it. Of course, I like it. But it was… confusing. Frightening.” She stopped talking, and a furrow appeared between her brows as she chewed on her lip. “It was… nice. But I felt like I couldn’t breathe and… I got frightened.”

He opened his mouth and snapped it shut when he realized he truly did not wish to speak of this anymore. “Are you sure you do not need to see Cressen?”

Margaery nodded emphatically. “I am. I just need… time.” Her uncertain gaze met his and then skittered away, and he felt like he might be sick.

He nodded resolutely to himself and turned to leave. “I will go and have the bedchamber swept.”

The chambermaid looked at him as if he had lost his wits. “There are no spiders, m’lord. I swept the chamber in the morn. I sweep it every morn. M’lady is afraid of spiders, and in her condition…”

He gave the maid a strained smile. Had he been the only one not aware? “I am sure you were thorough. But given my wife’s condition, it will hardly hurt to sweep the chamber again, will it?”

The maid’s stare was doubtful. “No, m’lord, it won’t.”

He nodded, satisfied, and watched as the chamber was swept, top to bottom, bottom to top, paying particularly close attention as she cleaned under the bed, his head tilted critically. A long relieved exhale left him, and he closed his eyes, when the maid left at last. A fool he might be, but his hiding place seemed that it would serve well enough.

When he returned to his wife’s side to report that their bedchamber was once again swept clean and free of spiders, he found her in company of his sisters, miraculous in accord, miraculously identically excited about the same thing. A wedding. And their dresses for it. He stood frozen in the door, not quite able to believe his eyes and ears, watching for what felt like an eternity.

It was Arya that spotted him first, and she bounced out of her seat and over to him with a wide grin. “Jon! Margaery says that I can have a boy’s dress! Can you believe it? A boy’s dress!”

Frankly, no, he could not believe it and he raised his brows in the direction of his sweet wife, mutely seeking an explanation. 

Margaery’s lips widened in a smile as she rolled her eyes good-naturedly, and she let out a low chuckle. “Not a boy’s dress. Not a dress at all. A doublet and a skirt.”

“A boy’s doublet.” Arya’s eyes were wide and imploring when she said it to him, and he was sure they remained so when she turned to his wife.

Margaery, for her part, was clearly biting the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing before she inclined her head in a solemn nod. “A boy’s doublet.” 

“And the skirt will not be a girly skirt.” He looked into Arya’s eyes with no small dose of amusement, and his lips twitched uncontrollably as he realized she settled on what she deemed a winning strategy.

“What is a girly skirt?”

Arya paused in turning her head toward Margaery and looked back at him, her startlement plain. “A silly one.”

“What would not be a silly skirt, then?”

His sister threw her arms up into the air and shook her head in disgust at his apparent cluelessness. “A skirt one can dance in!”

He met his wife’s eyes, shining with humor, and bit down on his smile. “I thought all skirts could be danced in.”

“Not water dancing!”

“Ah.” His smile died. He had known Arya was learning the blade from a Braavosi water dancer, but he certainly did not expect her to wish to dress for a fight. For a wedding. His eyes found Margaery’s once more, somewhat helplessly. “That… seems like quite a task.”

His wife rolled her eyes at him again with a smile. “A task I and the seamstresses are all equal to, have no fear, husband, everything will be ready well in time.”

His gaze dropped to Arya, beaming up at him, and then travelled to Sansa, dreamily caressing a piece of fabric. He blindly patted his little sister on her head. “That is good to hear. I am sure you will look…singular. What about you, Sansa?”

Her head jerked up, and she gave him a wide-eyed look. “What about me, brother?”

“What are you going to wear for the wedding? And will it be ready in time?” He felt a fool for asking, it was Sansa after all, but he had been making an effort to include her when talking with Arya, on Margaery’s bidding, and he could think of nothing better.

“Oh, I do not need new dresses. I have several I had not a chance to wear yet, and we found a few of them beautiful enough for a wedding with just small adjustments. Margaery will be helping me with those.” A fetching bush rose to her cheeks. “And I will be helping her with the embroidery for Ser Loras.”

“I see.” He coughed uncomfortably. “I was not aware that Ser Loras would be joining us as well.”

Sansa’s eyes grew almost impossibly wide. “Of course! Lady Desmera is his cousin too. Oh, he will be so handsome, you will see.” Her eyes took on a faraway look, and her voice turned even dreamier. “Ser Loras and Ser Aurane are so… knightly, are they not? If Lord Monford is half as handsome as his brother is, Lady Desmera is very lucky.”

He stared, momentarily robbed of speech as he searched for something to say to that. Something. Anything. 

“Aurane is not a knight.”

Sansa seemed taken aback. “Oh? That is such a shame. He would make for a fine knight, I think. Still, does his brother look anything like him?”

“I… I suppose so? They have the same pale hair, at least.” 

Margaery’s shoulders were shaking silently, and he cursed the decision to ask anything. He cursed his decision to stay once he noted the presence of his sisters.

“Hmm.” Sansa hummed thoughtfully and tilted her head to the side. “Do they have the same eyes, do you think? They are such a captivating color. They look like sea at storm.”

“Aaah, I do not think their eyes are the same color, but I am sure they share some features beside the hair.”

His sister rolled her eyes at him and shook her head in exasperation. “Anyone can share some features. Your eyes are shaped the same as his, and I can point out half a dozen servants with your nose.”

Breath was stolen from his lungs, and he felt a sudden and absurd need to cover his nose as he stared at her, while his wife’s silent shaking of shoulders turned into soft giggles.

“You are delusional.” Arya’s haughty words were a deliverance.

“ You are blind, if you don’t see it.” He closed his eyes in horror. 

“Girls, that is enough.” He had been wrong, Margaery’s  firm voice was a deliverance. “There is much to do still before you go to your lessons, and we have been distracted for long enough already without you two fighting over your brother’s features.”

Her steely eyes turned to him, and he was only too happy to heed the silent command there and excuse himself without delay.

His steps took him unerringly to Morning, resting in her cave with her eggs. Her eggs, one of which he would part her from soon enough. One of which he would part her from today, he decided quite abruptly.

She greeted his entrance with a content crooning, her head moving toward him even as her body remained wrapped around her precious eggs, and the apprehension he had felt ever since he had left his wife’s solar melted away. All was well. Morning was here with him, he was here with her, and nothing and no one could intrude. He reached out a hand to caress her snout, and then moved his hand along her warm scales as he walked and then climbed to reach the eggs.

He curled himself into her body right next to them and caressed them too. They were beautiful. They were breathtaking. They were warm.

There were four of them, and he needed to select one of them, he reminded himself. Just one, when all of them begged to be hatched, the life, the magic, in them thrumming in his own veins even through the light touch of his fingertips.

Four of them. How was he to choose?

Rationally. How was he to choose rationally?

There was a blood-red egg that had drawn his attention immediately. That egg looked like what he imagined Caraxes’ egg looked like. He wanted that egg to hatch. He wanted it to hatch and to bring forth a male dragon that would be the second coming of Caraxes. The desire for it to be true was overpowering, but that was his desire, his dream. It was the babe he had to think of now, he knew, not himself.

Not the black one. The decision was immediate and without a drop of hesitation. There had been only one male dragon in Westeros by the time Morning had hatched, and that one had been a bad egg himself. Morning was a ray of sunshine, a bright and happy dragon. The Cannibal had been anything but, as addled as they come, and just the thought of his second coming had him shy away from the egg as much as he was pulled toward the red one.

That left the blue and the green, though, and he was strongly indecisive about them. They were alive and beautiful, and just to hold them was a miracle. But he could not decide between them for the world, and it was almost enough to make him scream. There was meant to be a connection. When a parent selected an egg for their child, they were meant to feel something.

His eyes returned to the red egg with apprehension. He did feel a pull toward it. He felt it, but what if it was merely his own desires manifesting themselves and his selfishness would rob his child of the protection the egg should grant them?

Tearing his gaze away, he reached for the black one instead. It was his duty to select the best egg for his babe, and he could not know which was the best suited unless he touched every one. Still, relief flooded him when his fingers brushed the egg and he felt nothing. There was no more pull toward this egg than the other two.

A slow smile spread on his face. Red it would be.

Chapter Text

“What are you doing?”

Aurane had not meant to wander quite so far from the castle, he told himself. He had only meant to take a stroll, to be away from the hustle and bustle as the keep’s residents prepared for the upcoming wedding on Driftmark. The excitement was unavoidable even here on Dragonstone and for all that it was far, far better than home, and he found himself spending more and more time here, he grew more and more desperate for solitude.

So here he was, almost to the place where the sacrifice to the Merling King was made every single night, his restlessness, and his concern driving him onward. It was the Merling King that had given the Velaryons the Driftwood Throne, according to the legend, and it was the Merling King that had freed them of the curse that had been Stannis Baratheon, according to the whispers on the islands. Wild rumors had spread among the people of the Narrow Sea even before their new liege had ever shown his face and after, when the sacrifice had been established… 

Aurane did not believe in the Merling King delivering them from their dour scourge, not truly. He had not believed their new lord to be their salvation, either. He did not believe in men, and he did not believe in gods, but his feet took him to the beach regardless. Because perhaps… Perhaps his brother could still be helped, could still be made to see reason, and perhaps Aurane merely needed a nudge in the right direction to see how to stop this folly. A prayer would not harm anything, he was convinced.

A prayer under the watchful gaze of the haughty Knight of Flowers would cost him his dignity, he knew with a certainty, so his question might have come out a touch sharper than intended when he came upon him. The youth was on an incline overlooking the stretch of sand, laying on his stomach, his chin rested on his crossed arms, not paying Aurane or his question any mind though, so he repeated himself firmly.

“What are you doing here?”

It was forbidden to come here after sundown. Their lord had decreed so when he had given rise to the custom. He had decreed so, but then he had gone off mere days later, and men were curious creatures.

It had been mischief as much as curiosity driving the young of the island to come out and try to unmask the culprit stealing the hauls of fish at first, only to come up empty-handed time and time again. The sacrifice continued to disappear and puzzlement grew along with ever-louder accusations of carelessness and stealing. A large party had eventually assembled to keep watch for the whole night, lighting the beach with torches, ensuring the sacrifice would be observed at all times and the sacrifice had been left untouched for the first time. The fishermen had believed themselves the victors. For a time. Too short a time. 

The sacrifice to the Merling King had remained, but no less than three ships had their catch stolen by a sea monster that very same day.

No one was to come in the night, or the sacrifice would be rejected, and ill fortune would follow, the fishermen whispered now. The Merling King was smiling upon the islands again after so long, but should they trespass against him, matters could change swiftly.

Aurane meant to be just a moment, to say a prayer and be gone. Surely, that could not be counted as an offense, even in the suspicious eyes of the fisherfolk.

“What are you doing here?”

He did not appreciate having his own question turned around, most certainly not in that tone, but he gritted his teeth and crouched down so he would not tower over the boy that had not even bothered to look up at him like a fool.

“It is forbidden to be out here after sunset.”

That earned him a side-way glance and a grin. “And yet here you are.”

Aurane clenched his jaw in annoyance and glared at the insolent child. “I was taking a walk when I saw you.”

“Quite a way to go for a walk, would you not say?”

He resisted the urge to reach out and strangle the boy, clutching the fabric of his breeches in a white-knuckled grip. The boy was the goodbrother of his liege lord, he forcefully reminded himself. “My legs needed it. Now, what are you doing here?”

“I went for a walk too.”

A disbelieving laugh burst out of him, and the Knight of Flowers sprang up and at him, covering Aurane’s mouth with hands and shushing him with alarm-filled eyes. 

His amusement grew. Went for a walk too. Ha!

He raised a single brow, hoping for it to convey as much well-bred condescension and amazement at one’s stupidity as his brother could.

A blush spread over the pale cheeks, and the hands were removed reluctantly. “There is no need to be so loud.”

Aurane’s smile could not be wider. “Afraid to bring the wrath of the Merling King upon yourself?”

The young knight scoffed and shook his head. “There is no Merling King.”

Aurane’s brows jumped up. “Bold of you to say, when you are here to spy on the sacrifice made to him. I would not let the fisherfolk hear you, though. Lordling or not, should misfortune befall them on the morrow, you will not escape their wrath.”

“There is no Merling King.” The boy repeated himself firmly. “There is just Jon, and he is up to something. I know it, but Margaery will not listen. ”

“Up to…” He stared at the boy warily. “What do you mean up to something?” 

The knight gave him a baleful glare. “I’ve followed him here more than a dozen times and he does nothing! Nothing at all! He just stays there for hours on end! And then he just… leaves! He goes back to the keep as if there was nothing wrong with him spending hours out on an empty beach when he should have been by his wife’s side!”

“You have been following your goodbrother. For a fortnight.” There was something wrong with this boy.

Aurane stared as the Knight of Flowers punched at sand. “It is not… He is up to something, but he knows that I am following him. That someone is. He knows. That is why he does nothing.”

No one was supposed to be there. Those were the orders, and yet the very lord that had issued them broke them every night?

“What about the sacrifice?”

The boy blinked at him, plainly confused. “What?”

“What about the sacrifice? What happens to it?” He had not heard of the sacrifice remaining in the morn even once in the last fortnight, nor of any new sightings of the monster.

“Were you not listening? Nothing happens! Even Jon grows tired of this, I think.”

Aurane’s gaze traveled to the pile of fish and the lone figure he could see sitting not far from it, facing the sea. He did not believe in any gods, he reminded himself. 

Jon Stark was expecting something to happen while he was there, but it did not. Was it because he was being observed?

The sacrifice never disappeared when observed, but their lord plainly waited for something to happen. Surely, he would not just sit on an empty beach, staring out at sea, when he had his pretty little wife waiting for him in his bed.

Aurane lowered himself to take up a position much like the one the Knight of Flowers had previously, and the boy gaped at him as he did so. “ What are you doing now?”

He did not bother looking up at him, his chin rested on his fists, his eyes planted on the young lord.

“He will leave soon.” Loras Tyrell was not well-used to silence, he thought, and so he remained silent as he spoke, and he was proven right when the boy continued. “He will go directly back to the keep, to his chambers.”

Aurane hummed, deep in thought, and the tension seemingly drained out of his companion and he laid down on his stomach next to him and spoke in a barely audible voice. “Margaery is determined not to pry. She wished to be a good wife.”

His lips twitched, but even he knew better than to comment on the lady’s dedication to her duty to her brother, and so he kept his mouth shut, his eyes determinedly fixed on his liege. Hopefully, the boy beside him would follow his lead.

And follow he did, and for a few moments silence stretched on.

“See? He is leaving already! He has been spending less and less time here these last few days, and he is going back even earlier than before.”

“Shut up!” The order was hissed, where the boy did not truly bother with lowering his voice much.

He had not noticed him before, but the wolf was with the young lord as well and when the fool knight had spoken, he had stopped and turned in their direction. Oh Gods, was the direwolf pointing? He closed his eyes in horror and prayed for him to be wrong, or for Jon Stark to ignore the wolf and go. They were safely out of his sight laying up on the incline, safely out of his way. Had the halfwit by his side but remained silent …

The figure continued on its way across the sand, moving away from them and the wolf turned to lope after it, and Aurane breathed a sigh of relief. Then, when he deemed the lord and his wolf far enough, he reached out and slapped the back of the fool’s head.

When the too-young knight turned to face him, outage writ plain across his features, he hissed at him once more. “What is wrong with you?! Did you want us discovered?”

“I did not think-”

“Quite right! You did not think at all!”

“Come, now! You are making it out to be much worse than it was!”

“You have been following him for how long? A fortnight? More? How would you explain that? I have no intention of getting dragged down along with you just because I stumbled on you tonight!”

“ Stumbled… You joined me! On your own! With no invitation, might I add!”

Aurane wished to shake some sense into the boy. Badly. But the boy, whatever else he might be, was a lordling, and he was a bastard, so he gritted his teeth and tightened his fists and turned back to watch the pile of fish in the distance resolutely.

He was granted but a few moments of silence.

“What are you doing?” Uncertainty painted the boy’s voice, and he closed his eyes, begging for patience.

“What are you doing? Should you not be following your goodbrother back to the keep?”

“I have done that more than enough times to know how that ends. What are you doing?”

Aurane did not even glance at him. “Waiting for something to happen.”

“What?”

“No idea. Something. He was waiting for something too.”

“But nothing ever happens.” There was confusion in the ever-so-annoying voice.

He rolled his eyes. “Nothing ever happens when you watch him. Is the wolf always with him?”

“Yes? Who cares about the wolf anyway?”

“I do. The wolf knew someone was here.”

“What does it even matter? ”

He could not resist turning his head as he spoke slowly. “Nothing happens when you watch him because he knows someone is watching. ”

“But he does not… He doesn’t do anything.” The boy frowned thoughtfully, chewing on his lip.

No, he did not. He did not so much as turn in their direction. It was fascinating.

It was all so very fascinating. Not the pile of fish, but what it was meant for, what it was meant to... 

Or perhaps it was merely a distraction. A means of focusing everyone’s attention one way.

But still… Even if it was a mere distraction, someone had to dispose of the fish, and so he watched and waited, and Loras Tyrell waited with him, blissfully quiet.

“Why is your brother to wed Desmera?”

The silence had gone on for too long for the aggravating youth, apparently. Long enough that Aurane had believed him asleep for some time already. He sighed. He would prefer never to hear the name again. “Monterys is a fine boy, but he is but one boy. There are only two Velaryons and Monford means to make more.” 

The family used to be much, much larger and much, much richer. His brother believed that tides were turning and the Velaryons could rise once more. More Velaryons would be needed in the future, he hoped, and there would be riches to divide among them. That was what Aurane chose to believe.

“But why Desmera? Any maiden would serve for that.”

He sighed once more. “An… acquaintance advised him on the matter and recommended her, and Monford did not mind the ships that are to be part of her dowry.”

“Ships.” The boy’s voice was flat with disbelief. “He weds her for ships.”

Aurane hummed and allowed silence to descend once more.

The Knight of Flowers snored, he discovered with no small dose of amusement. The youth was still laying on his stomach with his cheek resting on a tuft of grass, and he was snoring softly, every breath disturbing fine grains of sand.

It was near dawn, the sky slowly but surely lightening, and gentle morning mist was rolling in, a slight chill coming with it, but Aurane had resisted the sleep so far, and he would not succumb now. He would persevere. He would discover what his lord was up to, he was resolute about that. Bull-headed, his brother called him, and were he anyone else, he would have every right to do so.

He had not discovered anything so far, but his heart warmed at the peaceful sight, and the corners of his lips turned up as he watched the mist roll and swell, his mind conjuring fanciful images of it. 

A whole herd of sheep.

A wolf, prowling after them on a hunt.

A score of wyrms snaking out of the water to melt away into nothing.

A dragon, rising out of the sea.

He froze and his breath caught. A dragon, rising out of the sea to gobble down the forgotten heap of fish.

A dragon.

A fucking dragon.

A sea monster had stolen hauls off fishermen when the sacrifice was not to be had. A sea monster.

Aurane would have laughed had his insides not been frozen solid. A fucking dragon.

He barged into his brother’s solar, without notice or knocking, without care.

“There is a fucking dragon on Dragonstone.”

His brother, startled by the sudden intrusion, froze half-risen and lowered himself back into his seat, leaning into the backrest with a pleased smile on his face and chided him lightly. “Now, now, there is no need for such crude language. 'Tis a good thing.”

“A good thing.” He was aghast. No wild dragon was ever a good thing, much less one so close to Driftmark. Certainly not one that had already attacked fishermen to steal their catch. 

And the Lord of Dragonstone was… doing what? Trying to… housebreak him?

Sacrifice. Their lord was keeping the dragon in line by giving it fish. How long before the beast tired of it and came to desire something with warmer blood? 

Jon Stark was insane. If his brother could not see it, perhaps so was he. That would certainly explain the sudden marriage plans.

He sank into a seat opposite his brother, staring at his smiling face. Once the dragon had gone off, he had rushed from the beach to his ship, heedless of his still-sleeping companion, rousing the crew and racing to Driftmark to inform his brother.

His brother knew. He had known and thought it a good thing.

“How the fuck is an uncontrollable fire-breathing monster a good thing?”

His brother’s smile died, and a puzzled frown replaced it. “What do you… I do not…”

Aurane’s voice was a touch high when he leaned forward. “There is a fucking dragon on Dragonstone.”

Monford’s frown deepened, his lack of understanding plain, but he could not say it again, his throat too tight. Then, his brother’s face cleared, and a chuckle escaped him. A chuckle and then another and another until he was laughing helplessly, clutching at his desk and unable to catch his breath.

Aurane stared. His brother was fucking insane too.

Chapter Text

Margaery sighed in contentment, a smile appearing on her face, as she lowered herself into the bath, the warm water soothing the aches in her body. Once the babe quickened, and the aches in her back came, little could bring her relief. Once the gentle flutters became more noticeable, more insistent, long hot soaks became her only source of reprieve.

Her eyes closed and smile widened as more water was poured in, and she rested her head against the lip of the tub, luxuriating in the warmth seeping into her bones, and the smell of the lavender scattered in it. Tension slowly melted away as she breathed in the sweet vapor and basked in the comfort.

“Now this seems very…pleasant. Would you mind it terribly if I were to join you?”

A laugh escaped her. Her husband must have returned from his inspection of the docks already. “I very much would. This is my bath, and I am not sharing it nor leaving it until I turn into a prune. You may have me then.”

His voice was soft as his wandering fingers teased her. “You would be the loveliest prune there ever was, I am sure.”

Margaery laughed again, slapping the hand seeking to disturb her peace away and opening her eyes to glare at her unrepentant husband. “Leave. Let me have my peace.”

His eyes were soft as he regarded her seriously, fingers reaching out to caress her cheek, abandoning mischief. “You look tired. Are you sure-?”

Her glare returned with a vengeance. “I am very sure. I am well and no matter what you say, I will not be missing Desmera’s wedding, not when it is happening a stone’s throw away.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “If you are sure.” She was. She was not missing Desmera’s wedding, and she was not missing her brother’s departure either, and they had had this conversation many, many times already.

“How are the ships?”

He sighed and looked away, disappointed at the obvious change of topic. “As ready as ready can be. Once the ships from the Redwyne dowry finally join up, the fleet will sail.”

“After the wedding.” 

He rolled his eyes again at her gentle correction and agreed. “After the wedding. We have waited this long, a few days more will make no difference.”

“Though you wish to be rid of Loras without delay.”

He blinked at her, slight confusion showing. “Do I? Why would you think that?”

Margaery giggled with her cheek rested on the tub’s rim. “You told him he may take the appointment, or he may leave your service and Dragonstone. I consider that plain enough.”

“Oh. That is… His presence has become somewhat more intrusive than I expected.” His frown deepened. “More intrusive than I feared. He may prove his loyalty is to me, or he may leave altogether.”

Margaery sighed. “Perhaps… Perhaps if he were to be assigned to a different ship- ”

Jon’s head was shaking in refusal even before she finished her thought. Not that she had not presented it quite a few times before, but still. Putting Loras on the ship personally captained by Aurane Waters was bound to bring trouble. Whatever dislike her brother had had for the Bastard of Driftmark had grown over the last few weeks as a new point of contention had arisen between them, but Jon would not listen, intending to have them check each other. And what better way than to have them on the same ship?

Any other way, was Margaery’s educated opinion.

He let out a chuckle at her crestfallen expression and dropped a kiss to the crown of her head. “You worry too much. Lay back, enjoy your bath, and you will see that all will be well.”

What was she supposed to say to that? So she laid back and watched him leave, the heat and the lavender no longer doing much to dispel the tension. There were times when she was convinced her husband was determined to shut his eyes to looming trouble, to pretend there was none until it was right at his door. 

There was something about their looming visit to Driftmark that seemed to unsettle him greatly, and his commitment to dismissing any such effect, his affected poise, the verve with which he threw himself into distractions… It was all causing her to become unsettled. She rubbed her belly with a frown as the babe let itself be felt. It was causing them to become unsettled.

“Are you well, my lady? Has the bath not been to your liking? Should I fetch the maester?”

Dragonstone’s steward seemed most distressed when she emerged from her chambers much sooner than likely expected to join him in his office to revisit her instructions for the time the lord and his lady would spend off the island. 

She smiled to see his concern and waved it away as he rose to do just that, her heart warming. “I am much improved and have no need for a maester, thank you. There is merely so much to do still, I decided to cut my bath rather short today.”

Relief oozed from the old man. “That is good to hear, my lady. Very good to hear. It should please you to know that I took the liberty to inform the steward at Driftmark of how you take your baths. All should be to your liking there, my lady.”

Margaery blinked at the aged steward, taken aback, and worried her lip. “Oh. Was that truly necessary? I mean… I suppose the daily baths are a bit… excessive. There was truly no need for the imposition.”

The steward gave her a kind smile and shrugged his shoulders. “I am sure they will not consider it a hardship, my lady, and worry not. I have spent most of my life in service of House Targaryen. In my experience, all that have served them have grown well-accustomed to some excess.”

Margaery could do little else but laugh. The words were hardly reassuring, and they certainly did nothing to settle her concerns regarding imposing upon their hosts too much. “I will have to trust your judgement on this, though I truly hate to be a burden.”

The man’s eyes misted. “You are not a burden, my lady. Not at all. You never could be. Why, I remember the siege after…” He shook his head as his voice failed him. “We held out as long as we could. We were determined… But when Queen Rhaella, Gods rest her soul, the poor woman… It broke the spirit of many. And then the fleet…” He shook his head once more. “Needless to say, the baths could never be an imposition. I would gladly deliver the queen a thousand more baths by myself should it…” 

Wide-eyed, Margaery struggled not to gape. The Tyrells were assumed to be a loyalist House by many, but she had never heard anyone speak of the Targaryens with such feeling and such openness before. No one dared. That someone did dare in the keep that belonged to the Hand’s son was simply inconceivable. This was… Was this treason? Her stomach churned with unease.

“I think we might need a new steward.” It was folly to speak so the night before they were to leave for Driftmark, but her disquiet mounted as the hours passed and when her husband joined her for a private supper in their chambers, she could no longer hold her tongue.

He blinked at her mutely for an endless moment before he opened his mouth. “Why?”

A blush rose to her cheeks as she played with her food. “He… I do not believe him… loyal. To us. I… I think he would rather serve the Targaryens.”

Her husband’s head tilted to a side, and he spoke very slowly. “That is not the impression I have of him. He seems very loyal. Very dedicated. To you specifically, even.”

“He… I think he seems to see Queen Rhaella in me.”

Jon’s eyebrows rose, almost disappearing into his hairline. “I must admit I fail to see a resemblance. It might be the distinct lack of Valyrian features.”

Her blush deepened. “And he sent word on how I like my baths to Driftmark! Can you believe it?!”

He nodded slowly with a thoughtful frown. “I can. There are not many people that enjoy their baths scalding near hot enough to peel one’s skin off.”

She let out a small shriek of frustration. “You are exaggerating! They are not that hot! You do not mind!”

His frown deepened as he poked his own meal with an unenthusiastic grimace. “I am rather… I am…” He shrugged, seemingly at a loss, and then his frown was gone, replaced by a charming smile. “The things I am willing to suffer for my wife, I suppose.”

Margaery rolled her eyes, exasperated by his teasing when the matter at hand was quite serious. “What if…” She lowered her voice and leaned toward him. “What if he is not the only one? What if they seek revenge?”

He rolled his eyes at her. “You truly worry over nothing. Take revenge for what? Why? Both of us were babes at best during the rebellion. They have a good lord and lady in us. They would have to be frankly insane to risk whoever to come after us. For Gods’ sake, they believe we are quite literally Gods’ gift to them, after Stannis Baratheon.”

Margaery mulled over the words. “So… You think they merely… feel safe expressing their…previous loyalties with the keep in our hold?”

“Yes.” Jon’s nod was firm and confident, and she wished she had not seen the doubt flash in his eyes for but a moment.

Driftmark was… greener than Dragonstone. It was bigger as well, but the color was the first thing to strike her. It had far more people, too, she could not fail to note.

When Lord Velaryon greeted them at the docks, and Sansa’s smile gained a dreamy quality, she turned to her husband to share an amused glance, only for her smile to turn into a practiced thing upon seeing his haunted expression.

Jon received Lord Velaryon’s greeting with practiced grace, and even exchanged a few words with Lord Celtigar and Bar Emmon, already arrived before them, but his eyes never stopped moving, sweeping the horizon as if searching for something. She did not believe he would be later able to recall so much as speaking with the lords.

His restless eyes seemingly settled once inside the castle, and once he returned to his usual confident and captivating self during the feast, Margaery’s stomach settled at last, and she could participate in the polite conversation at the high table.

The relief was but fleeting and deceptive, she found, when she woke in the morn to find her husband gone from her side and gone from the castle, his guards left behind.

“Where did he go?” She did her best to keep her voice even, to keep calm and not to wonder as she talked to the guards that were not with the man they were supposed to.

The guardsman gave her an apologetic look and a helpless shrug. “I do not know, my lady. He asked around after the tides and then was gone before low tide was to come.”

She was not concerned, she told herself, as she laid on their bed and stared up at the canopy. This was the best time for him to go exploring the island. The best. The bridal party was expected to dock the next day, his father, the Hand, thereabouts as well. Truly, this was the best time to be gone, before everyone arrived.

It was not concerning at all that he had not woken her to tell her he was leaving, that he had left no message with their guards. It was not concerning that there was something about the island that was plainly bothering him even before they had come.

When he had appeared in the door of their chamber at last, she was left to stare at him in disbelief. “What in the Gods’ name happened to you?”

He shrugged absently. “Nothing happened. I merely did not wish to wait for another low tide.” A corner of his lips moved up a fraction. “I did not think you would appreciate me being gone quite so long.”

“I did not appreciate you being gone at all!” Who cared that her voice was a shriek as she rose from the bed? She certainly did not. “What was it that could not wait?”

He blinked at her, seemingly puzzled by her reaction. “High Tide. One cannot go there but at a low tide.”

“High Tide?! High Tide!” Yes, her voice was shrill, but she was way past caring. “What about that ruin was so pressing?”

Something shuttered in his eyes. “Nothing. Nothing at all. It’s all…” He pressed his lips firmly together and shook his head. “Nothing.”

He turned away sharply and strode out of the chambers once more, but this time, Margaery lifted her skirts and hastened after him, followed him out of the castle with guards close behind. This time, she followed him out and to a rocky outcropping overlooking the sea and could follow him no more as there was seemingly nowhere to follow until he reappeared on a rocky terrace below. How did he even get there? 

She frowned and looked around uncertainly, searching for a way down. She was examining a possible path downward critically, and casting her slippered feet dubious looks, when a voice hailed her.

“Lady Margaery, I did not expect to see you here.”

She could feel her cheeks heating as she turned to face Lord Velaryon. They had been far from good guests so far, her husband disappearing and herself shutting herself in the chambers given over to them.

“My lord, I did not expect to see you here either.”

The lord’s pale brows rose. “This is where we send our dead out to sea. I occasionally come here to… think, I suppose.”

“Oh.” Margaery’s eyes travelled to the low terrace, her brows momentarily furrowing as she could no longer see her husband.

When her eyes did find him at last, the furrow deepened, and it was all she could do to stifle a gasp. He was standing knee-deep in the water, unspeakable grief in his face, looking for all the world to see as if about to drown himself. She jerked her gaze back to Lord Velaryon with a weak smile. He would not. Surely, he would not. She was just imagining things. She was just imagining things, but his bannermen could not see him in such a state.

“I fear… I fear I feel rather faint all of a sudden, my Lord Velaryon. Do you think… Do you think you could escort me back to the castle? I think… I think I might need rest. Rest, yes.” She took hold of his arm and leaned into him, letting him carry some of her weight. She truly felt as she might faint at any moment. Or throw up. 

She closed her eyes in horror. Gods. Oh Gods, please do not let him… He was fine. He was… happy. Excited. Full of life. He would not, she told herself firmly. This would pass. She only needed to ensure no one else would see him in such a state.

Chapter Text

He watched his wife with no small deal of bewilderment, freezing with his shirt not even halfway over his head as she scrambled off the bed, her eyes barely open, swiftly turned the key and leaned against the door. 

“What in the Gods’ name are you doing?” 

Her chin rose defiantly. “You are not leaving. I will not allow it. I gave you peace yesterday, but I will not stand for another day like it.”

His amazed eyes did not leave her for a moment as he pulled the shirt down slowly. “I am merely getting dressed. For the day. When your cousin and her family are to arrive.”

Margaery’s eyes flashed and her nostrils flared. “As you merely got dressed and left me with no word yesterday?”

“No? There were… matters for me to attend to yesterday.”

“Matters to attend to.” He felt her snort as if a slap and watched her fold her arms across her chest warily. “What matters to attend to lead you to run away from me? What matters to attend to lead you to-?” 

She choked on a sob and closed her eyes with a head shake, and something lodged in his throat as he rushed to embrace her, but she shook him off with a glare. There was torture in her eyes, when she finished. “What matters to attend to lead you to act like that?”

What was he to say ? He had not meant for it to go the way it had. But he had needed to go to High Tide before even more guests arrived, certainly before Lord Stark did. At least he had thought he had. He had wanted to see if there had been any signs of the life, the people, he remembered ever living there. In a way, it was heart-breaking, he supposed, but nothing inside High Tide had reminded him of those long gone. Had it been his only motivation, he would have judged the trip wasted entirely right away.

But it had been the dragons living there, the dragons visiting there, that had him go in the first place, and so he had searched the caves under it. Vhagar, Meleys, even visiting Syrax and Moondancer. He had hoped beyond hope that there would be more eggs, that one of the she-dragons would have left a sign of her presence, but it seemed to him that Morning’s remained the only eggs to be had. Certainly the only ones within his reach.

Disappointment had gnawed on his insides, but it had hardly been unexpected. He had known even before he had gone that it had been a fool’s hope.

It had been while he climbed the steep steps back up to the castle that the twisted memory had invaded.

It had been a dark and stormy night when Laena Velaryon had left her bed in search of her dragon, and he could feel the rain that had slashed at him as he had rushed in search of her, desperation robbing him of sanity, could feel the overwhelming relief when he had found her. He could see her pale face, could feel her body burning with fever. 

That was how the memory went, and he had taken to revisiting it many, many times in his dreams recently.

But as he had ascended the steps from the beach, the vision he had been treated to had not been of Laena Velaryon.

It had been his wife he carried in his arms, her face pale and her body burning with relentless fever, her eyes glassy, and it had been too much. His stomach rebelled and once he was done dry-heaving, once his head stopped spinning, he had taken off, needing to be away, away from the haunting ruins, heedless of the sea separating him from the rest of Driftmark.

He had thought himself recovered by the time he had returned to the castle, to his wife. He had been wrong, and he had to run away once more as sickness threatened to overwhelm him.

What was he to say to her?

There was nothing to say. Nothing to say that could erase the torment in her eyes, nothing that would settle his own mind.

Nothing.

His throat was uncomfortably tight, and he swallowed and stared at her wordlessly.

There was pain in her eyes, but she was alive, he told himself. Alive, gloriously so. 

He swallowed dryly once more, and strode over to her, kissing her ravenously in a suddenly desperate need to prove it to himself.

When Margaery gasped in surprise, he deepened the kiss, seeking to fuse them together, to drown himself in her warmth. When she melted against him, holding on to him with a certain desperation of her own, he seized the chance presented to him and hoisted her up, carrying her back to the bed.

Once there, though, her back barely hit the mattress before she was getting up on her elbows, confusion in her eyes. “Jon, what-?”

He was on her in a flash, kissing her gently, whispering against her lips. “Shhh, please. Please, let me…”

Margaery laid back and regarded him seriously before she raised her hands to his face to guide his lips to her own, and he seized the concession gratefully, seeking to devour her, to take her apart again and again. To see her alive, loudly and vivaciously so.

His head rested on his wife’s belly ever so carefully as he listened to the babe’s fluttering heartbeat in silent fascination, Margaery’s fingers gently massaging his scalp.

“Will you tell me now?”

“Tell you?” His lips brushed her belly as he spoke, and goosebumps spread in front of his eyes, and he raised a hand to the belly to reverently stroke them away.

She hesitated for a moment. “Whatever it is that you are so dedicated to avoiding?”

He was silent for the longest time, and the gentle hand tangled in his hair tightened ever do slightly the longer his silence went on until eventually, he closed his eyes, resigned.

“My mother died in childbed. She died birthing me. She was not much older than we are now.” And that was the truth. Lyanna Stark was his mother whether he remembered her or not, and she had died birthing him, his life bought by her agony. But her death had been a kind and quick one. In the end, so had Laena Velaryon’s.

No, it was the mother he remembered, rather than the one he did not, that haunted him the most. Alyssa Targaryen had laid in her bed, wasting away for half a year, slowly becoming grayer and grayer, her skin growing clammy and ever-colder, her shallow breaths labored and ever-weaker. She had been less and less, disappearing in front of her son’s eyes until his eyes closed one day and then opened to stillness.

Stillness was death, he knew. Silence was death.

And so when Margaery’s breath stuttered, he froze for but a moment before diving for her lips once more.

Dragons could not save Alyssa Targaryen and Laena Velaryon from their horrible fate. What hope did he have? But Margaery was alive now, and he needed them both to know it and to believe it.

It was an easier thing to believe with color high on her cheeks, her lips kiss-bitten, her skin flushed and slick with sweat, her voice hoarse. 

The afternoon sun was beating down on him as they waited for the Redwyne party.

A different kind of unease descended on him now. There were too many ships. There was the score of the trading galleys pledged as part of the dowry, but there was a score of galleons too and the great galleas, the Arbor Queen, the lead ship of the Redwyne fleet. Paxter Redwyne had a two hundred strong warship fleet and a full tenth of it was here, to attend the wedding of his only daughter.

His stomach rolled. Those galleons would have been a most welcome sight had they come as part of the dowry.

Whatever the foreboding though, he had to swallow a laugh when Aurane Waters let out a low pained groan upon sighting Lord Paxter Redwyne and his stooped form, the bald head sparsely covered by tufts of offensively orange hair.

Thankfully, Lady Desmera was nowhere near as offensive a sight, and the tension Aurane had held in his shoulders for weeks lessened a touch, even a small smile gracing his face. The groom seemed to be much more at peace with his fate than his own brother had been, still likely was, not even the presence of the galleys making much of a difference.

His mood was much improved as they turned to follow their host and the Redwynes into the castle, the many, many Reachmen of various rank still disembarking.

“My lord! My lord Stark!”

He startled out of his hushed conversation with his wife, poking fun at the poor Aurane, poor Loras and woes of brothers everywhere, looking around.

The Reachman that had called out to him was slightly breathless and slightly familiar as he bowed his head. “My lord, my lady, let me introduce my wife, Lady Bethany.”

He gave him a vague smile and inclined his head politely. The name of the man’s wife he now knew, the name of the man escaped him and Margaery, the treasure that she was, seemed to realize it as she spoke up. “My Lord Mathis, my Lady Bethany, thank you for coming all this way. I am sure Desmera appreciates your presence too.”

The lord puffed up, and he searched his memory for anything about the man, but there had been too many Reachmen brought to the Hand’s tower by his goodfather for him to remember them all.

“It was I who advised Lord Velaryon and my own goodbrother on the match. It is only fitting that I attend the wedding too.”

“Oh, truly? I was not aware of that. I was wondering why you sailed here with the Redwyne fleet when Goldengrove is so much closer to King’s Landing when the Arbor.”

His wife was a true treasure, and he barely suppressed a sigh of relief. Goldengrove. The man was Lord Mathis Rowan of Goldengrove. One of the very first men to come complain about his marriage. One of the few to leave seemingly appeased with no position or concession gained. Likely the only one.  

“Whatever brought you to propose this match, my lord? I must admit I cannot recall such ever occurring.”

The lord gave him a toothy smile that unnerved him. “That it never was, does not mean it cannot be. When has there ever been a marriage between a member of your House and House Tyrell? Unconventional alliances are needed to forge a bright future, I believe, and such could never be should Desmera wed into House Lannister. Even Paxter knew that, though he was hard-pressed to reject the suit of the queen’s own cousin. All he could do was hem and haw without a better match in sight.”

The Lord of Dragonstone could not help but agree and nod emphatically. A Lannister-Redwyne alliance would be bound to prove catastrophic for other seafaring Houses and being the liege lord of several such it was his solemn duty to prevent such. It was his great pleasure, too.

Somehow, the Lord of Goldengrove’s smile widened yet more. “It was my duty to the realm, my lord.”

He inclined his head with in acknowledgement, giving him a grin of his own. “The realm is most grateful, I am sure.”

The lord puffed up self-importantly, and it was all he could do not to roll his eyes at the display as he bade him a good day and turned to walk to the castle at last.

Paxter Redwyne blinked at the incredulous Lord of the Tides and Lord of Dragonstone innocently, and it set his teeth on edge.

“What do you mean… The galleys are the dowry. That was stated plainly in the agreement. What do you mean the galleons will be joining the trading expedition?”

They had hoped for the ships from the dowry to join Aurane’s fleet, but that hope had died the moment Velaryon eyes set on the size of the ships sent. They could hardly carry enough supplies to sail on the open seas for more than a week without resupply, much less around the Smoking Sea near Valyria, where resupply would not be possible at all.

“I believe that what Lord Velaryon is trying to say, is that the fleet gathered consists of ships of Dragonstone, Driftmark, Claw Isle and Sharp Point. All of these are sworn to me. You are not. You and your ships are foreign to us.” Your motives are foreign to us. Why did the Redwyne want to join a full tenth of his warships to their expedition?

Lord Paxter raised his bushy brows in apparent surprise. “That hardly seems to matter. The ships are well-provisioned and their holds are filled with the best wines from the Arbor. They are manned by well-seasoned crews, and it is my understanding that my own nephew will be highly positioned in the fleet’s command. They will follow Lord Waters as they would my own orders.”

Aurane twitched, and he was not surprised by the reaction. Bastards were seldom called by titles in anything but mocking voices.

Paxter Redwyne leaned back in his seat with a guileless smile. “I truly foresee no issue in this. We will all be a lot richer men at the end of this, I think.”

He gnashed his teeth and kept his mouth shut. Redwyne was already a ridiculously rich man. He had no true reason to join an expedition that could turn very costly and very deadly as easily as it could turn an extravagant profit. But he could not speak any of his doubts. The Redwyne-Velaryon alliance was not sealed yet, could still be broken, and there were tentative plans he had for it. It was too early to lay them to rest over the man inviting his ships along.

“My Lord Stark!”

He closed his eyes and kicked the sand at his feet. Why the man kept seeking him out, especially with such a cheerful disposition, he would never understand. “My Lord Rowan, what an unexpected meeting this is.”

“Indeed! Indeed! How are you faring?”

His brows rose in disbelief as he turned to face the man. “Faring, my lord? I am faring much the same as I had earlier in the day when we spoke last.”

The man laughed. “How are you faring down south, I meant, my lord. I have been to the North and the difference is quite… something, I believe.”

He tilted his head as he regarded the lord, deep in thought. “It is.…certainly warmer than what I am used to. Which parts of the North have you been to?”

Amusement spark in the lord’s eyes. “Just one, though several times, my lord. The Wall.”

He repeated dumbly. “The Wall.”

“Aye, the Wall. It is a most fascinating place. I would certainly encourage you to visit. I am sure it would be rewarding.”

“Rewarding?” The Wall?! He had no intention of going there ever. He was free of that fate.

The lord nodded self-importantly, as if imparting a great secret, but he was no longer interested in talking. He had not been interested in the first place, he reminded himself, so he made a see-though excuse and left the fucking lord in his wake and stalked off to fume in peace.

He would not be going to the fucking Wall.

Chapter Text

The farther away from King’s Landing the ship sailed, the lighter he felt. Freer.

Seawater peppered his face as he stood on the prow, and he smiled at the feeling of the sweetest kiss. Freedom. He was free of the cesspit that the Red Keep had turned into. He had done much and more to root out the insidious disease, but the rot went too deep, spread too far, and Robert cared little and less for it.

But Ned was free of it all now. His mind had started to clear on the second day out of the city, on the second day of fresh sea breeze whistling by, and the clarity had brought with it a resolution. He would remain free. He would attend the wedding, represent the Iron Throne, but more importantly, see his children again, and then, once back in the capital, he would kneel in front of his erstwhile brother and resign his position.

His smile spread wider as the image appeared in front of his mind’s eye.

“I was not aware you Starks knew how to do that. It is a relief, I suppose.”

Ned jerked, and his brows jumped up as he turned to Mace Tyrell that had appeared at his side. “Oh? Knew how to do what, my lord?”

The lips of the Lord of Highgarden twitched suspiciously. “Smile, my lord Hand.” The words startled a laughed out of him, and the lord’s eyes crinkled as he regarded him. “You seem a rather grim person, if you pardon the bluntness, and your son is hardly better from what I have seen of him so far. It is reassuring that there is more than grimness to you.”

Ned shook his head, his smile turned exasperated. “I believe there has been little cause for anything but grimness in the time that you have known me, my lord. Now, we are headed to a wedding, and I am to see my children. There is little cause for grimness now.”

Mace Tyrell’s face clouded. “Aye. A wedding. I wonder what changed Paxter’s mind this time.”

“This time?”

“Desmera had more than enough arrangements made for her hand over the years. The Lannister was merely the most recent attempt, and though not the most fortunate one, far from the worst. My mother took her cane to Paxter’s shins when he tried to betroth the girl to the Tarly boy. She fairly begged him not to give his only daughter to someone with no stomach for sea. In her own way, of course.”

“Of course.” Having met the Queen of Thorns, Ned’s voice was dry, and he coughed to cover up a laugh. “I am sure Lord Velaryon is the better choice in that regard.”

Mace Tyrell frowned once more and nodded. “In that regard, certainly.” He fell silent and shook his head. “If you will pardon me, my lord Stark, I think I will retire. One should take as much rest as possible when planning to attend a wedding.”

Ned nodded in acknowledgement and watched him go with a frown. The lord did not seem happy with the alliance in the least.

A smile settled on his face once more as they finally docked at Driftmark, and his eyes settled on the party that waited for him, Jon’s hands firmly set upon Arya’s shoulders, restraining her. The smile widened as his arms were full of his daughters, squeezing his breath out of him the moment his feet met solid ground, even before Monford Velaryon had a chance to welcome the Hand of the King.

When his eyes met Jon’s above his daughter’s heads as their muffled words of welcome tangled one over the other, his smile lessened somewhat. Jon stood back, restrained and poised, giving him a nod of welcome, as he always did when greeting his father after a long absence. Only this time, it was not due to Catelyn’s presence, or the presence of other lords. No, this time, his son was a lord of his own castle, with a wife by his side and a babe on the way, and it was below him to act a child.

He gave Velaryon a nod in greeting and received an indulgent one in reply, the lord’s lips giving a miniscule twitch.

The forbearance in the man’s expression had Ned’s stomach drop and his hackles rise. There was no reason for Monford Velaryon’s good disposition toward him. The smile became fixed on his face, and the wariness he had thought left behind in King’s Landing returned to him at once.

“Girls, let me take a breath and look at you two!”

Sansa let go a beat before Arya did, and took a step back with a fetching blush rising to her cheeks and a curtsy. “It is good to see you, father.”

Arya rolled her eyes at her sister but repeated her actions with a wide grin. “It is! You would not believe how much I learned since we came to Dragonstone!”

Ned’s brows jumped up in sheer disbelief. “Oh? Has your brother taken to binding you to a chair?”

Jon choked and both Margaery and Sansa bit down on their lips as Arya’s eyes widened. “No! But Maester Pylos has minions! Lots and lots of them!”

Sansa took an outraged breath, but Margaery spoke quicker, in a low chiding voice. “It is unkind to refer to them as such, Arya. They learn from him as much as you do.”

His daughter shrugged dramatically and raised her chin in defiance. “ They do his bidding. I do not.”

Jon cleared his throat, likely to cover a laugh, and spoke up as well. “That is hardly something to boast of, little sister.”

Arya turned to Jon, her eyes filled with betrayal, and Lord Velaryon stepped up to greet him at last with a smile. “Welcome to Driftmark, Lord Stark. We are glad to have you.” The lord turned to Mace Tyrell and his wife, who joined them as well now. “And you as well, my lord and lady, of course.”

The Warden of the South was boisterous in accepting the welcome, where Ned was much more reserved. “Thank you, Lord Velaryon. It is good to be here.” And whatever his reservations, it was.

Lady Margaery stepped up to greet her parents, embracing them and pressing a kiss to their cheeks. The lord’s arms wrapped around her gingerly, while her mother’s fingers squeezed her shoulders in a teary-eyed grip. After, Margaery twined her arms around her father’s, and turned to lead her father away from the docks, a lady on each arm, and Ned was left to follow with a daughter on each of his own, Lord Velaryon and Jon in the lead, heads close together in deep discussion. His stomach turned again to see their faces so close to each other.

But he shook his head and discarded the feeling, focusing on his lively daughters, marvelling at how much they had changed as Arya talked his ear off about her new dresses. Marvelling at how much they had stayed the same as she expressed disgust at her sister’s girly ones while said sister maintained a haughty expression. It was good to have them with him once more.

There was a reason to marvel at the evening feast to welcome the wedding guests too, as his daughters did not quibble at all, and he wished it was that that captured his focus. But it was not. No, it was that the men Robert suspected of treason acted as if he was one of them. 

Mace Tyrell he had established a good enough rapport over their time in the Red Keep, but there was Monford Velaryon, Paxter Redwyne and Mathis Rowan, too. They were all too… warm. Far from cordial, but still far from the frigid cold he had expected. It was enough to set his teeth on edge, all the more because he could sense the Tyrell lord’s confusion over the attitude under the veneer of gaiety.

Ned could hardly wait for the feast to be over, to put his daughters to bed, and to be able to speak to Jon in private without raising any brows.

The feast lasted an eternity and his nerves were frayed by the time he did find himself in his chambers with Jon, and even that victory was soured by the presence of his wife.

He gave her a weak smile. “I did not wish to say before, my lady, but you look exceedingly well. You hardly seem to be carrying at all.”

Lady Margaery gave him a pleased smile and preened, while Jon rolled his eyes. “Thank you, Lord Stark.”

“Do not let the dresses fool you. She had them made especially to hide how far along she is from her father.”

Ned choked as the lady glared at her blunt husband. “Regardless, you look well, my lady, though, surely, you must be tired?”

The smile was back on her face, but she made no move to leave. “Oh, you need not be concerned, my lord. I am not tired at all. I am most eager to hear of all the excitement in the capital. You must tell us.”

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “The excitement seems to have died down with your departure, I fear.”

Her brows climbed. “Oh? I hear that the Master of Coin fell to his death and the Master of Whisperers disappeared. Is that not excitement enough?”

A coughing fit took him, and Jon’s hand was covering his own mouth in a flash. “Yes, certainly. It is. I must have forgotten you were no longer there for it.”

Her brows pulled together, and her head tilted to the side as her eyes narrowed.

“I must admit, the life in King’s Landing does not appeal to me at all, with my family far away. I decided to step down as the Hand once I return.”

Shock painted her features. “You cannot! You are doing so well!” 

He shook his head vehemently and coughed some more. “I had a visit recently, that reminded me of where my place is. A man of the Night’s Watch.”

He was giving Jon a look loaded with meaning, but the boy seemed determined not to meet his gaze.

“You are the Hand of the King! Your place is in King’s Landing! And what does the Night’s Watch have to do with anything?”

He pressed his lips firmly together. “I am the Lord of Winterfell, the Warden of the North. That duty comes before any other, and I am needed there. The Night’s Watch is in dire need of help, and I fear what would happen should I fail in providing it.”

“The Seven Kingdoms are in dire need of help!”

He let out a breath and swallowed his annoyance. Lady Margaery’s agitation mounted, while Jon’s gaze remained pinned to the ground. “And I have provided as much of it as I could. Now, I must go to the North and safeguard it against the gathering darkness.”

Lady Margaery snorted in annoyance and folded her arms under her breasts. “What darkness?”

Jon took a shaky breath and his black eyes settled on Ned at last. “The Doom of Man.”

The lady’s glare toward her lord husband was withering.

“Night’s Watch’s ranging parties keep disappearing. Benjen’s among them. There was an attempt on Lord Commander Mormont’s life too, and now he means to lead a ranging beyond the Wall.” Jon’s gaze did not shift for even a moment, watching him carefully. “He agreed to wait. I mean to go with him.”

“No!” Jon was on his feet in a flash.

“If it is as… I have to go. I have to see. ”

“No! I forbid it!”

Ned rose to his feet as well, staring into his son’s eyes evenly. “It is my duty to go.”

Jon’s nostrils flared. “It is your duty to lead the North, to live, you fool!”

Ned gave him a soft smile. “I can see you are tired too. Why do we not speak of this more on the morrow?”

Jon’s jaw clenched, and he could see him struggle with mastering his temper as his eyes blazed, but when he spoke his voice was even. “I see little to speak of. You will not go.”

His hand rose to pat Jon’s tense shoulder reassuringly and guided him out of his chambers. “We will speak on the morrow.”

But they did not speak on the morrow, and they did not speak the day after either. Jon armored himself in the presence of his lords and his sisters and was never to be found alone, never to be pinned down for a truly private conversation. But Ned was determined too ad he was done playing.

He approached his ever-elusive son while he was distracted by a conversation with Lords Velaryon and Bar Emmon, an amused smile tugging on his lips.

“My lords, pardon my rudeness, but I would speak with my son alone, if you would permit.”

The lords excused themselves, annoyance flashing briefly on Jon’s face before his features settled in an easy grin. “I wish you had not interrupted just then. Lord Velaryon has taken it unto himself to arrange a match between Bar Emmon and Arya, and the poor boy has gotten increasingly creative and diverting in his evasions.”

Ned was stumped. “Arya?”

Jon’s grin widened. “Yes. Arya. I think the boy might be genuinely scared of her.”

“Arya is too young to be wed!”

His son rolled his eyes at him. “Bar Emmon is too. It is a betrothal Velaryon is set on arranging, not a wedding.”

Ned blinked, recalling the face of the young lord. “He cannot be much younger than you.”

Jon shrugged, seemingly without a care. “Two years younger, in fact, but not brought up a bastard, and so he seems that much younger to me.” He sighed and pointed his eyes to the ceiling. “Though he must have a good head on his shoulders if he knows better than to shackle himself to Arya.”

Ned’s heart seized, and his stomach rolled again as his eyes traveled to where the two lords had disappeared from their sight. “She has mellowed recently.”

An inelegant snort escaped Jon. “Not nearly enough. She told Lord Rowan just yesterday that if he were to bow any lower, he was like to kiss the ground.”

He closed his eyes and tried to deny the truth, but he had never been a good liar. “He knows.”

There was a moment of silence. “Knows what?”

“About you.”

“There is nothing to know. Certainly not for him.”

Ned opened his eyes and gave his son a tired look. “He knows about the sword.”

Jon’s brows scrunched for a moment, and then he burst into laughter. “There is no way for anyone to know about it. No one had seen it. Most certainly not Rowan.”

“You had a replica made. He paid good money to see the papers you gave Tobho Mott.” When Gendry had chosen to speak of the interest his son’s tourney blade had invited instead of Ned’s offer to arrange for a place for him at Dragonstone, he had not been too worried. He had believed it to be a mere distraction from his set goal. It would seem he had fooled himself.

Jon waved his concern away. “It was an approximation made based on historical texts. Hardly anything to get excited about.”

Having seen the original, it was no approximation in Ned’s eyes. It would be no approximation in the eyes of anyone who had seen the original.

He had never put too much thought into how the sword had found its way to the Tower of Joy, but Rhaegar would surely not have been the only one involved in finding it, in retrieving it. What if more than just the dead knights of the Kingsguard had seen it?

Ned repeated himself firmly. “He knows.”

Jon rolled his eyes once more. “Even if he does know of the sword, it is no proof. There is no proof anywhere of anything.”

Oh, how he wished he believed that still.

Chapter Text

There had been a time when Margaery would have been at home, would have been the center of liveliness in the gaggle of giggling ladies as they helped Desmera dress for her wedding. Now, she felt removed from it all as she watched them, her mother keeping her company.

She rubbed at her belly with a frown. The babe calmed since they had left Dragonstone, and it was certainly a relief for her to be able to participate in the preparations, but it filled her with unease. And the unease was not helped any by the dark thoughts that plagued her as she watched pale Desmera prepare.

Yet another wedding to thwart her grandmother’s plans for her granddaughter. Granddaughters, by now. With Margaery and Desmera wed, would their Fossoway cousins be next for the butcher’s block?

Margaery swallowed tears and put a well-practiced smile on her face as she stood up. “Aunt Mina, do you think I might have a few moments alone with dearest cousin? I wish to speak a few words to her. In private.”

Her aunt laughed. “Oh, Margaery, dear, fear not. I already imparted all that a bride must know.”

Color bloomed on her cheeks as the ladies tittered and Desmera’s cool eyes regarded her. “That is not… I thought-”

“Mother, I would like to speak with Margaery alone, too.”

Aunt Mina turned to her daughter with a teary smile and a light caress of a cheek. “Of course, dear. It is your day, after all.”

Margaery waited for the door to close behind the ladies before she turned to Desmera once more. “You look very lovely.” She would look much, much lovelier were she to lose her almost sickly pallor.

Desmera’s brow jumped up, and her head tilted to the side. “Thank you, cousin.”

“You are also very, very lucky.”

A weak grin appeared on Desmera’s face. “Is the lion truly such a wretch?” She shrugged dramatically. “Regardless, I doubt father would have gone through with it.”

“That is not who… That is not who grandmother intended you for.” Her cousin’s eyes were watching her attentively as she breathed out her next words. “Intended me for, but I escaped and… I did not think… I am so sorry, but you will be safe now too and Lord Velaryon is handsome and kind enough, and you will be well. All will be well.”

Desmera’s voice was low, too. “Father wanted us to be gone from the Arbor before grandmother reached it. Is that why?”

Margaery nodded mutely, blinking desperately. Once it had become plain that Margaery was a lost cause and her maidenly figure had been lost to the babe as well, Desmera would have been next in line. In her desperation to escape a dreadful fate, she had not given a thought to her replacement in grandmother’s schemes.

“Who?”

Margaery stepped up to Desmera, bringing their foreheads together, and clutching her fingers as she breathed out. “The king.”

A disbelieving laugh escaped her cousin and she made to step back, but Margaery had a good grip on her fingers and would not allow that. “What? He is married !” Desmera’s eyes grew large, and her voice dropped to a horrified whisper. “To a Lannister ! The daughter of Tywin Lannister! Have her wits gone completely?!”

“Perhaps.” Or perhaps her ambitions had always been greater than her love for her family, certainly greater than the love she bore her granddaughters, and they had been blind to it. “I just… wanted you to know. You are lucky. Be grateful.” She gave her what she hoped was a reassuring squeeze and a conspiratorial grin. “And whatever they say about doing your duty… There should be pleasure in the duty too, so… If there is not… Tell me, and I will have my husband set yours straight about doing his duty well.”

Finally, some color returned to Desmera’s face as a laugh left her and her eyes misted over. “Thank you. I… I was afraid.” She took a shaky breath. “I still am to tell the truth. It was different before… when the groom was some faceless man and the wedding far in the future. It is so… real now.”

“I understand, but there is little to fear, truly. Just… do not be silent. If… you do not like something… if it does not feel right… say so.” And Margaery should take her own advice too. There were too many things causing her disquiet, too many things her husband was keeping from her, and she liked it not. “You are going to be the lady of this keep. You have a duty to your husband and his people, but they have a duty to you too, and they will care for you as long as you do your duty well enough. There is freedom in that, I found.”

Desmera gave her a nod, her eyes still filled with doubt, but she no longer looked like she might faint walking to the septon, so Margaery gave her her best reassuring smile, kissed her freckled cheeks and hugged her. “All will be well, you will see.”

The bride was stunning as she walked the sept, her gaze lowered demurely, a miniscule smile on her lips and color on her cheeks. Margaery squeezed her husband’s arm in excitement as she saw Desmera’s eyes dart up at her husband-to-be and then down again, more color rising to her cheeks.

When her husband raised an amused brow at her, she told him as well. “All will be well.”

It would be. She was sure grandmother would not choose the Fossoways and certainly no roses from lower on the bush and therefore unrelated to the Queen of Thorns herself. They were all safe from her schemes now.

Soon enough the king would know, she was sure. Lord Stark would not leave the capital without telling him. He would not. And once everyone knew, once the queen’s secret was exposed to the world, there would be countless maidens thrown at the king’s feet. Countless maidens, but neither Margaery nor Desmera would be among them.

She did not feel ready for the chaos that would inevitably erupt, and she was not ready for her husband to leave her. Most certainly not now.

“All will be well.” She repeated under her breath under her husband’s questioning gaze as she watched Desmera shed her maiden cloak and be cloaked in the sea green-and-silver of House Velaryon and blush prettily as she pledged her love with a kiss.

Envy. She felt envious. Margaery had been scared out of her wits when she had wed, afraid Jon would never forgive her, afraid her family would find out, afraid everyone would, and it would all have been for naught. Her gaze dropped and she rubbed her belly soothingly. Not for naught. They had made the babe already.

They made for a stunning pair, the new Lady and Lord Velaryon, as they spun on and on as they danced, the spun copper and gold of their hair shimmering most enchantingly in the torchlight. 

She hummed thoughtfully as she fingered her chalice. “It must be nice.” 

Her husband jerked toward and blinked at her. “What must be?”

Her smile was decidedly melancholy. “Not to be frightened half to death at one’s wedding.”

He glared at his own chalice. “You were? What of?”

“That you would hate me forever. That my family would hate me if they…” Her shoulders rose and fell in an inelegant shrug. Most movements she did now were inelegant. “And the bedding. That cursed dress…”

His expression was thoughtful, but a corner of his lips lifted at that. “I much appreciated the dress.”

She forged on, pretending not to have heard him. “Do you think… You stopped the bedding for me, for us. Do you think you could do the same… for Desmera? I mean… What value is there to it, truly?”

“I was the groom. It was hardly difficult to take you and run. I can hardly do the same now.”

Her gaze traveled to the dancing pair. They had been dancing too when the call had gone out, and Lord Velaryon did not seem unable to outrun pursuers. “You could… speak to Lord Velaryon. Express familial concern for your wife’s kin.”

He let out a great put-upon sigh. “Must I?”

Margaery nodded gravely. “You must, husband.”

His aggrieved expression was swiftly ruined by a grin as he leaned forward to press a kiss to her nose. “Then let me go about my most solemn duty, wife.”

Her mother replaced him as he disappeared from her side. “How are you, sweetling? Are you not tired? You should not strain yourself overly.”

“Oh, not too tired, I think, though, I might retire soon.”

Her mother gave her a soft smile. “Good. You must take care of yourself. Do you… I think it would be only right to have your mother with you on Dragonstone in a time like this, would you not agree? Especially with Loras leaving.”

Margaery worried her lip as she wondered what to say. She would like her mother there with her. She would. She had surely proven her loyalty to her daughter when she had not told anyone of her departure. But there was her husband and her goodsisters to consider too. “I… I would have to speak to my husband of this.”

Her mother smiled her kindly smile and patter Margaery’s hand. “Please, do, dear. It would do much to settle your father’s and mine own worries.”

“There is nothing to worry about. All will be well.”

Her mother shook her head, her smile turning sad, and patted her hand again. “You carry your first child, all of fifteen years of age. There is everything to worry about.”

Margaery rubbed her belly and reconsidered the wisdom of having her mother on Dragonstone, along with everyone else already fretting about her and the babe. She was frightened enough. She did not need others making it worse, not now when the babe moved so much less.

Her mother chattered on in a deliberately light voice, and Margaery tuned her out as her gaze returned to following the dancing, a laugh escaping her when she noted Lord Velaryon was no longer in the arms of his bride. The lord was gone, and it was little Monterys attempting to dance with Desmera. Judging by the fascinated expression on his face as his eyes were fixed on her face, there was at least one Velaryon already half-way in love with her.

She tore her eyes away and rubbed her belly somewhat desperately, blinking rapidly.

“Goodmother, I do believe it is time for us to retire. Is it not, dear?”

Margaery smiled up into her husband’s face gratefully as his hands descended to her shoulders. “Yes, I do think we should retire now, before there is too much excitement.”

He offered her an arm up and plucked up her chalice from the table. “Shall we?”

Her mother rose with her, giving her a smile. “Rest up, dear, and think on what I said.”

Jon’s brows rose, but Margaery only smiled. “I will, mother. Have a good night.”

She hugged his arm to her breast as he led them out of the hall, feeling like an unruly child as he made an effort to avoid notice. She tugged him to stop once the fest was left behind them, and he took a wrong turn.

“That is not the way to our chambers.”

He turned to her with a brow raised, his dark eyes glittering, his expression serious as he raised his hand to her cheek, brushing it lightly. “No, it is not. I thought… I thought on what you said… And I think I have a way… If you would just come with me…”

“Come where?”

“To a beach.”

An incredulous laugh escaped her. “A beach.”

His jaw clenched. “Yes, a beach.”

Confusion flooded her. “But it is dark out.”

His jaw clenched tighter for a moment. “It is. You do not have to come if you do not want to. I just thought…” He shook his head. “Forget it. It was a silly thought.”

Panic seized her. “No. No, I want to go. I want to, I just… This is unexpected. I do not think I am dressed for a visit to a beach at all.”

Tension drained out of him. “You do not… You are beautiful as you are.”

Margaery laughed in his face. “Thank you, but it was my slippers I was worried for, not my beauty.”

He rolled his eyes at her. “I will get you new ones, then.”

She nodded and twined her fingers in his and tugged him outside, and then let herself be guided to a moonlit beach she could not see the castle from. “So… Why are we here?”

Jon nodded to himself and twirled the stupid chalice in his hands. “I thought… You said it must be nice not to be scared… at one’s wedding. And I thought… You are not scared now, are you?”

She looked at him and let him speak, because Margaery was still very much scared. Of different things now than back then, but she was still scared. 

“I was… I suppose I might have been scared too. And… What if we could… do it over?”

“We are wed already. What is there to do over?”

He was very pale under the moonlight. “The wedding. No one needs to know, just us. We were wed under the light of the Seven, both of us scared. We could… wed in the light of the Fourteen, bind… bind our blood and not… You are not scared now, are you?”

Margaery took a deep breath and tried to make some sense of this insanity. Neither of them followed the Fourteen Flames. But… Was it not romantic? To have a second wedding, one done entirely of their own free will, without those that wished them ill there to darken the moment? And binding their blood… It sounded… irreversible, permanent. Reassuring. 

It was also a blood ritual the Seven most certainly frowned upon.

But they did not believe in the Fourteen, either of them. It would be only a gesture. A gesture that would hold meaning only for them.

“I am not scared.” Her words were hushed, and she barely believed she uttered them.

“Good. Good. There is… There is meant to be a priest too, or well… someone to officiate, but I think we can do without.” He took something out of his pocket and fidgeted with it for a moment. 

“What is that?”

His head jerked up to blink at her. “Oh. Dragonglass. We need… It is used to… It is used as a blade.”

Margaery’s eyes widened and a sliver of unease raced up her spine. This did seem like a ritual.

Jon came to stand in front of her, looking seriously into her eyes. “Are you sure?”

She could only nod mutely, and he nodded to himself as well, and put the chalice into the sand at their feet.

“I will… I will need to cut you. And myself. And we will need to… bleed into the cup and then drink from it. And kiss. There is a kiss at the end.”

Margaery’s eyes grew wider and wider at his broken explanation, but her lips twitched at the mention of the kiss. It seemed, no matter the religion, some things remained the same, and it put her mind at ease.

The black glass glittered unnaturally in the moonlight as it rose to her lip, cool and boiling her blood at the same time. She watched fascinated as he wrapped her fingers around the blade and raised them to his own lip to make a cut, his blood pearling temptingly.

Next came a cut across her palm, and he wet his finger in the blood pooling there, meticulously smearing his forehead with it, and she could feel heat rise to her cheeks and her heart in her throat. That was her blood marking him, and soon enough it would be his blood marking her. It felt… right.

Somehow, it was always women bleeding for their husbands. Was it not right for the husband to bleed at least once, too?

Jon muttered something under his breath as he brought the chalice up for their joined hands to bleed into, and she could not restrain a whispered question. “What was it? What you were saying?”

His eyes fastened onto hers, and he repeated softly in Common. “Blood of two, joined as one. Ghostly flame and song of shadows. Two hearts as embers forged in fourteen fires. A future promised in glass, the stars stand witness. The vow spoken through time of darkness and light.”

Margaery’s throat tightened, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears as she listened entranced. She was entranced still, when the chalice was raised to her lips and she drank of it, the coppery taste as heady as any strongwine.

She was entrapped in his dark gaze as he drank from the chalice, too, and it was an invisible and irresistible force that pulled them together into a kiss.

The kiss did not end. It just grew hungrier and hungrier and oh, she would burn up, if there was not more, she was sure, but a smidgen of reason remained to her and she gasped out. “Stop! Stop! We can’t…”

Her husband’s eyes were lost as they blinked at her. “We can. We should.”

Margaery almost laughed. “We should, but not here. ”

“Why not?” Oh Gods, his pout was adorable, and she wanted to kiss it away on instinct, but the blasted reason prevailed once more. Her dress was a nightmare and if they continued, there was no chance she would be able to fix it before they returned to the castle. Certainly not with her husband to help.

Margaery raised her hand to his cheek and patted it, instead of drawing him in for another kiss, as every fiber of her being begged her to. “Because I will not walk half-dressed through a castle full of far too awake wedding guests, my family and yours not least among them.”

Chapter Text

A satisfied smile split his face as the Pride of Driftmark readied to cast off, waiting only for its captain, the admiral of the assembled fleet, to board it and give the order. The admiral in question was still saying his farewells to his brother, ribbing him with a good-natured smile and a low voice so the new Lady of Driftmark, her arms wrapped around his own teary-eyed wife, would not hear him.

His smile spread. Finally, things were moving along. The fleet was about to depart, along with his busybody goodbrother, piles of gold were to be made, he hoped, and information was to be had. At long last, he would know some of how things stood. And, most importantly, he would be free to take to the skies. He could hardly wait. He felt as if he could sprout wings at any moment and fly off, his eagerness difficult to contain.

“So happy to see me go, my lord? A man might feel offended, were he to take it personally.” 

He snapped his head to the side to blink at Aurane Water and threw his head back and laughed at the wounded expression on his face and his hand pressed to his breast. His brother, standing by his side, was shaking his head at his brother's antics. 

“Oh, we both know it is the fleet I am happy to see sail at last. The delays have been… irksome.” 

His admiral lowered his eyes, affecting bashfulness, his hands folded behind him. “Any last instructions you would wish to impart to me before we sail, my lord?”

He rolled his eyes and rattled off. “Do not get yourself killed. Do not lose my ships. Do not stray from the agreed-upon course. Make me piles of gold. Get home with it.” The brothers seemed to be waiting for him to add something more, so he did, with no small deal of reluctance. “Oh, and do not kill my goodbrother. If you can.”

Aurane chortled to himself. “I will see if I can manage that, my lord. Some kin continues to be…trying, I take it?”

He gave him a toothy grin. “Not for long.”

Monford Velaryon’s silken voice joined in smoothly. “Vicinity of some kin can be a burden. On the other hand, distance can be a burden too. Take my brother. Take your aunt. Would you not wish to know she is well?”

His head was nodding before the true meaning of the words truly registered, and his grin died as the breath in his chest stilled. “Your meaning escapes me. I have no aunt.”

Velaryon’s brows rose in affected surprise, slightly mocking. “ Oh? Not even Princess Lyanna? ”

“ Lady. One does not marry into royalty. ” The snapped out correction was instinctual, and he could have kicked himself for it the moment it was out of his mouth. He struggled to keep his breathing even as darkness started to creep in around the edges of his vision. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “ And she is long dead besides. ”

A smug smile tugged at Velaryon’s lips, and he wished to wipe it away. Preferably, with a fist. They clenched behind his back. They were afforded a semblance of privacy for now. That would change swiftly were he to jump on his host, his most powerful lord, and pummel him into the ground. “ And not the… aunt I meant either. ”

Panic clawed at his throat and darkness inched ever closer, and he fought to regain his composure, to regain control of the situation. He almost snorted. He had not had control of the situation. They knew, and they had had planned to entrap him, and they did. And he had walked right into the trap laid out for him, and offered no resistance.

His panic receded a touch as dark amusement took root. Fucking hells. How long had they known? 

No matter. He had to take control, and so he relaxed his hand and let it fall to Ghost’s head, stroking slowly. Then, after the swirling emotions and thoughts calmed and slowed and his heart no longer tried to beat out of his chest, he affected indifference, shrugging nonchalantly. “ So. You know. What is it that you intend to do with the knowledge? ”

Amusement on the lord’s face was plain. “ Is it not apparent? I intend to fully support my liege. Driftmark has always stood with Dragonstone. ”

“ And yet, one would think having Dragonstone to be more profitable by far. ”

Velaryon threw his head back and laughed. “ A fool I might be, my liege, but I am not fool enough to risk dragonflame. ”

Dragonflame. The word rattled his recently acquired calm and shook his world. Fuck.

His hand buried itself in Ghost’s fur rather desperately. How did they know? How could they know about Morning too?

Darkness was no longer threatening his vision, but tears were. He turned to stare out at the sea, took a deep breath and shut his eyes.

Gods, what a mess.

“ Do you wish for news of your kin, my liege? Or their presence? ” The evenness of Velaryon’s voice grated.

He took another deep breath and opened his eyes to glare at the ships in the distance. “ I wish for my fleet’s safe return. I wish for it to follow the course we set out. ” His instructions to Loras had been so oblique, not daring to risk discovery, but these two knew anyway, so perhaps he could afford to be a little daring. “ I wish to hear news of distant lands. And perhaps… My wife would enjoy having a maid from them as well. As long as it causes no disturbance to the fleet or its course, naturally. ” 

“ Naturally. ” The voice of Aurane Waters was not quite as even as his brother's, pride leaking through, and he was sure that should he chance a look at him, his chest would be puffed out. 

He fiercely reminded himself that he most certainly did not wish for any of the ships in his fleet to sink, much less the flag ship. “Fair winds and following seas.” He said instead, his stomach churning.

They knew. The Velaryons knew. And Rowan knew as well, it was plain now that Lord Stark had been right and he had been a blind fool. 

His wife came into his arms, silent tears rolling down her face, and he stood there, watching the silver-hulled Pride of Driftmark cast off, numb and confused. I thought you wanted him gone, he wanted to say. You told me you wanted him gone.

But she kept her words to herself and so did he, only holding her tighter as his own throat tightened. He had been a fool. He had thought to keep Morning a secret for as long as possible, had been quite happy with how well he had done so far, and she was known to the fucking Velaryons already.

A scream fought to claw its way up his throat. 

He turned to his most bothersome vassal and his young wife instead. “We have intruded on your hospitality long enough, my Lord Velaryon. We will depart in the morn.”

Their leave-taking was a blur. The concerned face of his father as he bid him farewell, fuzzy around the edges, his voice a distant low grumble, and his sisters’ subdued compliance a relief rather than a source of unease.

He longed for Dragonstone like a drowning man longs for a breath of air, and his chest felt tight, unable to expand and take it in until his feet met the island’s ground once more. Even then there was tightness, though lessened. Even then, everything was a blur as an instinct to run away, to run and steam and rage and cry warred with the need to stay.

And he did. He chose to stay and as they laid in their bed, Margaery’s fingers stroked his head resting on her stomach, his ear pressed to it, listening to the pitter-patter heartbeat of their babe.

“Do you wish to tell me what it is that troubles you now?”

I have killed you, he almost blurted out to her, but he swallowed the lump in his throat and closed his eyes, stubbornly refusing to surrender to tears.

There was only one dragon, only one dragonrider. Even should his aunt come, should one of Morning’s eggs hatch for her, it would still be years before the dragon was grown enough to fight. He would never manage to keep her, them, safe should he need to fight, and Dragonstone had long proven itself unsafe to its masters when left without proper supervision.

It had been a challenge to keep the contents of his stomach to himself when they had passed the outer courtyard. He had passed it countless times, never giving it a second thought. Now, all he could think of when walking through it was betrayal and Aegon the Younger watching his mother be devoured by a beast in the place they should have been safe, their home.

“I do not wish to talk.” He told his wife. “But I would like to listen.”

She hummed thoughtfully. “What is it you would wish to listen to?”

He caressed her round belly. “You.”

Her laugh was light and airy, and her fingers did not stop their soothing movement for even a moment. “Very well, shall I tell you about how I ruled my cousins with an iron fist?”

He barked out a laugh at her words. “You could not rule anyone with an iron fist, that is not in you. You have a gentle hand. In ruling. In everything.”

Margaery giggled. “Do not let the silks covering it fool you, husband. I am a true despot.”

He bit down on another laugh. “Do tell me more about it, my lady. How does ruling your lord husband go?”

Giggles took her once more, and she tugged on his hair lightly. “I must admit, it does not go as I imagined it would. My lord husband is a bit of a… riddle. I have not yet quite puzzled him out.” She sniffed. “And I would let you know I am rather skilled at puzzling out all manner of things.”

A smile tugged on his lips as he started to draw patterns on her skin. “All manner of things. Like what?”

“Well…” She hesitated, and her fingers paused their stroking for a moment. “I found the way for Arya and Sansa not to fight.”

He could not keep the scoff out of his voice. “Oh? That must be a very recent discovery.”

Her sigh was very heavy. “It is. I puzzled it out only today. They… love you. They do not fight when they share a concern for someone they care about as deeply as they do you.” 

He closed his stinging eyes, ignoring the scratching in his throat and the drop of sweat traveling down the side of his face.

“And I… I care for you too. Deeply. It… hurts to see you… unwell and be unable to help.”

He raised a useless protest. “I am not unwell.”

Margaery snorted. “To imagine, my family thought to make me a queen three times over, and yet I am unable to rule the plain Lord of Dragonstone, unable to convince him to speak the truth to his humble and caring and concerned wife.”

He frowned at her belly, drawing a sigil over it with great attention. “Three times over? What do you mean three times over?”

His wife used fingers of her free hand to flick his ear and heaved another heavy sigh. “Truly, that is what grabs your attention? Not my concern for you?”

“Yes. Your concern is misplaced. Did they try for Robert before?” How young would she have even been? Had they no shame?

“Not Robert. When I was born… It had been my family’s greatest hope that I would be born a girl, close in age to Prince Aegon as I was, I would have been the ideal queen for him, it was believed. Alas, even though I was but a babe when those dreams were bashed against a wall, it was hardly a barrier for my family to lament a lost opportunity.”

It took everything in him not to flinch. She had been intended to be Aegon’s queen. His wife. His brother’s. He shut his eyes tightly.

“Then there was Joffrey. There were no betrothals made for him for the longest time, and it seemed that he would be left to make his own choice. So I was taught how to arouse and keep his interest, the little spoiled monster that he is. I wished to be the queen, and though I did not wish to be his queen, I was content enough with my fate. When Lord Renly… In a way, it was a disappointment to know all that preparation was all to go to waste, I suppose.”

“Go to waste? What of Robert Baratheon? What of me?”

Her fingers tightened their grip on his hair painfully. “Robert Baratheon might be a grown man, but spoiled rotten, far worse than even the children he believes his, given over to drink and whores and spectacle. No woman could ever hope to capture the attention of such a man long enough to secure a marriage, should she even wish to. And I most certainly did not wish to.” She untangled her fingers from his hair and pushed him off her belly. “And, please, let us not pretend much skill was needed in seducing you. ”

He stared up at the canopy, silent, unblinking, wondering just how much of a fool he had been. Back then and even a day ago. Even now.

She had been everything Jon Snow could have hoped for in a wife. More. Much more. He had been drowning, and he had grasped on to her attention, on to her offer, to distract him, to save him from losing himself entirely. She had been a distraction. She had not been the only one.

He had filled his time since becoming the Lord of Dragonstone, since learning of his mother and… his father, with distractions. One after another, more and more of them to fill his time, to fill his waking hours, as they stretched and stretched. Distractions, all to ensure there was not a moment to spare for thought, to ensure he would fall into his bed exhausted, to ensure no more dreams would come.

He had driven himself rugged running away from the truth. He had hid from it and still, it had found him. Worse, it had found its way to others.

“Who knows, you may yet become a queen.” The words almost choked him.

His wife laughed at him. “I am rather content being wed to you. I would prefer to keep you, if it is all the same to you.”

A laugh escaped him. “Oh, I would not mind that at all.” He sighed. “But there is a war coming. Anything can happen.”

Margaery hummed in agreement. “I suppose so. The Lannisters will not let go of the throne without a fight and with Robert without an heir and Renly…” She sighed. “There seem to be no good options.”

His brows twitched in confusion, and not just because she spoke of a different war than he did. “Would Renly not be Robert’s heir?”

She coughed delicately and his stomach dropped. “Well… he would be, but that would be a… rather short-lived dynasty.”

Fucking hells. No. Not again.

“Do you believe in prophecies?”

Amused bewilderment suffused his wife’s voice. “No? Not truly? Why?”

“Good. Never do. They are fucking useless. You can only ever trust that they will fuck you over.”

He got off the bed, and he took out his Valyrian steel dagger, the Conqueror’s dagger, and put it into the burning hearth, ignoring his wife rising after him in alarm. “Jon, what in the Gods’ name-”

“Wait.”

“Wait for what? ”

He gave her an annoyed glare as he lowered himself to his knees. “You will see soon enough.”

She sighed and lowered herself to her knees as well, frowning into the fire. “There are times when I wonder whether this keep chips away at one’s sanity.”

A hollow laugh escaped him. “You are hardly the first one to do so. Look. Do you see?”

She tilted her head, squinting. “No. What am I meant to see, other than you loosing your wits?”

He let out a growl and grabbed tongs to remove the dagger from the flames and pay it on the stone ground. “Do you see now?”

Her voice was hushed. “What is that?” 

He snorted. “A prophecy. A prophecy that brought about the Conquest, the death of dragons and the fall of House Targaryen.”

Her eyes were huge as she stared at him, and her voice held a reverent note to it. “What does it say?”

He rolled his eyes and told her. “From my blood comes the prince that was promised, and his will be the song of ice and fire.”

A frown marred her face. “But… How does that… That says nothing about any of that!”

“Exactly. Never forget this. Prophecy, at its core, exists only to fuck over anyone that believes in it.”

His wife looked adorably and entirely lost. “I still do not understand what you are trying to say.”

He sighed and looked down at the dagger and its burning sigils. “Targaryens brought about the destruction of their House in their need to ensure there would be this prince that was promised. A prince to fight the Doom of Man.” He laughed a little helpless laugh. “Tell me… How is a single man to defeat the Doom of Man? How is anyone? Dragons could have defeated it, but most of those died in a fucking chase of a prophecy too.”

Margaery stared at him and stared at him until she shook her head dazedly. “I still do not understand.”

He rose from his knees with a tired sigh and helped her up as well. “That is the problem. Neither do I.”

Chapter Text

Margaery rubbed her massive belly irritatedly, giving it a glare. The restlessness was back. She had not given it too much thought in the night, when her own uneasy thoughts had kept her tossing and turning and unable to sleep a wink until the night started to lighten. Not when she succumbed to the sweet embrace of sleep at last on the brink of tears.

She had been on the brink of an undignified scream instead when she had woken to find her reticent husband gone. How could he do that? How could he drown her in so much confusion and then go to sleep when her own mind would not stop spinning? How could he then be just gone in the morn, no answers to be had?

Forget dignity. She grabbed a pillow and screamed into it. So what if it was slightly wet when she hugged it to her chest for comfort in the absence of her heartless husband? So what if she held it to herself to shield her from danger as she cautiously lowered herself to her knees by the bed? There had been a spider, he had said, a big one, and though she found herself doubting everything now, one could never be too cautious when it came to spiders.

She had done her best and been a good wife. A good wife did not pry into her husband’s business uninvited. A good wife did not question her husband’s eccentricities. A good wife put her faith into her husband without faltering, without doubt, dismissing any misgivings. A good wife should not have any misgivings.

But the babe’s restlessness was back. It had gone away while on Driftmark, yet it had returned with a vengeance once back on Dragonstone. As had the relentless craving for a hot bath to ease it and melt away all worries, all the tension. Oh Gods, how she craved it.

Oh Gods, how she feared it now.

There was something wrong. Something very, very wrong. With her husband, for certain. But more frighteningly, with her and her babe too, and it must be something on Dragonstone.

Margaery took a deep breath. It did not matter whether she was a good wife or not. There was a babe in her belly and that was her first responsibility.

She braced herself and looked under the bed.

And blinked at the empty space, entirely ordinary.

There was nothing. Nothing. Not even a ruddy spider. Not even a speck of dust, now that her fool of a husband had given instructions about careful sweeping of every nook and cranny of their chambers for her sake.

She should be grateful. She should be graceful. Margaery laboriously rose to her feet and threw her pillow-shield to the ground to stomp on it viciously instead, stomped on the temptation of a long calming soak.

A growl escaped her, and she left their chambers behind in favor of the library.

“Is there something I can assist you with, my lady?”

She gave Maester Pylos a strained smile. “I do not know. I am looking for something to read, to help pass the time. I thought…” She bit her lip and regarded the young maester thoughtfully. “I heard tell of a song of ice and fire. It… sounded like an intriguing tale, but I must admit I have no idea where to look.”

The maester frowned at her. “A song of ice and fire, you say, my lady? Are you certain? I… I only ever heard of the Pact of Ice and Fire, I must admit.”

Margaery let out a light laugh, unease clawing at her throat. “Oh? I have never heard of such.”

Pylos laughed himself. “'Tis hardly something oft heard outside the Citadel, and even there it is discussed but rarely.” His teeth flashed in a smile. “Though the discourse can get quite heated when it is.”

Margaery’s brows rose in polite interest. “Oh?”

The maester’s smile widened. “Oh, yes. While the Pact never amounted to much, Prince Jacaerys having died without issue, the historians like to argue whether it can be considered fulfilled or not.”

Her brows rose higher. She knew what the Pact referred to now, but… “I was unaware there was anything to argue about.”

He shrugged. “Some contemporary texts suggest the prince wed a Stark bastard, while others condemn the very idea most vehemently. Since the Pact spoke of a Targaryen prince, an heir to the throne, taking a daughter of House Stark to wife, such a marriage would mean the Stark reward for the support of the Blacks to have already been disbursed. If the marriage is a matter of fiction, it would not have been, and House Targaryen was in breach of the accord. Yet others argue that such a discussion is entirely without merit since Rhaenyra Targaryen was merely a pretender and as such the Iron Throne was not bound by her or her heir’s promises at all.”

Her brow furrowed in thought as her fingers danced across spines of books stacked in their shelves. A pact was no song. And yet…

You may yet become a queen, her husband had said, and she had laughed at him, believing his queer doomsaying mood to be at fault. Her husband was prone to queer moods, and she had grown well-used to them, she had thought.

She was being foolish. More importantly, she was wrong. She could not be right. She had proven herself a good wife, had she not? He would have told her something like this, something this important, would he not? Surely, she had proven herself worthy of his trust.

She was being silly. A silly little girl given over to fancies. Feather-headed. The babe had made her over-suspicious and feather-headed at the same time. That was a treacherous combination, and she needed to be wary lest she succumb to utter foolishness.

She turned back to Pylos, patiently waiting for a dismissal, with a disarming smile. “I hope you can forgive me, maester, but I find myself entirely scatter-minded of late. I came here to look for a text on Valyrian steel. The Conqueror’s blades, to be exact, and my mind slipped to a song instead.” Her laugh was airy and self-deprecating.

The young maester’s expression softened. “That is only to be expected, my lady, as your body prepares for a most grueling battle. What sparked your interest in Blackfyre, if I may be so bold as to inquire?”

“Blackfyre? Was that the only Valyrian steel blade he had? I thought… I thought, with Dragonstone so closely connected to his line and the heritage of Valyria, there would be others. Likely left here, on the island, by him? Did… Did Lord Stannis not have a… a dagger… formerly owned by him?”

The young maester frowned in thought and cocked his head to the side as he regarded her. “No? I do not believe Lord Stannis ever owned a… blade of the Conqueror’s. Valyrian steel or otherwise. Though… I suppose Maester Cressen would have better knowledge on this. Perhaps you should ask him.”

Margaery laughed once more and waved a hand in dismissal, her heart in her throat. “Oh, there is no need for that. I must have merely misunderstood. Tangled things together.” 

Misunderstood. Aye, she must have misunderstood quite a lot.

The maester’s nod was hesitant, his eyes shining with concern. “Are you well, my lady? Perhaps I should prepare a draught for you? You seem rather… pale.”

She shook her head with a smile. “There is no need. No need at all. I merely… I skipped my bath today, and I truly should not have, I think.”

Tension in the maester’s shoulders eased, and he gave her a smile. “I see. How about I escort you back to your chambers so you can remedy that?”

Margaery was beyond grateful. She did not think she would make it there on her own. She might do something rash instead.

There was plenty of space for rashness in their chambers too, but it would be a private rashness and therefore excusable. There was no one to see her tearing through her husband’s belongings like a madwoman. There was no one to witness her kicking a chest in frustration and then bending over at the shooting pain. There was no one to see her draped over that same chest, berating herself for her lapse in judgement and picking at a badly made bottom.

A false bottom, as she came to learn.

She felt a right fool staring at a Valyrian steel sword. She had asked after a dagger when there was a sword right here.

Margaery closed her eyes and prayed with all her heart for it not to be there when she opened her eyes again. Only it was.

A muted shriek escaped her as she pushed herself away to lay on the unforgiving, cold stone floor and stare at the ceiling, wishing this was all but a dream. This could not be happening. This could not be true.

You may yet become a queen.

There is a war coming.

Silent tears traced their way down her temples to disappear into her hair. It could not be true.

She brought her long-discarded and very useless pillow-shield to her chest and squeezed it before her head turned, and she regarded the bed with a frown. 

The sword that she had had no inkling about had been hidden in the chest. What was hidden under the bed? What could possibly need to be hidden better than a Valyrian steel blade had been?

It required some doing to fit herself properly in the sparse space under the bed, and she twisted and wriggled and cursed. She banged her head and scraped her elbows and her fingers explored every stone and every crevice, until they found purchase, and she almost crowed in victory as she pried her loot out of its hiding place, wriggling back.

The satchel thudded on the ground next to her as she huffed and puffed, resting against the cursed bed.

There. She had all his secrets now. There was no more to hide, and perhaps now he would deem to speak to her plainly. 

Her fingers were exceedingly hesitant when she reached out to nudge the satchel open.

A stone, she told herself.

An egg, her mind countered. 

An egg, she had to agree reluctantly as her fingers traced the scarlet scales of its surface. A dragon egg.

Margaery closed her eyes against the pain as her chin wobbled. 

She had thought herself forgiven. She had thought herself trusted. The egg gave lie to those beliefs. She hugged the egg to her breast, pressed her face against it and cried.

Her tears had long since dried, and she was utterly drained by the time her husband returned to their chambers, freezing in the door.

“What in Gods’ name…?”

Emotion fluttered somewhere deep within her, but her eyes were tired, and her head ached and her heart hurt, so she remained silent.

He came to kneel by her side, countless emotions and questions flickering in his dark, dark eyes. “Margaery, what-”

She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. “Who are you? Truly.” Her voice was disappointingly so very, very quiet.

His eyes were very serious as they stared into her own. “I am me. The man you wed. The man you share your bed with every night. The father of your child. This does not… This doesn’t change anything.”

The flutter grew stronger, and her voice with it. “Who are you?”

There was uncertainty in his gaze, and a scream fought to break free of her throat as he spoke in a whisper. “I don’t know.” 

Her disbelieving laugh came out a sob. “What is… what is your name? Your true name?” Could one even be wed in truth when one did not know the name of their spouse? She had thought there were no more tears left in her, but she had been wrong about that too.

The silence seemed endless.

“Daemon.” He sounded defeated, and she barely held in a mad giggle. Of course. What better name for a- “Daemon Targaryen.”

Her breath froze in her lungs and her brows furrowed in puzzlement. “What do you  mean Targaryen? How?”

A bark of a laugh that cut like shards of glass escaped him, and he shrugged. He shrugged. “I have no idea. I only know that to be the name I was given when I was born.”

Her fingers traced the scales of the egg absently. “So… that is how you came to have the sword? And the egg? Why did they not go to… to Prince Aegon? To… your… brother?” Older brother. The heir. The dead heir now.

His eyes darted to the egg and her fingers curled into claws in anticipation of a lie as his face twisted in a grimace. “I do not know how, and I do not know why. I only know what is, not what was.” He hesitated, and his fingers reached out to caress the egg in a jerky motion. “But the egg is not mine. It was never mine or Aegon’s. It belongs to our babe. No one else. I found it and… I knew.”

Our babe. Her babe. The babe that had been torturing her with its restlessness since its quickening. The babe that had calmed once she had brought the egg to her breast.

Their babe that she carried and loved. Their babe, the manifestation of their freedom, of their love, she had thought, untouched by all that had come between them since.

A wounded wail left her. “Why don’t you love me?”

His expression crumbled, and his voice hitched and broke, too, but his eyes shone with determination even as his hands fluttered indecisively toward her and back. “I do. I do love you.”

She was so, so tired. “No, you don’t. You do not love me. You cannot. Not, if you do not trust me.”

His gaze fell to his lap. “I… Margaery-”

“Who else knows?”

“My fa- Lord Stark. And… Velaryon. Rowan. They knew, though I did not tell them. I did not tell anyone. I told no one but you.”

She looked at him, utterly baffled. “You did not tell me either.”

His eyes were earnest as they stared into hers. “I meant to. I was going to tell you… Eventually.”

“ When? ”

He chewed on his lip with a fierce frown. “After the babe… It truly depended… I mean, if the babe looked Valyrian, I would not have any other choice, would I? Or once the egg hatched, it would be quite difficult to explain without telling you, would it not?”

Margaery could hardly believe her own ears, and her fingers came to grip the egg like a vise, barely restraining herself from using it to bludgeon him. She let out a deliberately slow breath and eased her fingers. “You mean… You intended to tell me only if the babe came out looking suspiciously not like either of their parents? Or if the egg hatched?!” 

“ Once the egg hatched.” He corrected her without a pause or a thought, and she wanted to strangle him. 

Her voice was frigid. “No egg has hatched in well over a century. If it hatches now, it will be nothing short of a miracle.” Which meant he had had no intention of telling her at all!

“This one will hatch. I am certain of it.” 

Apprehension swelled in her as she regarded him and the absolute conviction shining in his eyes. More secrets. There were more secrets still. “How can you be?”

He took a deep breath, his dark eyes determined. “You will see. I will show you, I swear I will. After the babe comes.”

“No, now. ”

His reply was even and frustratingly short. “No.”

Anger and curiosity warred in her, her frustration nigh unbearable. “I could… I could leave you, if you do not tell me.”

A corner of his lips ticked up and his eyes softened. “You could, I suppose. Were you not quite so far along and travel of any length so ill-advised. But then you would not know. Ever.”

She was incensed. “We just returned from Driftmark.”

“Yes, and were you to leave me for Driftmark, remember that Lord Velaryon knows. And since we both know Maester Cressen did not wish you to travel that far either, I would hope you would not risk harm to yourself or the babe in your… agitation by going further.”

Her mother was on Driftmark. She had wished to come along, but with their departure so swift, she was to make the journey alone later. Margaery wanted her there with her desperately, and she wanted her now. Not her father. Her father would never understand her plight. He would be overjoyed to know.

And she was… Margaery was not… disappointed to know, only crushed she had had to learn of it on her own. 

You may yet become a queen, flashed across her mind once more, the meaning of the words changed entirely as she caressed her babe’s egg thoughtfully. The dragon egg belonged to her child, not her husband.

“Did you… Did your egg hatch? Is that… Is that how you know?”

His lips twitched and amusement shone brightly in his eyes and though he shook his head, she knew, she knew she was right. “No, I never had an egg.”

“Not an egg…” She hummed to herself, considering him carefully. “How about a dragon, then?”

There was a pleased smile on his face, and there was something warm in his eyes she refused to name as his fingers rose to caress her cheek, wonder in his voice. “My, what a clever wife I have.” 

Despite everything, her skin heated under the praise. “Since I know… You might as well just show me.”

He laughed. Laughed! “No. I will truly not show you before the babe comes. There might be dangers I am unaware of, and I will not put either of you at risk.”

She sighed, not quite willing to accept defeat, not quite willing to forgive, but entirely lost as to what to do.

“Margaery…” She looked into his fathomless eyes as his tone turned grave. “I… I truly do love you. I just… There was no need to tell you. It did not… It does not change anything. About me. Or you. Us. It would only be a burden for you to bear. It is… It is quite enough that I have to bear it.”

She closed her eyes and prayed for patience. Her husband truly was a fool, and she was so very tired. “I love you too. With all my heart. But you are fooling only yourself when you say that.”

Others knew already. How many others knew was impossible to say, but a secret kept by so many was no secret at all.

You may yet become a queen. Indeed, she might. Indeed, she might have to. Before long, it was likely to become the only venue left to them to keep their babe truly safe. And her husband was lying to himself if he did not recognize that.

Chapter Text

The statues of the Fourteen stared down at him, silent, enigmatic and as unhelpful as ever, their disapproval almost a tangible thing as he hid away in the shrine. He had prayed for answers, for clarity, for time, and received little of each. Yet here he was, back again, to uselessly beg some more.

There were no answers to be had for him, it would seem, though Margaery got hers instead. There was no clarity either. He desired nothing more than to be Jon. Just Jon, nothing more. Jon Stark, the childhood dream had once been, but now he would settle for just knowing and knowing for certain.  

He needed to be Jon Stark, but before long he would need to be Daemon Targaryen, there was no other way, and it was maddening, and so very frightening. 

There had been times in King’s Landing when Lord Stark would sit the Iron Throne, and he would approach it to speak to him, and he would see it, the countless blackened blades shining with the blood fed to them. His stomach turned each time, and the memory haunted his dreams, but it had served as a stark reminder. The path to the throne was bloody, and without fail it led through the House that held it. He had no wish for the blood of his children to feed the throne as well. It was easier to be a lord. Safer. Much, much safer.

But, whatever his prayers, whatever his desires, there seemed to be little time left, with so many already aware of the truth and, worse, acting on it.

And Margaery had taken to bed with headaches. The maester blamed the journey. He blamed himself and his inability to keep secrets. Lord Stark had managed for well over a decade. He had not held out for even a year.

Time. He needed time most of all, for her and for the babe. He needed it for them all.

The shrine proved of little comfort, and it was a poor place to hide anyway. And he was hiding, hiding from his goodmother, and her too sharp gaze, full of disapproval. For all that he was grateful for her presence, grateful for the comfort she was able to provide Margaery, he could not stand to be in her presence for long. Not coupled with Margaery, and the guilt gnawing at him. He retreated time and time again.

He had ridden all over the island over the last few days, had been everywhere and inspected everything that could possibly be in need of an inspection, had likely spoken with every last fisherman and fishwife. When there were no more tasks to keep away with, he had taken to hatcheries, searching for eggs never discovered, exploring the tunnels and crawling through vents, inevitably returning to Morning and spending time with her, soothing her annoyance.

Her irritation with him, he felt equipped to handle. With Loras gone at last, he had planned to put a saddle on her and fly, and she knew it, but he had not yet done so. He could not, for while Ghost kept Margaery company for him during the days, sprawled out in their bed, enjoying her gentle attentions, his master needed to be with her as well. It was all good and well to know she was safe and sound, but he needed to see for himself too, though there was seemingly little place left for him in his own bed with Ghost making himself at home and unwilling to move.

His wife was invariably drowsy by the time he joined her in their chambers, wrapped around Ghost, her face buried in his coat, the maesters’ draughts only adding to the tiredness. He was unwilling to make Ghost move and rob her of the comfort, and so he laid down precariously on his side of the bed. He stroked her hair, reaching across his traitorous companion, and quietly asked after her day, and telling her of his own in turn.