Ad Meliora - GrandBother - A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter 1: JON I

Chapter Text

Jon woke up as a baby, and he was not pleased. He remembered dying, he remembered many things, most of which he really didn’t care to keep alive in his mind (yet they were anyway). He woke and realized, in annoyance and distress, that he had regressed to the past. To his past, in particular. If his past was spiced with the occasional surprises the likes of twin baby sister and pretended ‘uncle’ in the name of Arthur Dayne.

His mother was still dead, there was no helping that. He was an infant, and she had succumbed to death even the first time when she only had to deliver one babe, it was no astonishment that she would leave this world when she had been forced to squeeze out two squealing babes from the tiny body of a stress-ridden sixteen-year-old.

His father was also still dead, there was no changing that, either. He had still fallen short of the unnecessary brutish strength of a spurned lover in the name of Robert Baratheon. He had always seemed to underestimate the determination of the lesser man. Baratheon failed to marry his love, or even charm her, so of course he would not allow a man alleged of either seducing her or raping her to stay in this world to rub it in his face about it.

Granted, there were some differences.

He had a younger sister now, who shared his eyes but little else. Her hair was curly, silver, and glorious (whichhe could attest to in the future). Her features were fine and delicate and all Valyrian, whereas his was a sculpture of the First Men. He figured they might also share a bit of the nose, and the shape of the eyebrows (or so Uncle Art said), but those were it.

Arthur Dayne lived, because he was too preoccupied with keeping Lyanna alive long enough to finish birthing the second heir to the Iron Throne that he could (regretfully) not engage in that disastrous battle with Eddard Stark and his bannermen. His being alive and holding both twins while Lyanna spent her last breaths asking for everyone to stop trying to maim each other had forced his uncle’s hand (the real one, the one who had conveniently lied to him most of his last life about his unfortunate parentage). No more blood was spilled in the Tower of Joy that day. Everyone present promised Lyanna to keep her children safe, to hide them from Robert’s eyes, and to steer clear from any dumb names the likes of Visenya and Aegon (She was fed up with his father’s obsession with prophecies, and half of the Targaryens in history had already dipped their toes into that overused basin of Visenyas and Aegons. No need to add her dear children into those lot.)

When she stopped talking, and stopped moving, tears and blood seeped down from her eyes to wet the faces of her two babes swaddling either side of her, his baby sister cried and Jon could not withhold his own hiccups. He told himself that it was the normal physiological reactions of babies that made him brawl, refusing to admit that the grown man inside him was weeping for the warmth of a mother, for the maternal love that he never got to enjoy for more than a few minutes of his life.

Arthur and Ned fought for hours after that.

First, it was the names. Eddard spat at the 'Aemon' and the 'Rhaella' that Arthur initially chose. Arthur laughed at 'Jaehaerys' and 'Alysanne' - "Because that would not put undue pressure on the children?". Eddard was adamant that they still needed First Men's names to be safe, and Arthur argued that First Men's names were okay but if he thought of simple sh*ts like Robb ("after your Usurper friend") or Lyarra ("after your mother who died young and bloodied"), they would have problems. In the end, they settled for two names of each child. Jon would be Jon and also Valerion ("After a child who died at one? How is it any better?!" Ned had hissed. Arthur was insouciant: "No legacy to live up to, then. And I like the sound of that name." - "... Long and pretentious, you mean." - "...Sword out, Stark, I will not stand for that." - "Oh, enough, you two. Please, both Jon and Valerion are fine."). His sister would be called Adara (after a childhood tale told to children of the North), and also Daenys (for whenever they retook the Iron Throne - and that, too, sparked an argument that nearly came to blows).

Then, it was the fate of the twins. Arthur was ready to stab Ned in the eyeballs for suggesting that he would take them in as his 'bastards' ("The Heirs to the Iron Throne, growing up in the shadow of ridicule and abused by your fishwife? Over my dead body, Stark!"). Ned balked at Arthur's proposal of whisking the children across the Narrow Sea and raising sellsword armies in their names ("My blood, begging on the streets and hiding from assassins? Have you lost your wit, ser?"). In the end, they each conceded a step. Jon was to live temporarily as Ned Stark's bastard, but Arthur would be with him every step of the way, to instill the misconception that Jon was a child of Ashara Dayne (who had died a few months back, allegedly in childbed, and the child was stillborn anyway) and to force Catelyn Tully to think twice before abusing the boy. Adara was to be Arthur's bastard child, the reason for his betrayal of his vows and his brothers.

After, it was of course the particularities of how to enforce all of those.

"Robert will not believe you, Ser. We were all there, we all saw the looks in your eyes when you watched the Dragon Prince. He will not trust that you defect."

Arthur had not said much, just walked down to the entrance of the tower, before trudging back up with the severed heads of Ser Oswell and Ser Gerold, blood seeping through his fingers and eyes deadened with grim determination.

"I will deliver him these. Will these be enough?"

Ned was quiet for a long while, before musing with a troubled voice:

"... Too many coincidences. My sudden bastard. Your sudden bastard. Even Robert would suspect foul play..."

"And yet he loves you enough to become muddled. Either trust that, and bring it about, or I will bring them to the Free Cities so that they could grow up without the monikers of bastards."

"If both are to be my children, twins..."

"And how do you explain away the silver hair? House Dayne had produced many children with blond and silver hair during our times. We had also housed many a Dragonseeds during the Blackfyre rebellions. People with Valyrian features are not uncommon in Starfall. It would be much more believable than any of your short flings in Gulltown or the Vale. Besides, I want the children to wed as soon as they come of age. And they cannot do that as siblings, unless you believe them to be able to take back the Iron Throne before then."

That sparked another argument, because Ned Stark frowned at the thought of committing treason and betraying his best friend. ("I will house them and protect them, but to support them in another war that will tear the realm apart?"). Arthur, on the other hand, was a Targaryen loyalist through and through, and was better at politics besides ("To protect them means putting them on the throne when the time comes. Because that is the only way any blood of Rhaegar Targaryen can be safe when living inside the Seven Kingdoms, and even outside of it."). Even Howland Reed, quiet and thoughtful in most of their arguments, supported Arthur in this ("They will not stay children, Ned. They will grow up and they will look like Lya, or the Prince, and by then, sending them away would already be too late. We might not need to decide now, but we have to consider that scenario, and be prepared for it. If not, and you wish for the North to wash our hands clean off any conflict of this kind in the future, I'm sorry but it might be better to let Ser Arthur bring the children across the Narrow Sea.").

Eddard Stark subsided, though he only agreed to consider it, not deciding it right at that moment. He also, reluctantly, agreed for the children to be wed as soon as possible, because letting further Targaryen blood spread to other lines, other families, and other whor*s in the North would spell disasters, to all sides.

Jon nearly fell asleep halfway through their neverending arguments, and he wasn't that certain that he hadn't done so at one point or another (an infant's body was so very sleepy all the time). Still, he would like to believe that he had stayed awake long enough to get all the gist of the conversation.

The trip to King's Landing was less eventful than Jon had dreaded. It seemed Uncle Art was right and Uncle Ned had been able to practice his brooding charm on King Robert, because neither he nor his sister was called to the Throne Room for inspection. Only, Ser Arthur Dayne left the Kingslanding with a thunderous expression and a bleeding scar across his face - 'the Mark of the Traitor', Robert had spat spitefully when Ser Barristan held Arthur down and Gregor Clegane gave him that scar in front of all the court. The Kingslayer refused to participate, and even uttered an advice or two against the unnecessary brutality toward a man already kneeled. Eddard told Arthur that on the way to Winterfell, with a mildly hopeful note in his voice, as if such a thing would somehow cheer up the gloomy Kingsguard (no, no longer a Kingsguard, just an Oathbreaker and a deserter) struggled to bandage himself up, with the assistance of Howland Reed. The knight had only given a disgusted smirk, before apologizing (not very regretfully) to the Lord of Winterfell, for forcing him to pretend forgiveness after that spat a few months back during the Sack of King's Landing. "I'm sure you would have loved to sulk a bit more years, and the Sevens know the Usurper deserves it. Rapists and babeslayers, the lot of them." Eddard shushed him with a disgruntled look and the rest of their ride was mostly silent.

Catelyn Stark's welcome of them was as frosty as Jon had imagined in the first life. Eddard could no longer argue to put Jon's crib in the same nursery as Robb's, because he had already exhausted Catelyn's patience when fighting for Arthur and his bastard daughter to be settled inside the castle, in rooms just beside Jon's nursery. The entire castle rumbled under the silent battle between the Lord and Lady in the ensuing days. Jon was aware enough most times (when he was not sleeping) to catch the servants whispering through their hands as they cater to him. Ser Arthur then abandoned even the decency to pretend propriety. He brought Adara's crib into Jon's room, staying with Wylla the nursemaid most of the day to care for the tiny twins. Jon was impressed with his audacity, though people who didn't know would only think of him as an overprotective father and uncle, the people who did know would most certainly have to commend his attentiveness as a Kingsguard toward his charges.

Under usual circ*mstances, Lady Catelyn would have blown her lid off at the impropriety of a Lord's bastard sharing a room with a Knight's bastard (an Oathbreaker, even). But this was not a usual circ*mstance. Arthur's actions would just give her ground to give into her belief in the indecency of Dornish men and women, and to glare at all three of them as if they were something dirty and contagious.

Despite all that, or mayhaps because of that, Jon's childhood this time was essentially enjoyable and peaceful.

He still grew up together with Robb, though since they were no longer cradlemates, they were not as inseparable as in his old life. There was also the addition of Adara into their duo, even though she was more or less a silent shadow following in Jon's footsteps instead of any actual playmate. She greatly resembled the Adara in the tale of Old Nan, the beautiful Winter Child with silver blond hair, a heart of ice, and the skin of snow. Old Nan used to muse about that, as well, though she did conclude with a toothless smile that his Adara was still more beautiful than the one in the tale. Her hair was lighter in color than the golden strands of the Tale Adara, more silver than gold. Her eyes were grey, unlike the shattering blue of Tale Adara. And though she was quiet and mostly cold, winter didn't dig deep enough into her core, and Jon's sister still showed emotions, though of a milder variety, and only in front of him and Uncle Art ("Pa", she called him, often in such a dispassionate voice that belied her sweet face, making the knight choke and sported the most complicated of expression on his face.).

Sometimes, Jon wondered if she was like him, a child reborn, but there had never been a right time to confront her about it, and Jon figured nothing would have changed for him either way. It wasn't as if he would be less fond of her, more fearful of her, or more distant from her if that was actually the case. He wasn't so hypocritical, and he had grown to care for her quite a lot already.

They took the same lessons from Maester Luwin, all three of them, though they bored him senseless. He had been quite studious the first time, so most of the knowledge was still lodged securely inside his brain, making hours of being subjected to such repetition redundant and tiresome. He also had to be mindful not to appear too knowledgeable, accidentally or not. He had never forgotten the look on Lady Catelyn's face when he distractedly answered correctly in detail the History question on the Conciliator's reign, whereas Robb had mistaken one or two of Jaehaerys I's children's names just minutes before that. There was no need to compete for inconsequential lessons that would only draw ire from the Lady of the Castle. He was older than Robb, besides.

Aside from the lessons on the Letters, History, the Sums, and Astrology they learned from Maester Luwin, the twins also had to take lessons in High Valyrian through the books given to them by Ser Arthur. No one had disclosed to them about their actual parentage yet, but Arthur did tell them that their passing mothers would have been so proud of them if they could see them diligently studying their people's history. It was a childish persuasion at best (especially when coupled with his suspicious request for them to keep the lessons a secret), but Jon was not an actual ignorant child, so he only gave Uncle Art a helpless stare, before turning to look at Adara and having one of their silent discussion which ended in them sighing and shrugging and agreeing with the Knight's request. The High Valyrian lessons were so hard, especially when they did not have an actual Maester and had to rely on each other to fix their pronunciations. They tried, anyway.

Ever since they could start walking, Robb and Jon were trained at arms together, though Jon's lessons with Ser Rodrik ended abruptly after barely a year. Before that, Ser Arthur usually just sat quietly by the training yard, staring at Jon's sword lessons without a word. However, that day, they were to have a friendly spar with each other (two toddlers!) and Jon was careful enough to hold back a few times so as to not hurt Robb, or to draw attention to himself. It wasn't that easy, because some reflexes were ingrained in him, and his habitual dreams of the past and of his dragon did not help. He shouldn't have counted on his luck in front of the Greatest Swordman of the Seven Kingdoms.

Uncle Art called for a stop, then pulled Jon over and brought him to Eddard Stark's solar. He asked to give Jon (and Adara, too, Jon was interested to hear) private lessons in the sword and weaponry. Of course, Lord Stark refused ("He is to learn alongside Robb. It would attract less attention to him, and it would foster their bond. They have to be brothers. They are brothers."). (Jon had no idea how he would have missed this in his first life. Eddard Stark was terrible at lying and keeping secrets. He had to say nothing for the thing to stick.) Arthur fired back just as hotly, forgetting that Jon was still in the same room as them ("Jon is a prodigy, he has to hold back three times in just a few minutes since the spar started. I assure you, if they practice together still, he will get noticed much easier and earlier, and at the expense of Robb! Is that what you want? For Jon to come into the spotlight and for your heir to be his stepping stone?"). His uncle had looked pained at that, massaging his tempers and turning away from the two of them. After a quiet "You sure?", to which Arthur replied "Of course.", Ned sighed and gave them his permission.

It was official after that. Robb and everyone else were to use the training yard outside of evening hours, and during those times, Jon would only join for basic training like running or archery. From the evening till late into the night, the yard would be the twins' domain. Even though Dawn was a greatsword, Arthur saw no issues in testing and training both of his disciples in other armaments until they found suitable ones.

True to his experience in the old life, Jon did great with both the length of the bastard sword and the longsword, insofar that at one point, Arthur asked him to start practicing dual wielding. That was a bit of a disaster, because though Jon had dabbled in that a bit before his death the last time, those were adult's muscles and adult's dexterity that enabled him to do so. Now that his arms were twigs and his balance hadn't had years of experience honed into it, it took months for him to even come close to an acceptable level of dual-wielding, and the only things he was wielding were wooden swords.

Adara wasn't as ambitious or adventurous as some women when first introduced to weapons of physical destruction. She picked a spear and stuck to a spear diligently, ignoring all Arthur's efforts to cajole her to try anything else ("You are small, Adara, perhaps a shortsword would be better?". "Do you want to try archery as well, Adara? Like Jon?" "At least try a dagger as well, Adara. You'll need something to hide in your bodice for special occasions. And it's not like you can bring a spear into civilized company."). Of all Arthur's efforts, he had only been successful in persuading Adara to practice with a dagger, and she seemed to grow bored with the weapon before long.

By the time Sansa came about (which was a surprise, since Catelyn's displeasure with Ned had lasted much longer than in his last life, and he had almost thought the couple would settle for only Robb in this lifetime) and was old enough to hold a needle without taking her eye out, Adara was herded into Septa Mordane's lessons on the gentle arts, learning needlework and curtsies and ladies' manners. Unlike Jon's situation with both Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrick, Lady Cately didn't throw a fit this time, but instead, suggested it herself. In fact, Jon suspected her suggestion of Adara's joining the Septa Evil's lessons was what had resulted in the conception of Brandon Stark in this life.

Despite Jon's initial dread (he had prior experiences about the feelings of women-at-arms on needlework and curtsies, after all), Adara was marginally good at it. While she was no Sansa by any means, she had never given Septa Mordane any ground for admonition or punishment. Her noble comportments did not flow as easily as Sansa (who glided delicately around like a butterfly), her needlework ended up much finer than anyone in that room, and she had taken to meticulously sewing Jon beautiful kerchiefs and cloaks and quilts. Jon was pleasantly surprised, and grateful, because no one in his last life had ever bothered making him any such things. Most women in his past had been either women-at-arms who despised the gentle arts, or were too busy with governing to actually pick up a needle.

Nevertheless, Septa Mordane's meanspiritedness still found ways to rear its ugly head, and Jon had once come across two maids giggling into their hands and whispered nastily about how "that bastard girl is only good at artisan's work, not the finer manners of ladies", and "already we can predict what else she can be good at in the future, being an Oathbreaker's bastard as she is". Jon was five and only had a practice sword at that moment, but he was still angry enough to break their shins and force them onto their knees in front of everyone in the Great Hall as they confessed their transgression against a Lady under the Lord's protection, and begged for forgiveness in tears and snots. His uncle's face turned the color of puce, and the two maids were kicked out of the Inner Castle, with a decree that the next three generations of their households would not be allowed to enter Winterfell's inner wall again. Lady Catelyn's face was chiseled into stone as she listened to his sentence, and no such terrible talks ever circulated within the castle wall again.

They also learned to ride, as early as training at arms. Robb was the best rider, but both the twins took to their steeds quickly enough, Jon more so than Adara. Horses were a bit too docile for Jon's liking. He remembered that most of his warging partners in the past life had been predators: a dragon, a direwolf, a lynx, an eagle, and a mammoth. He had tried a goat once, an elk once, and horses a few times (though mostly for unsavory purposes - which he was not very proud of), but the skittishness of their minds and perceptions had frustrated him quite a lot. Despite what the old tomes had indicated, riding dragons was nothing like riding horses or elks, the muscles being strained to perform the act were much more complicated, so in the end, Jon didn't mind all that much about not being the best horseman around.

Sometimes, he had to huff a laugh at his own futile rivalry in the last life. As much as he had loved Robb, a part of him had also looked to him as an object of competition. He had always compared himself to Robb in all random skills (subconsciously, even), all throughout their childhood, and though he had not faulted Robb for any of that, a part of him had been sad for himself. Sad for the incompetence, the inferiority in both mind and heart, and the resentment toward nothing and everything. The circ*mstances of his birth had plagued him so much, that it shaped most of what he had felt about himself, of what he had built for himself, and even the world around him.

It was a jest, in the end. His life, his sadness, and his trauma had all been a jest. He had not even been barking up the same tree as Robb. He had not even been born from the seeds of a Stark.

Every night, Jon slept and dreamt of his dragon. In his last life, he had had the grandest adventure of all, and had ushered in the Age of Gods and Monsters by the time he turned six-and-ten. He had walked amongst Giants, had trained with the Children of the Forest, had studied under the Greenseer (and had also gutted him from throat to navel after figuring out how he had only used everyone as expendable chest pieces), had stayed for years in the Land of Always Winter, and had loved and lost and sacrificed his life for the wretched world that had probably not even appreciated it (He was not bitter, he just made an observation). When he was five-and-ten the first time, he had found and released a dragon sealed into the ice in the furthest North-West of the Frostfang, one foot into the Lands of Always Winter.

Sonagon (and only now, after learning High Valyrian properly, that he finally realized - with a flush of embarrassment - the incorrect composition of such a name) had lived in the time before the Valyrian Doom, had fought tooth and claws to escape the dragonlord's enslavement. He was a century older than Balerion the Black Dread, and much bigger, too. He had fled North to escape the Doom and had been encased in ice as his presence had been detected as a threat by the magical residue from the time Brandon the Builder had erected the Wall. The power weakened as time passed, hence the Others marching closer and closer to the Wall without deterrence in Jon’s lifetime. (Jon once speculated that the Wall was built from the breaths or the corpses of the Ice Dragons, which explained why the residue magic on the Wall and north of the Wall had retained so many of the signature characteristics of said beasts.)

Back then, Jon had been cornered by the White Walkers when infiltrating Mance's horde, had been stabbed, and had nearly died on the frozen ice (he had also killed his very first White Walker that day, and had been going under with a bloody smile full of teeth). He had bled into the ice, Brandon's Ice (he called it that, but it was more likely the lingering magic of an Ice Dragon’s presence), and the enchantment had been broken. He had reached out, blindly, with his dying mind and had woken the dragon.

As Jon had grappled for life and the dragon had struggled for strength to break free from his centuries-old slumber, they had somehow ended up bonding and warging as they clung to each other for survival that day and in the years to come.

(That was actually the short and sweet version. The full version included pain and frustration and distress and minor regret as they strained against each other for months to find the best common ground. Dragons were difficult creatures, and Jon’s previous experiences with Ghost had not helped. It had only given him unrealistic expectations.)

Now, after regressing, he had been having dragon’s dreams quite often. He dreamt of Sonagon's past, of the turbulence in his mind as he slumbered restlessly under the ice. A part of Jon knew he would never feel whole until the day he reunited with his dragon and his direwolf, and all those creatures that had made up large parts of his soul.

He just didn’t think his chance would come that early.

Jon just turned seven when the Greyjoy’s Rebellion broke out. It almost caught him by surprise, before he remembered that in his last life, he had been bedridden with a sickness so terrible that he had come in and out of consciousness for months, months that his uncle spent away fighting the war. He had had rough recollections of its results, obviously, since Theon Greyjoy had been bigger than any elephants in the room, but he had not been conscious enough to keep track of the progress and had not kept it inside his mind as a chance to escape the castle. Now that he did, he watched his uncle’s army marching away with quiet anticipation in his eyes, before slipping away while considering his plan to leave.

Technically, he would have waited till he turned four-and-ten, after marrying Adara and using the excuse of going on a prolonged honeymoon up North. (It might be pretty hilarious to catch Ser Arthur and Lord Stark's reactions to his referring to ranging beyond the Wall as a honeymoon, but well, ...). On the other hand, Jon disliked being passive. By the time he turned ten and four, the invasion of the White Walkers would already be one-fifth underway. They had already set foot out of the Lands of Always Winter and had already started preying on the wildlings and the rangers. If he woke Sonagon now, though, and had him patrolling beyond the Wall, he would limit the wights’ activities enough to minimize casualties and to ensure that the wildlings would not resort to drasticallities, worsening the conflict between them and the Night’s Watch. One less war to fight.

So Jon slipped a bit of milk-of-the-poppy to Ser Arthur’s stew that night. (He had made a habit of stashing those up in the years he would be sick from one tiny illness to another). He also wrote Uncle Arthur a letter, a detailed one wherein he knew the knight would follow through word-by-word (if only for the necessity of it), before giving chase to Jon with crazed worries and simmering anger the very next day. Well, it would take less time and surely more efficient than trying to persuade him verbally to go with Jon in the first place. The only thing not in the equation yet was Adara, and Jon was still fretting about it as he sneaked quietly into the stable. Surprisingly, she made the choice for him.

“Gods! You scared me!” Jon hissed into the darkness, halfway through jumping out of his skin, “Dara! Are you following me?”

Because she was. Standing behind him with the pack in hands, riding clothes covering her tiny frame, silver hair hidden behind the hood, and small pale face staring at him dispassionately, was Adara. She didn’t bother to reply, nor did she muster any spectrum of emotions. She just looked unblinkingly at him, shrugging and hoisting her spear higher up her back.

“I’m not bringing you.” Jon lamented the fact that he was so used to her silence that he found nothing wrong with having an argument with himself.

She finally spoke, only after walking close to him, nose-to-nose, spine pulling back challengingly:

“Make me stay, then.”

Jon had been a King once, had been a Lord Commander once, an excellent knight, and a great warrior once. And yet, looking into the grey, cold depths that were his seven-year-old sister’s eyes, he had a sinking feeling that he would not be able to make her stay (short of making her unconscious, which he dreaded to do, and would mess up his other plans besides). Would her lungs be faster or his knocking her unconscious be faster? He really did not like that chance.

So Jon gritted his teeth, and took a deep breath, before signaling her to follow his lead. They shared a horse because he only brought enough pig’s blood from the kitchen for one. As they galloped quietly half an hour away, Jon took out the batch of blood and started spraying it across the snow, using sticks to make up fake trails of predators. Then they went full-throttle up North.

“What’s happened to the castle gate? Shouldn’t there be guards?”Adara asked him suddenly, finally woken up from her short slumber on his back. (Really? Should he commend or be exasperated at her defenselessness in the midst of danger? She would have fallen off, did she think his seven-year-old muscles and reflexes would be able to catch her? They would have been attacked by animals, or strayed wildlings, or robbers… What was wrong with his sister?)

“They always change shifts at that hour, and Torvin, that loon, always slacks off the first ten minutes of his shift. I made use of that to ride out.”

“… Where did you get all that blood?”

“Pig’s blood, from the kitchen.”

“…okay.”

Then she shifted for a better position, and nodded off again, laying her whole weight on him without a moment of consideration.

“…” Jon swallowed an exasperated huff, before slowing down and fumbling for a rope to tie her flush against his back. The things we did for love. (He could almost feel her smile touching the skin of his back.)

His instructions were to stage an illness. A contagious illness for himself (and Adara, too, now that it had come to this). That would help explain their absence, and Arthur would probably have Wylla or one of theirs to deter anyone trying to reach his chamber. Right after that, the knight would probably make some excuses himself before riding off to catch his impudent charges. Jon had made the calculations, and they would have half a day ahead, at best. So they needed to make the most of it, at least passing the Wall before Ser Arthur caught them and hung them by their ankles every night for the rest of the year. (Well, at least Jon should feel happy that he had a real, non-distant father figure this time around.)

With Jon extending his mind to animals within the vicinity most of the way to scout around, they ended up avoiding dangers sufficiently enough to reach the Wall with their limbs intact. They only ever stopped for food and quick rests under the trees, and only once per day. They rode their horse to near exhaustion, but Jon entered her mind and stretched the apologies out so thin even the mare started pitying him enough to push on without whining. Jon gave her plenty of water, though, and most of the food he packed ended up down her belly.

By the time they reached the Wall, both twins were half-malnourished (though they had only been starved for a few days; such hassles of noble-bred children), the mare was limping, and they had almost nothing inside their pack, save for some rags and their weapons. This was why children should never be allowed to go on adventures on their own, though a part of Jon stubbornly hissed back that he wasn’t actually a child, just his body was.

They let the horse go and walked the rest of the way, Adara having to lean on Jon for the first few steps. The hard ride had taken a lot out of both of them. She didn’t whine, though, which was strange for a girl her age, but was somehow very fitting for Adara in particular. The suspicion that there was an old woman inside his baby sister was getting stronger, but Jon just snorted an internal laugh, because if that was so, it would still be an old woman that he loved.

As they sneaked into the Black Castle as quietly as possible, a part of Jon actually had that tiny hope that Adara was also an adult on the inside. It would make his upcoming tasks much easier. As it stood, he took a deep breath and told her:

"We are about to meet a very important person. I am going to talk to him about helping us across the Wall. Remember, whatever I say or do, please don't ask any questions. I will answer any queries of yours right after we have successfully gone over the Wall."

Adara just blinked at him, nodding confusedly and mumbling incoherently:

"... That's where we're going? Across the Wall?"

"You only decide to ask now ?"

She shrugged, recovering her composure:

"Well, I figure you won't be selling me off to slavers or burning me under any heart trees as a sacrifice. Barring that, what does it matter where we go? I just don't want to be left behind."

Jon had to look up at the sky and inhale a great long breath again. The things we did for love.

They almost got discovered when sneaking past the rookery. Ravens hated Jon, apparently. Fortunately, they got out of it quick enough before the damnable birds would start making a ruckus. It was night, opportune enough, so they encountered Maester Aemon getting ready for bed on his own in his quarter. Maester Aemon was as Jon remembered him, calm, wizened, and surprisingly spirited for his age. His eyes burned a bit, as memories of the last conversation they had together flooded his mind. This time, he thought, this time, he would make sure to grant the old Maester his lifelong dream.

"We are the children of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark." Jon whispered without any preamble, cutting off any questions or possible screams from Maester Aemon. He heard a harsh intake of breath from both in front and in the back of him. Thankfully, Adara held her tongue anyway. He had to rush forward to hold the old Maester up as he staggered back dangerously.

"A day later, Ser Arthur Dayne will ride to Castle Black and demand for us, and you will know that I spoke the truth, then."

He helped the Maester down onto his bed, padding his back with the tiny arms of a seven-year-old. Adara moved to help the old man from the other side, still staying resolutely silent.

"How old are you?" The old man asked, voice gravel as his wrinkled hands sought theirs, "So young... So small..."

"We have seen seven winters." Jon said, squeezing his hands lightly, "Do you need water?"

"... No, no water. I... What are your names? And how?" Then his expression cleared, "Eddard Stark."

"Yes, Eddard Stark, and Arthur Dayne." Jon agreed, solemnly. "They called me Jon, and my sister is called Adara."

"No Targaryen names?" The Maester was chuckling, even as he had to muffle his coughs to do so, "Doesn't sound like Ser Arthur. Your father used to talk about him often, in his letters. And that young man seems the type to fight tooth and nail for your two to have Targaryen's names."

"If he did, we aren't aware of it." Jon lied, fixing the quilt up for the old man. "They have told us nothing. We thought we were their bastard children. I only knew due to an accident."

Adara shot him a look across from the blind Maester, and he narrowed his eyes back at her. The old man fumbled around to touch Jon's face, then Adara's.

"You have the Targaryen nose, and eyebrows, too. Though you, young lady, inherit everything of our blood. It is a wonder they could hide you away for so long."

Jon gave a tiny smile that the old man could not see:

"I might be easier to hide than Adara is. I have the coloring of the Stark, but Adara only inherited our lady mother's eyes. I think the age helps, and the fact that House Dayne has produced children with Valyrian features and hair before."

"... Yes, I'm sure." Maester Aemon reclined back to lay his back on the head of the bed. This chamber was so cold, Jon noted with disapproval, entirely too unsuited to an old man like his Grand Uncle, "You don't speak like a child, young Jon."

Jon's jaw was locked at that, though for the first time, Adara cut in so that he didn't need to:

"Bastards grow up faster, I heard from somewhere."

There was genuine pain on the Maester's face:

"Yes, I suppose they do."

As much as Jon wished to stay and talk with Maester Aemon, time was of the essence.

"Please, this is important. We ran away from Winterfell because I needed to go past the Wall. Can you help us, Great Uncle?"

Aemon’s brows furrowed as his unseeing eyes stared in Jon’s direction:

“Past the Wall, my boy? Whatever for?”

And so Jon told him. Not everything, of course. He told him of his dragon dreams. He told him of the march of the dead. He told him of the world ending in ice. He made it vague, as if he was a dreamer and was chasing after the last straw to save the world. It was a gamble, of course, because Jon’s story sounded unhinged even to his ears. He would not be able to fault Maester Aemon if he started laughing in their faces and called for the men of the Watch.

Yet he did not.

He looked graver and graver as Jon’s story continued. In the end, he looked down at his hand thoughtfully, before mumbling so low that they could not catch it:

“… the Prince that was Promised… Song of Ice and Fire… and so it begins…”

“Grand Uncle?” Jon cut him off from his musings.

Aemon snapped his unseeing eyes up at Jon.

“Yes, my boy, my dear girl. I will help you go past the Wall.”

He looked as if he hoped he was not making a mistake, though.

With Maester Aemon’s help, the twins procured another horse and got sent off beyond the Wall. Jon waited till the old man retired before slowing down on his horse, closing his eyes, and signaling for Adara to catch him. She did, and he slipped into the skin of the horse carrying the brother that let them pass. He tugged, and the horse reared badly enough to buck the man off head first. Blood poured down where the man’s head hit the ground. He was probably dead, or even if he was not, he would suffer a concussion terrible enough not to remember their encounter, nor Maester Aemon’s transgression. A bit cruel, and Uncle Ned would have been outraged. But Jon had lived far too long and seen far too much to allow loose ends.

He returned to his own body with a gasp, straightening back up and galloping away. By the time he had been sixteen by his last life, Jon had been able to control multiple bodies all at once, not having to leave his skin to enter others. Now, though, this body was mayhaps too small and too frail to attempt such feats. Adara scooted back smoothly, as if she had seen him do that a hundred times and was no longer surprised by anything he did. That didn’t mean that she was pleased with him, though:

“My pa said that we are to be married when we grow up. How can we do that when we are siblings? How did you come up with that hogwash?”

Jon snorted:

“First, shouldn’t you question your ‘pa’ for giving you incriminating information like that so early into your childhood? Second, sibling marriage is actually the more preferred and respectable form of matrimony in the Targaryen line, why would you be surprised? And third, who said that it was all hogwash?”

She pinched him on the side, and Jon laughed.

“So it’s true?” She asked, raising her voice now that the wind and snow were whipping their faces, “However did you know? And why did you not tell me beforehand?”

Jon shrugged.

“I pieced things together from the bits I heard from Uncle Eddard and Ser Arthur every time they got into an argument without remembering that I was still there. Then I looked at you, at your eyes and your nose and your eyebrows, and then I realized that we did get out of the same womb, after all.” Well, he didn’t lie, not about everything.

His sister noticed his skip on the second question, and she bit his left shoulder for that, clothes and all.

"Ouch! Are you a dog?" Jon hissed under his breath, "Fine. I was not that certain, either, so I didn't know how to tell you. Luckily, Maester Aemon confirmed my suspicion."

"Did he now?"

"Oh, you'll know when you grow up."

Adara didn’t say much after that, acting gloomy and sleepy (again!). It interested him that she did not mention the warg he performed. She just pretended that it had never happened. Before nodding off (she had the decency to tie herself to him on her own this time), she mumbled under her breath:

“And we are going to find a dragon? A quest worthy of a song, I believe.”

“… Are you mocking me right now?”

This time, it was her turn to snort a laugh:

“No, but I do find the novelty in it.”

Moments before her deep, calm breathing reached his ears, he caught the end of her whispers:

“… hope it's an ice dragon.”

The trip toward Sonagon's pond was grueling. North of the Wall was scarce of both food and shelter. They had to skirt Craster's Keep, following the river to pass the Fist of the First Men (the place dug up unwelcomed memories, so Jon made sure they did not stay the night), riding all the way along the Skirling Pass, passing through the mountains, and setting foot in the Western shore of the Frostfang. The twins survived on the rations given to them by Maester Aemon, but barely. The animal density was low, and Jon found it harder and harder to hide from passing wilding clans and once or twice they even came across strayed Giants roaming the mountainside. Each time, Adara's breath hitched in her throat, and Jon could feel her clammy hands shaking as she held on to him for dear life and her heart fluttered inside her (thinner and thinner) ribcages. Even his fearless little sister knew the taste of dread after traveling across the Wall.

By the end of the month, they finally reached their destination. Jon fairly threw himself down from the horse to crawl toward the pond. His legs felt foreign, as if they were no longer his, his back and spine ached and all of his muscles screamed. Adara struggled down the horse, too, huffing out a cold, harsh breath as she saw the humongous figure that slumbered under the ice. Jon had hoped the event to be more momentous, more ceremonial, light shining down and all. It seemed that dying after a battle with the White Walkers had already set for him an unseemly expectation of this moment, because he was entirely too exhausted for any such sh*t. He crawled and wheezed right above Sonagon, before cutting his palm open for the blood to splatter down to the ice. It sizzled, sizzled, sizzled some more, and Jon was entirely too weak to wait for it to happen while in an upright position, so he just slumped down onto the ice, lying like the dead and taking lumbering breaths.

Behind him, he heard Adara skitting along the ice to come near him. He waved his arms feebly to stop her:

"Don't. The ice will break, and I don't think you are in any condition to be wet right now."

He heard her scuttling back:

"Will you be fine alone, Jon? You will fall into the water, no?”

"Yes," He huffed a laugh, "Not for long, though. He will catch me.”

Right on cue, the ice under him rumbled. No light shone up or down, but Jon braced himself for the icy coldness that embraced him as his body got tipped into the darkness of the deep water. Last time, he was dying, so the shock of the temperature was inconsequential compared to the pain and numbness of death. This time, though, he could already count the days and months he would need to spend within his chamber to recover from the inevitable hypothermia.

Then he felt him. It was entirely too easy to slip into the dragon’s skin, powerful and lumbering and monstrous. When he opened his eyes to see the tiny human body floating down atop him, Jon could feel recognition sparked in the back of his mind. This was a surprise. He had never considered the possibility that Sonagon would regress with him.

He didn’t even need to push. The dragon immediately moved his powerful body up to catch Jon’s form, flapping his wings lethargically to fly upward, above the water, shooting straight toward the grey sky. His movements and reactions felt familiar, as if he had done it a thousand times before. If he did regress alongside Jon, that was a high probability. The world shook, and shifted, and the wetness seeped from Jon’s body as he slammed back into his own skin, and felt wind instead of deadened water pressure on his face. Sonagon kept flying higher in a circle, trying to shake off the sluggishness and the dank water.

Despite the cold and the tiredness clinging to him like a second skin, Jon mustered enough consciousness to grumble inside his mind:

‘ Not too long, Sonagon. My sister is waiting for us down there. She must be freezing.’

Then, since the whole awakening ceremony had been the final straw after days of pushing his physical strengths to the test, Jon’s consciousness fell into blissful darkness.

Chapter 2: ADARA I

Chapter Text

Adara had spent the whole of her first seven years resolutely believing herself to be an ordinary child. Well, an ordinary child with a bit of an unfortunate parentage, but still mostly ordinary.

She had dreams, of course, flashes of a childhood playing with snow and ice and ice lizards, of an inconspicuous farm and a resigned father, of distant emotions and pain, and of the ice dragon. She dreamt of touching the dragon, of flying it into battle amidst smoke and fire at the end of her glorious winter. She dreamt of the dragon's disappearance, of the cold pond sparkling under the sun in its place, and of her gradual death in the next few years as the cold left her heart and her soul. The cold leaving had allowed her the chance to smile and cry and feel pain like any little girl, but it had also spelled gradual death as her heart ached and her soul shriveled as time went by. She remembered death, early death, perhaps one or two years after the dragon left her. It had been a painless death, but no less a tragic one, because she had been a child, barely into her tenth summer, and because she had not even understood what death meant by then, and already she had had to embrace it and descend into its suffocating darkness. But those were just dreams, so she had never thought much about them.

She hadn't grown up any differently than a normal child, learning to walk, to talk, fostering awareness at the breasts of Wylla and in the crib beside Jon. She hadn't realized that the adults were lying to them, well, she hadn't cared all that much to pay attention. Even now, after knowing the truth, she didn't feel any differently than before, and she doubted she would ever come to hate Ser Arthur (she had to make a conscious effort not to call him 'pa' in her mind), Lord Stark, or Jon (because Jon had kept it from her, and for a long time, too, regardless of his denial otherwise). Mayhaps she was a bit disappointed, but she would live.

Ever since she had started being aware of the world, Jon was a constant in her life (now that she knew that they were twins, the entire thing became much more understandable), evoking the same feelings as the ice dragon in her dream. She could not help it. A part of her had been attached to him and another had been plagued with the fear of losing him, of him leaving her and vanishing into the spring mist, just like her ice dragon. The cold would leave her then, she was certain, and she would be dead, she was certain, too. So she followed him around like a shadow, taking notes of every shift in expressions, every change of postures, and of course she would have recognized when he got agitated, of course she would have realized that he was planning something, those days after Lord Stark had just ridden for war. So she prepared herself, too, packing and sneaking around and ambushing him halfway through his runaway. She didn't care where he intended to go. He would go South, up North, across the Narrow Sea, he would lead her to her death, and most likely she would not even care. Anything would be better than that coldness seeping through her bones and that slow, numb descent into the darkness in her dream.

And so here they were, hundreds and hundreds of miles away from their home, malnourished and knackered and cold, but unbelievably happy and content. Because even she understood happiness, and she understood that she had never seen him this happy since the day they were born. He didn't laugh or dance or sing, but his grey eyes sparkled and his smile turned genuine and free. Even when he was wet and probably cold and probably motionsick from the dragon's ridiculous maneuvers up high, he was happy. And his being happy made her happy, too.

When the dragon dropped down from his joyous fly after hundreds of years of slumber, Adara stood still and only moved to help Jon down once she realized that he was unconscious. The dragon sniffed her, baring his teeth a tiny bit, but was calm enough to lower his head to the ground so that she could clamber up and pull her brother down. Jon was sleeping right in the middle of the dragon's head, between the horns. The dragon was huge, at least a hundred and fifty feet in length (same for wingspan, too, she would wager) and even climbing his neck to get to Jon was an effort. His scales were white, with red veins (were they veins or decorated scales?) lining the underside of his humongous wings. His eyes were dark, black mostly, with a curious but ravenous look to them. She realized that he must have been famished, after all those years of deep slumber. But...what else did he expect her to do? She wasn't going to leave her unconscious brother alone by the pond to scavenge food for a dragon she didn't know.

So she studiously ignored his intense gaze at her back, and worked to rid Jon of his freezing clothes. He left his pack to her, so she wiped him down with a dry cloth and dressed him in new clothes before laying his head on the pack in place of a pillow. Then she sat beside him, still resolutely ignoring the dragon huffing menacingly behind her back.

An hour went by, and the dragon behind them (Gods he was like a bloody mountain) shifted restlessly, but did not leave, most likely in fear of leaving his tiny and ailing rider alone. Even Adara had to commend his loyalty and sweetness (though the way he had been gnawing his teeth against the tree trunks while staring at her dangerously had none of said sweetness within). In the end, Adara felt a bit bad for him, so she stood up, shaking her numb legs and scooting over to the edge of the pond to see if she could catch any fish for him. Truthfully, if there were still fishes brave enough to swim around a frozen dragon, she really doubted they would be dumb enough to be caught by her. Besides, she did not believe anything short of a whale could fill this creature’s belly. He was a mountain made flesh.

Instead of fish, she found something else.

At first, she didn't know what it was. It was light, tiny, and bubbly, and wasn't this a pond? Why was there light under a pond? Had she missed something in the physics and common sense class? Then, as if there was a force she could not explain, she got pulled forward, almost face down into the water. Behind her, Jon's dragon paced and growled warningly, but Adara flung an arm out to signal him to back off. The last thing she needed was for Jon's dragon to do something drastic and trigger whatever was shining in the depth of the pond.

As the light seemed to grow bigger, or closer (she was not too sure), Adara felt her stomach roiled in discomfort, her heart sped up, and her head ached with a familiar numbness. No. What was this?

She had a sudden urge to scream, but the sound died in her throat. She wished to run, but her limbs refused her command. She tried to stop looking at the hypnotic blue light that was ballooning right in front of her, but her eyelids could not close properly and her neck was locked into place. Adara could only move her hand, and not of her volition, either. The moment her right hand touched the water, it felt as if the light flashed and encompassed her. Adara could not see, and she felt the water beneath her fingers turned into something else. Something touched her hand, something cold, hard, smooth, like ice. The world rumbled again, and she could hear Jon's dragon snarling in the distance.

The wind whipped at her face, and finally, finally Adara could take control of her body again. She snatched her hand back, covering her eyes and trying to rub the momentary blindness away as the water inside the pond flew (what?) upward. In the middle of all the splattering texture, a hard, transparent shell (scale?) was expanding and whirling around, sharpening and chiseling. That ice scale (shell?) took shape, and the air felt stank as sounds and movements fell away. Adara's breath hitched. It only took a moment or two, but for her, it felt like the world had shifted off from its axis.

Before Adara could even register the scene properly inside her mind, the pond had already disappeared in its entirety, leaving a large white hole (or was it a deep clearing?) on the ground and a huge, flapping ice dragon twisting above their head. She was large, not as large as Jon's dragon, but at least two-thirds of his frame. Her entire body was made of living ice, with eyes of blue crystal and vast translucent wings. Her breaths left the air misty and the temperature dropped. She looked familiar, but the ice dragon of Adara's dream was... smaller, and non-gendered besides. She wasn't certain how she could know that this was a she-dragon, but she did, and for one glorious moment, she felt as if her body slackened and her eyes opened inside a large creature with visions covered in a thin film of blue. It lasted for only a moment, though, and she startled awake at the muffled voice of her brother:

"... I just took a short nap, Dara. Can you not give me a heart attack first thing in the morning?"

She whirled around, galvanized into action after minutes of being struck dumb by the beautiful creature. Jon was awake, his body shielded by the monstrous wingspan of his own dragon, no part of his tiny body was visible, even when she had the sense that he was beating at his dragon’s wing to get away. Jon’s dragon, bigger and much more aggressive than the ice dragon, looked incensed and poised to strike. Adara instinctively stepped into his line of fire, intending to shield the ice dragon from a clear shot of his breath. In hindsight, that was an obtuse decision. She was tiny, she wouldn't even cover a part of the ice dragon, and Jon's beast would just need to crane his neck a bit to spit right into the she-dragon's head.

"Kelītīs, Sonagon." Jon sounded annoyed. "You, too, Dara. Call off your dragon, please."

Adara blanched. First, what was he talking about? The ice dragon wasn't hers . Second, the ice dragon wasn't doing anything. Then she chanced a glance back, and realized (with dismay), that yes, the ice dragon was also baring her teeth and snarling challengingly at Jon's dragon.

She gave Jon a helpless look:

"She isn't mine, how can I...? Jon..."

Her brother fought against Sonagon (wrong lexicon, Jon!) and got out from under his wings, ignoring his warning grumbles and the way he hovered above his rider anxiously.

"You created a bloody ice dragon from a pond, Adara! Of course, she is yours. Just give her a command in High Valyrian. That's why we wasted so much time learning it, after all."

That gave her a start. She hadn't thought of it that way. But Adara trusted Jon's judgment, and turned back to face the beast, asking hesitantly:

"Uhm... Kelītīs."

She did subside, flapping her wings one last time before landing heavily on the snowy ground beside Adara. She grimaced internally. She had not asked for this. Gods.

"Name her," Jon said, moving closer and putting a hand on Adara's shoulder. He looked so proud that she could not muster the strength to complain about the suddenness and the uncalled-for nature of this incident. So she forced a tiny smile at him, before sighing out a name:

"Suvion." The dragon huffed but concurred silently as she dropped her head down to touch Adara's tiny palm. A gust of wind passed by, and the coldness of her breath made Adara shudder.

"By the way," she gave Jon a disappointed look, "You do know that Sonagon is an incorrect lexicon, right?"

He flushed red, before shrugging:

"It sounds better than Sonar or Sonarys, regardless."

She had to agree with that, before gazing peacefully at Suvion again.

"Do you know..." she mused, " that ice dragon melts under fire?'

"They do?" Jon seemed displeased. "How do you know?"

"I read about it somewhere." See, she could lie to him, too. And he wouldn't even know it.

"... Do you want to test the theory?" Jon's question was contemplative.

She spluttered a laugh:

"How? I don't think she will stay still long enough for us to put the torch to her."

"Well..."

Behind them, Sonagon moved faster than anyone would have expected. He twisted his neck and opened his maw for a huge torrent of white fire to explode beside them. It landed neatly on the right wing of Suvion, scorching it and melting it off. The ice dragon's snarls and thrashes rattled the ground. Pain flushed up Adara's right arm, and she hissed in tune with her dragon's roar. Just as fast, though, Adara felt the cold encompassing her core, blue light glowed under her eyelids again, and Suvion's wing grew back at an alarming rate, silver lining smoothing up her joints. In moments, Suvion looked as whole as ever before. Well, whole and enraged.

Adara rounded on Jon, even as the pain gradually disappeared, while her mind screamed at Suvion to calm and tried desperately to soothe the beast's anger with sweet words:

"It hurts! How could you?"

Because she could feel him do that. Whatever that was that commanded his dragon to spit fire at Suvion.

Jon was laughing, though, as he hugged Sonagon's side and patted him soothingly. The dragon was still giving Adara and Suvion a stink eye. Jon looked like an insect beside his dragon.

"Sorry, sorry," He was still laughing, so Adara really doubted the sincerity of the gesture, "But at least, we know for sure now, no?"

They did, Adara scowled. They did indeed.

Her Suvion breathed cold, a coldness so raw it bore glaciers and encased the world in ice. The dragon brought storms and frigidity everywhere she flew, truly an ice block with wings. Sonagon, by some abominable machinations, ended up breathing unnatural white flames, making him neither a creature of ice (which Adara had expected, given his appearance) nor fully a creature of fire (because there was a foreign feeling to his presence, and his core gave off the image of something rooted in the winds of winter). His fire was gloriously white, brighter, harsher, and with a much wider range and higher temperature than any normal flames. His presence was more oppressive than Suvion’s (probably due to his overwhelming size), but his mere presence did not affect the weather the way Suvion's did, and his diet was much less complicated than the ice dragon, seeing as Suvion needed to freeze her food over before digesting. The two dragons had to practice being civilized to each other, though not without a cost, and not without Jon and Adara's vomiting blood persuading them to do so. Jon would like to tease that they had indeed been inside each other for centuries (Suvion's ice-sealing Sonagon for four hundred long years), so Suvion should start learning forgiveness, because at this point, they were an old married couple already. Adara wasn't sure how much the ice dragon understood, but she did look profoundly offended at the suggestion.

In the end, they rode on the dragons as they hunted and returned to the Wall, where Ser Arthur was surely beside himself with worries and anger. Her back and legs hurt as unused muscles rippled and spasmed, and Adara was quite certain that they got spotted by several wildling clans down below. She heard passing screams and raucous movements, but Jon didn't seem to mind, so she let it be, too.

They could only spend a few days together with the dragons, Jon had warned her. Only a few days, and afterward, any interaction they were to exchange would be through the warg, because they were needed in Winterfell and the dragons were needed across the Wall, to deter the Others. Her brother had explained to her about the warg, and about the Others. Both stories had seemed fanciful and ridiculous, but the same could be said of a little boy waking a legendary beast up from the ice, or a little girl turning water into an ice dragon, so she really wasn't in any position to judge. She finally understood what he had been doing every time his body slackened against her, and she was a bit anticipative of her own future. Would she be able to do the same? He was adamant that she would, and had spent the days teaching her how to.

By the end of the third day, when they were only a few dozen miles away from the Wall, and were terrorizing Craster's Keep just by flying in circles, Adara could finally successfully execute a proper warg of two hours or so. She went hunting inside Suvion's body and the entire time, her body was tied carefully down on Sonagon's head, her head on Jon's thighs.

They had to part earlier than she had expected, because they could not let the dragons fly too close to the Wall. "It will be our little secret, at least for a few years." Jon had said. She had pointedly asked him about the screams and the frenzies of the wildlings they had passed on the way, but he had only chuckled: "Rumors are fine. Rumors are excellent, Dara, as long as they cannot prove it. Anything that happens without proof never really happened at all." She nodded, as she realized the same thing he was alluding to: "Yes, because whoever South of the Wall would believe the words of wildlings?"

The farewell was not tearful, because neither Jon nor Adara was the type. However, it was suspenseful and distressful. Both dragons were more affectionate than one would have expected of beasts that size, or of short acquaintances the likes of theirs. It was probably the warg, Jon had whispered, his forehead touching Sonagon's giant snout, his arms wrapping around the upper side of the dragon's head. She could hear the keening sound deep inside the throat of Sonagon, and the dragon's dark eyes were closed as he hummed sadly into Jon's embrace. On her side, Suvion only bumped her (huge) head on Adara's a few times, winding her long neck like a cat, before settling down calmly beside her rider. Suvion didn't seem to enjoy physical touches but greatly loved the proximity between her and Adara. Adara respected that, not everyone and everything had to be all over each other to express affection.

As if on cue, both dragons stepped back at the same time, looking distant and cold as they shared one glance between each other, before taking flight. Jon whispered something under his breath as the shadow of the two beasts got farther and farther away. Then, he took her hand in his, and gave a small smile:

"Shall we, sister?"

She squeezed his hand, and they started their arduous trek back to the Wall.

In the years to come, the incident would forever be known as ‘The Bastards' Escape’. Jon’s plan of feigning sickness worked, though only for a week, and their adventure lasted for nearly a whole month. The prolonged absence of their shadow - Ser Arthur - had not gone unnoticed in Winterfell, and the scandalous quarrel at the Wall with the involvement of Benjen Stark and ‘that strange knight with the greatsword’ had spread all across the North (Something to do with missing children and a dead black brother and a stubbornly silent Maester. Ser Arthur wasn't allowed to pass the Wall, and he was spitting mad by the time he saw the twins again.). The lords and the men were away fighting in the Rebellion, but the ladies and the women were not. And the female community had always been ten times as resourceful and trenchant as any Master of Whisperers. In a few days, even before the twins made it back to the Wall and were strung by their legs and whipped bloody by Ser Arthur, rumors had already circulated around the North that Lady Catelyn had been a prime example of a Southron stepmother, and had been cruel enough that she drove her husband’s bastard son and bastard niece (rumored) to run away from home. She terrified them enough that they had even crossed the Wall to escape her.

Adara was sure Lady Catelyn had been beyond angry at such slanders, but she could hardly cut off every wagging tongue in the North. So she settled on proving them wrong, and though it seemed to cause her physical pain, she endured catering to two bastards within her hall, and treating them as diplomatically as possible in the years to come. Because of this incident, Robb had been looking at them strangely, treating them a bit distantly, too, though it all ended in the second week of Theon Greyjoy’s arrival. The boy was vain and two-faced, and Robb had walked in on him bullying Jon most horribly. (Adara had her suspicions, because the timing was too spot-on, and that was also the only time she ever saw Jon allowing the brat to get away with mouthing off. It felt too coincidental, and knowing what she now knew about Jon, she would not be surprised if the entire thing was staged.)

Lord Eddard Stark returned victorious from the Greyjoy's Rebellion, though his triumph was short-lived, as the tale of 'The Bastards' Escape' reached his ears as people were congratulating each other inside the Great Hall. Adara had never seen his face turned so white, or his mouth so harsh, or his fist so tight. It seemed that Lady Stark had at least been able to silence the rumor before it could cross the borders of the North, making sure the rest of the world wouldn't be privy to such jest and distract her husband from his war. Lord Stark was not very pleased with her, regardless. Everyone was dismissed early, even though the celebration had barely started.

Ned Stark called Ser Arthur into his solar, discussions were heated, and blows were exchanged, yet their words were careful enough that the content stayed private regardless. The twins got summoned after, and that was the first and only time Adara had seen Lord Stark strike Jon across the face. Ser Arthur looked murderous, but restrained himself valiantly, standing rigidly listening to Lord Stark interrogating Jon. Just as with Benjen and Arthur the first time, Jon didn't let slip a thing, just confirmed tiredly that they had just wanted to see the Wall, and their horse had gotten wild and had shot straight away as that strange black brother had keeled over. He denied any involvement of any other members of the Watch, and stood witness that the issue with the guard had been sudden and coincidental, and had absolutely nothing to do with Ser Arthur. Adara's questioning went similarly, though hers was mixed with long silences and confused shrugging. She figured, as she was not as adept as Jon in either speaking or lying, it would be just as well if she stayed mostly silent. It worked, Lord Stark and Ser Arthur only believed that she was shell-shocked from the harrowing experience, and since she was a little girl, they couldn't find it within themselves to discipline her the same way they did Jon.

They were a bit skeptical at their claims of having not encountered any wildlings. Jon assured them that any glimpses they had were as swift as they were far away. No direct contact was made, so both their well-being and their virtues were intact. Apparently, some wildlings were known for their deviant tastes relating to children raping and children eating. Jon looked disgusted at the mention of 'rape', and Adara blanched confusedly at the allusion to cannibalism. She had never known such a form of tendencies existed.

They got off relatively easily, only with pained shins and a reddened cheek (in Jon's case). Jon told her that the adults were just worried, and it had been the twins' fault anyway so they had no ground to hold grudges. Lady Catelyn, unfortunate as she was, was not as lucky. Even though she hadn't actually done anything wrong in this case, the fault of inattentiveness and the nasty rumors had painted her in a particularly bad light. Lord Stark did not fight with her, and did not ask for her account, but he gave her a silent treatment that lasted for several months afterward. (A part of Adara pitied Catelyn Stark a bit, but then she remembered the way she had been looking at Jon, the iciness and the cruel dismissiveness, and that part shriveled and died.)

The next seven years came by fast and peaceful. She had dragon dreams almost every night. Through Suvion's eyes, she finally got to see the Wights for the first time. She saw the White Walkers, too, and felt the discomfort of the dragon when witnessing something truly unnatural and repulsive. Suvion and Sonagon roamed the North, sabotaging the White Walkers' marches any chance they got. They also had to be careful, Jon had warned, because the Others could and might already have made weapons sturdy enough to fell a dragon. She asked if they needed to worry about humans making the same thing, and he gave her a meaningful twitch of the lips. So it seemed that dragons were vulnerable, too, on both sides of the Wall, and it was up to the twins to keep them safe.

She learned more about warging under the whispered lessons from Jon, and she was a bit curious as to where and how he learned all this information. She did not ask, though, because she had a feeling that that answer wasn't one that he was willing to give. The more she learned about warging, the stronger the bond between her and Suvion was, and the more she understood just how much more gifted Jon was than her in this particular subject. Unlike the first time she saw him do it, by their ninth summer, Jon no longer needed to close his eyes to enter Sonagon's body. In fact, he operated both bodies at the same time, and even accidentally revealed that he could do that up to a few bodies, not just one. "You can still be yourself, you just feel them at the back of your mind, and occasionally, you can just tug a bit and they will move or do as you want." He had mused, and Adara didn't feel any empathy with that prodigious analogy. "...Well, dragons are a bit more difficult, of course. They are more arrogant, and without any bonding or grooming beforehand, it is usually much more complicated warging a dragon."

Adara only gave him a pointed look at that. It almost felt like he was bragging, and she would have been offended, if not for the fact that she knew him better than that. (And that she loved him better than that.)

Their weaponry lessons went fine. Aside from the well-rounded proficiency in archery and the occasional staff-wielding, Jon seemed quite used to dual-swords already, making Ser Arthur even more worried about them getting discovered and asking them to guard their skills even more zealously. Adara was, same as in her dream, marginally competent with her spear, acceptable with her daggers, and rubbish at her archery. From what she saw of the morning practice, Robb wasn't half bad with a blade, but he was nowhere near Jon's level, though his skills with a lance dwarfed every single person who ever used that yard. Theon Greyjoy was an excellent archer, barely decent with a sword, but would be an embarrassment if he ever got pitted against Jon, and Adara really thought he should learn to hold his tongue a lot better if he could only muster that level of skills.

Then again, Adara almost quirked a smile to herself, if she was to compare all boys and men to Jon in everything, whoever would she be able to marry in the future? No one and never, for a fact. Should she feel grateful that it was he whom she would marry in the years to come? Because surely, she would have been doomed to a life of spinsterhood otherwise. (Sometimes, the reminder that they came out of the same womb did make her uncomfortable, but Adara had always been the type to ignore inevitable hardships in favor of the simpler things in life, so the nausea passed quickly enough.)

She had questions (yes, even she ) about her parents, about her father who went down in history as the most terrible of rapists, about her mother who had been romanticized into a tragic damsel-in-distress. But she could not ask anyone, because Jon said it wasn't time yet, and they would likely give Ser Arthur and Lord Stark a heart attack if they approached them about this. So they were to be patient, patient, patient still. She asked when their patience could come to an end, and Jon clucked his tongue at the roof of his mouth and concluded 'our wedding day'. Truthfully, she believed that to be even nastier, and already she could imagine Ser Arthur and Lord Stark’s existential crisis on that day. Perhaps they would fight again, too, because their two adults were fond of doing that.

Instead, she came down to the crypt often, every day before she went to bed, to do nothing but sit in front of Lyanna Stark's statue and stare unblinkingly at her cold, mournful face. She talked to her, too, very rarely, in the days when training was too hard, or when the whispers of Sansa and Jeyne were particularly unkind. She wasn't foolish enough to call her 'mother' out loud, but she would like to think that her deceased mother understood her feelings anyway. Jon joined her sometimes, though not too often, because he brooded even worse than usual, and the harsh line of his mouth when staring at their mother's statue suggested a certain amount of unresolved grudge, and Adara disliked having to see him like that.

She encountered Ser Arthur one day, after returning from the crypt, and he asked to whom she had been paying respect so religiously. She only smiled and shrugged: "Someone I feel very close to." His eyes were sad, and she almost believed he might have noticed the decreased frequency of her calling him 'pa', and wondered if he ever suspected anything.

The more she grew up, the more problems she encountered. Adara wasn't one to care all that much about her appearance, but by the time she was ten, even she had to admit that said appearance was attracting more trouble than it was worth. Her hair grew a bit too long for her comfort, all the way down her thigh, and though it was never much work keeping it tame, the heaviness of the wavy locks and the way Sansa glared at it made her uncomfortable. She didn't cut it, though, as Jon asked her not to, even resorting to growing out his own hair to match hers. His dark locks were straight, turning more black than brown as they grew long enough for him to tie them back into a braid. Lord Stark disapproved of the look, but Jon refused to cut it (then grumbled to Adara that the Lord of Winterfell hated it only because it reminded him of Rheagar Targaryen).

People started looking at her a bit too long and a bit too strangely in the hall. At first, she hadn't noticed, until one day, a few weeks after their eleventh nameday, Jon punched Greyjoy in the gut for both staring at her and smirking in that disconcerted way of his. It didn't have the chance to turn into a brawl, because Jon's fist was too hard for the vain boy to recover soon enough to start anything else. Now that she was aware that she was courting troubles, Adara started braiding her hair tight into a crown on the top of her head, picking out only dark-colored dresses and making herself as prim an image as possible. It helped, a bit, but she still ended up garnering some attention, and had to witness her brother frowning at passerby and Ser Arthur smashing faces at random intervals.

Her being a bastard hadn’t helped. She hadn’t understood the magnitude of the disrespect that came naturally with their bastardy status. For Jon, it would only be the snickers and jests and the passive-aggressive dismissal at any tables of importance. For her, it would be the slimy glances, the tasteless jokes, and the despicable entitlement the men and boys had for her every time she passed them in the hall. It was better here, in the North, because she was under the protection of an honorable Lord Paramount. However, it wasn’t as clean as one had hoped, because men would always be men, at the core of things. They restrained themselves, at least, because it was Winterfell, because her 'father' was Arthur Dayne, and because she hadn't reached majority yet.

She had her first blood after her twelfth summer. Her stomach ached, her limbs felt itchy, and blood spurted out of the most unhygienic possible place she would have imagined. She barely understood what was happening and had even called Jon in and started reciting her will on her deathbed, before Jon barked a laugh so loud it was embarrassing. He had a fit that took minutes to calm, and by the end of it, reassured her that he would send Wylla in to explain everything. For the first time since she had been born, Adara understood the feeling of mortification. She could not look Jon in the eye for the next month and her face felt warm every time the memories came back to her in bits and pieces.

The lecherous attention peaked when she turned ten-and-three, when her teats filled out (a tiny bit) and she shot up in height. It was terrible enough that even her Septa dresses and her covered hair could not salvage. It got to a point when a great misunderstanding occurred, and Lady Catelyn sat her down in her sewing room with a stern look, a needle pointed threateningly at Adara’s needlework and lips tightened to the point of turning blue, and interrogated Adara on her intentions toward Robb Stark.

Fury and humiliation hadn't come, not at first, because Adara was still too busy feeling confused about the topic of conversation. What precisely did the Lady mean by 'intentions'? What did Robb Stark have anything to do with her? She had around three words exchanged with the boy every two months, because she had only ever talked to Jon and ignored the rest of his retinue since forever. She barely ever saw Robb, because she only bothered watching any spars in the courtyard if Jon was one of the contestants. She showed up very sparsely in the training yard before sundown, and only to watch Jon or to deliver something he forgot. Their riding lessons (which did not differentiate between girls and boys) ended four years ago, and she only ever rode with Jon alone (and sometimes Arya) as they trekked along the snowy path towards the town and back. The only Stark child she interacted with at length was Arya, and tried as she might, Adara could not pinpoint any interaction she ever shared with the Heir of Winterfell to warrant the strange question.

She was slow in her reply, as usual, disappearing into her thoughts and forgetting that the other person was waiting for her response. It was fine when it was with Jon and Ser Arthur, both had gotten used to Adara’s silence and knew how to maneuver past that. They seemed almost always to know what she was thinking, so her unresponsiveness and daydreams weren't usually that much of a problem. It was a problem with Lady Catelyn, though, since her face grew progressively purple as the silence stretched by, before her temper ran high enough that she threw Adara's needlework to the ground and hissed: "Answer!" most furiously.

Then Adara's fury flared, too. She could care less what the fishwife was talking about, but to treat the shirt she intended to give Jon that way was unforgivable. She stood up abruptly, noting with a tiny bit of surprise that she was nearly the same height as Catelyn Stark, even at thirteen. Lady Stark got startled back a step, giving a disbelieving look, though her shoulders were still pulled back haughtily, and her face hardened into a cold, harsh mask. Adara ignored her anger, she was angry, too. She did not deign to speak, only crouching down to pick the shirt up, dusting away the dirt and hugging it back to her body, glaring silently at the Lady Stark.

Before she could think of anything to say, though, Ser Arthur and Robb barged in through the door, the former looked thunderous and the latter seemed mortified. She got herded out of the room, and the two had a heated discussion with Lady Stark, one which Lord Stark joined in later. It was only later that night that Adara got informed that her betrothal to Jon had been officiated, they would get married a year later under the heart tree, and the entire debacle that morning was nothing more than a bout of misunderstanding.

Apparently, Robb had gotten cajoled into a brothel with Theon. Theon Greyjoy, being a disgusting swine as he was, had brought out a whor* with a silver wig and was tiny enough to pass off as a maiden. He had introduced the whor* to Robb, who had been distressed (because naked ladies scared him) and a bit grossed out, especially after he'd heard that said whor* had already been a favorite of Theon for months (the novelty of sharing the same whor* had probably escaped him), and after he had finally been able to place who the whor* reminded him of. The incident got back to Lady Stark, mixed in here and there and it seemed the Lady was under the impression that her prodigious son was harboring a one-sided crush toward Arthur Dayne's bastard. Oh, the horror.

So Robb set her straight, horrified and blushing and disappointed that his mother would believe him to be that slimy. If he actually had a crush on Adara, he would surely be a better man than one who forced whor*s to wear wigs and imagined filthy stuff. That placated Lady Stark, though only a bit. She only truly got relieved when Ser Arthur and Lord Stark confirmed with her about Jon's and Adara's match, and the fact that they would be marrying a year from now. The news ballooned into size, before bursting and dripping insidiously over every nook and cranny of the castle. Lady Catelyn looked pleased all day every day, the servants talked behind their hands and kept their eyes on the ground as Adara and Jon passed by, especially as they passed by together. Theon Greyjoy raged for months, not just because of the news (though how he could have the gross overestimation of himself to believe he ever had a chance was beyond her), but because two days after the great misunderstanding, his favorite whor* with the wig was dead, being crushed under the hooves of one of her client (the horse was believed to be crazed, and no compensation was given). After that, for some reason or another, the Madam of the brothel had circles under her eyes and enforced the rule for her whor*s to never use any silver wig within her establishment.

Jon seemed insouciant throughout the entire incident, though he did blink a bit too slowly when they heard about the death of the whor* from the gossiping tongues of the servants. She poked him in the side and gave him a look, only to receive an innocent smile and a (fake) questioning glance. She sighed and decided not to probe. He probably did it for her, and though needless deaths left a sour taste in her mouth, leaving the whor* alive to parade around mimicking her would be much worse. So yes, the lesser evil.

They turned ten-and-four. Jon finally got taller and towered over her, and though his muscles weren't as pronounced as Ser Arthur and the rest of the adults, there were already hints of sinewy strength hidden beneath his clothes. Adara didn't notice at first (same with almost everything else, her mind was just wired to move slower than most, apparently), but even she started to realize as the maids started giggling into their hands as he walked by. Their giggles stopped, though, and their faces paled, as she turned her gaze on them. After a few times that happened, Adara came to two uncomfortable realizations: one, her brother was... comely (a bit too much to be necessary), and two, she scared people, as much as she fascinated them.

She... didn't see it. Not the fact that her brother was attractive, because now that they said so, she could somewhat see the appeal. What she didn't understand was people's strange perception of her. She had never cared about what they thought of her, but it did come as a surprise. She had never dredged up enough anger to act unseemly toward anyone. She wasn't strident and aloof like Lady Stark, nor was she a nasty piece of feces like Theon. So why exactly were people blanching and sweating and gulping when meeting her eyes?

She asked Jon about it during one of their late-night spar, and he stared at her as if she had just sprouted flowers on the top of her head.

“Er… Are you fishing for compliments?” He asked, a bit incredulous.

She threw her towel at his face, before grumbling:

“Be reasonable. Do I look scary?” And she didn’t regard scariness as a compliment anyway.

He snorted:

“Well… you look glorious, a bit unreal, and probably a bit too highborn for your station, too. People can sniff that out, you know. And your silence scares them, yes, because you have that dead look in your eyes when you’re thinking very hard about something.”

“… Which part of those long sentences seems like a compliment to you? How could you believe I was fishing for those ?”

He only gave her a good-natured laugh, before ruffling her hair and tugging her to his side as they left for bed.

They were ten-and-four, and their wedding should be only a few months away.

One nice morning, Jon brought home a litter of direwolves on his friendly race with Robb, and he was apologetic and a bit disconcerted that every single one of them - Starks and Snows - had a pup, and she had none. She frankly didn't care, would it not be more suspicious if she - the supposed bastard of Arthur Dayne - ended up with a direwolf pup? Besides, she had her Suvion, which was entirely enough for her already. But he felt sheepish anyway and offered to share his Ghost with her. She accepted with a smile, though she let him know how she suspected he only wished to shift more tasks and responsibilities onto her, and he would better be grateful how she was such an amazing person as to accept his sneak attack. That startled a laugh out of him, joyous and carefree. She then remarked on how much more often he had been laughing of late, and he fired back with a wink about how she had been much more talkative of late as well. They concluded that it was probably puberty, and left it at that.

They were ten-and-four, their wedding should be only a few weeks away, and Robert Baratheon sent ravens informing people that he was riding toward Winterfell.

Their adults were, as expected, overwrought with worries. They fought again, then Lord Stark brooded in his solar for days, and Ser Arthur paced in the courtyard and bullied trainees to tears with his brutal spars. His training of the twins was harsher, too, leaving bruises and cuts where he had always been careful before (mostly on her side, Jon was more adept at dodging and parrying). A week after the letters, Ser Arthur seemed to have reached his limits. He summoned them both into Jon's quarter, sitting down at the edge of the bed and looking at them with forlorn eyes that made them uncomfortable all over. Ghost was lying near the hearth, one red eye opened as if curious about how this conversation would unfold.

Arthur started first:

"...So, you two are nearly wed."

The twins chanced a glance at one another. Adara shook her head minutely, and Jon frowned. Still, he turned back to answer the knight:

"That we are. Is there something wrong, Uncle Art?"

Arthur looked grim but determined, and Adara could easily guess what decision he had come to. She wasn't ready, though, so she kept shaking her head at Jon's silent question. Not yet.

"... Since you are almost grown, the two of you, there is something you need to know."

Jon tightened his jaw and shot Adara a look again. She glared and shook her head, again. Not yet!

So Jon worked his jaw uncomfortably, before responding with dead eyes:

"... Is this the infamous talk? The one about the particularities of marriage consummation?"

Adara was tempted to slap a hand across her forehead, and she could see Ser Arthur's face reddening into an interesting color. Ghost snorted and closed his eyes, whereas Jon was still sitting primly with a straight face. She was quite certain this was his way of getting back at her for holding him back from spilling the beans. He wasn't done, though:

"Because if it is, there is no need. Theon Greyjoy frequented brothels, he also has a mouth the size of a bowl and the brain of a dog in heat. So yes, I know the... machinations of it. Pretty sure Septa Mordane has traumatized Dara with the talk as well."

Ser Arthur had always been the type of man who relied on rage when embarrassment failed him. He slammed his fist at the table, making them both jump and scoot closer to each other.

"That Greyjoy bastard! He has been sullying your ears with such talks?" But then, he blanched and ruffled his own hair with long fingers, "I will have his tongue for that. But that wasn't it. I..."

He faltered, just a second, before braving through:

"I want you two to know about your parents."

This time, Jon didn't bother looking at her, just feeling the sheets till his hands found her, and then he squeezed. She was still not ready! Still, even amidst her silent panic, she squeezed back. Jon straightened his back, a secretive smile blossomed on his face:

"Our real parents, you mean? Tell me, Ser Arthur, if Robert Baratheon weren't marching toward Winterfell right at this moment, would you have told us that we were children of the Dragon Prince?"

Blood leached out of the knight's face quicker than Adara thought was possible, leaving his face pale and pasty, and his age - for once. A part of her felt bad for him, but no amount of procrastination would make this experience any easier to bear. So she smoothly took up the mantle:

"We know, yes. For a while already, yes. We also know that our real mother slumbered beneath the crypt of Winterfell."

Jon continued calmly, as if his body wasn't vibrating with anger, and his hand wasn't tightening around hers to the point of bruising. Deceptive calmness, her brother was good at that these days.

"Don't ask how. You do know how careless you and Lord Stark had been, no? I have been young, yes, but I haven't been imbecilic."

(He was lying again, her brother. Why was he always lying?)

The silence afterward was stifling. Ser Arthur stared at them with a look reserved for strangers (Adara ignored the pain in her chest at that. No more 'pa' for her.), before sighing heavily and putting his face in his hands, looking like a man condemned. Adara closed her eyes and breathed out quietly, shudderingly, before scooting closer to Jon and laying her head on his shoulder. On cue, her brother silently wrapped his arms around her shoulders, tugging her head to the crook of his neck. She inhaled his familiar scent, then stilled as she waited for the silence to pass.

"... Before or after your escape to the Wall?" When Arthur finally resumed talking, his voice was hoarse and tired.

"Before, it was a speculation. After, well," Jon shrugged, "Maester Aemon's reactions confirmed it for us."

"By the Sevens, you two were seven!" The knight groaned into his hands. "Was that why you left for the Wall? To confirm things that Stark and I hadn't been able to tell you?"

Adara whispered, hating that she had to follow up on her brother's lie, but it was not time to rebuke him:

"You wished to spare us, we know. But a part of us wished to spare you, too."

She was pretty sure she put that look of pain in his eyes, but there was no helping it.

After Ser Arthur finally calmed down, the conversation dissolved into worried nagging and contingency plans for any surprises initiated by Robert Baratheon's horde.

"Eddard Stark is intending for Robert Baratheon to bear witness to your union, for the High Septon to officiate your wedding."

The twins were aghast.

"We follow the Old Gods, though, we are supposed to marry before the heart tree." Jon hissed.

Ser Arthur gave him a warning glare:

"And do you reckon people will not notice how my bastard daughter with a Dornish woman ended up following the Northern Gods instead of the Seven? When both her parents are supposed to be Southron as Southron can be?"

Adara sat back up, kneading her temple:

"Marrying in a Sept is fine, as long as we can have another ceremony under the heart tree."

Jon was still contemplative, though, and he narrowed his eyes at their sworn knight:

"Does this have anything to do with your intention to raise an army in our names?"

Adara blanched. She had not thought of that. What were Ser Arthur's intentions toward their future? What was Lord Stark's? Was that the reason why they fought so often? Because they had not been able to decide together? If it was as Jon was implying, gosh, then Adara could see the sense in forcing them to have the wedding ceremony under the Seven.

Ser Arthur had fully recovered from their bullying just minutes ago, and his face was unreadable as he fired back:

"Do you want to be king, Jon?"

King Valerion Targaryen, the First of his Name, ruled over the Seven Kingdoms with his Sister-Queen Daenys Targaryen by his side. (Adara was a bit disappointed in the Valyrian name given to her. Jon's name was dignified enough, but hers was just tacky.) The title had a ring to it, the image was tempting, and for one mad second, Adara actually contemplated it.

What a spectacular King and Queen they would make. Jon (Valerion, geez!), a warrior king, in all his tall, handsome, brooding stature, with Sonagon roaring high above the sky. Adara, a calm presence beside him, silver hair unbound and dainty clothes billowing around her ankles, Suvion twisting her neck around the tower just above them. He would spend his days doing stateworks, she would help him hear grievances. They would spar together every evening, fly together on dragonbacks every morning, and would walk together across the street of King's Landing, head held high and no mark of shame branded on their forehead. And their children, gosh, their children would be happy and healthy and proud, and would have a proper last name that they would not be ashamed of.

Then the moment passed.

Even she knew the limit of madness.

What would Jon's answer be? And would he have any way for them to reach that seat without bleeding each other dry? Because Adara had no easy solutions, even with the dragons, and she refused to even think about Lord Stark's and the North's stance on these usurping considerations of theirs. Robert Baratheon was his best friend, and he had chosen him in the last war, after all, against his own blood, for better or worse.

Jon shrugged beside her, looking cold and calm.

"Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, now is not the right time."

Ser Arthur's eyes gleamed at that:

"No? How long do you think it will take to raise an army? How many lords do you believe you can convince to fight for our cause, Jon? We are righteous, but people won't rise just for that. It takes time to raise an army, and before we start, nothing is certain. When will it be the right time?"

His arguments flowed a bit too easily, as if he had been having this exact conversation with Lord Stark several times already. Jon was not deterred, though.

"Do you want the support of the North, Ser Arthur? Because you will never have their full support, not as long as Robert Baratheon lives."

"If the right time is after that Usurper dies, then we would be waiting for years!"

"Oh, but that is only if he dies of a natural cause."

Adara quirked a brow at that (What? She was used to her brother's band of nastiness already. This much is nothing.), but the knight staggered back a step, looking stricken.

"... Are you suggesting poisons or assassins?" His voice was tight, as though it gave him physical pain to come to terms with the fact that a child he raised would resort to such underhanded tactics.

Adara was fairly certain he would vomit blood if he knew half of what Jon had been up to behind closed doors. Her brother was honorable, yes, but only to a point, and he had a streak of viciousness to him as well, even though he was not proud of such things.

Jon only gave Ser Arthur a grim smile:

"Don't worry. We won't sully our hands with his blood."

By this point, Adara caught on, even as Arthur was still looking confused. Her eyes lit up as she asked carefully:

"He has other enemies, no? His reign is unstable."

Jon turned and gave her an appraising look. (She pretended not to preen)

"Yes. His reign is unstable. His city is a boiling pot of dissent. His court is festered with corruption. His family..." He smiled secretively, "His family is a mummer show."

Adara's lips stretched into a small smile:

"Ah, so Jon Arryn's death wasn't an accident."

Even Ser Arthur started understanding by then:

"... I see. Do you think those enemies need a push in the right direction? Or is it fine to just let it be?"

Jon exhaled heavily through his nostrils, eyes darkening:

"Well, that depends."

"On what?"

"On Lord Stark's answer regarding the Hand position."

"... If yes?"

There was a flash of something across Jon's eyes (grief? why?) before it disappeared fully, and his face was a mask of calmness once more:

"If yes, the stone will roll and we won’t need to do anything."

Chapter 3: JON II

Chapter Text

Ever since Jon first realized that he had regressed, he had already expected this life to evolve differently than his last one. Butterfly effects from him having a sister, butterfly effects from Ser Arthur alive and breathing down his neck, butterfly effects from his own actions diverging from the last life. Of course, he had expected changes.

He had just not expected his dragon to change from an ice dragon to a fire dragon. Sonagon’s outward appearance hadn’t changed much, but something inside him had probably changed pretty drastically for him to spit out white flame instead of cold air. Jon knew Sonagon had been a fire dragon once, a red dragon with flames the color of molten gold. However, in his last life, after more than four hundred years of slumbering inside the ice, Sonagon had emerged white of scales and cold of breaths. He had still been made from flesh and blood - unlike Suvion, but in all other aspects, he had been exactly the same as the Ice Dragons of old. Now, though…

At first he thought it might be the timing, mayhaps Sonagon should have had at least five to seven years more to turn fully into an ice dragon, and Jon’s hasty awakening of the dragon had taken the chance away from him. Then he contemplated it some more, and decided that that wasn’t it. If four hundred years hadn’t made him an ice dragon, five-ten years more shouldn’t have made much of a difference. So the issue was with Suvion’s existence? Or in other words, Adara’s existence? Mayhaps in the last life, Adara hadn’t existed, so the magical ice hadn’t become sentient in waiting for its caller? As it had become sentient, Sonagon’s sleeping body hadn’t been able to absorb the power of winter from it, not fully, so he emerged only partially changed from his original form, and Suvion came to life as an actual, complete Ice Dragon instead?

By that logic, Suvion was a part torn from Sonagon (a part that was supposed to make him an ice dragon), just as Adara was born from Jon dividing into two? … Gods, that was a terrifying thought. Sometimes Jon was scared of himself. His marriage with Adara was in a week… Jon decided to shut down that train of thought, allowing only the former half of that understanding to register in his mind.

The last thought he had on that topic was: He should not have named his dragon ‘Winter’. The only remotely wintry thing about the beast was his size and the deceptive mass of scales on his body. (But then, he probably wouldn’t have been able to remember the new name. Some things were ingrained, regardless of time and changes.)

Just days before the arrival of the Baratheons’ horde, Jon finally tracked down the man he had been looking for. He had not expected much when he set out, as the High Sparrow had been an elusive figure even in his last life, when the old man had already risen to prominence and should not have been so easily hidden from eyes. So it was a pleasant surprise that Jon could stumble upon him (small, thin, grey-haired and grey robe) in the middle of a tiny village in the southeastern part away from Winterfell, during one of his longer rides with Adara. He asked Adara for some privacy, before approaching the old man and asking most sincerely for his help and officiation of their marriage.

The High Sparrow was surprised and wary at first. He wondered about Jon's intentions, because everyone under the sun knew that the Bastard of Winterfell followed the Old Gods, just like his entire family. Jon hadn't been that good at persuading people in his last life, and it had cost him his allies, friends, and lovers, so he had resolved to learn by the end of it. He doubted his charisma had upgraded that much in this life, but at the very least, he had to try. So he smiled (that unnatural twitch of the lips that had Adara frown at him every time he attempted it at her) and said that he would like to give his bride a traditional wedding of the Southron nature, imploring the devout man to help him make his bride happy, in spite of their unfortunate birth. In response to the High Sparrow's implication that Winterfell had a Sept and a Septon of its own, Jon could only give a helpless shrug, mumbling incoherently about 'Lady Stark'. That was the moment when he knew he had him. The old man's hard eyes tightened into slits, as if the idea that a Sept being monopolized by a high-handed noblewoman (who did not welcome others into it due to their birth) was appalling to him.

In the end, the High Sparrow agreed to Jon's request, and (very reluctantly) accepted his offer for a horse and an escort to bring him to Winterfell on time. Jon kept it in mind to ask Ser Arthur to help him with this. If they had to marry in the Sept for better legitimacy, he would prefer they be officiated by an actual influential and creditable Septon (as the High Sparrow had proven himself to be in his last life), instead of the avaricious pig warming the High Septon's seat at the moment. His knight would argue, no doubt about that, but he would have to accept it. One day, Ser Arthur would understand.

Robert Baratheon's arrival was just as Jon remembered the first time, loud and ostentatious. People flood the gate with their silks and steel and pomposity. In his head, Jon focused his mind on directing Sonagon to track down a mammoth for dinner, Suvion gliding lazily behind him and the darkened sun of the North boring down on them like a curtain. By his side, Adara gave him a pinch and a judgmental look. Jon huffed a quiet laugh and returned to his own skin, giving her a nudge on the shoulder. She could only be that anticipative since this was the first time she saw this. The experience would lose its novelty in seconds now, after Robert Baratheon graced them with his obese and intoxicated presence.

There he was now, in front of the procession, looking for all the world a torturer of animals with how much weight he was forcing that poor horse to bear. The two Kingsguard behind him scanned the crowd with a severe expression and a scowl on their faces as they spotted Ser Arthur standing behind the twins. Jon could feel his knight straightened under the scrutiny, while Adara smoothly intercepted the White Cloaks' line of sight and covered Ser Arthur from their harsh stares. Jon could see one of the Kingsguards widen his eyes as he saw Adara (even bundling up in Septa's clothes as she was, her hair hidden tightly beneath grey ribbons), and heaved a sigh as he, too, stepped a tiny bit in front of his sister, staring the knights down with his infamous Stark frown.

His attention was diverted, though, as the fat king threw himself down from the horse, nearly making it buckle over, and roared at Ned boisterously. Adara blanched behind him, and he just knew she was making an effort not to cover her ears in mild distress. The two old friends started appraising each other, reminiscing the way only old men did, and looking like two lovers separated by life and hardships. After Lord Stark finished the formalities (the Lannister queen looking as if she had permanent constipation, the princes seeming impatient, and the princess acting as if she wished to disappear into the earth when Robb smiled at her), the king lumbered forward and demanded to be brought to the crypt, ignoring the displeasure flashing across his wife's face. Eddard Stark looked touched, Arthur Dayne looked murderous, and both Jon and Adara slunk back into the shadow as they kept watchful gazes on the king's retinue.

So much drama, and they had barely even started.

As they entered the feast alongside their knight, Jon quietly asked Ser Arthur about the High Sparrow, about his arrival and his accommodation. Everything seemed to be in place, though the Sword of the Morning still sported a disapproving look when discussing the strayed septon, and his restlessness had heightened after the usurper's party entered Winterfell. The twins were to stop practicing weaponry every evening and were to keep their heads down the whole time the royal procession stayed in the North. Jon felt fine, though he could understand why the knight was so high-strung. The sense of foreboding was one thing, but the way the kingsguards were glaring at Arthur was enough to make anyone's blood boil in their veins. It probably didn't help that a part of their knight still missed them and respected them.

Even though the king would be attending their wedding two days later (well, he had been invited, though whether he deemed it beneath him or not would be another story), Jon and Adara were still not allowed to sit amongst the Starks and the royal children. It was for the best, most likely, and Jon took this chance to watch the royal's party from a safe distance and took note of all their quirks and slips. Beside him, Adara seemed content to sip on her wine and stare blankly at the ceiling. His sister was crestfallen, he knew (just like he had been the first time around). She had probably expected a dangerous adversary worthy of songs and stories. Instead, she had to come to terms with the fact that their Dragon Prince father had been bested by a fat old man with grimy fingers grasping at anything with teats.

Their cousins and the royal children got along well enough, at least in the case of Tommen and Myrcella. Bran was energetically regaling Tommen with tales and Arya tugged the boy's sleeves at random intervals to show him her tricks with the spoon. Myrcella was quieter than her brother, but was leaning in on Robb's story and stuttering her answers amidst blushes. Next to them, though, Sansa was talking mostly to herself, because Joffrey inherited his mother's permanent look of constipation and was glaring sullenly at his fork as if wishing to stab Sansa with it. In one dark moment, Jon considered staging something to them, at least to Joffrey the Illborn. It would save them a world of pain and horror later. But no, any kind of incident happening in Winterfell would surely implicate the Starks and themselves by extension. It wasn't a good time to initiate anything just yet.

The same went for the adults in the king's retinue. In spite of his disgust toward the Golden Bitch of King's Landing, and his reservations toward the Imp and the Kingslayer, Jon had to refrain for them to get through a peaceful royal visit and an uneventful wedding. Cersei Lannister was frowning haughtily at her food, whereas Jaime Lannister was... Jon froze minutely, because he realized that Jaime Lannister was staring straight at him, looking as if he saw a ghost and giving off the feeling that he had been staring for a while, not just now. A quick glance toward Tyrion Lannister confirmed Jon's worst fear, because the Imp was looking in his brother's direction, his green eyes shifted sharply between Jaime and Jon.

Jon didn't have time to debate, and he doubted him avoiding the Kingslayer's eyes would help much by that point, so he straightened his back and smiled politely at the attention from the two Lannister brothers. Under the table, though, he kicked Adara in the shin and signaled her to drop her head down even lower. One of them getting noticed was enough. Acting as naturally as possible, Jon shifted his gaze to Uncle Benjen, giving him a small smile, too, before catching Ser Arthur's worried gaze across the table. He shrugged minutely, before attacking his stew without a word. Arthur would worry because that was what he did. There wasn't much to do at this point. What would come would surely come. Most of the Kingsguards in their presence had served Prince Rhaegar in the past, and Jon happened to know that this time around, he had grown up resembling his father a bit more than in the last life - in height and in some minor features. The presence of both Ser Arthur and Adara beside him probably didn't help. Short of him disfiguring himself, someone bound to notice the resemblances. As long as there were no proofs, though, they would suspect, but it was unlikely that they would do anything about it.

Ghost rubbed against his legs under the table, sniffing at Adara's knees and having her crouch down to give him the whole chicken on their dish. His Ghost was still a pup, but Jon had no worry that he would be cowed by any competition around the Great Hall. He used to suspect Ghost regressing alongside him and Sonagon, but the direwolf's mind was surprisingly too layered for him to know for sure. Regardless, Jon and Adara loved him to bits, and his sister made it her life's goal to spoil the pup rotten.

Their uncle Benjen descended to talk to them then, just like in the last life. He ruffled Jon's hair, marveling at his height - which had somehow dwarfed Lord Stark by a small margin already, and complimenting Adara on her beauty (even though she was still swaddled from head to toe like a Septa). Jon wondered, sometimes, if he had known about their true parentage, which would make his equal attention to both of them so much easier to explain. He probably had, Jon reminded himself of Uncle Benjen's bonding time with Ser Arthur back when they had their Great Escape. That was good, then. It would help a lot for the things he intended to do in the future.

"You will be escorting recruits to the Wall, uncle?" He asked off-handedly.

"Yes," Benjen straddled the bench in one smooth movement, "Changing your mind about the wedding and hoping to enlist?"

Jon didn't need to turn to feel Ser Arthur's snort and Adara's deadpanned look. Jon huffed out a chuckle himself, before chugging his cup of wine down:

"Oh, I hope. I was just wondering..." He lowered his voice, "Is there a Samwell Tarly in your party?"

Benjen shot him an admonishing glance:

"Indeed, the boy's father had paid handsomely for him to get to the Wall most promptly. What do you want with him? And how do you know about him in the first place?"

"I have my ways." Jon shrugged, "I know this is probably difficult to ask, but I will talk to him later tonight, and I will need your help covering for him if he accepts my proposal and changes his path instead of heading toward the Wall."

Benjen's face was a mask of dubious contemplation, his voice was a whisper as well:

"That is a lot to ask, Jon. Has Ser Arthur been putting ideas into your head lately?"

Jon wasn't as surprised that Uncle Benjen knew that they got informed about their parentage. Knowing Ser Arthur, he probably found it easier to divulge information to Benjen than to Eddard Stark. He only smiled, though, the noises around them rose another octave, effectively swallowing up any words he uttered to his uncle.

Benjen's eyes widened, his face was still troubled, but he reluctantly gave Jon a nod anyway.

Jon gave a tiny victorious smile, before returning to his supper and humming under his breath. One step at a time.

Later, he kept to Adara’s side, not giving Tyrion or Jaime a chance to ambush him. He wasn’t actually a boy, not for a lifetime already, so he didn’t see any wisdom in spreading himself thin or raising further suspicion from the Lannister brothers. Their political stances were too different, and Jon learned to refrain from bonding with people he would turn his sword on later. He suspected Jaime Lannister would try to corner Ser Arthur, yet Jon was quite confident that his sworn knight possessed enough nastiness to make the Lannister cry.

Instead, he retired to his chamber early and went looking for Sam. Sam was…precious in the way that few men were. He had been consistent, too, in his last life. He had been consistently cowardly, consistently loyal (to Jon at least), consistently astute, and consistently ingenious on the strangest of occasions. Jon decided that he needed him, though not at the Wall, definitely not at the Wall. So he needed to strike now, when Sam's desperation was near its peak, so that even without the bond of time and blood between them, he would still be able to count on Sam's dedication. Now and in the future.

Sam was holed up alongside other recruits in one of the seedy establishments at the edge of Winterfell. A part of Jon felt sullied at having to wade down to a place so similar to brothels. There was no helping it, though, the castle was full to the brim with the king’s party already, and the very thought of putting highborn lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms in the same breathing space with criminals and rapists was ludicrous. He was able to get Sam alone, and the fat boy was so terrified he kept stuttering and half crying into his hands.

“Peace, Samwell Tarly. I only wish to talk.” Jon had to coax, raising his hands up to show that he was unarmed.

Finally, Sam calmed down enough for Jon to introduce himself and go through the short series of pleasantries to lower Sam’s guard. He was nervous and a bit doubtful as to Jon’s presence. Why would Lord Stark’s bastard go looking for him?

Jon broached the subject before he could work himself into another frenzy:

“What do you think of leaving for the Citadel?”

Sam blanched, then choked:

“My father… the Night’s Watch…”

Jon waved his hand dismissively:

“I know what your lord father wants, but you are in the North now, under the jurisdiction of Lord Stark and it wouldn’t be that hard a task for the lord to issue an excuse or two to save you from that fate and send you to the Citadel.” He gave Sam a serious stare, “But that also means you should be ready to cut ties with your family. Are you ready to do that?”

Sam gulped:

“I already am. My father did not give me the choice… But I don’t have the coins to travel there and sign up.”

“I can pull some strings, that much is uncomplicated. The important question is whether you want to do this or not.”

Sam still sported that bewildered look, he shrugged helplessly:

“Of course, but why do so much for me? Do you know me from somewhere?”

Yes, indeed Jon had known him, but that wasn’t something Jon could explain to Sam. So he only gave Sam a grim smile:

“I heard about your story in passing from my uncle Benjen. I feel like it would be a waste. Furthermore, there is something I need you to do for me in the Citadel.”

Sam looked frightened again, but Jon ignored it.

“I need your words first, that this conversation is confidential, that, and the promise to follow through with my requests without question, at least until I deem it fit to let you know. Can you promise that?”

“… What if I guess along the way?”

Jon quirked an eyebrow:

“I like your confidence, and aye, if so, good for you. But you still cannot relay your tasks or speculation to anyone else, though.”

Sam had that miserable look on his face, and Jon knew he was evaluating his own desperation. He nervously chanced a look back to the inn, where his future brothers were raucously howling and cursing inside. Sam winced at the sound of glass breaking. In the end, he nodded resolutely, grips tightening on his sleeves. Jon breathed a sigh of relief, before scooting down to whisper into Sam’s ear:

“I’m sure you will pass the maester test easily. First, I need you to look for the documented proof of marriage between Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen.” Sam’s eyes bulged out of their sockets, but Jon pushed anyway, “Second, a wedding invitation will come for you tomorrow morning. You will join and you will steal Maester Luwin's documentation of the event. Then, after you become an actual maester, I want you to duplicate it under the name of Valerion Targaryen and Daenys Targaryen.”

Well, everything was for the sake of legitimacy. Sam stared at him with bulbous eyes, he looked dazed and terrified. Jon was certain he was putting two and two together already.

Jon snapped his finger in front of Sam’s face, trying to hide amusem*nt from his voice:

“Alright there, Sam? Do you understand my requests?”

The fat boy continued to stare, silent and distressed. One second, two, then Sam fainted unceremoniously in Jon’s arms.

The next day, Jon woke to the news that Lord Stark had accepted the King's offer, and Sansa was betrothed to Joffrey the Illborn. He had to pinch himself not to laugh. It was good to know that Lady Catelyn never changed. He had to come to terms, though, that he could not save everyone, so if Lady Stark wished for Sansa to fall within the category of unsavable, well, that was entirely up to her. Jon only had two arms, two legs, two eyes, and he had priorities.

The wedding was in two days, on the precise date that Robert's hunt started in the last life, the prelude to Bran's unfortunate accident underneath that tower. Jon truly hoped that the little change in time would save Bran from the life of a cripple, but he did not put it past the Bloodraven to pull the strings of fate astray just to create his favored disciple anyway, regardless of what said disciple had to lose to become the next greenseer. Just that, and he felt anger welling up again, the rage that had driven him to mutilate the old man in his last life roiling in his stomach. No, not yet. He could not, and must not yet. One thing at a time.

He still had things to do in preparation. Even when some of those things were unsavory.

"You look pleased, Dara."

"Do I?"

She did. She was even humming as she did her needlework in his room that afternoon.

"You do. Does this have anything to do with that incident in the drawing room with Septa Mordane this morning?"

He only asked for the sake of conversation. Rumors already had it that Septa Mordane made Arya cry during their lessons. Sansa and her ilks were just watching or snickering, because they were mean like that. Adara saved the day with a needle to the Septa's eyes and deadfished threats of bodily harm unless she took back those nasty comments that made little Arya cry. The princess and her lady were scandalized, Sansa broke her tambour in fright, and Jeyne Poole crashed her stool in horror, making a greater spectacle of herself.

"Well, I might have been banned from Septa Mordaine's drawing room until further notice."

"Oh, and who will protect dear Arya when you're not there?"

She gave him a lopsided smile:

"Easy, she can just get herself kicked out as well."

"I doubt Lady Catelyn will allow her that much leeway."

Adara only shrugged, smoothing the stitches over under the light. Jon knew he should not, but he took advantage of her good mood anyway:

"Dara, I need your help."

"Of course, what is it?"

"... Don't agree so readily. You will be exploited."

She only snorted, not even deigning to look up from her stitches:

"Will you, then? Exploiting me?"

He sighed:

"Maybe. I want Dorne's goodwill."

"What?" She snapped her head up, fixing him with a disbelieving look, "Whichever names we use, whichever paths we take, Dorne will never be our ally, you know that."

Jon shrugged:

"I know. That's why I only want their goodwill, not their undying loyalty."

"How?"

"I will send them Gregor Clegane's head in a sack."

"... You make it sound so easy. What do I need to do?"

Jon stared at her, knocking his knuckles absentmindedly onto the table:

"On the wedding day, stare at Joffrey a few heartbeats more than necessary before the ceremony begins. He will be drunk during the celebration, and before the call for the bedding ceremony, you look straight at him and you smile."

Adara scowled, though interestingly enough, the expression still did not make her look any less beautiful:

"Just that?"

"Just that, then leave the rest to me."

"Sure. At least it will make our wedding day properly festive."

It was festive alright.

Everything started out great, Adara was exquisite, Jon was dignified, Ser Arthur and their two Stark uncles were holding back tears, and even the King and his family were mostly civilized. They were allowed the exception of using the reverse-coloured Stark cloak to marry. Lady Stark had probably thrown a fit, but Eddard Stark prevailed in the end. The High Sparrow did garner some attention, but he ignored both the snickers and the unkind whispers about himself and his two young charges, looking even more determined to make Jon and Adara the happiest bride and groom of the Seven Kingdoms.

The festivity only started way after the main ceremony. Guests were deep in their cups and tongues started wagging sideways. Someone at the prince's table made a joke about the bride. Jon ignored it, that joke didn't come from the person he was waiting for. But then, minutes later, the jests dissolved into rude insinuation, and that whole table laughed. Jon could feel Ser Arthur's rigid back beside him, but his hand lashed out to hold him back. Still not enough. Just a bit more. On his other side, Adara turned her head toward Joffrey Baratheon, and he could feel the heat of her smile. Pretty sure a part of the main hall went silent at that smile.

There, that table erupted again, and this time, Joffrey's drunk voice was very loud. Something something with 'whor*', something something with 'c*nt', and something that rhymes with 'silver-haired bitch'. Ser Arthur stood up faster than Robert Baratheon's outrage 'Joffrey!'. Jon was faster than the both of them. One moment, Joffrey was falling over himself, laughing at his own crude joke. The next second, a table knife had embedded itself next to his thigh, squeezing right in the middle of the prince and the Mountain hunching over next to him.

Screams erupted. Before the king would curse and punish, before the queen would screech and flail, Jon had already stood up straight, bowing courteously and asking politely:

"I would like to demand a trial by combat, Your Grace, as this matter concerns the very honor of my bride during her happiest day."

The silence stretched and many lords and knights were on their feet at his words. Robert Baratheon raised a hand to stop people from overreacting. His face was red from the booze, and his hands were tightened into fists, but Jon could see his effort in trying to keep his temper in check.

"You misheard, Snow. Sit down and enjoy your one and only wedding in peace."

Jon wasn't fazed, though:

"A trial by combat can very well determine whether my ears were clogged or someone's tongue was too loosened, Your Grace."

"Oh?" The fat king's voice had turned dangerous, the rumbles deep inside his chest were no longer intoxicated laughter, "And whose tongue are you wishing to claim, you insolent bastard?"

If it had been Jon of the last life, he would have blushed bright red in anger and humiliation, but Jon was not. So he didn't show any changes in expression, just blinked politely up at the king, before gesturing toward the Mountain:

"Ser Gregor Clegane, of course, Your Grace. Who else in that table would say such uncouth things?"

He could hear the collective exhale of breath all around him. Please, Jon wasn't so insipid as to believe the King and his retinue would sit still waiting for him to pull their little prince into this mess. They would offer a scapegoat, anyway, so why not choose for himself?

Once again, Joffrey's grating laughter rang out tauntingly:

"Oh, let him, father. Let the bastard learn how whor*born sons are treated in the South."

The king's enraged look silenced his son in one second, before he turned back to Jon and grimly nodded his assent. Both Ser Arthur and Uncle Benjen rose up behind him in protest, but Jon just raised a hand and he knew Adara would already be holding them back. He did not need to turn back to know that Lord Stark’s face was white as a sheet. He wouldn't dare saying anything, though, not about Jon, and not in front of the king. Not after Jon was the one who threw the knife first.

People scattered to make room in the middle of the hall. The Mountain lumbered forward, holding out his hand for his weapon. There was a strangled sound behind Jon, but he did not dare to take his eyes off Clegane. The monster had a reputation for stabbing people in the back. While waiting for his swords to be delivered, Jon took his time to size up his opponents.

Big, but he had fought bigger. Strong, but probably too lumbering to move as swiftly as needed. Mayhaps he didn’t need speed. His thick steel plates could endure most blows and he only needed to conserve enough strength for one blow to be the death of his opponent. Concerning, yes. But armors had their weaknesses, and Jon had killed giants before. Mammoths, too. By the later stage of his last life, even White Walkers and undead wyrms fell on his blade more often than not. It would be more of a question as to his own prowess at this stage in life. Would his fourteen years of strength be enough?

As he felt the cool touch of Dawn’s hilt in his hand, Jon chanced a quick nod toward his worried knight. He would feel more confident if he was wielding both hands, but, well, one had to make do. In front of him, Clegane took one step forward, the crowd roared in approval, and Jon smiled.

It was quick and bloody. Jon wasn’t so stupid as to trade blows with someone who could level a horse with a swing. Instead, he dodged, twisted sideways, and rotated his arms quick as lightning so that Dawn snapped back up into a circular trajectory. His blade tore the straps off the Mountain’s loose armour, cutting deep into the flesh of his arm. Gasps sounded around them, yet Clegane pushed forth as if he didn’t feel pain. The second swing was powerful enough Jon could hear the wind being split next to his ear. He wounded his blade around the Mountain’s again, using the backlash of his own strength to propel the man’s sword up, before smoothly sliding low to the ground, hooking his foot to Clegane’s ankle and using it as an axis to roll behind the man. Dawn flashed once more, quicker than most eyes could follow, and then both of the Mountain’s foot tendons were severed.

The man stumbled and was on his knees, his face betrayed just the slightest look of confusion. Then the rage came through, and Jon had to roll away from the vicious downward blow toward his head. The crowd was noisy, but he could not focus on anything but his monstrous opponent. Could he sever Clegane’s head from his neck? That tree trunk of a neck, tendons protruding like a diseased appendage?

Jon decided.

He slashed once more at the same wound on Clegane’s arm muscles, finally rendering that arm temporarily useless. The Mountain’s eyes gleamed and he shifted his weapon to the left arm. He still hadn't looked very worried. He needn't. Even if his arms and legs were torn off, the man only needed one blow to land. Just one, and Jon's brain would have smeared the floor of the Great Hall of Winterfell. Jon could not afford to give him that one blow.

He dodged and nearly keeled over as the Mountain threw the rest of his weight onto Jon, seeking to smother him with sheer bulk. His arms might not be working fully, but his body mass had enough strength to do a lot of damage. Before that huge weight could fully suffocate him, Jon turned so that he would meet the big man with his right shoulder, not his chest. He also relaxed his muscles, letting go of the sword being locked in an awkward position between his body and Clegane, kicking backward and using the heel of his shoe to propel the blade up to the other hand, his free hand. Even as the two of them slammed into each other, Jon was catching and twisting his sword in his left hand, before thrusting upward in one strained movement (that arm was left nearly unattended since the beginning of the fight, and he could feel cramps seizing up the muscles, yet he pushed through it). It was nearly the same moment that their bodies collided on the floor. Jon winced at the force and Dawn went clean from Clegane's chin to the top of his skull. Blood splurted everywhere, and Jon could hear ladies screaming.

He rolled away from the silent corpse of Gregor Clegane, pushing himself up and dusting his clothes off methodologically, swallowing the discomfort from the pain and the bruises of the fall.

The hall was quiet again, and some ladies had already fainted. Jon ignored everyone, though, and bowed once more to Robert Baratheon:

"Thank you, Your Grace, for the wedding gift."

At that, the fat king glared at him with bloodshot eyes, before barking a laughter so loud it rattled the glass:

"Seven Hells! You are one hell of a swordsman, bastard!"

The hall erupted into cheers, and sounds flooded back. As people clambered over themselves to congratulate Jon, he looked straight at Joffrey’s puffy face and smiled. (He counted it as a victory that no one called for the bedding ceremony after that).

The moment Jon realized that his time in Winterfell was coming to an end, he was faced with the most complicated of decisions. He wasn't sure how people usually spent their wedding night, but staying up late debating logistics probably wasn't it.

Of course, they agreed not to make an attempt for the Iron Throne now. The taking of it wouldn't be much of a challenge, with their two dragons. The holding of it, however, would be an impossibility. They needed legitimacy, of which preparations were on the way but were entirely too shaky to use just yet. They needed armies, which would come with legitimacy, and with the death of the beloved Robert Baratheon, because it or not, the fat king was a favorite of so many houses, and they couldn't even be certain if the North would stand alongside them when that pig still breathed. They needed time, too, time to plan, to rule, to threaten, and to cajole. Time which they did not have, not when the main bulk of the White Walkers were breathing down their neck from across the Wall. So yes, priority.

They would finish up most things North of the Wall first, rallying the wildlings, too, if necessary, integrating those wildlings into the Northern households, destroying the Long Night, or, at least, a part of it. Then, depending on the current political landscape, they would fly south to get their due. Adara did give him a dubious stare at his statement of integrating wildlings into Northern households. "That would turn us into savage tyrants, and you know how people quake to such a thing. Remember Dorne during the Conquest?" - "They needn't be. What if I told you I can find Lord Umber's daughters amongst the lords and ladies north of the Wall? How likely would the Greatjon oppose us then?" - "... That is one house" - “The chance will come when we will have more leverage to other houses.” - “... If you say so.”

He also considered other things that he could not talk to her about. Should he start targeting his old enemies? Paying blood money to cut the throat of Petyr Baelish? To poison the Boltons in their bed? To trigger a disease in the Riverlands and bring the Freys to their knees? He could, yet the only difference it would make was to pave the way for the unfamiliar enemies that he had no prior knowledge of. The devil he knew versus the devil he didn’t. Hmm… There was no easy choice in life, after all. Jon decided to let them be. He would prefer dancing with familiar partners. Besides, just the thought of explaining to Arthur Dayne where the money he gave him went (into the pockets of cutthroats or the House of Black and White)… Jon developed migraines just thinking about it. Oh, the delicate sensibility of a knight.

Halfway through the night, they got ready for bed and suddenly remembered that there was a consummation they had to finish. Jon sighed and Adara stared beseechingly at the ceiling before they got over themselves and got the deed over with. It was awkward at best, and hilarious at worst, and Jon was a bit ashamed of himself, because he was supposed to be the one with all the experiences. He would like to believe that he had made his sister's first time pleasant, but it was hard to feel very confident when everything was so perfunctory, and she even snorted a laugh partway through. Jon could not hold back, either, he snickered into her breasts, and the two of them dissolved into laughing fits more suitable for a nursery than a marriage bed.

It worked, somehow, still, because they were two very young, very beautiful people who already loved each other quite a lot. Probably not yet in the necessary way, but they tried to make it work. And they would try again later on and in the years to come. Jon was feeling positive, one day they would grow so used to that facet of their relationship that the true nature of the love would mean nothing. (Old habits die hard, and he had lived twice under the grace of the Old Gods - who frowned at the Valyrian customs with their squinty eyes).

(Jon remembered Ygritte and Val and Danaerys, both with guilt and resignation. None of his old lovers had made him so stressed, or so self-conscious. Granted, none of them had been his sister, and none of them had flashed him the sight of their diapers when they had been young, so the argument was mute.)

The next day, people were so pleased and so teary at their proof of union, that it was hard feeling downcast and unsettled. Ser Arthur was smiling through his tears, Uncle Benjen slapped Jon in the back with a grim but congratulatory smile, and Uncle Ned had to discreetly blow his nose to his kerchief when he thought no one was watching. Lady Stark seemed milder, too, to the both of them, and Robb greeted Jon with good-natured cheers and a wiggle of the eyebrow (ugh)... The twins shared a long look and had to pinch themselves not to laugh.

It was not an easy task to convince Lord Stark not to bring Bran along to King’s Landing. Bran was safe in this life, so far, no broken leg yet, so he was still inside the list of people coming with Eddard Stark to the Red Keep. Jon could not allow it, though. It would be hard enough trying to free two hostages once the war started (if any), he didn’t want to imagine how ecstatic the Lannisters would be if they realized that they had a male Stark to squeeze and mold into their liking when any kind of conflict occurred. So even though Jon dreaded talking with Eddard Stark so much (the memory of their last conversation in his old life flashed in his mind like a warning - so help him, if Lord Stark said even just one thing about Lyanna Stark to him…), he braced himself and knocked on the man’s solar door. The Warden of the North was arranging his documents into different stacks when Jon entered. He only spared Jon a swift glance and a small, encouraging smile as he nodded at the boy to start.

Jon did not beat around the bush, had seen no point in doing so:

“Lord Stark, I have only two requests, and though I know that I am in no position to demand anything, please understand that I only want the best for the family.”

Eddard Stark paused in his track, turning back fully and giving Jon his full attention:

“Go on.”

So Jon did.

“Your trip to King’s Landing and your stay at the Hand Tower will be treacherous. One needs not be a seer to know that the South is a land that loves us not. I request that you leave Bran behind. Starks belong to Winterfell, and he hasn’t even reasons like his sisters to prance around so far south. I would beg you to reconsider Arya as well, if I believe you will take heed, but I’m not sure you will.” He raised a hand to stop Lord Stark from interrupting, though he was mindful to keep his head down respectfully, “My second request is for you to leave the Arryn matters well alone. That smells like a can full of worms, poisonous worms, and you only have the King’s protection to rely on.”

Ned Stark looked angry now, though as usual, his was the silent anger:

“You are right. You overstep.” He brought a hand to cover his tired eyes, “Has Ser Dayne been putting ideas into you lately?”

He hurt Jon with the first few words, so Jon retaliated with a swift coldness of his own:

“He did not tell you?”

Jon already knew that his knight probably had not told Eddard Stark about their talk of parentages and treasons. The days after their fight due to Robert Baratheon’s impending arrival had not been kind to either of them. Each had worn fury like a mask on their face as they left, and Arthur had made sure not to stand close enough to Lord Stark to touch him with a ten-foot pole. There hadn’t been any chance for them to trade secrets.

If possible, that made the Lord of Winterfell even angrier, and Jon felt himself petty for feeling pleased with his thunderous expression. The more he lived, the more childish he was becoming.

“What did he tell you?”

“The usual. My mother. Adara’s mother. Things that you should have told us yourself.”

“Lower your voice, the wall has ears.”

Jon fought down the urge to bare his teeth. He did not come here to do this. He did not come here to squabble about his old grievances. It didn’t matter anymore. He had to focus, for Bran, and perhaps, for Arya, too. So he clamped his mouth shut and stood ramrod straight as he stared resolutely at Ned Stark having his existential crisis.

“So that’s it? That’s the reason for the stunt you pulled on Gregor Clegane on your wedding day?” The older man’s eyes were blazing now, but his voice was still low enough, “You wished to parade yourself as a Targaryen taking vengeance for your dead brother so much that you ignored how such treasonous actions would affect your Stark relatives? Now that you found out you have dragonblood, you don’t care at all about your Stark family anymore?”

Jon would have hit him, he dearly wished to do so. But he reminded himself that this might well be their last meeting in this life, if Lord Stark refused to take his advice to heart, and did Jon want to bid farewell with such bad blood between them? Lord Stark, who - despite all his faults - had been a father in all but blood for him all these years? So when he spoke, his voice was still neutral and composed:

“It’s always one or the other for you two, no? Ser Arthur only sees the Targaryen side, and you only wish to see Stark. One mistake and you will blame it on my other bloodline. Why don’t you both reconcile with the fact that Adara and I are both? Would any Stark have stood by and watched his wife being humiliated? Why don’t you see that both parts of me - all parts of me, really - are begging you to see sense and consider my two requests?”

Lord Stark seemed mildly chastised at that, and he struggled to calm himself before saying once more:

“Bran wishes to be a knight, he will want to squire for Ser Barristan.”

“Ser Barristan is a dog of the royal family. And the royal family includes more unsavory people than just the King. When push comes to shove, when conflicts abound, Ser Barristan would have no choice, and when the King is forced to choose between his own family and yours, what do you think he will do?”

“Don’t speak of things you know nothing of, Jon. You do not know Ser Barristan, and you surely do not know the King.”

If Jon was the type, he would have thrown his arms at the sky in frustration, but he was not, so he only gritted his teeth and swallowed a resigned sigh. He resolved not to speak anymore. In Ned Stark’s current state, Jon’s words wouldn’t strike true, no matter how much sense his argument had. So Jon bowed his head most perfunctorily, before asking for leave:

“I have said all I wish to say. I can only implore that you consider it. May I take my leave now?”

He turned, not waiting for Lord Stark’s response. When his hand was on the door, his uncle said to his back:

“I will consider the Bran situation. But regarding the matter of the late Lord Arryn, I will have to do the right thing.”

Jon wished to tell himself later that he had hesitated, but in truth, his frustration was terrible enough for him to throw the door open and leave immediately without another word.

They left Winterfell on a rainy day.

It was only three days since their wedding ceremony in the Sept, two after their union under the heart tree. Jon had contemplated the merits of staying a bit longer, to make sure that Bran could truly be saved from the fate of a cripple. But then he decided against it. He could try his best, yet he could not save everyone at every juncture of time. He could only try and hope for the best when the wheel moved once more. So he wished Uncle Ned fortune on his ride to King's Landing, drank with Robb till the morn, kissed and hugged all the rest of his siblings (not Sansa, because she spurned his embrace), then saddled the horse and rode out with Adara and Ser Arthur. Uncle Benjen had left a day ago, and Sam had ridden to White Harbor, where he would take a ship to Oldtown. The pieces of his childhood scatter into the wind as Jon braced himself for the future.

Life always starts somewhere. And his life always started across the Wall.

The Wall and its brother welcomed them with reserved politeness. They stayed a night, and Jon drank with the Lord Commander till late. In the morning, they left, secured in the knowledge that Benjen Stark would not be ranging across the Wall, not for at least four months later, that, and the knowledge that Maester Aemon would be allowed the liberation to return to Oldtown, to live the rest of his days in peace (or so was the excuse he gave the grumpy Lord Commander). The Citadel would send a replacement promptly.

They rode hard, but just till they reached Craster's Keep.

The moment they saw that pitiful sack in the distance, Jon led his horse back to a trod, worrying his knight once more that they could encounter wildlings.

"Relax, Ser Arthur. They should be worrying about encountering us."

Before Arthur Dayne could fret again, a sound boomed across the sky. They whirled toward it, seeing naught but grey sky and the thundering pressure of the wind.

"What is that sound?" Their knight asked, drawing his blade and stepping in front of the twins. Adara smiled faintly but rolled her eyes and returned to comb her mare.

The sound got louder, and closer, accompanied by a roar so deep it rumbled in the earth. Their horses neighed and stomped skittishly. The suspense was almost too much, until by the edge of the cliff, a mountain flew upward. Arthur gasped, but Jon had to commend that he did not lose his grip on the weapon.

Sonagon twisted his glorious body across the air, swooping dangerously low and staring straight at Jon on the ground. Behind him, the glittering scales of Suvion shone under the murky light of the northern sky, bringing with her the cold edge of winter. Jon gave a polite cough, before rounding away from Ser Arthur's protection range:

"We have a few someone we would like to introduce to you, Uncle Art." His hand touched the smooth nose of Sonagon, the body part bigger than his head, "My boy, Sonagon."

Pointing at Adara's dragon preening behind them, he smiled kindly:

"And that is Suvion, Adara's little girl."

For the first time in history, probably, the Sword of the Morning dropped his weapon, his eyes blown wide, his breaths coming in short quivers, and his entire body seemed not his own, muscles lax and sweats beaded at his brows. It took him several minutes to even compose himself enough to speak, and their knight had uttered such unintelligible words that Jon had to muffle a laugh. His shocked delight was contagious, and Jon found himself looking over at Adara, both of them sharing a small smile.

They made Arthur Dayne cry, and still, Jon could not find it within himself to feel bad.

Chapter 4: DAEMON I

Chapter Text

Daemon was not very pleased that he was alive again. He had not asked for it, and half a century of toiling and fighting and sacrificing for a dynasty that had imploded on itself should have been quite enough already. He should have been left well alone and dead. But he had not.

So instead, he had to suffer life again, this time spending his first years of childhood freezing his dick off across the Wall. His parents were Targaryens, which was a small mercy, because at least he knew what would be expected of a Targaryen. His parents had the looks of the Northmen woven into their Valyrian features, and his father sported brown-black hair that got braided halfway across his back. Still, they had dragons, bigger dragons than any he had ever seen in his last life and this one, and he had grown up under the wings of Balerion the Black Dread once. They also spoke in High Valyrian, though their pronunciations were something beyond atrocious.

They had a kingsguard, too, even if the man wore rags and fur instead of a white cloak. Nevertheless, his nanny energy shone through and Daemon knew for certain that only kingsguards or royal nannies could afford such dignified fretting. His parents spoke to the man in Common Tongues, making him realize that they were probably only practicing when using High Valyrian. It made him want to grow up faster to help fix their pronunciation. Currently, it was just sad.

The five of them lived together in a small Keep on the edge of the snowy field. Five, because like his father, he had a twin little sister, too. A twin sister that Daemon was prone to pretend not to exist because all she ever did was cry, and brood. Her crying wasn’t even the hale sounds of a cantankerous dragon princess, but the pitiful mewing of a herbivore being dragged into the world too early. And when she wasn’t crying, she would stay absolutely still and depressed, which made for a very non-compelling cradlemate.

The knight didn’t always stay with them. Sometimes, he would leave on one of his long adventures and return months later with news of the outside world and a lot of trinkets and letters. His father left, too, though much more sparsely. More often than not, northern savages graced their doorsteps, bowing in front of his parents and reporting one incident or another with guttural voices and requests for aid or judgment. Most of them looked much older than his parents, bigger and nastier, too. Yet they acted quite respectful (more than what he had heard about across the Wall), and they had the grace to behave appropriately toward his family with or without the presence of the dragons.

A few months later he knew why, after witnessing firsthand how his father beat up a man called the Weeper, knocking him down like dogs and nearly smashing his skull open with only a few blows (and a heavy stick, he laid into an armed man twice his size with a stick). Unlike his usual comportment, his father fought like a demon, like nothing Daemon had ever seen before. The Weeper, Rattleshirt, and a few others in the wildling horde were decent warriors, great, even. But none of them could match his father’s speed, accuracy, and uncharacteristic viciousness in duels and battles. Valerion Targaryen was six-and-ten, seven-and-ten at most, but he acted and fought like a man five times that experience. Daemon had to grudgingly admit that even he in his prime would find it difficult to get a clear victory out of his ‘father’ in this life.

One day, when Daemon was around six months old, his father returned after a one-week absence, holding a very familiar blade in his hand and sporting a grim look on his face. He should know, Dark Sister had been in his possession for four whole decades, after all. Daemon spat out his mouthful of broth, earning a clobber on the head from his mother, while his sister (Gael, because his father had a depressing sense of humor) cooed disapprovingly beside him.

“I got it from an old friend.” His father announced, sounding tired and mostly bored.

His mother narrowed her eyes at him:

“You have friends? And is this friend still alive after giving you this fine blade?”

That was when Daemon’s infant eyes finally picked out what she had noted, which was blood on his father’s sleeves and ragged fur across his back. Valerion only shrugged:

“Maybe. He’s always had the life expectancy of a co*ckroach.”

And that was that.

No one had bothered sitting Daemon down and explaining to him about the current political climate, so he had absolutely no idea why their family was holed up in this far north, why his father was the King-Beyond-The-Wall when obviously he should have sat on the Iron Throne. He had no awareness of how many Targaryens were even alive in this world, and he was definitely confused as to the whereabouts of the Targaryen blades. He knew that it was late 298 AC, so at least he was aware that two whole centuries had passed since he had been alive the last time.

In the end, Daemon had to spend his entire first year eavesdropping on his parents and Arthur Dayne (their knight) to catch enough information to draw a picture himself. It seemed the one who sat on the Iron Throne was the usurper of the Baratheon line - he should have purged Westeros of filthy Baratheons back when the Dance first started, to allow them to fester to this point was ludicrous. His parents weren't exiled, as he had previously thought, but they did enjoy the self-imposed punishment at the edge of the world because they liked playing with the undead more than maneuvering political philosophy. Rallying the wildlings under their banner was just a coincidence, as the religious leaders of those people chanced upon Sonagon (his father even sucked at lexicon, apparently) and Suvion and fell over themselves bleating out scriptures about Gods and monsters bearing a dragon's face. The wildling raiders wished to liberate their people of dumb superstitions and embarked on adorable dragon huntings. Needless to say, his parents had taken great pleasure in teaching them the proper manners toward royalties and dragons. That, and the fact that both dragons had fairly saved them several times from the clutches of White Walkers, made it unbelievably ungrateful of the wildlings not to roll over and bend the knee.

His father brought him along once, to the settlements and war camps of the wildling horde. It was an impressive sight, Daemon had to grudgingly admit. The lords and ladies of the far north looked ragged, but big, hard, and very much vicious. He could imagine a warband of twelve being able to obliterate an army of dozens with ease. There were even giant clans lumbering across the snowy fields, their mammoths snort-trumpeted huffily around each other. In the vast clearing, the more religious of the band even sculpted a rough likeness of Sonagon and Suvion, their tails winding tight against each other. Many people wore a white stone on their necks as they went about their tasks. Ghost - his father's pet direwolf - ambled languishingly amongst the tents, people stopping to let him pass and some even bowed respectfully. It was a cult at this point, and Daemon would be inclined to feel amused if he wasn't so disconcerted. He suspected that a part of his father felt the same, but he never showed much emotion on his face for Daemon to be sure. There was a reason why their small family holed up elsewhere instead of living amongst the cultists and raiders, after all.

When Daemon and Gael entered their seventh month, they got to meet more family members. Benjen Stark was a tall and wiry man, with sharp features and perceptive blue-grey eyes. He and his band of rangers seemed to be traumatized by the presence of Sonagon and Suvion as they descended in front of the porch after their hunt. Both of Daemon's parents had to reassure them of the general disinterest the dragons had on them at that exact moment. ("No worries, uncle. Sonagon only eats people when he is feeling peckish. I'm pretty sure he is not at the moment." - "...You are not comforting enough, Jon.") Though great uncle Benjen started out with smiles and congratulations, even giving Daemon and Gael a gift or two, the conversation dissolved into grave silence and passive-aggressive dissent early on. Daemon internally thanked his father for not bringing the dispute outside, his ears could only pick up proper sounds within their abode. After much arguing, Daemon's father won by default, as he resorted to shameless quibbles:

"I can most definitely get them in line, I am already doing that. They haven't raided common folks in months! I don't see any point in fighting about this anymore. It's not as if you can disown me anyway, uncle. Why not accept that I have decided on adopting wildlings and change our plans accordingly?"

Benjen looked fit to choke. He threw his arms up, swearing colorfully and storming out into the snow. Daemon's father had the sense to deflate and drop himself into his seat, tugging the bowl of soup near and digging in. Their (new) guards, two huge wildlings with white stone on their chests, snuck their heads in and inquired jovially if the king needed to blow off some steam. Valerion gave them a dismissive wave of the hand and returned to his meal. Daemon was half certain that his father only started allowing wildlings to guard their house to make a point to their visitors - great Uncle Benjen and a few of his ranger friends, not out of any pressing need to posture around or protect themselves from random dangers. They had the dragons for that.

In the end, great uncle Benjen conceded. He went in again, having hushed conversations with his nephew and niece, before promising his support and riding back to the Wall with troubled expressions and resigned frowns. Only after his band had departed far away did his mother start discussing the issue with his father in-depth.

"You strongarmed Uncle Benjen into that. But are you sure we can convince Uncle Ned and Robb? They are the ones with the largest army in the North."

" We're the one with the largest army in the North."

"Aye, an army of robbers, murderers and rapists. The hatred the North harbors for wildlings is older than that decrepit throne in King's Landing. I thought you wished for legitimacy? We will only be able to invade by force, and I'm not sure the flimsy connection between those ladies of the North and Lord Umber could prevent the whole North from rising up and sabotaging us. Styling ourselves the oppressor and the people will fight us to the last man."

His father snorted into his stew:

"They will try, of course. But that's only if we invade now ."

"What kind of timing are we waiting for?"

"Desperation." He shrugged, " We wait for Robert Baratheon to die, which is close now. The stone will start rolling then, and the time will come when the Northern lords will have no choice but to beg for our help."

Daenys Targaryen picked Gael up and started patting her back for a burp that refused to come. Her eyes widened suddenly as a realization came to her.

"If Robert Baratheon dies, it is likely that our Uncle Ned will die, too."

Contrary to Daemon's expectation, his father didn't even flinch:

"Then maybe we are waiting for that, too."

His mother had never been one to show much expression, but Daemon could feel her freeze up at those words. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before saying slowly:

"You don't mean that. Please tell me that you do not mean that."

"... I do mean that, Dara. We will only be welcomed if the North is desperate. They will never despair if Uncle Ned is alive."

Daenys Targaryen’s face looked as if it was carved from marble, but Daemon swore he could catch something in her grey eyes that shone brightly:

"I understand casualties. I am learning to understand war, Jon. But I cannot... I do not understand the need for cruelty when we can help our family."

Valerion finished his meal, and moved to pick up Daemon as he tried to pat a burp out of his son, too:

"...And yet we cannot save everyone, beloved. If I have to choose between the safety of you and our children and the futile efforts to save someone thousands of miles away, you know who I will choose."

"...We have dragons..." It was at moments like this that Daemon realized that his mother was very young, that even though they were twins, his mother was a lifetime younger than his father.

"And we can lose dragons, too, Dara. Or have you forgotten that they are vulnerable as well?"

"So we will not even try? Family members are not chess pieces."

Daemon finally burped under the hand of his father.

"Not on our board, perhaps." Then he sighed, “Adara, be real, and tell me exactly what would happen if we fly south at this moment?”

“... We can save Ned Stark.”

“And?”

“... Fine. People will welcome us with pitchforks and our reigns will crumble around us as whispers of illegitimacy and savage invaders abound.”

Valerion shrugged:

“You can see it so clearly, what makes you think that our enemies won’t do the same?”

Daenys stayed silent, looking blank. His father continued without missing a beat.

“So no, we are not flying South. Not when we are needed here to fight the White Walkers, and not when the South is not desperate enough for us to be a welcomed alternative. We will let them have a taste of Lannister first. Then they will realize that any replacement would be better than them.”

Gael burped, too, and their mother laid her down on the bed with a shuddering breath, the only indication showing her distress.

"Is politics always so dirty?"

Daemon was laid down, too, beside his sister, and he watched in silent interest as his father sighed and tucked his mother's body into his embrace. She looked tiny within the crook of his arms.

"Yes, beloved. It is. We might win if we realize that early, or we will lose if we wish to stay on the moral high ground. Acceptance that we can only try our best, and that we cannot save everyone is the very first step toward arranging our own board.” He sighed and said in a lower tone, “And besides, I have tried to warn him already, before we left. If he decides not to take heed, there’s little else we can do.”

Daenys Targaryen wounded her arms across her husband's back, quietly returning the hug. They stayed like that for a good long while, and it would have made for a wonderful picture of love, if not for Valerion casual whispers into Daenys's ear:

"And don't bother flying over to save him yourself, sister."

Daemon's head was cramped, and he rolled his body up into a precarious sitting position. Just in time, too, he could see his mother go rigid within the embrace. Only, the embrace no longer looked like an embrace, even when neither of them had moved a muscle from previous positions. His father's hold on his mother looked more like a cage.

"How are you going to make me stay then, brother?"

His mother wasn't smiling, but her blue-grey eyes sparkled with enough vindication that Daemon had to rethink his prior impression of her. She was a dragon, after all, no matter how young.

But his father was still better, and more, though. He drew back just enough to give her a sweet kiss on the lips, a small smile on his face, as if he wasn't bullying his own sister-wife with that deceptive mildness.

"You are pregnant, baby sister. You won't risk the babe after the first difficult pregnancy so close."

Daenys's eyes widened, it seemed this was news to her. Then she heaved a sigh and glared at her brother:

"... You did it on purpose."

His father had the gall to laugh:

"I did. Like I said, sweet sister, priorities."

His mother pulled back a little, stared at him with resignation, then punched him in the gut. Daemon flopped down onto his back, rolling over to slap at his carefree sister, even as his father's huff of laughter resounded inside the house.

Daemon learned to walk, to talk, to sulk, all the while his mother's belly was swelling up with a younger brother. His father often teased that he would name the third child Maegor, and his mother became increasingly more violent as the pregnancy period stretched by. At this point, Daemon was quite certain his father actually enjoyed her fists.

The first word Daemon said was 'dragon'. His second was 'Can I?'. He did feel himself a bit shameless, seeking pamperedness from someone who - by all intents and purposes - was both his descendant and three times younger than his actual age. Nevertheless, Daemon was Daemon, and he had always possessed the ego of a tanked weapon, so a tiny bit of shame was of no impediment to him.

His father didn't disappoint. He packed Daemon up like baggage, nearly tying him down to Sonagon's back, before bringing him on the ride of his life. Gael didn't join, because she seemed squeaky every time she got near the dragons. That, and the fact that his father whispered conspiratorially that they would be bringing some very nice gift back to her. They flew toward northern Thenn, further North than any Northern land on the map. Daemon was swaddled in thick clothes and Sonagon flew as low as possible to avoid making him sick, but the air was still cold enough that he wound himself up into a tight ball and hid himself deeper into his father's fur cloak.

It was during this trip that Daemon realized how bad a conversationalist his father was. His idea of a productive field trip with his son was absolute silence, and some random remarks about how he once saw a man freeze half his dick off on Sonagon's back, just because the dragon was flying a bit high above the clouds. Daemon silently thanked the Gods that his father had a sister to be betrothed to. If not, with that kind of humor and general solemnity, his father would have stayed a sad spinster till the end of his days.

They found the Cannibal at the edge of the world, frozen deep under the Shivering Sea. He only noticed him because Sonagon was in the mood for whale hunting, and one of the creatures thrashed violently enough that frozen blocks of Cannibal and bitten parts of Sea Dragons and Krakens floated back up to the water's surface from the sheer panic of the whales. Daemon was scandalized. He had not known what had become of that particular dragon after the Dance, but he had not imagined the terrible beast would flee North after all the gripes he had given Dragonstones during his days there. Between the Cannibal and Sonagon and Suvion, Daemon was arriving more and more at the conclusion that their family had been a bit dumb in trying to dig up dragons and hatch eggs so far south of the Wall. It was the trend for their lizards to go on vacations north of the Wall and hole up in some frozen waters for a few centuries.

His father, being a strange human being as he was, only asked mildly if he liked to play with the frozen block of that ugly dragon. Daemon was too stunned to speak, so he only nodded dumbly as his father directed Sonagon to swim the block of Cannibal closer to shore. The Cannibal was black and large, larger than Daemon remembered in his past, but he was only around two-thirds the size of Sonagon, and he estimated that he was probably the same size as Suvion, with a bigger build but shorter wingspan (a bit). They disembarked, and Daemon felt a bit helpless as he struggled on his tiny legs around the ice block.

Was this a coincidence? Because if so, Valerion Targaryen was a son of Lady Luck herself. To think his father would encounter three whole dragons, each one the size of Balerion minimum, after two centuries since the dragons had gone extinct... 'Luck' wouldn't have been able to explain this level of fortune. Daemon had to reconsider the way he looked at his father once again. If there were Gods (and yes, even Daemon had kneeled down in front of the Fourteen once upon a time), Valerion Targaryen had probably been favored so badly he was half divine himself.

After a while, Valerion seemed fed up with Daemon's short legs stumbling around, so he picked his tiny son up and came closer to inspect the Cannibal. His father looked unimpressed at the dragon inside the block of ice:

"It's ugly." He concluded, sparing a bit of disgust at the jagged horns on the head of the dragon (each one the size of half a human), "Still, do you want it?"

Daemon was astounded. Was he implying what he thought he was implying? Did Daemon want it? He had only ever rode Caraxes, and his dreams had always stayed with Caraxes. Beauty for him had always been red of scale, huge of form, and lean of muscles. He had never imagined himself with any other dragons and had resigned himself to no dragons at all in this second life, when he was aware enough to understand that dragons were mostly extinct already. And now, at the edge of the world, his young father was offering him a chance to take to the sky once more, if only on the back of a despised beast several times more grotesque than his winged brother of old.

Besides, would his 'want' have mattered at all? No one had ever successfully collared the Cannibal, and that had been when the Targaryen dragonlords had had the numbers and the experiences, and when the beast had been much smaller than he was now. What was his father expecting of his one-year-old son?

Daemon stared up at his father, questioningly and judging silently. Valerion Targaryen gazed back at him, a dark eyebrow quirking up:

"You just need to decide if you want it, Daemon. Leave the rest to me."

Daemon wasn't so sure things would be so clear-cut, but he had to admit that his father had that air of assuredness about him that made people trust him unconditionally. He looked back at his past and realized grudgingly that the Old King had been the only person he had ever detected this air from. Hesitantly, Daemon nodded.

Valerion gave him a small twitch of the lips, before ruffling his soft silver hair and tugging him back into his cloak.

Things were blurry after that. Blurry, and very quick. His father used a small dagger to nick at Daemon's finger, and he was so jarred at the sudden ick that he forgot to cry out in time. By the time he figured one-year-old children probably kicked up a fuss with a wound like that, the opportune moment had already passed. Valerion smeared Daemon's blood onto the ice, making it more of a drawing game with tiny dots of red blood shaping into a tiny sword on the ice. Then, he put Daemon's finger into his mouth to suck at the wound and close it with a 'pop'.

Before Daemon could express much anxiety at the whole debacle, his father had already turned away from the ice block and walked them back to a safe distance away from the two dragons. Valerion never uttered any verbal command to Sonagon, Daemon knew, but somehow the dragon always ended up doing exactly as he wanted regardless. He even suspected that they might share a mind, though the speculation was so far-fetched and bizarre that he dismissed it. This time, too, his father didn't say a thing to Sonagon, only found a covered spot and sat down with Daemon sitting on his lap and being draped over by his fur cloak.

Right at the moment they made themselves comfortable behind the boulder, Sonagon flexed his wing muscles and tore into the ice block. The sound of landslides, of mountains rumbling would only amount to so much. The energy waves were phenomenal. Even hidden behind the boulder, Valerion had to twist his entire body to cover his son from the debris. Daemon marveled at the fact that he got to witness something bigger than the Black Dread leveling a mountain - or something akin to it. I am no longer in the world of men. He thought. With the undead (he saw one, and was not impressed), the giants, the mammoths, the dragons, and the frozen ancient beasts below the sea levels... I am walking amongst myths and legends. Is this what the Age of Heroes looked like?

No, he thought. There are no heroes here. I am in the Age of Gods and Monsters. The Age of Legends.

"Close your eyes, Daemon." His father said, a hand covering his long lashes.

"...Not afraid." He mumbled. He didn't feel like missing out on this glorious scene before him.

His father was adamant, though. He covered Daemon's eyes tightly, before whispering in his ears, yet somehow drowning out the roaring sounds of the dragon behind them:

"Not that. You have to close these eyes to open the other ones."

That did not make any sense. But Daemon was a babe, and he could not fight against the rough palms of his father. So he closed his eyes, trying to ignore the thundering sounds around him. It was...strange, and difficult. He could not focus at first, his attention kept getting snatched back to the outside world, on his father's steady breaths and the distant crashing sound Sonagon made. Then, his father moved his hands away from his eyes, and touched his tiny chest instead, as if hinting something at him. Daemon got the hint. He focused on his own heartbeats, the fluttering sounds settled inside his mind like a lullaby.

Just when Daemon felt as if he had almost fallen asleep, something twisted inside his mind.

The presence was foreign, wild, and almost repugnant in its roiling voracity. It was large, too, and ancient, and so very…unwelcome. Daemon saw flashes of light, sniffed at another repulsive smell, and felt the cold and wetness and hunger drowning inside him. No, not him . Inside something that he was possessing.

Ah, he thought, squeezing his eyes and heart tight against the onslaught of the overbearing presence settling at the back of his mind. So this was how father controlled Sonagon without words, how mother and Suvion seemed to share a mind. Targaryens hadn't had this power the last time he had been alive, was this the blood of the Starks rushing through their veins? Of Gods and Monsters, indeed.

Daemon did not have much time to contemplate. He had almost been swallowed up by the malignant presence of the Cannibal. It was half awake now, enough to realize that its mind was invaded and its territory encroached on by a male of larger size than itself. Instead of caution (like any other creature with an ounce of self-preservation), the Cannibal latched onto its fury. It thrashed wildly at the ice around, focusing its bleary visions on the white dragon, and roaring out a torrent of red flame so hot Sonagon recoiled away. In the swift moment when the white dragon was distracted, the Cannibal honed in on Daemon's existence within its mind, and he squeezed.

Pain exploded in Daemon's temper. Distantly, he felt blood dripping down his nose and numbness spread across his limbs. Distant, because he could not return to his body quickly enough, and any effort to twist away from the violent claws of the Cannibal was futile. He could not feel himself, he could only quake in panic as the ghost of the mental cage locked him inside the beast's mind. A sparkle of terror rushed through Daemon. Death was one thing, pain was another. But this, this horror of being eaten up from the inside out was terrifying in its uncertainty.

Daemon twitched, and though most parts of him were still writhing within the cage of the Cannibal's mind, a tiny morsel of him could return to his father's side. He could only crack one eyelid open, to see his father massaging his limbs for warmth to return, his young face a mask of wrath. He looked half-crazed with worry, and seemed to be on the verge of tugging Daemon's body inside his shirt and flying over to stab the Cannibal silly. An unfamiliar warmth spread across Daemon's chest at that. When was the last time anyone had looked at him with eyes like those? Alyssa Targaryen had left him too young for any affection to take root. Baelon Targaryen had been a shell of a man after his sister-wife died, and any love he could spare his son was tainted with grief and melancholy. Both Laena and Rhaenyra had looked at him with love, but also with involuntary reliance. They could not help it, he had been too strong that last life, and he had given them no chance to either pity or be overprotective over him.

Valerion and Daenys Targaryen were hard people, but young, and loved, so they felt their responsibilities as parents more keenly. Daemon had not felt that he needed protecting, but when he actually was, well, the warm jubilation still took him by surprise.

He did not wish to disappoint his father. He did not wish for his father to regret taking him on this field trip. He did not wish for his father to blame himself for offering the lesson so early.

So he tried to move his fingers, squeezing his father's hand comfortingly, before closing his eyes again to try. He snapped his entire attention back to that part quivering inside the Cannibal. He thrashed and pushed and tore. He snapped his teeth at the Cannibal's presence just outside the bars, drawing blood and tearing into its existence. The dragon roared in pain and anger, the cage shook, then dissolved. The feeling of their consciousness churned together, bawling and howling and dealing damage, even if nothing was physical.

Fortunately for Daemon, at that moment, something truly physical happened to the Cannibal, distracting it enough for him to retaliate. It seemed Sonagon was pissed that this small strange lizard dared to posture with him, because he did not hold anything back when he snapped his jaws at the Cannibal's neck and tore the skin and flesh clear off the bone. The black beast howled in pain, flailing ineffectually (Sonagon's overwhelming size wasn't just for show), and Daemon used the momentum to hone his mind into a lance, shooting clear through the turbulent mind of the Cannibal. For one glorious moment, Daemon was not certain if the blinding pain beneath his eyelids was his own or the Cannibal's. Then he flexed his fore muscles, and the feelings of wings unfolded.

Inside the Cannibal's monstrous body, Daemon glowed triumphantly.

The initial warg was successful, though it had been so dramatic and exhausting that Daemon dreaded trying again any time soon. His father assured him that it would get better, he had found the weakness of the Cannibal, so the next time it would be much easier. He also taught Daemon to take care of the Cannibal, feeding him, bathing him, and dressing his wound. ("It will be mutual. You can only trust him not to eat your brain if he can trust you to take care of him.")

They returned with two dragons, not one, though the Cannibal flew alone and kept snapping angrily at Sonagon's tail (was that his idea of 'being playful'?), up until the bigger dragon got annoyed enough he slapped the black beast with his tail, making the smaller dragon veer south painfully and almost fall off from the sky. Sonagon led the Cannibal toward a wild herd of mammoths, and both dragons dug in with zeal. Daemon wondered if his mother would get worried when they detoured this much, but his tongue was still not developed enough to phrase the question eloquently. Nevertheless, his father understood anyway.

"She won't worry. I told her it would take a few days. We need to go pick up your sister's present, too."

And they did.

Daemon finally learned where his father took the Dark Sister from. The next day, the four of them flew west, toward a frozen river near an outcrop, where a dead weirwood tree stretched its shriveled branches down around the rocks. Burrowed into the fur cloak of his father, Daemon peaked his face out to stare interestedly at the unfamiliar ground below. They descended, clumsily in the Cannibal's case. His father had told Daemon to name the beast, but it took him quite a lot of time to think of something proper. Daemon realized halfway that his father probably didn't know that the black dragon his son claimed was the famed Cannibal of old, so he didn't understand that Daemon had already gotten used to the beast's old moniker. Daemon doubted that he could explain to his father without making him even more confused, so he gave up and just tried to dig up some names from the depth of his memories and history lessons.

As they dismounted and his father gave instructions to Sonagon to keep the Cannibal in line, Daemon toddled over and stared suspiciously at the huge roots of the tree, the blotchy darkness surrounding it. Daemon tugged at his father's cloak involuntarily. A part of him felt a strange energy surge up from below the ground, where the roots of the dead tree hung. Valerion picked him up and held him close. Though he did not say anything, Daemon could feel his heartbeats stabilize as he hugged Valerion's neck and whispered the new name he found for the Cannibal: "Aegarax, kepa. I want to name him Aegarax."

His father snorted: "You can pronounce that, and not be able to call 'mother' and 'father' normally?"

Daemon stared at him with dulled eyes, before repeating stubbornly:

"Kepa. Ao issi nykeā kepa." I won't be calling you 'father' in the Common Tongue. It's high time someone starts fixing your atrocious pronunciation.

His father only gave a small, rueful smile, before walking toward the dead weirwood tree. There was a cave hidden underneath the tree. Waiting for them at the entrance of the cave was a peculiar creature. It was very small, but it did not have the childlike form of a human. Its skin was brown and dappled with pale spots. Daemon didn't know its gender, he doubted it even had one. Its large ear twitched and its slitted eyes followed the movements of Daemon's father. After one strained second, where its head swiveled between the father and the son, the creature bowed minutely and said calmly, "King Snow. You bring the prince."

"Not to Bloodraven, no. My boy is only passing by." Valerion's grip on Daemon tightened, yet neither his expression nor his voice betrayed his agitation.

"... Indeed. The greenseer was waiting for you."

The greenseer was a dragonseed. Daemon knew that even before his father's brief introduction. Though his shell looked more or less like a blind shriveled corpse, the trademark silver hair and the gaunt, wane Targaryen features still survived. He also gave off a smell, Daemon did not know how to describe it, but it was…particular. It was something similar to all those dragonseeds Daemon had encountered during his days. He had to make a conscious effort not to sink back into his father’s cloak when he felt that intrusive gaze focused on him.

Valerion put a hand on Daemon’s forehead, moving his neck so that his son buried his head onto the crook of the father’s neck, his arm effectively shielding the child from the old man’s eyes.

“You did not tell the Children of the Forest about the incident.” His father stated calmly.

“Which one?” The Bloodraven’s voice was gravel and amused, “The one where you stabbed me between the ribs?”

His father was expressionless, almost careless:

“Don’t be dramatic. You’re fine, aren’t you?”

“Ah, didn’t you know that before pulling out your blade? Tell me, King Snow, why did you bother doing it at all, when you’re already aware that I would not die due to that?”

Valerion did not reply immediately. Daemon could feel the tension permeating his father’s body the more he parried with the Bloodraven. When he did decide to answer, his words were cold and carefully phrased:

“You looked stabbable, and I was in a particularly bad mood.”

“Thoughtless cruelty does not suit you, young King.”

“Depending on who we are talking about.”

The Bloodraven went silent at that, and all Daemon could hear was the distant sound of the forest.

“… Well, regardless, I won’t die. Not from wounds of that magnitude, so we have plenty of time to discuss your bout of madness that day. “

“Keep your discussion to yourself. I have no time for it.”

“Then why have you come to me, King Snow? Not for a familial visit, I’m sure?”

Daemon felt his father stretch out a hand toward the shriveled corpse:

“Ignorance does not suit you, either. I’m here for the eggs.”

Only later did Daemon know, from further conversations between the two older men, that the Good Queen had left behind two eggs during her flight to the Wall centuries ago. One was an egg from Silverwing, and once was a decoration piece, because that strange egg from Leng had been an unresponsive jewel for years even before Alyssanne got it into her head to give the Night’s Watch the thing. A present of goodwill, so to speak. The two eggs had been uncovered and practically stolen by Brynden Rivers during his serving time. Valerion had not rebuked the old man at the thievery, but his disapproval dripped hotly from his tongue and in each of his words. The Bloodraven (whose history would be drilled into him on their trip back) took joy in being coy and speaking in riddles. Daemon could understand how his calm, sweet father would have plunged a dagger into the greenseer’s heart. No dragons would have that much patience, even him.

In the end, after a lot of wordplay and unnecessary ripostes back and forth, the Bloodraven finally agreed to hand over the eggs. Neither of the eggs looked similar to the eggs of Daemon’s time. The egg from Leng was black, its shell hard and smooth like obsidian, with sapphire markings. It did look like a decorative jewel, Daemon had never seen any dragon eggs looking like that. The lack of scales was concerning. Silverwing's egg was milky silver in color, the scaled shell looked dull and hard, like stones more than anything that could hold a living being within. The dragonseed warned them of that, too, that like all eggs after the death of dragons, this one wouldn’t be able to hatch.

“But who knows? I also thought that all dragons were dead, and any that were sealed up North were deceased themselves. Yet, you managed to surprise me, quite spectacularly even. Mayhaps you can do miracles this time around, too.”

His father was already turning his back on the old man and walking away:

“More chess pieces for you to move around. I’m sure you are pleased.”

Daemon could still hear the unsettling, rattling sound of laughter from the Bloodraven when they ducked out of the cave beneath the dead tree.

(Father said that the two eggs were supposed to be his and Gael, but since he was proficient enough to find and tame a grown dragon on his own, he had given his unborn brother a chance to touch a dragon egg as well. He sounded proud and content, and Daemon could not help a swell of pride welling up inside his tiny chest - even though he was entirely too old to feel so delighted over such things.)

Daemon did not know what he had been expecting when he returned to their humble abode, but opening the door to ominous silence hadn't been it. The two wildling guards were still standing outside, looking grim but that was nothing new. When the pair of father and son reached the inner chamber, they encountered Ser Arthur holding a dozy Gael, his face tired and drawn. Valerion shared a look with him, and from his position in his father's arms, Daemon could see his grey pupils dilated, his nostrils flared. He could also feel the muscles on his father's arms tense up before he passed Daemon over to his knight. Ser Arthur hoisted Gael up so that he could take both children, one on each arm.

Before the door closed behind his father's back, Daemon was able to see his mother sitting unmoving on the bed, one hand holding her pregnant belly, the other crumpling a letter, her eyes dazed and cold. There were no tears, though, not until her father took her rigid form into his arms, his back hiding her soundless tears from view.

Eddard Stark was dead. Daemon remembered him from the fight his parents had a few months back, after Benjen Stark's departure. He had never even met him, but the grief his parents went through was enough for him to feel a morsel of regret for that fact. It seemed that the Warden of the North had not heeded his nephew's warning, and had zealously pursued the investigation of Jon Arryn's death. Robert Baratheon had only been dead for a week or two when Lord Stark had been executed in front of the Great Sept of Baelor. Sansa Stark was held captive in King's Landing, Arya Stark went missing amongst the roaring crowd of the capital, and Robb Stark - on his way to King's Landing - was proclaimed King in the North by the Northmen and rivermen.

"Have we missed the moment, Jon?" His mother asked deep into the night, her eyes bloodshot but her face was calm, "Robb is King now. Even if we take back King's Landing, Westeros would still be divided, and ours would be a Kingdom of Five, not Seven."

"No," His father's reply was low, and Daemon had to strain his ear to hear what was being discussed, "Not yet. Let Robb fight his war first."

"... You don't tell me anything, Jon. Our family is scattered, and our cousins are in grave danger. And still, we wait."

"Aye," Valerion said simply and tightly, "Do you think we are not in danger ourselves, sister? Do you not feel the nights getting colder, the dead getting closer? They have abandoned their guerrilla strategy, and are amassing numbers north of our camps. Before this year ends, they will launch an all-out war, or half of one, and we have to be ready for that first. No distraction down South, not yet."

"We have three dragons..."

"We would have ten and it would still be a bloody battle anyway.” Even his father got angry, it seemed, "Do you not think that they have armies of their own to match us, Adara? Do you not think they have giant wyrms and ice spiders and dead mammoths?"

He lowered his voice once more, but the frustration shone through regardless:

"Do you know what I found on my field trip with Daemon? Our boy was occupied with that ugly black dragon, but I saw dead whales and giant sharks floating in shoals in the water. How long do you think it will take the Others to be strong enough to raise them as a part of their army, Adara? I tried to burn them, but I could only burn off those on the surface. How deep do you think the water is, sweet sister? How many other beasts and monsters are lumbering or dead beneath the waves? That’s why I risked my one-year-old child to wake the ugly dragon. I shudder to think of what the dead army could do with a dragon that size. So aye, we have to deal with them, or a part of their armies first, before meddling with matters of the living. There won't be enough living humans to squabble around that throne if we allow the dead to go past the Wall."

Daenys Targaryen was quiet, and when she spoke once more, her voice was toneless and surprisingly frosty:

"Shielding the realm forever, is that it? Is that our purpose? Freezing ourselves off across the Wall, sacrificing ourselves in silence, while the rest of the world enjoys the peace and squabbles for a Throne that does not belong to them?"

"... I didn't know that my sister was such a greedy woman." Valerion's voice was just as cold and cutting.

There was a strange sound after that, and Daemon did not open his eyes, but he wondered if his mother just slapped his father:

"Not for me, you know that. We can live like beggars here, or become sellswords in the Free Cities, or travel the world without a coin in our purse, and I would not care. As long as I am with you!" Her voice hitched, "But what of our children? Shall they endure the moniker of 'bastard' just as we have? Do they have to answer to 'Snow' now? Do they need to have First Men's names, as well? Do they have to live like beggars, too?"

For the first time ever, Daemon heard the rawness and the pain in her usually airy voice:

"I would not have agreed to children, Jon, if that is the only future we can promise them. We have decided to give them life, so we must ensure that their lives will be worth living, their birthright proper. If not..." She took shuddering breaths, "Why would we be so cruel to bring them to a world that loves them not, and subject them to the same hardships we have had to endure every single day of our lives?”

T’is was a hard time, Daemon thought. His mother had not given off a weak impression. She was ruthless of mind and skillful of force. Her skills with a spear were incredible, and he had seen her open a man’s belly as swiftly as one cleansed a fish. She also fought toe to toe with two men at the same time and branded the deserters that ran past their house with a blazing fire poker, crippling them and feeding them to Suvion once she returned (furiously) from her hunt. And yet, that strong mother of his had shed tears and had felt helpless in a matter of months. Had the time become so difficult for Targaryens, that great people like his parents had to live their lives so aggrieved and forbearing?

A shift in movement, then his father’s voice sounded low and earnest (a part of Daemon blanched at that; he had been born in a time when such blatant devotion to a woman wasn’t so encouraged):

“I am asking a lot, I know. But Dara, if you love me at all, or trust me, then believe that I have a plan. It is not foolproof, no plan is ever foolproof. But it has the greatest chance of us ascending the throne with the least sacrifices, with the least amount of blood spilled, and with the least chance of backstabbing. Believe, little sister. I wish the best for our children, no less than you.”

Silence reigned once more, and Daemon cracked an eyelid open to see his parents by the fire. His mother was sitting on the chair, head between her hands, while his father was kneeling on the floor, his hands laying over his mother’s and his forehead touching hers in a soothing manner.

The image was too intimate for comfort, so Daemon turned over quietly, just in time to come face to face with the huge purple eyes of his baby sister. Both of them had inherited their grandfather’s purple eyes, and the effect was jarring on such fine bone structures. Four eyes stared at each other, then, as if she could understand his silent message, Gael blinked owlishly and slowly closed her eyes without any fuss. Daemon breathed a sigh of relief, before shutting his eyes, too.

The horde marched toward Hardhome, Daemon’s family with them. It was a defendable location, and Benjen Stark had made sure the Night’s Watch would not hinder their efforts to defend themselves against the White Walkers. It probably had something to do with the three wights Benjen requested to be shipped towards the Wall, his granduncle needed to provide proof. There might still be brothers who fought against the idea of allowing wildlings so close, and Valerion had taken steps to avoid treachery and to help Benjen ascend the Lord Commander position if push came to shove, or at least that was what his father told his mother.

“I will need to come myself.” His father said, tightening the bandage on his hand to avoid moisture making his hold on the weapon slippery.

“To the Wall?” His mother asked, eyes snapping up to him with startled worry, “Before the battle?”

“Now. I will bring Lord Commander Mormont and some of the higher-ups here to join our battle. I will need to talk to Uncle Benjen, too.”

“I thought you wished for him to become the next Lord Commander. Have you decided on sending him back to Winterfell to get Bran and Rickon instead?”

Because the North was no longer safe, and his parents had decided to bring his two young uncles to the Wall to avoid any unwanted incidents.

“No,” Valerion threw his cloak over his shoulders, “Uncle stays. I have already sent ravens to Lord Umber. I will bring Val and Dalla across the Wall. They will be tasked with Bran and Rickon’s safety. In the best scenario, our cousins will be escorted to the Wall by Val’s warband and the Lord of Last Hearth.”

“Dalla is pregnant.” Daenys looked affronted, her hands tightened on her own huge belly, “And if the best scenario does not happen?”

Valerion was insouciant. He stooped down to kiss his wife on the forehead:

“Unlikely. Ghost will be traveling with them.”

He went over to where Daemon was sitting on the fur carpet, cajoling his sister to play with their toy dragon. Gael only had the look of a Targaryen, she did not act like a dragon. She even shied away from Silverwing’s egg, looking terrified of having it near. That baffled Daemon as much as his parents, but he resolved to try to endear her to her egg. It would be such a waste.

He turned his head toward his father, letting him ruffle the fine strands of hair and kiss him on the cheek. Valerion also gave Gael a nuzzle on the temper, making her giggle:

“Take care of your muña for me, sweetlings. I’ll be back soon.”

Daemon breathed solemnly:

“Sȳz biarves, kepa.” Good luck, father.

He received a slight smile for the effort.

His father did not return on time.

Instead, the White Walkers attacked late into the night, East Watch raised a ragtag army (consisting of disgruntled brothers across the Wall and a few bands of small folk rowing pitiful boats across the bay) that ambushed them on the other side, and his mother spat out blood after consuming the soup given to her by one of the spearwives in her retinue.

Suvion roared outside with such rage that nearly tore the sky asunder from the force. She crushed a dozen men and tore tents apart in her efforts to get to Daenys Targaryen. Aegarax took it as his cue to wreak further havoc as well, and it took everything Daemon had to slip into his skin and calm him down properly. Inside the Cannibal, he was able to halt Suvion’s furious thrashing long enough for the wildlings within the vicinity to evacuate.

When he returned to his body, blood was dripping down from both his nose and his eyes, Myrtle and Ygritte had finished torturing Thistle - the spearwife that had poisoned his mother - for information and was lopping her head off with a terrible squishing sound. Osha was hugging both him and Gael away, trying to shield them from the scene of bloodshed. Gael’s face was white in terror, but she did not cry and was holding Daemon’s hand so tight he felt as if he would lose the feeling in that hand permanently. Ser Arthur was outside, alongside Mance Rayder and Rattleshirt, trying to restore order and mustering the troops to defend both fronts. The Weeper was screaming bloody murders further away and there were sounds of skirmishes happening all around the camp. He was certain Aegarax spied the Lord of Seals swinging his axes at the Magnar of Thenn, all because of some dumb arguments relating to the boats. The giants growled anxiously at the noises and herded their mammoths further into the heart of the camp, disregarding how many wildlings they were trampling on. The enemy won’t have the chance to hurt us, Daemon thought, we are doing enough damage on our own.

It was pandemonium.

It was worse.

His mother started going into labor.

Chapter 5: GAEL I

Chapter Text

Gael thought she was dreaming. She must have, because how else could the cold dank water of the Blackwater Bay spit her out into a hazy world of warm hands and the smell of timbers? It took months for her to come to terms with the fact that she had been reborn, and everything happening around her - from the sweet lullabies to the soft arms and soothing words - was reality. And even then, she could not draw up enough emotion and attention to react to the outside world. She veered between one extreme of feelings toward another, dividing her days between inconsolable weeping and unfeeling dazedness.

Most days, Gael still dreamt of her birthing chamber, of blood and pain and sweat, and of the terror as to what manner of creature would tear her womb to get out. It had been a creature born of tears and fear, of a rape so traumatic that she had no way of explaining to her lady mother or anyone else about it. Who would have believed her? Stuttering and meek and witless as she had been during those long days of pregnancy?

She had never been much of a dragon, even before the incident. A sheep, people had called her, a shadow of her glorious mother, only ever showing up in anyone's mind as a quiet decorative piece trailing after the Good Queen. She hadn't resented that, not really, because she had loved her mother, she had been raised that way, and someone who had been terrified of her own shadow should have had no right to demand attention and sympathy from anyone else. She had been forlorn, too, melancholic of a life she could not have, of a future grey enough that she should not have expected anything in the first place. Queen Alysanne had been the only focal point in her life back then, and as she waited and waited and waited only to see her nieces and nephews get married without any mentions of her own matrimony, Gael had finally realized that they had intended for her mother to be the only thing in her life, forever. That had been a fact she had resented, but even so, Gael hadn't been built for rebellions. She had not known how to protest against the choking hold of her mother on her very being, against the cold indifference of her father, against the natural dismissiveness of her siblings and nieces and nephews. So she had learned to endure instead. And endured she had.

Until the minstrel.

He hadn't even been a pretty minstrel, only a seemingly kind one, with a sad voice and weeping melodies. His songs had resounded with something deep inside Gael, and it had awakened in her all the loneliness and misery and the suffocation of a life apart, of a life where she had barely had any control, of a distant life through the film of glass. So she had cried, and had spent more coins than necessary on him, and had stuttered out some incoherent praises that she had not even remembered after leaving. Apparently, those had been enough for him to misunderstand her intentions, because later that night, when she had been taking a breather from the celebration, he had stalked after her and had pounced on her amidst the bushes and thorns of the garden. There had been no kingsguard with her, as the wedding date of Daemon drew near, and at least two of them had been deployed to keep her nephew in line and not run away from King's Landing in a flurry of rage and defiance. She had wanted to scream, and she had screamed, but the sound had been cut off by a disgusting hand in her mouth, and a filthy piece of cloth in her throat. She had wanted to fight, but her strength had been feeble and his grips had been strangling.

She had not remembered his face, not in the dark, and not amidst her tears, but the feeling of his hands and the foul smell of wine from his mouth had branded itself into her mind forever, or at least till the day she had decided to die. No one had known the details, because he had run away too fast afterward, and she had still retained enough of her dignity not to allow people to see her tattered and bloodied and tainted. She had not even been able to tell her mother, and most days she had wanted to die, and then the morning sickness had come.

She had had mixed feelings about the babe inside her. A part of her had felt the meager joy of finally having a child of her own, of liberating herself from the loneliness clinging to her like a shadow. Another part of her, though, had recoiled and had feared the tiny being growing up inside her. Would it have been a tiny version of his monstrous father? In the end, she had decided to keep it, because she had not believed she could live with herself if she had killed a child in her womb. The court had talked, her father had been incensed, and her mother had wept, but she had still been unable to tell them of the rape. She had been mostly certain that they would wish to kill the babe if they had known, and she had decided to be the one who chose, at least in this.

Then the labor had come, and the babe had been stillborn, bloodied and tiny and unbreathing in her arms. For the very first time, Gael had not wept. She had not felt anything. She had calmly waited till her mother and the last of the midwives had left, she had stood up on her still trembling legs, the phantom feel of her dead child still in her arms, and she had stumbled quietly across the dark hall - where no one had even bothered sparing a glance toward the barefooted and limping princess, and she had walked peacefully into the Blackwater Bay.

So one had to forgive her if she had spent the first few months of her new life acting like a demented corpse. She got better, though, because her new mother was kind but was not smothering in her love, because her father's smiles toward her were sweet and proud and frequent enough that she no longer doubted their sincerity, and because her twin brother - Daemon, coincidentally enough - had been patient and indulgent, even though she could detect his disapproval of her meekness and frailty. She had known a Daemon once, and that Daemon had not thought much of her, either. At the very least, this Daemon was mellow enough to give Gael a chance to get over herself and try to improve her overwhelming weaknesses.

It hadn't been much, and she still shied away from simple things like a dragon egg, but that was more of a traumatized response than any actual fright. That egg, if ignored the dead look of the scales, looked eerily reminiscent of Silverwing of old, and just the thought of hatching and riding a dragon similar to her old mother's was enough to bring Gael to the brink of hyperventilation. And what if the egg would not hatch? It would be worse, and Gael would want to die again if even her parents of this life started looking at her like a failure and talks of 'sheep amongst dragons' circulating once more.

Still, after much cajoling from Daemon, Gael had finally buckled herself up enough to hold the dragon egg within the crook of her tiny arms. She had been holding it for a few hours already, and naught had happened, so Gael's level of anxiety had been rising steadily the entire time. She was still enduring and holding the egg which smelt faintly of failure when there was a shattering sound inside her tent. She whirled around just in time to see the bowl in her mother's hands drop to the ground, her hands covering her mouth as red blood seeped out from between the fingers. Daenys Targaryen had also doubled over, painfully trying to lessen the pain from both her insides and her belly.

For one terrifying moment, Gael was thrown back to another night, another labor, another mother and babe, and her grip on the dragon egg almost loosened. Almost, because Daemon chose that moment to spring up from his sleeping position, blood dripping down from his nose, his eyes frantic and his words jumbled. He called for Ser Arthur, his tone urgent (and clear) enough that the kingsguard rushed in and followed his orders without objections. The knight barked a command for the spearwives to clean up their own mess and help Daenys through her labor. The situation seemed too grave for him to divert his attention even to her mother’s birthing bed. Daemon only had enough time to howl at Gael to stay with mother, before Ser Arthur flung him on his back and started rushing outside.

Gael had no idea how a child of one-and-a-half could help with the war effort, but considering Daemon was in possession of a dragon as large as the Black Dread, they probably found ways for him to be useful. Ser Arthur was with him, and if her experience this last year had been any indication, the knight would cut off his own arm before letting any harm come to the children of Valerion and Daenys Targaryen. So Gael turned her attention back to her mother, hugging her egg tight and bracing herself for torturous hours ahead.

It was too soon. By calculation, her baby brother should arrive in a month’s time. Instead, he was almost here now, fighting his way into life as their mother twisted from the pain of both childbirth and the poison. Gael wished she could somehow help her, the feeling of the arduous agony when squeezing a babe out was still fresh in her mind, and Gael hadn’t even been poisoned. No one allowed her near, though, and Gael was not actually a child to be persistent and get thrown out of the tent without knowing how her mother was doing.

Daenys Targaryen was in tears, and she hissed violent breaths through her nostrils, teeth grinding together and low groans escaping from tight lips. She still tried to shoot Gael an assuring smile when her glazed eyes caught her daughter’s, but her blue-grey eyes were too pained and her smile too strained for any comfort to shine through. Gael squeezed her egg and mustered a teary smile at her mother regardless. Daenys's eyes widened just a fraction before she was pulled back once more to the twists of pain in her belly.

It took hours, just as Gael had expected. All throughout, Mother Mole - the camp's main healer and the leader of the wildling cultists - and the spearwives were swarming around her mother, wiping off her sweat and blood, and transferring the basins of blood out. Gael stayed the furthest away in the corner, looking anxiously at her mother, trying not to be underfoot. No one could divide their attention and care that much about her, and it suited her just fine. There was no telling if they would whisk her away if they realized that a babe of one-and-a-half was sitting in the dark staring at her mother's distorted face and bleeding insides.

No one was looking at Gael, so Gael had the chance to look at everyone. That had always been her forte, the silent observation of everything, storing information that she barely got to use away, and knowing many things even if she had not the chance to act on them. It was because she was looking that Gael saw Myrtle taking something out of her pocket. Ygritte had left with half the warband to fight the crows in the bay, and none of the others were focusing on Myrtle. Gael's blood went cold, she remembered that back when Myrtle and Ygritte had been torturing Thistle, Myrtle had been the one who stabbed the spear clear through Thistle's throat, even though Ygritte still hadn't gotten much out of her. She remembered that Myrtle's daughter, Rowan, had been close to Thistle, and that Rowan was also present inside this birthing tent.

The best thing to do was to warn someone. Or was it? How could Gael trust any of them, except for perhaps Mother Mole? She would only wake the sleeping dog and propel things even more unpredictably. She still could not determine which object Myrtle had just pulled out, and the old woman was approaching her groaning mother right at this moment.

Gael had never been one to act. To think, yes. To regret, sometimes. To depressed, certainly. But to act, spontaneously and hazardously? She felt her limbs go cold and her skin goes clammy just thinking about it.

But that was it, wasn't it? She had no choice. Not at the moment. Or she had, if the choices were between doing something herself and watching silently as the wizened woman murdered her dear mother and her unborn brother in cold blood. And that wasn't a choice at all. Not really.

Gael threw the egg at Myrtle's head, eliciting a small hiss from the woman and the cracking sound of the egg that hurt Gael's heart, before lunging at the old woman with her small body, too. Everything happened all at once. Some midwives screamed, basins fell to the floor, Daenys's gasps resounded in the tight space, Myrtle let go of her object (which turned out to be a dagger) as Gael's teeth sank into the woman's wrist, all of her baby teeth screaming. People started honing on the dagger that fell to the floor. Some of Mother Mole's cultists immediately threw themselves in front of Daenys to protect her. The midwives fought amongst themselves, because Rowan was still there and was trying to make her way to her mother. Myrtle thrashed violently, hitting Gael on the head and trying to pry the tiny girl off from her bleeding arm. Pain bloomed in Gael's temper, she felt the slimy feeling of blood seeping through a cut on her forehead, and distantly, she could hear her mother's breathy command for people to come save her baby girl.

Still, Gael held on, with both her teeth and her limbs draping around Myrtle's legs. Something told her that letting go then would be even more detrimental to everyone, because the dagger was still in Myrtle's reach, and without Gael's hold on her, she would be free to move and draw blood much easier. The old woman spat out curses in the Old Northern tongues, and before Gael knew it, she was thrown halfway into the crackling hearth. Someone shrieked, but Gael could not focus on anything else but her own pain and the hold she had to keep on Myrtle. So she latched on even more tightly, pulling the old woman over to fall headfirst into the fireplace alongside her. There were horrifying shouts everywhere, and her egg was kicked to the fire by her side in the commotion. Gael thought she heard her mother's keening of her name and the feel of a few strange hands trying to pull her away.

Too late, though, all Gael could focus on was Myrtle's howl of pain, of her desperate grip on Gael, preventing her from moving away from the fire. She could also feel the heat, the encompassing numbness, and the confusing haze induced by pain and shock. All Gael remembered to do was to tighten her hold on the raging woman, and the reflex to ball into herself to avoid the inevitable death. Because she would die, no? She could smell death reaching its talons towards her amidst the fire, the smoke, and the smell of her own flesh burning.

This is what happens to people who don't know how to act, she thought tiredly, they react improperly and die.

Well, at the very least, her death this time around actually bore some meaning. She felt like laughing as the last thought that came to her head was Will this Daemon at least mourn her death?

She woke to her mother's warm hands on her forehead and the squeaky sounds of a tiny creature crooning around her midsection. It was a surprise, though not an entirely pleasant one. Gael had not believed herself to retain her suicidal tendencies of the last life (not that much, anyway), but her complicated feelings when realizing herself alive spoke otherwise. Nevertheless, a part of her was pleased to feel her mother's touches once more, to see her father walking through the door - winded, bloodied, and battered, but so very relieved, to feel the mild chastisem*nt as her twin brother glared at her from the other side of the bed. What didn't please her, however, was the scaled creature the size of a cat snuggling close to her body. It was, as expected, silver of scales (with thin purple markings across the wings) and delicate of form, with a long neck and dainty limbs. A female one, no doubt, and would grow up looking almost the same as Silverwing. The thought made Gael nauseated, but she did not push the dragon away, and could not muster enough spitefulness to be unkind to her.

A part of her felt that she was thrice-cursed, because it seemed any love she was to bestow would be marred by the bitter taste of dread (the image of her dead child flashing in her mind). Gael didn't have much choice but to resign herself to her fate.

It was minutes later that she realized that there was another dragon in the tent. This one was glossy black, with blue and pale grey markings on the edges of his wings. It was the strangest-looking dragon Gael had ever seen, with deep sapphire eyes and two long whiskers dropping down the sides of his snout. He was bigger than Silverwing, too, even though Daenys told her that they hatched almost at the same moment. He was also dozing off draping around a tiny cradle and a babe of silver hair (thin, almost bald, but there) and dark silvery eyes.

It seemed that while she was languishing in the flame, a babe had been born and two dragons had seen fit to hatch. Her dragon had torn her shells open with much zeal, before hopping and draping her tiny wings around as much skin of Gael as possible, tearing into Myrtle's grip and trying to save Gael from the flame. It worked, somehow, and though Gael hadn't been burned to a crisp, there were still smaller burned marks that Mother Mole had promised would go away in a matter of months. Targaryens weren't fireproof, that she knew, yet she was still alive and her own burns were fading away at an alarming rate. So perhaps she had the dragon to thank for that. (She named her Gaelithox, though she felt it prudent to keep it to herself till it wasn't so disconcerting for a child to pronounce that name so fluently).

As for the second dragon... No sooner had Maegor (she had thought her father had been joking about that name, but it seemed that he had not) gotten pulled out of her mother's womb, flailing and howling at the top of his lung, the strange dragon egg from Leng (which had been hidden well away from sight) had made a violent sound that had startled everyone. People had been even more startled, when a few seconds later, Rowan had made use of the confusion to shake herself away from her captors and flung herself at Daenys and Maegor. She had not gotten far, as a tiny ball of claws and teeth had barrelled into her, snapping his jaw at her face and tearing one eye out of its socket. If Osha's tale was to be believed, there had been a great deal of blood and flesh flying around, and Daenys Targaryen's birthing bed had been the most dramatic and violent birthing occasion she had ever attended to, and she had attended the births of giants, so that was saying a lot.

During her bedridden days, Gael had been able to listen in and get the whole picture of that terrible, fateful night. It was great pain, being a child, especially one contained within the four walls of a tent. She had spent most of her night either cowering in the corner or eating ashes from the fireplace, whereas the rest of the world had been burning.

Valerion Targaryen had been shuffling through the books in the small library of the Black Castle when ten men ambushed him with ropes and steel. They had meant to strangle him, before stabbing him with their chipped daggers. Sonagon had gone berserk during the shenanigan and torn the Lance tower off in his effort to get to his rider, yet he needn't have bothered. Gael's father had headbutted the man with the rope before it could tighten enough around his neck. He had also disarmed the traitors, stolen two of their daggers, and gutted six of them by the time Benjen Stark arrived with his own band of brothers. They came out of the vault to be met with full-blown insurgence. By the end of it, Lord Commander Mormont had been short of an arm, the leader of the rebellious lot - Janos Slynt - had been short of a head, and Ser Alliser Thorne had been short of dignity, after he kneeled down in front of Valerion, snots in his face and gushes of 'how much you resemble the Silver Prince' flowing out of his mouth. He was now one of her father's strongest supporters and had been spending most of his time having pissing contests with Rattleshirt and Ser Arthur. (It had always been a mystery to her how Rattleshirt worshipped the ground her father walked on. He didn't even cower in front of the dragons, yet he stared at Valerion Targaryen like a blind man seeing the sun for the first time. It was gross, but to each his own, she guessed.)

In Hardhome, her mother's poisoning had nearly triggered a riot, as Suvion raged through the camp and trampled on dozens of people in her panic. Aegarax had spent a few minutes enjoying the chaos with her, before Daemon had taken him into reign (somehow) and he had started restraining Suvion from squashing the rest of the camp. After that, Suvion had suddenly calmed down and took to the southern sky on her own and obliterated the crows' ragtag army from Eastwatch. She had also frozen half the Bay of Seals with her breaths, enabling Rattleshirt and the Magnar of Thenn's warband to skid along the ice and cut down the rest of the Black brothers. At the same time, Aegarax - with Ser Arthur and Daemon on his head and a warband of twenty (led by Morna Whitemask) on his back - flew north to meet with the White Walkers' army. The Weeper and Tormund Giantsbane had led one-third of their army on foot, following the wings of Aegarax. Mance Rayder had had to stay and put the rest of the camp in order, the Giants and the mammoths had yowled restlessly, but still hadn't recovered from the dragons enough to join the battle.

The battle on the ice had been quick and decisive, but the one in the forest had been bloody, she heard, and the casualties had nearly come to the thousands. Harma Dogshead had died, and so had Gerrick Kingsblood and Gavin the Trader. Ser Arthur also reported that the Night King had thrown an ice spear the size of a tree straight at Aegarax's neck, and only due to the dragon's wrathful dexterity that the thing hadn't hit true. The only reason they won with such low death counts was because her father had flown back in time. Sonagon and Aegarax had burned at least two White Walkers and three giant dead wyrms, and her father had slain one of the Others and lopped off the skull of one dead wyrm when he dismounted halfway through. The Weeper, Tormund, and a few other chieftains had also boasted headcounts of hundreds, with ice spiders, dead mammoths, and dead bears in the mix with normal wights. In the end, the Night King had decided to retreat with the rest of his retinue, three of his White Walkers galloping beside him and half of his army crawling back on his heels. Suvion joined them in the morning, helping the two male dragons dispose of the leftover corpses and transporting the wounded back to camp.

They had also been able to torture the truth out of Rowan, and had been able to round up enough traitors to make three war bands. Their reasons were not that deep. They had looked at the cultists, the dragons, and the lessened number of people praying under the heart tree and had felt uneasy. They feared the day when people would be so ensnared by the dragons that they would start burning the heart tree. They were discontent that the best of positions and the most favored of people tended to have white stones on their necks. Understandable enough, true, but unforgivable all the same. Valerion allowed them enough honor to die publicly under his blade instead of being burned alive by Sonagon. Except for Rowan, who had been the only one directly present at the birth. Daenys had requested to take care of her herself. Gael wasn't allowed to watch (obviously) but she heard from the spearwives that her mother had lopped off each of Rowan's limbs slowly and painfully, before allowing her the dignity of death by beheading.

All that, and all Gael had to show for herself was a flamboyant dragon hatchling, no hair, and ugly burned scars all across her body. Her baby brother hatched a dragon even before he could draw breath properly, so her accomplishment seemed barely of note in comparison.

Still, it was nice having Daemon looking at her with proud eyes, Valerion pinching her nose calling her his 'warrior princess' and Daenys kissing her cheeks every few minutes as if making sure that she was still alive and hale.

Her father started being called the King-on-the-Wall as much as the King-Beyond-the-Wall. By this point, Gael had half a mind to just accept her lot in life as an exiled princess across the Wall. (Daemon had no such compunction, but that was beside the point). The wildling horde marched and started occupying the castles on the Wall - with the allowance and support from the Lord Commander Mormont and his steward Benjen Stark. Her father ruled over them with an iron fist. There had been an occasion when a small warband broke off to steal women from northern villages, and her father's guards had stormed in even before the first trouser had been down. Valerion Targaryen had castrated them publicly and had force-fed them their own privates. Daemon had whined to be allowed to witness the execution afterward, but their mother had said no and that had been that. Daemon had taken to sleep that whole evening, only waking up groggily after their father had returned. Valerion also issued a decree to enlist the wildling men to patrol the Wall, by promising protection, food, and shelter for their family members. Those who didn't join the Night Watch were encouraged to help as well, though their rewards were much lesser in exchange for them keeping their rights to marry and take land. After the preaching from Mother Mole and the motivational speech from Mance Rayder and Rattleshirt, the number of people willing to join exceeded everyone's expectations.

Maegor (her father was so cruel, why was he so cruel?) ate well, slept well, and grew up generally well. So what if he was a stoic baby, who never smiled and always stared glumly at the ceiling? So what if his only expression of joy was to squeeze their fingers till they turned purple and nodded sagely with his eyes closed? So what if his favorite pastime was holding his dragon by the tail and jerking him this way or that like a ragged doll? So what if he liked biting people whenever they displeased him? Ser Arthur said that he was the duplicated version of their father when he had been a child, and neither Daemon nor Gael had been able to look at Valerion Targaryen the same from then. Maegor was also a bald baby, unlike her and Daemon, because Daenys found his shone head adorable, and he was pretty enough that neither hair nor the lack of one would make that much of a difference. Gael had to admit that Maegor was the most beautiful baby she had ever seen, and she had been acquainted with Targaryen babes for years.

Appearance notwithstanding, there was something about Maegor that made him the favorite of everyone in the family, most of all Gael's. Mayhaps it was the feral kitty-cat behavior that was so incongruous on a tiny child. Mayhaps it was the challenge he posed as everyone made it a competition to wrestle a laugh out of him (no one had won yet). Mayhaps he was the only one worth teasing in the family, since she had been a waterfall since birth and Daemon had always had an older presence than his actual age. They were boring, so to speak, whereas Maegor was not. Or mayhaps people of this generation were just vain and he was too pretty a child not to be showered with love. Either way, ever since she had Maegor around, Gael had been finding her courage much easier and dispelling her depression much swifter as days went by. She credited it to the child, whom she loved like her own, and who had reminded her daily of the fact that she would have had a babe like this, if things had gone better the last time, thus cementing her resolve to do better this time, and actually to become a great mother in the future.

The grown dragons were kept close enough for her family to monitor and control them, but the hatchlings crawled all over the places in their nursery inside the King's Tower of Castle Black. When they were big enough that it was a hassle trying to get them through the door, Daenys Targaryen made a nest on the top of the King's Tower for them to stay and play. They ate too much, all five of them, and Gael had overheard great uncle Benjen worriedly talking to her parents about that. They would have another rebellion on their hands if the food continued to be scarce and the men continued having to share their meager nutrition with monsters that ate at least ten times their fill. Her father only sighed and said that he would take care of it. Gael loved him, but she wasn't so sure if there was any way to take care of this matter.

News came and went every other day, sometimes good, sometimes bad. Not every news made its way toward Gael, who had holed up inside her nursery and kept herself busy with playing and taking care of Maegor. By Maegor's second month, her mother had gone back outside for management tasks, and for the further training of spearwives and female warriors. There were drills on Suvion's back with a female warband of her choosing. She also resumed her attendance at war councils and strategy meetings, so she barely had any time left to stay around playing with her babe and toddlers. It was up to Osha and Ygritte to take care of the children (though their father sported the strangest look on his face when he heard of this announcement), and it was up to the twins to play with Maegor and teach him to sit and crawl. Her baby brother had to drink goat's milk and nursemaid's milk to grow, but he didn't seem to mind.

Her father spent time in the nursery sometimes, though whenever he did, all other people were sent away. He started their lesson on warging, or whatever, because Gael still could not wrap her head around it after several lessons. It did something to her self-esteem (again), because Daemon took to it as a fish took to the water, and she realized some lessons ago that warging was probably what he had done during the night of Maegor's birth. That was why the three grown dragons were so docile (figure of speech, mostly, but still) to her parents and to Daemon. They were sharing a brain with their humans occasionally, no wonder. Mayhaps one day Gael would finally be able to do it, but not today. (She dreaded the day when even Maegor started doing it and she was the only sheep in the family once again.)

One day, when Maegor was around four months old, and the twins were nearly two years old, Valerion called for a family meeting inside the nursery. The only people inside the chamber were their small family of five, granduncle Benjen, and Ser Arthur. The two older men looked grim, and Daenys kept cleaning Maegor's face with a kerchief, making him fuss and kick futilely up her arms. Valerion seemed insouciant, though. He sat on the wooden chair beside Maegor's crib, shoulders relaxed against the back of the chair, his arms on the armrest, fingers laced loosely together.

"Let's do a recap of family tidings. Ser Arthur, have the ravens arrived from the South yet?"

Ser Arthur cleared his throat and delivered his report briskly and matter-of-factly:

"The War of the Five Kings is in full swing, though we discussed enough about it in the war council, so I will be focusing on family tidings."

Valerion gave a nod, and Ser Arthur continued:

"On your mother's side, Sansa is still being held in King's Landing. I heard there were some torments, though the message was brief on that point so I'm not too sure. Ser Barristan has been stripped of his White Cloak, so he won't be able to help with smuggling Sansa out of the Red Keep, but our contact assured us that he was in the prime position to bring Arya back to Robb Stark's army."

There was a gasp from both Benjen and Daenys. Her mother finally left Maegor alone and she shot a glare at her husband as Benjen questioned Valerion:

"Arya is safe? Why did you not tell me that we have people in King's Landing protecting her?"

"I am telling you now. Questions can be discussed later. Ser Arthur, continue."

So the knight cleared his throat and continued:

"Our...contact in King's Landing had been harboring Arya in a safehouse the last few months, and she is on the move now, with Ser Barristan escorting her to her brother."

"Our contact," Daenys snorted, "The Spider is working with us then?"

"Amongst some of his prospects, aye. I'm pretty sure he is working with three-four other sides, but at the very least, he kept our secrets in front of the Lannisters." Valerion answered dispassionately.

"What of Ser Barristan? How did it come to be?" Granduncle Benjen asked.

Ser Arthur was the one who responded:

"He recognized his Grace at Winterfell, and then we talked. He has been... hm... assisting us ever since, though not outwardly, his position was a bit precarious for that."

Benjen nodded and Ser Arthur resumed his report:

"Greyjoy betrayed Robb Stark and assaulted Winterfell. Brandon Stark and Rickon Stark have been able to get away with Lord Umber's small party and his two daughters beforehand. There are two children from the Greywater Watch with them. The party arrived at Mole's Town yesterday."

Granduncle Benjen stood up, looking thunderous, and Daenys accidentally nipped her finger with the needle in her hand:

"They have arrived? Why didn't you say so? We need to..."

"Escort them on dragonback to Castle Black, aye. Talk to them, see to their wounds, aye." Valerion sounded tired, "I know all that, and we will do that in an hour's time. They are resting now, and their detour to Last Hearth has not yielded the result the Greatjon wanted, so he is in a mood. We will have to tread carefully with this. Adara, can you join me later?"

"... Because two dragons are better for the heart than just one?"

He quirked a smile, the first one Gael had been able to glimpse since the start of this meeting:

"Yes. And I want to transport all of them back in one go. Lord Umber has a small party with them."

"All right," Benjen asked, "What of Robb, Ser Arthur? And Sansa, you skipped her awfully quick?"

The kingsguard made a face:

"Robb is fine, or as fine as someone who set fire to his own arse is. Don't give me that look, I'm not the one falling into bed with a girl from a minor house in Westerland when there is a Frey bride waiting for me."

Granduncle looked murderous, and Daemon threw a pillow at her head so that she could scoot over and allow him the best seat for all the drama. Gael glared at him (her best, she was learning to glare properly lately), threw it back, but still scooted over for him to squeeze in (She was such a pushover it wasn't even funny anymore). Before Benjen could blow up, though, Valerion absentmindedly knocked a fist onto the armrest. It was a soft sound, almost an unthinking tick, but everyone in the room turned to him. He only said calmly, as if people weren't almost coming at each other's throat:

"Focus. We are discussing the family tidings. No need for that sass now, Ser Arthur. His choice is not for us to question."

Ser Arthur did look properly chastised:

"Understood, Your Grace." He cleared his throat and continued, "But Robb Stark is not in the best position. His bannermen are restless. With the Lord Umber gone, he is missing the staunch support in his war councils. The Karstarks are still whining about the Kingslayer's sentences. We hope that Ser Barristan and Lady Arya arrive on time for them to be able to do something about that one. The Boltons are displeased at the prolonged battles in the Riverlands. They wished to return to the North and defend their actual lands instead of losing blood over lands so far south and so difficult to hold... This happens to be the general consensus of the Northern Lords at the moment."

Her father closed his eyes and took in a breath so deep it seemed as if he aged several years with it.

"What of Lady Catelyn? What is her take on all of these?"

Ser Arthur made another face, one which died as Valerion’s warning glare leveled on him.

“The fishwife is, as usual, harping. She rages about her missing daughters. She cries because her son made a dumb mistake due to a lowly woman. She curses at you for sending that letter and taking both Lord Umber and her two other sons away.”

Daenys’s eyes flashed dangerously at that, but she kept her peace and held on to her needlework even tighter.

“… and?”

Her father was amazing. He didn’t even blink. Even though Gael pretty much gleaned that it had been his letter that saved Brandon and Rickon Stark. They wouldn’t have survived Greyjoys otherwise.

“She’s also been having nightmares and saying nonsensical things about shadow assassins… She’s been like that since her parley with Renly Baratheon.”

Silence reigned after that, and when Valerion spoke, he sounded half impressed and half appalled:

“… First, I am distressed that your contact is informed enough to know when Lady Stark has nightmares. Second, submit a detailed report later on those allegations of shadow assassins. I would like to have a look.”

“Aye, your Grace.”

“Sansa? Jon, Adara, I know you two have never been close to her, but Sansa…”

“We know, uncle.” Daenys placated, “But you can see that she is not in the best position for us to attempt anything. With the Spider there, she would be marginally safe. We will try to rescue her as soon as possible.”

“No,” this was Valerion. He was closing his eyes once more and drumming his fingers on the armrest, “She might be in danger sooner than we thought. Margaery Tyrell will be riding to King’s Landing as we speak.”

That made everyone in the room straighten up.

“The Tyrells intend to side with the Lannisters?” Daenys asked, her face blank but her worry was palpable.

Valerion straightened up from his seat, too.

“We need to intercept her. Send word to the House of Black and White. We need her bedridden at least till we can fix Robb’s matrimonial situation.”

“You want to offer Robb to her?” Benjen was incredulous, valiantly ignoring his nephew discussing poison as if it was an everyday topic of conversation, “He is already married. What’s of his wife?”

“Jeyne Westerling won’t live past this year. I can promise you that. And it won’t even be by our hands.”

Benjen Stark still looked troubled:

“That is the most dishonorable thing I’ve ever…”

Valerion cut him off decisively:

“If I have to choose between the life of that Westerling woman and Robb’s, I don’t care if it is dishonorable. Robb needs to marry a woman who can give him an army. Trust me, Lady Stark will agree with me on this. Send a raven to her, too.”

“You will encourage her to kill her gooddaughter?” Greatuncle Benjen was aghast.

“No. I just told you that she won’t die by our hands, no? Just… we need to let Lady Stark know so that she can be prepared for what comes next.”

Benjen still seemed stricken, but he tried to nod and took a step out of the door.

“I’m not finished yet.” Ser Arthur cut in, “Their Graces have more than one family, in case you have forgotten.”

At that, all the adults settled down again, and Ser Arthur continued:

“Your aunt, Daenerys Targaryen has hatched three dragons.”

“Old news. We are informed of that half a year ago, around the same time we learned of Lord Stark’s death.”

“An update, then. It seemed her dragons had grown, she had arrived at Astapor…”

“And?” Gael’s father seemed to be losing interest fast.

Ser Arthur’s next words came out rushed and wincing:

“And she sent you a letter a few months back. Said letter only arrived yesterday.”

“Many things arrived yesterday, apparently.” Daenys Targaryen grumbled dispassionately under her breath.

Valerion shot her an amused look, before shrugging:

“I’m not surprised. The Spider has probably intercepted it.”

Ser Arthur handed him the letter:

“You are fine with it, Your Grace?”

“Well, I can rage and howl, but in the end, the value of the Spider might be greater than that of my aunt at this moment. She survived months without us, and she’s about to get one of the most elite armies in the world. I’m sure she doesn’t need us.”

(That, and probably the fact that his sister-wife was already vibrating with discomfort at the thought of competition. Gael wasn’t that good with politics, but she was decent enough with women’s emotions.)

Both Ser Arthur and Benjen Stark were staring at Valerion strangely after that. They even gave each other a quiet look, as if any disagreement from before had been lost and gone.

“If I may, Your Grace…” Ser Arthur started hesitantly, “The Princess has three dragons.”

Gael could feel Daemon rolling his eyes beside her. She had to stifle a laugh at that. Their parents seemed to be of a similar mindset, because they exchanged an amused glance, then said:

“We have five, as you know. Three adults and two hatchlings.”

Benjen Stark cleared his throat:

“Her three little dragons will grow up, too.”

“… aye. Though they won’t be a problem if that’s what you are alluding to.” Daenys replied calmly.

Valerion sighed and kneaded at the side of his nose:

“Uncle, Ser Arthur, where do I sit when I ride Sonagon?”

“On his forehead?”

“Precisely. And why would I, or Adara, or later Daemon, sit in such a precarious place when our dragons have backs as large as the deck of a warship?”

“… because your dragons were too big, their necks block everything from sight and you cannot see in front if you sit lower than their heads.”

“… There you have it,” This time, it was Daenys who answered, “And it took each of them at least three hundred to four hundred years of living to balloon into that size.”

“So rest assured,” Valerion added seamlessly, “Till the day Daenerys dies, the biggest of her three dragons will only be one-fifth of Suvion’s size. So they pose no danger to us, not really. If I am to write back to her, and I believe I will, it’ll be because of our familial bond, and because it is disgusting to ignore a connecting effort from our own blood blatantly. But aside from that,” he huffed a sigh, “She has her life and we have ours. We cannot afford to divide our forces to go to her.”

“If you are that worried about our beasts, uncles, we should start researching giant weapons and dragonbane to keep them safe. I heard that there are poisons that can deal painful deaths to the dragons.”

“No need,” Valerion shrugged at his sister, “Granduncle Aemon has already been researching it, both at this library and in the Citadel. He’s even concocting remedies for it. It hasn't been tested on real dragons before, though, and I dearly hope the day will not come for that to go into use.”

Daenys blinked at him:

“Have I ever told you how attractive you are when you act all-knowing?”

“… I’m pretty sure you are being sarcastic but I’ll take it as a compliment anyway. My ego’s delicate.”

Benjen cleared his throat and everyone turned to look at him shaking his head ruefully and Ser Arthur rolling his eyes:

“Focus, people, since we are speaking of the Citadel... Lately, well, around half a year now, there have been whispers from the Citadel of a lost Prince and Princess of the Targaryen line up North. For some reason, even a part of the Church of Seven has been flaming the rumors, and people have been so sure that said prince and princess are legitimate, married, and have the greatest causes behind them. The smallfolks of King’s Landing are even singing rhythms about their Promised Princeling in the street. Is there anything I haven’t been informed of yet? Your Graces?”

Daenys Targaryen blanched at that, but her father only smiled:

“Well, like I said, it is very important to choose the right friends to associate with. And the right septon for one’s wedding.”

Benjen Stark’s eyes bulged from their sockets:

“This is the doing of Samwell Tarly?”

“And that tattered old septon?” Even Ser Arthur was surprised.

Valerion only shrugged:

“Oh, you would be surprised at what those two can do. And aye, Samwell Tarly and the High Sparrow. Have your little birds told you yet that the High Sparrow is about to become the High Septon?”

The knight choked on his own startled laugh.

Brandon Stark and Rickon Stark were not as impressive as their adults had hyped them up to believe. They came to nursery to stare at Gael, Daemon, and Maegor in the early morning, probably after they had had a long, depressing heart-to-heart with the twins’ parents, because their eyes were puffy and ‘Uncle Rickon’ had a pout big enough to hang a teapot. He also took to prod Maegor in the cheek and snickered when the babe squirmed. Gael had half a mind to walk over and kick him in the shin (she had just learned how to do that recently, after Daemon had painstakingly demonstrated several times), but she refrained because Uncle Bran was holding both Daemon and Gael in his embrace, sniffing at their hair, and… was he leaving snots in their hair?

Gael whirled around to give him a disappointing stare (this one she didn’t have to learn), in case he did snort all over her fine silver strands, only to be met with red eyes and big fat tears running down his face. She froze. Uncle Bran looked to be ten years old, but he only seemed older because Uncle Rickon was half a babe and was so carefree. Gael remembered how he had lost a father and a home within a few months. She also remembered that he was only ten. What had she been doing when she had been ten the first time? Sitting on her mother’s lap and picking at her needlework, most likely.

Gael didn’t think, she just moved. Her fingers touched the tears that were falling down on the side of Bran’s cheek, making him stare at her in wonder. Then, as she looked into his lost blue eyes, Gael twitched her lips into a small smile.

One second, two, when the ten-year-old and the almost-three-year-old just stared at each other. Just when Gael started feeling stupid and wondered if she should look down, Bran smiled back.

Chapter 6: JON III

Chapter Text

Valerion felt exhausted most days. It tired him to remind himself he was a Valerion instead of a Jon. It tired him to plot and posture and politick from morning to midnight. It tired him to dwell into his mind for old occurrences, of things that would not come to pass, and of picking and choosing who to save and who to leave. It tired him having to explain to Uncle Benjen, to Ser Arthur, to Bran and Rickon, and yes, sometimes to Adara - Daenys, too, and having them stare at him like he was a stranger, or a monster. (His sister used to never question him, but motherhood became her, and most days, she was more present than not. Valerian just wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or a bad one.) It tired him to change his plan as this future changed from his own. It tired him to ignore the surge of self-loathing welling up inside him every time a family member or an ex-lover had to be sacrificed for the greater good. (Well, not the greater good, more like for the good of those whom he deemed more important. I cannot save everyone. He had to remind himself of those words every day. So yes, priorities.) It tired him to walk among the adulation of the wildlings, knowing well how easily such zealotry could turn against him if he so much as showed a tiny weakness. It tired him to act as a mythical tyrant to the Lords and Ladies of the North (the real North, not the tattered band he had across the Wall). He had only Greatjon Umber and his knights to humor so far, and still, it sapped at his energy and spirit. It tired him to reign in Sonagon's hunger and restlessness, too, every day became a battle where Valerion had to think of some violence or adventures to keep the dragon sated. The dragon loved him, but only so much, and not at all when boredom or hunger took him. Sonagon was the uncrowned leader of their flight of dragons, so Sonagon had to be content for the rest to not kick up a fuss and distress Dara and his children.

The only thing that didn't tire him was his family, his small one, with his grumpy little sister-wife and his three precocious children. That was unfair, he knew, because he had much more than one tiny family, but on certain days, he felt as if he could give the world and sacrifice the rest of his other families, if it meant Daenys and the children could be safe. Then he sprang awake and felt disgusted with himself for entertaining such thoughts. He had grown selfish, he thought, too selfish. The years spent alone in self-imposed exile in the Lands of Always Winter in his last life had made him a creature that operated on cold calculation instead of love and honor. Eddard Stark would curse if he saw Valerion now, and a part of Valerion wished that he was alive to clout his nephew silly for the degeneration he had willingly descended into. But he was not, and Valerion had not played a small part in it. No, he could not think of this. He refused to think of this. I cannot save everyone. He whispered the mantra in his mind once more, hollow and meaningless now that he had passed the point of no return for ages.

He welcomed Bran and Rickon with more tears and blood than the unconditional warmth he had dreamed of. Bran - ten summers and tiny tiny Bran - had come up to him, hugged him, and punched him in the gut as he hiccupped through tears:

"You have dragons, and you let father die in the South."

The punch probably hurt Bran more than it hurt Valerion, and still, his guards (Sigorn of Thenn and Torreg Tormundsson) brandished their steels threateningly anyway. He waved them off, catching Lord Umber sheathing his blades at the corner of his eyes, too.

He tried to give Bran the explanation he had given Daenys and Uncle Benjen, but the words bounced soundlessly off of the boy. Bran was not Daenys, who loved him, who had children to protect, and who possessed the same pragmatic protectiveness that all mothers had. Bran was not Benjen Stark, either, who understood the casualties of war and who believed that Jon had no idea what was going on down South, not in time, at least. Bran should not know even that much, but he was a child, the Bloodraven had yet to sink his claws into him, and children were known to be crueler and more perceptive than any adults.

Valerion could not subject himself to humiliation, not in front of Lord Umber and not in front of his wildlings. He could not bring the boys to a more private setting, either, because the Greatjon would foam at the mouth if he tried, and he would not risk the unsavory rumor of blackmailing and bullying his kid cousins to go around. So he explained only once, before clamping his mouth shut, sighing through his nose, and commanding his men to bring the two to meet with Daenys and the children.

His talk with Lord Umber went about as well as he had expected. The Greatjon made a valiant effort of trying to be civil, but he ended up emitting a mixture of great suspicion and frustrated resignation. He knew that he was in Valerion's debt, finding and protecting and sending back his daughters to him. However, he was also a loyal man and could not reconcile with the idea of turning his cloak, even for the reunion with his daughters. He worried that Valerion would be a danger to Robb and the other Stark children, and it was clear where Bran had found the resentment for Valerion and his inaction when it came to his father's death. He could blame neither of them, though, because, at the gist of things, he didn't think their suspicions were wrong.

In the end, Valerion affirmed that he wished no harm to come for any of the Stark children. He also supported his affirmation by (pointedly) reminding Lord Umber that he had not marched South after two whole years because he wanted no part in the war for the throne. He would stay here, on the Wall and Beyond the Wall, to fight the Battle for the Dawn instead. (Unless people started begging for his involvement in the South, in which case, well, he would have no choice. But he didn't explicitly tell the Greatjon that.) Headstrong as the Lord was, even he had to realize that that was the reason why Valerion hadn't flown Sonagon south the moment he heard of Lord Stark's impediment. The dragons either got involved fully and destroyed all related people, or the dragons would not get involved with anyone or any cause, none at all. All or nothing. Such was the nature of dragons. It was hard to pull a half-measure on things with a dragon, and definitely not with a whole flight of dragons.

Lord Umber left the meeting feeling more troubled than when he joined, but Valerion had a feeling that he would soon arrive at the correct conclusion on his own.

He did, after a few weeks (and after getting acquainted with the wight Lord Commander Mormont’s rangers caught on an expedition), though Valerion wouldn't say that he much enjoyed the pissing contests between the Greatjon and Tormund Giantsbane.

Lady Cately Stark sent a letter, in which she gave Valerion an off-handed compliment on the swiftness in deterring the Tyrells from joining forces with the Lannisters, an awkward 'thank you' on the delivery of Arya back to her, and also some particularly cruel words on how shameless Valerion was, taking the Greatjon away from Robb when he needed his hypeman the most, as well as the insinuation that Valerion was a dick for not helping Sansa home as well, when he obviously could have. Valerion ignored her. (And that was character development if he had ever known one, because, in Jon’s last life, he had not even been able to take a piss publicly without worrying how his stepmother would judge him about it.)

He wondered if Robb had checked the content of the letter before letting it be sent. He wondered if his brother also hated him now. (He wouldn't blame him if he did.)

Valerion sent a letter letting Robb and Lady Stark know that Bran and Rickon were with him. He hadn't received any response yet, but he was pretty certain he wouldn't be receiving anything now, not when it was likely there were traitors in Robb's camp who would intercept the letters.

Lord Umber joined their family for supper often, the lord's presence lessened Bran's frostiness toward Valerion, so he was grateful for that. His children didn't seem very fond of their uncles, treating Bran and Rickon the same way they were treating their father. In most of the supper, Valerion and Daenys ended up talking with the Greatjon instead:

"Tell me, Lord Umber. What do people say about our dragons?" His sister asked, dredging up some polite interest.

"Do they say anything at all? Or do they believe that it's only tall tales and laugh in inns about it?" Valerion added, hiding a smile of his own.

"Unfortunately," the Greatjon snorted into his meal, "You know us well. Without seeing it ourselves, even Northmen are laughing about 'snarks and grumpkins' whenever we hear about the dragons or the White Walkers. I can only imagine how good a laugh the Southron lords and ladies have had when hearing of such legends."

Daenys seemed amused at that, much like Valerion. He wondered mildly if she was planning on torching any castle for the sake of authenticity in the coming days. He squeezed her hand under the table, giving her a warning look. They would have the chance, and soon enough.

"What would happen, Your Graces," Lord Umber made the honorifics sound awkward, but at least he was trying now, "if you two fly your dragons to the Riverlands and help your cousin Robb right at this moment?"

He knew why he asked. The Greatjon had been here long enough to know that the disappearance of two dragons amidst them for less than a week was not a problem. Lord Umber's friends and family were still fighting in the South, so of course he felt it prudent to ask for help.

"Let’s see…” Jon wasn’t looking up at him, opting to chew slowly and focus on his own meal, “What do you say is the main goal of the Northern coalition in this War? Winning battles? Cementing the independence of the North and the Riverlands from the Seven Kingdoms?” He chuckled at Lord Umber’s sounds of distress, “No? Obviously. The War started because Ned Stark was killed, and even if we say that we didn’t do it for revenge, would our enemies believe us? Bad blood spawns bad blood. They don’t trust us, we don’t trust them, and blood that has already been spilled cannot be taken back.” He put his fork down and looked Greatjon Umber in the eyes, “So the War will end when one side is decimated, my Lord. If I join, the War will end when I torch the Red Keep and end the Lannister’s line, or something along those lines.”

He gave the man a polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“No half measures, my lord. Even if we wish to, the rest of the world will not allow us to, or expect us to. Dragons aren’t weapons that can be used in moderation. So either we don't do anything, or we will do everything. If so, do you believe that Robb can keep his Crown, and that our relationship will remain the same? Distrust, once sown, will never disappear. And I care for Robb too much to put him into that agonizing position. As long as his life is not in danger, I will not fly South and risk the status quo.”

Bran didn't look up from his stew, and the Greatjon made to protest, but Daenys continued his line of thought, calmly and smoothly:

"And even if we do fly south, Lord Umber, will you fly with us?" The stunned silence afterward spoke volumes, "You, the Kingmaker who has proclaimed Robb King in the North?"

Because that would definitely send a message, whether the Greatjon believed it or not.

So the big lord subsided, tightening his jaws and snapping his mouth shut. Bran cut in:

" I will fly with you, though. Will that be enough?"

Valerion wondered if Bran truly understood what they were talking about, but he replied anyway:

"Not really, no. It only serves to divide the royalties of the North, and give me the worse reputation of manipulating or manhandling my kid cousins."

Daenys turned to the Lord Umber, smiling in that eerie way of hers:

"See. So, my lord, we can fly south, but only when you fly with us. And not a day earlier."

(He loved that she got it now, and he could finally stop explaining himself to one person, at the very least.)

The night before the Red Wedding (nearly one year late, because at least Ned Stark had heeded Jon’s enough to be slow and careful about his investigation), Valerion went to sleep early. Very early. He started falling into bed in the evening, politely asking his sister-wife to join him. Daenys gave him a look, but she obeyed anyway.

He woke three hours after midnight, kissing Daenys on the forehead to pull her awake. She was groggy, but her blue-grey eyes were clear and knowing as she looked into his. They dressed in leathers and furs, donning the black and red cloak that his sister-wife had painstakingly made during her pregnancy. They called for the dragons, for their warbands on dragon back, and as everyone geared up excitedly on the top of the King's Tower, Valerion extended his hand toward Lord Greatjon Umber, who stumbled untidily out of the entrance door, hand clutching the letter Varys had sent Velarion warning of a plot in the Frey wedding feast:

"We want to fly now, my Lord. Will you come with us?"

The Greatjon's eyes were bewildered for one moment, the moonlight shone a ghastly white color on his dark irises. Valerion could almost pinpoint the passing shadow of shame and grief across his face. In the end, though, Lord Umber tightened his hold on the letter, kneeled respectfully, and took the Targaryen's hand.

As Sonagon and Suvion stretched their wings across the night sky, Valerion could catch a glimpse of Bran standing next to the windowsill of the nursery, Maegor in his arms and the twins crowding around his legs. My brother, the nanny. That was his last thought as a smile twitched on his lips and he turned toward the South, where the war would soon begin.

They terrorized the North as, for the first time in two hundred years, dragons were seen across the sky of Westeros. Sonagon's and Suvion's shadows fell on the scattering fields and houses of the north, lengthening as they passed the castles and towers of minor lords and knights. Below, they could hear the screams and shouts as the smallfolks scurried away to hide from the gigantic monsters above.

When they arrived at the Twins, they did not land. Instead, they had been steadily gaining height from miles away. By the time they reached their destination, both dragons were hidden by the clouds and a few of their men had fallen off along the way. Valerion closed his eyes and slipped seamlessly into Sonagon's skin. The dragon's sense of hearing was incredible. He could hear the distant clamoring of weapons below, the drunken laughter, 'The Rains of Castermere' still being hummed among the stragglers, and the confused protests of Lord Umber behind him. He didn't need to turn back to know that the 'thud' sound he heard was Val knocking him unconscious. Val had been dying to do that to her noisy father for months, he had known that, too. (She hadn't changed much from his last life, apparently.)

Inside Sonagon, Valerion took a deep breath, before plunging headfirst onto the twin castles. He got close enough that he could hear the horrified screams of both the denizens in the castles and of his raiders behind him. Just before Sonagon’s head hit the towers, though, he swiveled archly back up, laughing under his breath as he slammed back into his body. The dragon shook his head with an annoyed huff, before opening his jaws wide and spitting out a glorious torrent of white fire.

The effect was instantaneous and cataclysmic. One of the castles exploded under the extreme heat. Behind him, he could hear Suvion demolishing the other tower. They made quick work of the structures, the joy of the dragons could be felt even without the warging bonds. Below, people were running and screaming and hiding and roaring in pain. The sounds edged them on even more, and Valerion could feel the daunting task of reigning the beasts in later. It was so difficult to manage a dragon. It was always a thin line between open carnages and not too much.

By the time they were sated and started landing awkwardly on the tiny hill (it was entirely too small for the both of them), Valerion doubted there were enough people alive to muster up an attack force from the castles. They dismounted quickly and fixed their weapons before going in for the death counts. Lord Umber was finally awake and was staring at the destruction in front of him with anger and horror in his eyes. Before he could attempt some stupidity like attacking either Valerion or Daenys, though, there was a rustling sound from the lines of trees before them. Then, to everyone's astonishment, Ghost and Rattleshirt ambled out, tattered and bloodied, but vindictive, as the men behind them escorted out a confused Lady Catelyn, a feral Arya Stark, a thunderstruck Ser Barristan the Bold, and a dazed, stumbling Robb Stark. Behind them was Halleck and his warband, also looking worse for wear, but mostly whole. They were stringing along three gagged and tied-up Karstarks, whose eyes were all red-rimmed and blown wide with terror at the sight of the twins and the dragons. There were a few lords, too, bloodied and tattered and huddling close to Robb with worries carved into the lines of their faces.

Arya sniffled loudly, before throwing herself toward Daenys and Valerion (Adara and Jon, that was what they were to her, always); Rattleshirt nodded an almost mocking bow to him, whispering ‘As you commanded, King Snow’; Lady Catelyn narrowed her eyes and rearing back for a protest, but Valerion ignored them all. His eyes were locked on Robb’s figure, gaunt, shaggy, confused, and… He barked a laugh, an empty, terrible laugh:

“You are drunk, Robb? I scared myself witless with nightmares of you dying, brother, and I am here to see that you are f*cking drunk!”

Because in his last life, they had only ever sung songs of the valiant King in The North, who died unjustly at the hands of fiends. They had said he had raged and had fought and had only gone down because the enemies had been cowardly enough to force numbers onto him, to stab him in the back. No one had ever told Jon that he had been so careless as to offer his back (his drunken f*cking back) himself for them to stab!

(He was being unfair, he knew; but that worried, raving, frustrated, and exhausted part of him could not withhold the anger.)

(He would remember that Robb was only seventeen - real seventeen, unlike him - and he should cut him some slack.)

(He would, but only later. Much later. After the dread and the adrenaline had been bled out of him.)

(And after the alcohol had been pissed out of Robb.)

Valerion had sent Rattleshirt and Halleck down south, alongside a few of their men each (not the whole warbands, god forbid), right after the birth of Maegor and the battle in the ice forest.

Rattleshirt because his brutishness was useful when directed at the right target, and because his loyalty to Valerion was borderline on fanatics. He wasn't in Mother Mole's cult, and the only other time he had ever seen the nasty man so obedient had been in his last life, after the Battle on the Wall, where Jon had single-handedly killed two giant wyrms (without Sonagon), and boosted the morale of the handful of men still standing enough that they fought with valor and fell with vicious pride in their eyes. (Aye, he was capable of that, too, though he hadn't had the chance to show off that skill in this life yet, and frankly, he wasn’t even that sure if he could replicate it. The things one could do in desperate situations…) The implication of another dreamer or reincarnation in the form of the Lord of Bones... That was entirely too disturbing for Valerion to contemplate, so he mostly ignored the older man's gross dedication, and only made use of Rattleshirt when necessary.

Halleck because he was one of the smartest in the wildling horde. His sister Harma and Val wouldn't have lasted as long as they had without him. He was intelligent enough to gather information in inns, steal clothes, and help the entire band infiltrate into the Twins without raising suspicion. He had enough brain to cover the entire team. It had been a risky bet, Valerion admitted, because he remembered clearly how many years Rattleshirt had been warring with Harma Dogshead - Halleck's sister - before Mance came along. There had always been a chance that the Lord of Bones would just slit the younger man's throat, for no other reason than that he got annoyed. But it was a chance that Valerion had to take. Who else would he have sent alongside Rattleshirt? Val? The Weeper? Tormund? Soren? He needed Val for another task. As for the rest, they either lacked the brain and the patience, or they looked entirely too conspicuous for a few stripes of clothes to be able to disguise. If he sent anyone else with the Lord of Bones, most likely they would have torn into each other before they even departed the Wall.

So he talked to Rattleshirt beforehand, very seriously, then he took the chance.

It worked out well enough, Valerion supposed. Of the twelve men sent across the Wall, only two were dead, one injured, and the objective was met wonderfully. From the way Halleck had tightened his jaws and shot the Lord of Bones the stink eyes when he was making his report, Valerion wasn't too sure he wanted to know what exactly had killed the other two.

While waiting for Robb to sober up and some other lordlings to stop hyperventilating, Valerion and Daenys sent their crews (led by Torreg, Sigorn, and Val) to investigate the wreckage, seeing if they can pull any allies or prisoners out from the debris. They sent the dragons to blow off their steam further away, so as not to terrorize others more than they already had. The twins sat down on a tree bark and nodded sagely as they took in Rattleshirt and Halleck's report. Halfway through, though, Halleck once y through, though, Halleck once again fell back into his bad habit of dwelling more than necessary on tiny details, and it was giving Valerion a migraine. While he was still debating how to let the man know he was being long-winded without hurting his feelings, Daenys snapped dispassionately beside him:

"Halleck, we just spent nearly twenty hours freezing our arses off on giant flying lizards, I think I have cramps terrible enough to make my last pregnancy seem like child play. I'm afraid that none of us have enough patience to listen to the number of courses for the celebration and the number of layers Lady Roslin Frey was wearing. Such details can be stored away for when we have more time and are in a better mood besides. Lord of Bones, can you please?"

Rattleshirt gave a taunting look to Halleck, whose face tightened in slight. Slow down, sister. Too much, too soon. Valerion grabbed hold of her hand, squeezing it lightly, before giving Halleck a benign smile (which probably didn't work, judging from the surprise on his face) and nodding at the Lord of Bones to continue.

Rattleshirt, as expected, made quick work of it:

"It took us months to get to the south-south. As you commanded, we didn't raid any castles along the way. We might have killed a few yelping peasants, though, they caught us stealing the clothes. I killed the two raiders who disobeyed your order and spilled blood. Halleck here disapproved. We were stuck in Moat Cailin for a while. There are a lot of towers over there, lots of treasure, and we might have...gotten a bit distracted. After a few weeks, the crannogmen came to escort us south. Halfway through, your wolf found us. He led us to these two castles. We dressed up as knights and joined with the crannogmen. Those short people left halfway through, and the people you asked us to guard were loosening up a bit too much. We don't have enough people to follow the groom, so we mostly positioned ourselves around the red-hair woman" He nodded in Lady Stark's direction, looking a bit distrustful, "The old man, that mouthy shorty, and the young Lord with the direwolf on his cloak. When that queer song started playing, the Frey men and the men with that bloodied cloak started cutting throats left and right." There were snickers amongst the wildlings, and grumbles of 'And the Southrons called us barbaric' circulated. A look from Valerion silenced them. Rattleshirt continued, "I waited till the lord with the pale eyes tried to slit the throat of the young Lord, then I cut his own throat. I wanted to keep his body, really. I wanted to try and make his body the same as that image on his banner and his cloak. But Halleck pulled me away and, well, we rounded up all the lordlings that could be saved and forced our way through. Fortunately, though, because we have been out for only a quarter of an hour before we heard your beasts slamming down from the sky."

Valerion nodded, signaling for him to sit back. Then he turned to Halleck:

"Your turn, any clarifications you would like to make, Halleck?"

The young man squared his jaws and reported succinctly this time:

"One, King Snow, I disapprove because the Lord of Bones goaded the two raiders into doing it. Those two were from my sister's warband, and he had been nasty to them from day one. Two, in Moat Cailin, we... didn't kill anyone, nor was there any rape, but I regret to admit that the party might have stolen a lot of treasures..."

"Robbing?" Valerion's voice was cold.

"No, King Snow, only stealing. You have been quite clear with your commands."

Valerion bit back a sigh and Daenys moved to knead at his temper. He leaned into her touch, ignoring the disgusted frown Lady Stark was throwing them.

"Anything else?"

Halleck was hesitating now, glancing sideways at Robb, puking his guts out a distance away, before closing his eyes and sighing furtively:

"Third, the direwolf with the young Lord was beheaded in the yard before we could get to him. So did the pregnant wife of the young Lord."

Valerion demanded privacy to talk to Robb, while Daenys arranged to have a discussion with Lady Stark and Arya (because the little girl was adamantly clinging to Daenys like a vine). Each of the meetings was in the corner of the forest, while the Twins were still glowing in flames behind them. Ghost was sent away to track and kill all riders that approached.

Robb was sober now, and he sat with his head in his hands on the tree log in front of Valerion. The silence stretched between them like a taut rope. Valerion decided to start first:

"How are you feeling?"

Robb sucked in a deep breath before a manic splutter of laughter bubbled from his throat. He took his hands away from his face, and Valerion was jarred to see that he had scratched his forehead bloody.

"My friend betrayed me. My father is dead. My wife is dead. My child is burning inside that castle over there, cooked in his headless mother's womb. How do you think I am feeling?"

Valerion noticed that he had not mentioned Grey Wind. Then someone had to, because ignoring it would only make it fester. Jon had lost enough warging partners in the last life to know. Yet he had to be delicate, though, because he also knew how raw the loss was in the first few years. So he said, almost despite himself:

"You won't be able to sleep for a week. At least. Because you will feel the absence of him like a permanent ache. You can’t dream anymore, and the billowing darkness left behind will terrify you enough that you will dread going to sleep.”

Robb was looking at him like he was unhinged, but Valerion couldn’t seem to help himself.

“When you’re awake, the imbalance that seeps into your bones will make you stumble, occasionally. A part of you will feel barren and hollow, and there will be nothing that can help you get through it. Nothing, but time, and the warmth of your loved ones.”

Robb was silent after that, staring at his cousin with vacant eyes, his shoulders drawn and tired. When he spoke, his voice was thick and pained:

"No one has ever understood, you know. Not during the whole two years of war."

Valerion knew, but he didn't say anything.

"Even mother, or Jeyne. Their polite disinterest was... piercing, so I never tried to talk about it. Not until Arya, and then, she wasn't... She could not find Nymeria, not even with Grey Ghost's help, I think she's running away on purpose, and so Arya didn't want to talk about it, either."

It was good that they were talking about it, even if no specific names were mentioned.

"Don't worry, Ghost will find Nymeria. Even if he has to break off a hind leg or two, he will bring her back."

That startled Robb out of his depression. The strangest of expressions flitted across his face before he twisted his lips into a half-grimace:

"That isn't something Jon would have said. Should I start calling you 'your Grace'?"

Valerion swallowed his own grimace. So in the end, they still had to discuss this, after all.

"... You can call me whatever you want. Are you not a King yourself?"

"Ignorance does not become you. Are you pretending not to notice or are you really that clueless?” Robb nearly stood up, he was that angry, “King? What King? My Kingdom is ravaged, my people barely remember who I am - as I have never once ruled over them from my seat of power. I have no wife, no heir, no army, and barely any legitimacy as most who have flocked to my banner are dead. Are you taunting me?”

Valerion locked his jaws but stubbornly kept his mouth shut. Robb wasn’t done yet.

“You know what? You were there, yet for the whole two years, there had been no letter. My mother warned me, you know? She warned me that it was suspicious, that there were too many coincidences. There are too many similarities between the new King-Beyond-The-Wall and the Jon Snow of my childhood. But no, I was always on your side, believing in my brother’s words, no matter how far-fetched!” He barked out a terrible, off-tune laugh, “Then here you are, not even my brother at all. With an army at your back, dragons by your side, wife, and heirs in place. How much more humiliation would you wish to heap on me, by saying such cruel words?”

He was at the point where he surged forward and grabbed at Valerion’s collar. He could feel his cousin’s uneven breaths and shuddering pains. He stayed still, steady eyes looking into Robb’s shattering blue ones.

“Why are you here now, Jon? Is it to your satisfaction to see your ‘trueborn brother’ brought so low? Why didn’t you just leave me for death? Just like you have done with father?”

It was harder than Valerion had expected. It was good to know that a man could still be surprised, even after one-and-a-half life, a total of fifty years of living, with a dozen eyes flying, trodding, and crawling around. Even if the surprise was an unpleasant one. Something must have shown on his face, because Robb's eyes suddenly lost their crazed edge, replaced by mild confusion and drained anger. His lips quivered, reminding Valerion painfully of their toddling years, when Robb would try to be brave in the face of his father's and mother's loud disagreement. The wine probably had not fully left his systems yet, because instead of turning harshly away to hide his weakness, Robb slumped his head onto Valerion's shoulder, taking shuddering breaths as his words came out hoarse and raw:

"Don't look at me like that. Why are you looking at me like that?"

Valerion still could not find the word, and his own emotions were roiling inside his chest, so he only hesitantly reached over and gave Robb a one-arm hug, his other arm hovering uncertainly by his side. He took it as a good sign when his cousin did not push him off.

“… I cannot bear it.” He said to the top of Robb’s head, “I… set out principles for myself, and I told myself that if I could endure Lord Stark’s death, I can surely do it to others. But, Lord Stark chose his fate, and I would not have arrived on time. You, however…”

Robb didn’t say anything, but the spot where his face lay on Valerion’s shoulder felt damp. He wisely decided not to mention it. He also decided to stop his explanation at that. Some things needed not be said for understanding to be fostered between two people, especially people who knew each other as well as they did. Besides, what else could he say to Robb for it to make sense? I dreamt of you dying, Robb, I dreamt that they mutilated your body. I dreamt that I received the news too late, and that I could only hit the wall till my knuckles were bloodied and screamed myself hoarse into the night. In my grief, I bedded a woman I had no business bedding (and ruining her life along the way), demolished the Twins a year too late and ended up with more casualties than necessary, and took your seat because there had been no other f*cking way to unite the North otherwise. I dreamt that I had wanted to die, too, because you had not been there, Arya had not been there, Bran and Rickon had been marked for death, and only the futile heroic efforts of destroying the White Walkers had me going.

He could not say any of that. He had not been able to say that to Adara - Daenys, gosh. He felt that it would be quite unfair (strange, really) if he had ended up telling Robb even so.

So he stayed silent, and Robb stayed grieving on his shoulder. (Valerion was thankful that he had chosen such a secluded spot. He didn’t want to see the look on Lady Catelyn’s face when she caught them being all sentimental with each other like this.)

Later, after Robb had finally calmed himself, the two of them sat down and talked politics once more. It was a mix, really, a mix between politics and Robb’s jumbled thoughts. This was a traumatic night for him, Valerion knew, so he allowed him the consolation of distractions every few minutes.

Robb confessed bitterly that he had commanded Jeyne not to attend the wedding, but Lady Catelyn had insisted.

"You just looked at me, cousin. Did Lady Stark say anything about me when she tried to prevent you from sending your wife away?"

"You know her so well."

"... You know why." How could Catelyn Stark ever miss a chance to sow discord between Robb and Jon?

"I do, but was she right?" Robb stared at Valerion with a wounded look on his face, "Do you also think it a folly for me to marry Jeyne Westerling? That she deserves every hardship and cruelty that comes her way because she has occupied my wife's seat? And do you also believe that it is timely of her to die on this day?"

"You know that it is folly of you to marry that lady, Robb. You don’t need me telling you that." Valerion heaved a sigh of his own, "I am not taking your mother's side here, but I don't think it's fair that you blame her or me for Jeyne's death. Do you think they would allow her to live once your head had been cut off at the Twins? There would be nowhere far enough for her to run, no place safe enough for her to hide, not with your babe inside her womb."

"... Well, at least I can comfort myself with the fact that her family let her get pregnant with my child. That means that they were only grasping filths, not malignant conspirators."

Valerion could not help it, he had to close his eyes so that Robb could not see the pity in them. The Westerlings were malignant conspirators, sending their daughter to be a honeypot, with the sole purpose of destroying Robb's alliance with the Freys and making more holes in the already-frayed banner covering his army. (He didn't discuss the Lady herself, he wasn't very sure if she had been in love with Robb or not). In his last life, Jeyne had not been pregnant and had been remarried only two years after Robb's passing. It had been Valerion's letters and Lady Catelyn's opportune actions that had cut off the Westerling's escape route, and still, they wouldn't grow enough of a spine to sell the Lannister out to their goodson. Good luck to them, now they wouldn't have the chance to grovel in front of any side.

"Is this the part where you start your motivational speech for me to take a second wife?" Robb's blue eyes were shrewd, though the words turned sour, coming from his lips.

"... You tell me. Do you need motivating?" Valerion shut down all of his emotions, leaning back and staring at Robb with calmness. He had been a King once, even if he was grieving now, he would have to be composed enough to know the next best move for him. King or not, he was still a leader with people to protect and lives to be responsible for. He did not have the luxury of ignorance or prolonged depression.

Robb tightened his jaws, and took in a deep breath as his eyes squeezed shut to block out all the weaknesses. When he spoke, he was much more serene:

"Who?"

"Margaery Tyrell."

Robb's incredulous laughter rang throughout the clearing:

"Margaery Tyrell? The one who wishes to be queen so much she endured getting into bed with both her deviant husband and her deviant brother? Her greed can rival Cersei Lannister's! Jon, what can I, a Lord of a land divided, possibly offer her?"

Valerion patiently waited till his laughter subsided, before saying calmly:

"Your land will no longer be divided by the time your army reaches hers. Bran and Uncle Benjen will fly to Winterfell with Daemon's Aegarax at first light. Marching with them is one-third of the wildling army, led by two warband leaders I trust the most. I don’t fancy the chance of the Ironborns.” He held up a hand to stop Robb's protests, "She won't be queen if she marries you, yes, but she will be the goodcousin to a King and a Queen, the relative to the Hand of the King, and the goodmother to a prince of the blood, who, by the way, is already a dragonlord by the time he barely reaches one." He was pleased to see that Robb had accepted his lot and stopped protesting when Jon hadn't finished yet, "And if those aren't enough for her to consider, well, your dragonlord lady cousin will be flying with the rest of your army to ask for her hand. I’m not sure it is very wise of her - or her grandmother - to refuse such a persuasive proposal.”

“… So you are going to threaten a wife into my bed?”

“It is one way,” Valerion was unfazed, “If I cannot have their love, I don’t mind making do with their fear.”

“You are not the one having to share her bed.”

“No, but you are charming enough, I’m sure.”

Robb threw him a dirty look and a distinctly rude hand gesture. That was nostalgic, it had been years since Jon had last seen him doing something so unbecoming. That he could muster it up on this night, when his loss and grief were still so raw, was a testament to his strength, or his delirium, either one. Valerion swallowed a grimace. In the end, Robb's face was stony but he still gave a tired nod.

"Alright."

"Wrong answer!" Valerion enjoyed the tiny jump his cousin had at the sudden harsh voice. "You cannot concede so easily, Robb. She will not accept those terms, she will haggle and whine and posture, and you have to be ready to think the way she does to destroy all her arguments. If not right at the marriage negotiation table, then later, when you two are in bed and she suddenly remembers how much she has been robbed of." His lips twitched slightly at Robb's mild look of disdain, already he could imagine the colorful marriage life his cousin would have, "She will whine that her goodson is a second prince, without holdings or inheritance to his name. To that end, you will tell her that he will have Harrenhal, the same way my third son will have Summerhall. This ridiculous war has been ridding Westeros of several bloodlines, and many castles will be unclaimed by the end of it. I will renovate them and give them to my children. She will whine that the person I chose for the Hand's seat is too old, and you will let her know that I promise a second generation on the small council after that person passes away, and even she would know not to be that greedy. She might complain that she has to wait for at least one more generation for anyone with the blood of the Reach to ride a dragon, but make clear, please, that either she waits till her grandkids can ride dragons, or she can protest and see how fast it is for me to torch her entire family's holdings. I don't particularly mind another House Gardener. I have a friend with the last name of Tarly. Maybe it is high time for us to change the Reach's dynasty once more."

Robb looked dazed at the overload of information, before shaking his head and grumbling:

"I thought you have me marry her to silence all her protests even before it can get out of her mouth?"

"Ideally, yes, but you know how women are. How confident are you that you can stop her from mouthing off or plotting treasons behind your back?"

"... Fine. You are covering all bases, it seems."

By first light, they have had the full count from the Twins. Roslin Frey and Edmure Tully were both dead, and Lady Stark had cursed Valerion's name with such crazed zeal that Robb had to physically restrain her. Roose Bolton was dead, and Valerion considered Ramsay, trying to remember whether ‘Reek’ was shadowing Theon Greyjoy around Winterfell, or if he was running amock in Dreadfort (He had left some instructions to that end, but he wasn’t too sure if Bran’s and Uncle Benjen’s Stark sensibility would allow them to follow through). None of the Frey survived, any that still breathed after the fire got mutilated by Rattleshirt's and Sigorn's warband. The wildling needed to feed on violence to be content, too, just like Sonagon, so Valerion reluctantly allowed it. He forbid rape, but most everything else was fair game. Rattleshirt had a field day, and by the end of it, they rounded up all the corpses of the Freys and Karstarks and Boltons (barely anyone could escape with Sonagon and Suvion gleefully chasing them down for a passing hunt; they probably ate some along the way, and all Valerion could pray for was that none of the victims had accidentally been from Robb's army) and had Suvion burned them all. Better that than the small chance that the Others could infiltrate past the Wall and raise them later.

Following the example of Robb and Lord Umber, the remaining members of Robb's army took to the knee in front of Valerion and Daenys. Most of them still held fear and deep distrust in their eyes, and they looked at wildlings by his side with barely concealed disgust. It would be an issue later, Valerion was sure, but at that moment, he didn't care about their opinions. Even they would have to recognize (no matter how grudgingly) that they had been saved by those terrible savages they so hated. Not many of them were left, regardless, but Valerion did catch a few Mormonts, Manderlys, Umbers, Blackwoods, and Flints scattering around. Dacey Mormont was still unconscious, and her wound was so serious that Valerion wasn't very sure she could survive it, but her men were resolute enough as they stood behind Robb. Valerion didn't have enough time to address all of them, so he left that to Daenys and Robb, he would have to mount his warband and fly to King's Landing immediately. He barely had enough time to kiss Daenys's cheeks and whisper his instructions to her.

As people were busy preparing the dragon and trying to mount him, Valerion had enough time to leave Lady Stark with a passing word, as she cried and beat at Robb's chest, hissing nonsensically about how it was all his fault that Edmure was dead and Sansa would be left for dead.

"You kidnapped the Imp, did you not, Lady Stark? Even before the concrete evidence of his involvement with the attempt to Robb’s life in Winterfell was established.” You started the War. Valerion didn’t need to say those words out loud, none of them were insipid, “I heard that you also released the Kingslayer, Lady Stark." His voice was respectful, not much different than in Winterfell, but she probably heard the edge of coldness seeping through, because she stilled, and turned to stare at him with a blank carefulness he had never seen from her, "The Red Wedding is the result of Robb's unwise marriage, yes, but do you truly believe your selfish folly with Jaime Lannister have no contribution to that?" He chanced a glance at the tortured and terrified Karstark men huddling in the corner, before looking back at her with a meaningful shrug, "You are not the only person losing someone this day. Do appreciate the people you still have at the moment."

He didn't stop around to see the look of relief and appreciation both Robb and Arya shot at him before Sonagon took flight.

(He was inside Ghost, though, half an hour later, when he bounced happily back to camp, a wounded Nymeria yelping viciously as she was pulled along in his jaws. Arya’s screech of joy was so loud that the whole host halted in temporary confusion).

He saw smallfolks and knights and lordlings scream and flee down below, at this point, it was more or less a repeat of what had happened in the North. Some Lannister spies should be galloping back to King's Landing right at that moment, but Valerion was confident that Sonagon would be much faster than any of them.

He was correct.

Sonagon descended onto the city like a God of Death, teeth gleaming and muscles taut in anticipation. Interestingly enough, from the lower quarter, mixed in with the terrified hollows were uneven cheers and chanting hymns, getting louder and more in sync as Sonagon's passed over them without a thought. Sam and the High Sparrow must have been busy of late, he thought.

Sonagon twisted above Maegor's Holdfast (his wingspan left the entire yard in shadow), ignoring the ruckus below, looking intently to find what Valerion was looking for. There, from the window of the Tower of the Hand, a flag of red, with black lining, was bellowing in the wind. That meant the Spider had successfully smuggled Sansa out of the Red Keep. Well, then.

Valerion entered Sonagon's mind, the dragon allowing entrance with practiced ease. Together, they opened their maw (big enough for a horseman to ride inside without touching the top) and fired.

Chapter 7: ADARA II

Chapter Text

By the time Adara realized it, she had already gotten used to Jon’s secretiveness. (She kept forgetting to refer to herself and Jon with the Valyrian names, but she remembered to answer to ‘Daenys’, so that should be enough.) She wasn’t too sure from when… Was it during their subjugation of the wildlings, when she had to acquaint herself with the violence and overwhelming tragedy of war that she could not spare much thought to his suspiciousness (and no, distant dreams of a childhood burned under the wings of monsters could not be counted)? Was it during her first pregnancy, when she had been entirely too preoccupied with the shocking sight and feel of her swollen belly and had accepted any information Jon dealt out without question? Was it after Uncle Ned's demise, when she spent days missing parts of her thoughts and memories as the grief and the hormonal depression of the second pregnancy swallowed her whole?

Probably one of those, or probably none at all. Probably it was in her nature, her absentminded, gullible, disinterested self that had never really learned to fully grow up and analyze the world with self-interest in mind. Probably it was him, too, for expanding his wings so easily, so naturally, to encompass her dumb, air-headed self into his ring of protection. She got used to being protected and he had always been used to protecting, hence the effortlessness of the arrangement.

She had not thought of it as a weakness, not until she gave birth to children of her own. Suddenly, a dormant, unfamiliar part of her sprang awake and demanded her to share Jon’s responsibility in protecting the babes, and their family. It was then that she realized how hopelessly unprepared she had been during all her years. She tried, of course, to be more present, more aware, more understanding of the current terrain, of the battle plans, of the political plans, of the plans within plans, and of all the seeds Jon had been planting all over Westeros during their younger years. She would like to say that she was improving now, but that would be an untruth. Because even now, a mother of three and an active participant in political and military affairs, she still felt wholeheartedly out of her element as the marriage negotiation went on and on inside the Tyrells’ tent.

Robb’s scattering army and the demolished force of the Frey-Bolton-Karstark union had not prepared her for the vastness and uniformness of the Highgarden army as they stood to attention even when their horses neigh and their knees quaked under the shadow of Suvion’s wings. Their wildling horde was larger, she thought, more impressive (giants and wargs and all), but there was no formation, no discipline (well, some, but nothing like this), unlike the uniformed formation of the Tyrells’ army (even if that formation did ripple violently when faced with a dragon flapping above). On the other hand, if Adara still had to think about which way she had to turn to freeze the entire wildling horde off (because they scattered) then the Reach’s army made it an easy game. Suvion wouldn’t even need to exercise all that much, only turning this way and that and the whole army would be decimated. It seemed that the Tyrells and their bannermen had realized the same thing, because they kept furtively shooting nervous glances at Adara’s direction when they were discussing the terms and the marriage.

Adara left the negotiation to Robb and Lady Catelyn, opting to studiously sit in the corner of the tent, her spear on her back and her needlework in her hands. She didn’t even look up that often, only when the other side uttered something distinctly too stupid, and in those instances, they immediately clamped their mouths shut and looked anxiously down, avoiding her judgmental gaze. This was what Jon had told her to do, right before he left for King’s Landing (and she already heard about his adventures over there by the way; they would need to talk once they reunited). Robb and the Northern army had to be the main actors. She just needed to be there and look menacing. His exact words were actually ‘Sit there and be yourself, you are disconcerting enough without having to act as anything else’. She had had to refrain from clobbering him on the head for that. After all these years, her dumb brother still believed those kinds of words were compliments.

She closed her eyes for a second, droning out Loras Tyrell’s raising voice and Robb’s taunting rebuke, feeling Suvion perching restlessly in the huge clearing outside the tent, staring forlornly at the field of people she could not eat and itching for some actions. Adara had to smile, so ravenous, so violent, such a difficult child. She wondered, too, about her own children, one of whom was flying above Winterfell with his uncles, and two of whom were tucked safe away in their nursery in Castle Black with Ser Arthur. She had never been apart from them for so long, and there was a worrying pit on the underside of her stomach that kept yawning as she thought about them and how they were doing.

“Your needlework is marvelous.” A sound snapped her out of her musings, and Adara had to make a conscious effort not to reach for her weapon. She looked up to see that it was Lady Margaery, standing there with an earnest smile (diplomatic as hell, but anyway) and a confident gait as she casually started the conversation with the scary dragonlord lady in the corner. “I have never seen stitches so fine. Can you teach me, Your Grace?”

All around them, the discussion had died down, and Adara could feel everyone’s eyes latched onto their interactions. She caught Robb’s warning gaze far behind Margaery’s back, and blinked twice to assure him she wouldn’t be discourteous. (Had Jon warned him of her tendencies? Traitor. She had no tendencies.)

“I’m not sure if this is something that can be taught.” She said with the mildest tone she could muster, “I am not much of a teacher besides. It won’t be good if I mess up your foundation with my fleeting fancy.”

The smile on the older girl’s face was unchanged, and the sincerity in her eyes was so believable Adara would have fallen for it, if she had been anyone else.

“A pity. Still, would you mind if I sit with you to do my needlework? It is fascinating to watch such skilled hands creating beauty.”

Adara stared at her in silence for a beat too long, before turning down to her kerchief and replied insouciantly:

“Maybe. If we can find the time for it.” And if Margaery’s brothers and father could get over themselves and finish this marriage talk on time.

“I heard that we are to become in-laws. I assume we will have plenty of time then?”

The audacity of this girl. That was also a point of contention between the twins. Jon should not have sold their son left and right without conferring with her first. Of course, she wouldn’t object to a betrothal with Robb’s daughter, but that still didn’t mean that he got to promise their son’s hands and only let her know afterward. What was the purpose of Margaery, probing at her with this question? Did she expect Adara to show discontent toward her brother-husband’s decision? In front of strangers? Preposterous. Adara wondered if she should smirk or scowl. She settled on her usual - blankness:

“Only if the talk goes well. That’s a bit presumptuous of you, no?”

The Tyrell opened her lips once more, surely for some other inane topic. Unfortunately for her, Adara had never been one for small talk or beating around the bush. She had little patience for it. So Adara didn’t even bother to look up as she cut the older girl off:

“Speak plain, Lady Margaery, and tell me what you want from me. If not, kindly remove yourself from my presence and find something more useful to do. You are giving me a bleeding migraine.”

Someone from the Tyrell’s side of the table bristled, and from the corner of her eyes, Adara caught Robb laying a hand on his face in resignation. Sorry, Robb.

Margaery Tyrell paused for a beat, before her tone shifted and her posture straightened. The cheery note still hadn’t left her voice, though:

“My apologies, Your Grace. I would like to be present for the marriage negotiation myself. And I would also like to know what your thoughts on this alliance are.”

Outside the tent, Suvion growled low under her breath, mostly peckish but her rider made use of it anyway. Adara let the silence stretch long enough for Margaery’s hand to fall back to her side, and she caught glimpses of Tyrell's men squirming in their seats. Finally, she looked up from her needlework, staring into the older girl’s seemingly earnest eyes:

“Are you implying that your father and brothers are incompetent?”

Another widespread intake of breaths, which both women ignored. Margaery flashed another brilliant smile, undeterred by Adara’s coldness:

“I heard of your marriage, Your Grace. Not all of us would be so lucky to marry a man of our choosing, who also grew up with us. And not all of us would have the fortune of having one family presenting both sides of a marriage.” (… Was that a dig at Jon and Adara’s incestuous match? Did she have a death wish?) “Women always have little and less choices, but at the very least, I hope for a queen who allows me to be present at my own auction.”

“… Auction would mean there are more than one suitor. I can assure you, my lady, if there is anyone courting you aside from Robb within a mile radius, I would have already fed him to Suvion before allowing him to steal my cousin’s thunder.”

Robb coughed a laugh into his hand, and Lady Catelyn pinched him beneath the table.

Lady Margaery seemed to have a hard time smothering her own smile, but still, she bit her lips and tilted her head demurely:

“Be as it may, I’m sure you understand my predicament, Your Grace.”

Adara looked into her brown eyes, trying to find something to convince herself either way. (Gosh, why was she so bad at this?) She also shot a discreet stare at Robb, who caught her eyes and shrugged nonchalantly. If the main character didn’t mind, who was she to be a villain for no reason?

So Adara snapped her face up, saying clearly and starkly:

“Out.”

Many pairs of eyes stared blankly back at her. That was annoying. She narrowed her eyes and repeated coldly:

“Out. All of you!”

Suvion chose that exact moment to roar thunderously, slamming the side of her head to the tent, making everything rumble and people stumble around in horror. Adara had finished putting away her needlework. She stood up, ignoring the frantic quaking of the people around her.

“I want this tent cleared up in a minute. The only people staying are me, Lord Stark, Lady Margaery,… and Lady Olenna. Someone summon her.”

She concluded her command with a bang of her spear on the ground, looking dispassionately as people trampled over themselves to hastily follow her orders.

“And fetch some boars for my dragon. She is starving, and doesn’t feel like hunting at this particular moment.”

“Does this mean we finally have a King ballsy enough to have an old woman as his Hand?” The Queen of Thorns wasted no time and went straight for the jugular.

One second in and Adara already liked her.

“I can see that presumptuousness runs in the family. I don’t see my cousin married yet, and as long as he is not, that seat is, by all means, free for all.”

“Don’t be coy now, Your Grace. I am old, but I am neither blind nor deaf. The moment we saw that dragon of yours descending, it was already a done deal. My incompetent son just has that stupid habit of haggling. Even he knows that it wouldn’t amount to much.”

Adara turned to share a look with Robb, who nodded calmly and sat straighter in his seat.

"My apologies for taking over, Lady Olenna. Since it was Lady Margaery who desired to enter the marriage negotiation herself, wouldn't it be more prudent if us two start discussing it with you and Her Grace as chaperones?"

The wiry old lady looked affronted.

"Bucking conventions now, are we? She asked to be present, not to sell her wares upfront like a common harlot. Shouldn't you two behave and let the real representatives do the talking?

Adara blinked owlishly at her:

"... But that's exactly how I took her meaning, Lady Olenna. I thought she wished to negotiate herself? I am fully ready myself to be here as Robb's supportive chaperone."

The old woman stared at Adara, and Adara stared straight back. After one beat of silence, Lady Olenna conceded:

"Well, I know a losing battle when I see one. But mark my words, Your Grace, one or two grand changes will be enough. If you start destroying too many age-old traditions in the name of progression, especially since your own seat isn't so assured..."

Adara knew what she meant. If people started feeling her allowance of ladies to attend to their own betrothal negotiation was a breach of traditional rules and customs, well, there would be discontent. Mayhaps it was the youth in Adara, but she didn't feel like forfeiting in this matter.

"What makes you think they will be less rebellious if we lay down belly-first for them to rub? They were all so close, my Lady, so close to the apex of power, and then we kicked them down. The higher the climb, the harder the fall. Do you think they would ever forgive us for that? Do you think that you could ever forgive us for that? We allow necessary concessions, we don’t fall over ourselves to please people who love us not. " She raised a hand to stop the old woman from protesting, "Don't fool ourselves now. This is a transaction, a transaction for the second-best political position, and we all know how we actually feel about each other, so let us be frank and get it over with so that we can all retire."

People might yap that she bucked conventions, that she set precedence, but so long as the dragons were there and the twins had enough power over them, their opinions are irrelevant.

No one said anything to that, and Robb looked at Adara as if he was seeing a unicorn. Knowing how she had been in her childhood, this was probably the longest speech he had ever heard from her (except maybe her wedding vow; Arthur helped her write those, and she had never found it within herself to disappoint him). Before the silence could dissolve into awkwardness, though, Margaery Tyrell smiled airily:

"Now that we've established the context, shall I start?"

She was looking at Robb as she said so, eyes bright and genial. Adara hoped she only imagined the fleeting look of disdain passing through Robb's face. She knew her cousin had just lost a wife and a son (probably) only a few days earlier, but if he had agreed to do this, he had better get over himself.

Robb plastered on a neutral face and gestured at her to start. Margaery gave him a tight-lipped smile (but somehow still seemed sincere, for God's sake).

"Will my grandmother be the Hand of the King?"

"I don't answer rhetorical questions. Haven't you both deduced as much before agreeing to sit down with Her Grace and me?"

Well, technically, showing this particular card was ill-advised, and she could already imagine the ultimate pointed look Jon would give them once they reunited. Still, he had been doing stuff she disapproved of left and right, so she allowed herself at least this. He should get a taste of his own medicine.

"My turn," Robb took a breath, "The wedding will be in a day."

"And risk people laughing behind my back about Desperate Little Margaery? One week at least.”

"Two days. Both Her Grace and myself are needed elsewhere."

"... Three days."

"Done."

"Will you have a seat on the Small Council?"

"My father served because he has an heir and several spares to rule in his stead. Until I have children of my own, some other Stark will be the representative in King's Landing."

Robb and Lady Catelyn had argued that point at first, since after these shenanigans, they had no intention of losing any other family member south of the Neck. Starks didn't do very well in the South. Adara had to (painstakingly) persuade them to change their mind, citing even that the one who sits on the Iron Throne is half Stark, and in the end, she won out, though neither of them made it very easy.

At the negotiation table, Robb continued to parry with Lady Margaery. At one point, the talk became heated, but both Adara and Lady Olenna had been able to mitigate the situation. They decided on three children (unless they were unfortunate enough to not be able to produce both genders by then), one ceremony - marrying under the heart tree (that was when the talk almost turned into an argument), Lady Margaery was allowed a visit to or from her family once every three years (frankly, Robb spoilt her rotten with that), and promises of Robb's children being the royal kids' playmates were made.

"Will the second prince be fostered in Winterfell?" Margaery had felt bold enough to question them on it, "He is to become Winterfell's goodson, after all."

No wonder she hadn't complained about getting a second son, the girl was asking for a matrilocal marriage. She wanted a dragonlord of Winterfell. The audacity. Adara tried not to tighten her hand into fists. That would give too much away. Suvion growled in annoyance outside, though, and the low rumble settled heavily on the entire camp, eliciting an oppressive air of nervousness and silence. Adara made a mental note not to bring dragons to any negotiation tables later.

She needn't blow up herself, though, as Robb snorted and replied coldly:

"Don't be greedy now, my Lady. The second Prince will have holdings of his own. I'm sure you have heard of his father's taking of Harrenhal just half a day ago?"

Margaery had enough sense not to look in Adara's direction:

"... She will be your daughter, too, my Lord. Is it greed for wanting my children to live close?"

"Think of who your in-laws are, to compete with them on who will live near whom is a folly. Besides, with a goodson who rode dragons, I'm sure it wouldn't take that much time for them to visit."

Finally, the girl looked down, seemingly defeated. There was an uncomfortable feeling crawling up Adara's throat, and she shot a discreet glance to see if Robb would fall for it. He did not, he even looked a bit displeased, but trying valiantly to hide it. Already Adara would imagine their colorful marriage life.

"Anything else?" Robb's voice was, thankfully, not annoyed, but tired enough that only fools would miss his desire to end the conversation.

When Margaery turned her face up, no trace of forlornness could be found. Her eyes even sparkled mischievously . (Did she find Robb an interesting challenge? Ugh. Romance.)

“I want one child following the Faith of the Seven.”

“They are to rule over the North. Northmen follow the Old Gods.”

“All three of them? I’m only asking for one.”

“… You are allowed to persuade one of them to follow the Seven. Whether they are persuaded or not is up to them.”

The lady’s smile was blinding. She sat forward a bit and continued:

"I heard that the household of your late wife - well, some of them at least - are still around."

"You want me to send them away?"

"Of course not, how brutish." She flashed him a benign smile, "I want the authority over them. Full authority, please."

"... I would rather send them away."

"This is a non-negotiable point for me, though." She blinked innocently, "Come now, my Lord, do I look like someone so small-minded and maladroit?"

Robb gave her a dubious look, as if confirming non-verbally that yes, he did find her small-minded, but at the very least, she seemed adroit enough. If she decided to bully his late wife's people, she would be discreet but certainly nasty about it. Margaery recognized his reluctance, and her face softened (artfully, Adara swore, this girl did everything with a healthy amount of art and grace; no wonder she aimed for queenship, anything else would be a waste of her talent):

"Yours is a harsh land, my Lord, cold and unyielding. It produces heroes, myths, and legends, aye, but little else." She chanced a small smile in Adara's direction, before continuing, "Despite all that, I accept this marriage proposal and ready myself for a life at the edge of the world. Despite the fact that my child is precious, I accept bargaining her for a dragon prince leagues away. Despite the fact that I am who I am, I accept a husband that loves me not, and would probably spend his days neglecting me in favor of his late wife's memories." She straightened her back, looking straight into Robb's blue eyes with bright gazes and serious expression, "Aye, ours is more of a transaction than a marriage. Everything we have negotiated is for our families, our causes, something greater than ourselves. Still, wouldn't it be fair if I at least have that much for myself? I don't fault you for keeping your heart and your home and family. Can I at least have the dignity of the Lady of the house?"

Robb was narrowing his eyes at her, his jaws locked and his posture tensed. Just when Adara thought he would spit in Margaery’s face, he took a measured breath, then sighed and nodded.

"No one is asking the most important question yet," Lady Olenna took it upon herself to conclude the negotiation, "Are we being offered a Prince, or the Prince? No offense to you, Your Grace, but the mortality rate of babes hasn’t been very high since… well, forever.”

It took Adara a moment for the implication to sink in, and she stood up quick enough that the table nearly toppled over. Outside, Suvion was probably snarling so loud that it broke eardrums, but all Adara could hear was the roaring sounds of her own rage. How dare the old bitch? She would have snapped her neck right then and there, but Robb was just as quick. He sprang up and restrained his cousin by the torso, nearly picking her clean up from the ground. She had to refrain from snapping her elbow to his face. Robb was hissing into her ears: “Calm down. Think. What would Jon have said?”

She couldn’t care less what Jon would have said. She knew what she wished to say, and she slammed her dagger on the table (still being restrained by Robb) while glaring at Olenna Tyrell with more fury than she had ever felt in her life:

“You have been a mother once, so you will understand me when I say this: If any harm came to my boy, any of my children, I will look for you first, and I will burn Highgarden to the ground. Proofs be damned.”

Even Margaery looked shaken, though she was quick enough to try and compose herself. Lady Olenna seemed unaffected, but Adara could catch her fingers quivering underneath the table.

“Crystal, Your Grace. It was a poor choice of topic. I apologize.”

It took Adara several minutes to calm herself down, even as she flopped back onto her seat and squeezed her eyes shut to count her breaths, then Suvion’s breaths, and finally, she held up her hand for the parley to resume. (She only realized later that night that the old woman did it on purpose. Instead of not saying anything and being the obvious sole suspect if anything happened to Maegor or Daemon, she would goad Adara into making that threat first, then show enough fear and proper chastisem*nt for the list of suspects to widen if any sh*ts did happen. If we had that intention, would we have asked about it so boldly? That was what that terrible question amounted to… Too much. Too goddamn much. Her head hurt. She didn’t have enough brain cells for such intricacies.)

Lady Olenna cleared her throat and asked:

“How was the state of Winterfell so far, my Lord? Last we heard, Winterfell was swarmed with the Ironborns. I would hate for my granddaughter to marry a homeless pauper."

Robb turned to signal at one of his guards standing just outside the tent’s entrance. He was one of the knights sworn to House Mormont, lanky but tall and bearded. He marched in, bowing respectfully and holding out a letter. Robb snapped his fingers:

"Read it."

The man straightened up and recited dispassionately:

"This is an urgent message sent early this morning. By now, ravens everywhere should already be flying and your own army would have been informed in a few hours."

He cleared his throat:

"As of this night, Brandon Stark and Benjen Stark have successfully taken back Winterfell. Theon Greyjoy was captured trying to run away. Three prisoners with him were eaten by Aegarax, one of whom was identified as 'Reek' - or Ramsay Snow, by some of his Bastard's Boys. Young Lord Bran was verifying this information. The Weeper was allowed full authority to squeeze the information out of the rest of those Bastard's Boys. All Ironborn men present were killed, some of them fed to the dragon, and some beheaded by Lord Benjen Stark in the Great Hall."

Robb leaned back (almost) casually:

"As you see, Winterfell is secured. No need to worry about your granddaughter being homeless."

Margaery stood up, curtsied gracefully, and smiled endearingly at Robb's grumpy expression:

"Glorious. Shall we conclude then?"

Robb rose, too, bending down to give her knuckles a perfunctory kiss:

"Pleasure. See you in three days."

Adara was displeased that Robb didn't even pretend to court Margaery properly. In fact, both Lady Olenna and she were shooting him incredulous looks as they exited the tent, looks that Robb diligently ignored. Only Lady Margaery herself still maintained her insouciant mask, and Adara judged her impressive for the lack of overwrought emotions after the entire ordeal. At first, she had been a bit reserved and skeptical about the trustworthiness of the older girl. The distrust stayed, still, but after watching first-hand how much of a rude and unfeeling brute her cousin was being, she actually felt a tiny margin of pity for the Tyrell.

She didn't berate him, though. She wasn't that close to him, she didn't care that much about his marriage (only in the context of the political advantage it would be), and he had his mother to do the clobbering and educating. She spent the time re-reading the letters sent from Winterfell and King's Landing, organizing her thoughts and speculating about her brother's future plans. She remembered to take Suvion flying as well, lest she got restless and chewed up some random passerby.

Jon had taken King's Landing in half a morning (no surprise). He demolished the Tower of the Hand, destroyed the Guildhall of the Alchemists (burned them alive under the Hill of Rhaenys without a chance for clemency or torture of information), and racked up a death count of nearly half the nobles dwelling inside the Red Keep at that moment. Adara could not believe he had been so adamant about legitimacy, only to unleash himself so fully on the denizens of King's Landing. This action reeked of abandonment, and any efforts to endear themselves to the general population would backfire now that Jon presented an image of the Mad King reborn. Adara was pretty sure that the Tyrells were still staying their hands because they were too terrified of Suvion to act rashly, but fear and hatred should already be circulating around right at this moment. Even three days seemed too long with this political terrain.

At least, most of the Lannisters were still alive, thanks to either luck or the machinations of Jon's contacts (probably Varys, though she could not be too sure). Joffrey the Illborn had died, his head torn clear off his shoulders by Jon's blade. Tywin Lannister was disfigured, crippled by a boulder falling down on him during Sonagon's demolition of the Hand's Tower. Cersei Lannister was wounded but mostly fine physically, though she did seem half-crazed after witnessing her firstborn beheaded. Tyrion Lannister had fled the city, and judging from Jon's reactions, he didn't feel like giving chase. Jaime Lannister still hadn't returned to the city, but Rattleshirt's warband and the crannogmen were hot on their trails right at the moment. Tommen Baratheon was healthy and mostly lucid, but was twitching in horror and cowering like a mouse the entire time. Jon's exact wording in the letter was 'he turns simple', and Adara was annoyed at his carelessness. She didn't usually spare sympathy for enemies, but the general image should at least be kept. How did he think it would look like to nobles and commonfolks alike, if they could not even show leniency to children? They had children of their own, too, and one of the reasons why they decided to have them so early was to make themselves more relatable to the masses. What kind of relatability were they showing, if it could be interpreted that they only cared for their own and others' children were fair games?

Never mind, Adara felt like she was using too much brain power, more than what she had anyway, so she should stop. Jon probably had his reasons to be so impetuous, and she should just ready herself to listen to his explanation later. Worrying about things she could not change seemed dumb.

Robb and Margaery got married on a sunny day. The South was hot beyond reason, and Adara had to stand still and delude herself into not sweating buckets. Neither the groom nor the bride showed their discomfort, Robb even rose to the occasion by plastering on his face a pleasant smile (that seemed frozen but at least he tried). Margaery was, as usual, beyond adept at fooling people into thinking her a blushing bride and happy maiden (Adara had serious doubt on the 'maiden' part, if the rumors she heard up North were anything to go by, but still, it was the efforts that counted).

There was an attempt at the bedding ceremony, but Robb, just like all sons of Eddard Stark, had made clear that such a custom would not be welcomed at his wedding. He had not raised his voice, but his posture had changed a bit, his voice lower, his eyes colder, and suddenly, everyone present remembered that he was the Young Wolf. The raucous men suddenly decided to swallow their uncouth laughs, as they realized that scattered army or not, direwolf by his side or not, widowed and defeated or not, the groom was still that hero that had been sung about in the tavern, that had been dreaded about by campfires, and that had been terrorizing the Riverlands for nigh on two years even though he had not the advantage of home ground. So people subsided, almost awkwardly and carefully. Adara might have imagined it, but the look in Margaery's eyes when she chanced a glance at Robb seemed softer, and her smile smaller but more genuine.

Adara had no interest in knowing how her cousin had passed through his wedding night, and would have packed up and gone in the middle of the night, if not for Jon's strict command of staying and confirming that the marriage was consummated properly. She had shot him a look of disgust back then, asking mildly how he had felt back when they were forced to consummate their own wedding, and how slimy it would feel to have a female cousin to inspect Robb's wedding sheet. He had only crinkled his nose and said: "There are times when we have to endure distastefulness, from us or done to us. Even so, if it is necessary...". And so, Adara stayed and patiently waited for morning to come.

The proof of consummation was adequate, sheet-wise. Robb looked glummer than usual, and Margaery sported a particularly shiny sheen on her face, so Adara figured it was done properly. There was a hilarious image inside her mind of Robb distressing (she remembered how ladies and whor*s used to scare him back when they were younger) and Margaery manhandling him anyway. Mayhaps she should not have. It was not supposed to be funny to force a grieving man (who was still missing his wife) to the bed of someone he neither liked nor accepted. Still, they lived in a hard time.

She gave Robb a slap on his back, which probably hurt her more than it hurt him. They shared an understanding look, and the rest of the army started marching toward King's Landing.

When the Northern-Highgarden army and Suvion arrived in King's Landing, the twins had the most magnificent fight since the day they were born, and it wasn't even about the problems Adara had been preparing all these days away from each other.

They arrived at a King's Landing with an air of peacefulness and great geniality, an exact opposite of what they had geared up to face. Constructions to fix the damages after the Blackwater battle and Jon’s sack of the Red Keep were still ongoing. People even cheered as they saw the shadow of Suvion's wings passing by. Unwarrant goodwill always gave Adara the peep. So after all the aristocratic fanfare - kneeling and kissing knuckles (hers) and swearing undying loyalty even as their teeth were chattering - Adara cornered her brother-husband inside the chamber that was supposed to be theirs and asked her questions.

"How?"

"... You should try to change that habit, dear sister. I won't always be able to understand your question if you phrase it so succinctly."

She waved a dismissive hand:

"Don't change the subject. How?"

"Remember the High Sparrow?"

"The Faith of the f*cking Seven is helping us keep the peace?"

"Language, you are a mother of three."

"And none of my three children are here to be negatively influenced by it. Jon, the Faith of the Seven has spent at least two hundred years butting heads with the Targaryens. We all know our history, how they insidiously squeezed the life out of the dragons and converted the rest of the Valyrians into half-Andals by the second century. We are half First Men, Jon, with dragons, too - the worst combination they would think of. And you want me to believe that they are backing us?"

Jon sighed and leaned on the head of the bed with a small groan. He looked thin, and there were bags under his grey eyes. She felt a twinge of worry and guilt crawling up her throat. He needed rest, not having his sister-wife whining and pestering him about politics.

"Well, the High Sparrow erred from step one. As you said, he has not been aware that we have dragons, or that both of us follow the Old Gods. He has thought that he was investing in two devout young royals that have good reputations, that he could find ways to convert, and would definitely pay the Church back handsomely once we sit the Iron Throne. Even if we cannot, it would only be hearsay, no proof could be given that can connect him to us. However, we do have dragons, and by the time he realized that, it was already a bit late to change sides. We also have enough power to enforce and publish his connection to us, and helping us would be more advantageous than working against us. It's not like he has such a good pool of candidates to choose from so far. The Lannisters are gross and hated by the people. The Ironborns are savage and heathen besides. Robb is, well, mostly First Men, following the Old Northern Gods, and has no desire for the Iron Throne. Stannis would have been a nice choice, but he crushed his own chance by catering to the Red Woman's whims and killing Renly. The Faith politicks, too, and they chose the side that could give them the most prestige and power afterward."

There was a buzzing sound raging inside Adara's mind. Usually, she was really slow, in both talks and thoughts. Not now, though, she was a mother now.

"What did you promise him?" She was a bit startled that her voice was so harsh, but her mind was jumping toward a terrible conclusion, "Who did you promise him, Jon?"

To his credit, her brother did look uncomfortable, but grimly resolute, too.

"None of my children will be Septons or silent sisters, don't worry. But... I did promise at least two children following the Seven and one joining the Faith Militant once the High Sparrow revives it."

Adara slapped him so hard across the face that her palm burned with the blow. He stood there and took it, too, not even flinching. He closed his eyes, took a breath, and continued as if nothing had happened.

"The Faith Militants won't be similar to the old organization. I will have a say in it. So far, we have agreed to only the Warrior's Sons and Stranger's Sons, no Poor Fellows. Both the supposed Warrior's Sons and Poor Fellows will join one order - the Third Order. Our son will be in the Seventh Order - the Stranger's Sons. Anyone could join the Seventh, but only five to seven people would be allowed to take on the official mantle. There will be...three trials, only those that survive will be the Brothers of the Seventh Order."

She punched him this time, putting all her strength into it as her fist slammed into his unprotected gut (they could not afford to have a King with a black eye, after all). He drew in a breath, but again, did not acknowledge her rage.

"These Brothers and Sisters of the Seventh Order will not have to forfeit their lands or titles, they will not serve for life, only for ten years, and in their last three, the new batch of the novice brothers and sisters will be trained and tested so that they can replace the old ones in time. They are high-ranking enough for each to be allowed to command at least one battalion of the Third Order's brothers if wars ever break out. They will defend the Faith, aye, but once they retire, they won't have any other religious responsibilities and will no longer have to answer the Faith's call."

Adara was sitting down now, her head slumping helplessly down onto her palms, her breaths coming in shuddering gasps and her eyes felt raw with unshed tears. She didn't look up, she could not bear to look at his face at that moment:

"So it will be thirteen years, not ten, including the training period? With those trials, I'm assuming there are even chances that our poor son might not even survive to take on the official mantle?"

She could feel him sitting down on the bed beside her, his breaths on the top of her head but his hands were only hovering above her shoulders, as if terrified of her reaction if he touched her then. He was correct to hesitate. She would have punched him again, and she would not have been able to help it.

"I will train all of our sons, all of them, so none of them will be in danger in the training of the Seventh Order. And…”

“And?”

“I will train him enough to burn the f*cking thing down from inside out if they put one foot out of line. Honor be damned.”

“…”

“They dared to ask that much, after all.”

His hands were on her shoulders now, and he tugged her into an embrace. She fought him every step of the way, twisting her torso away and beating her fists on his chest. He held tight, though, and it enraged her even more. Finally, when she no longer had the strength and sagged against him, she gritted out, still refusing to look up at him:

"... So not only are they not free to marry, they are also not free to choose their way of life? What if he is like Granduncle Aemon? You will force a child who loves books and peace to spend his youth fighting and killing for a Faith that his entire family despises? You will also teach him to despise the Faith that he is to serve, is that it? What is the point?”

"... You know we don't have a choice. We cannot deal with magical threats up North and across the Narrow Sea, while also charming smallfolks (when they thought us to be savage invaders) and warring with the Faith at the same time. The Seventh Order and my involvement is already a concession, something to negate the strangling holds of the High Septons have on the Faith Militants. One needs no background, no everlasting declaration of Faith, no oaths of celibacy, no oaths of frugality, just one's skills with a weapon and thirteen years of dedication to the Faith."

"And what if the Faith betrays the Crown during those thirteen years? You will force our child to choose between his duty and his blood? Is this what I gave birth to them for?"

"... Hence the teachings enough for him to burn down the Starry Sept. Or did you forget that part?”

She finally looked up from her palms, staring at his haggard face with red-rimmed eyes and locked jaws:

"Too much, you give them too much."

"I know, but we have too many enemies, all at the same time. We do not have the luxury to keep track of all of them. We need to concede time and again to buy more time for us to deal with more pressing matters first. Who knows? We might all be dead in the next three years and our kids wouldn’t have the chance to grow up enough to join the Faith anyway."

“... All these years, and still your sense of humor is rubbish. Is this why I was sent to cater to the whinging whims of the Tyrells?”

“Aye. I thought it was clear enough. I will also try to stall for time, so that the reestablishment of the Faith Militants will be as late as possible.”

"...One bachelor is an irritation. Ten thousand bachelors are a war. That Third Order of yours, will you make them swear off women, alongside their lands and golds? Do you think the men of Westeros would thank you for giving them further chances to rise in the world by neuterizing themselves?"

"Not that. The original Warrior's Sons could get married, too, and retain their knighthood. I believe I might allow them that, at least."

"... So they have no lands, no gold, and they wish to marry both Gods and women? Why do I see destitution breathing down on the Third Order's neck?"

Jon raised an eyebrow at her. One moment of silence, two, then she said dumbly:

"Oh."

“Aye. Oh.”

“So that’s what you mean. Even so, it saddens me that we have to sacrifice a son for it.” She narrowed her eyes at him, “Which son is it, anyway? Don’t think I have missed how you answered everything but that question.”

“… You know I cannot give them the First-in-line. And they offered to save the bad reputation of the name Maegor Targaryen.”

She felt fury surging up again:

“What they meant was that they wish to gloat as they mold the second Maegor Targaryen into one of their own. You would have named him anything! And you gave him that. Now he is barely learning how to walk and already he is promised to a wife and a religion! A hypocritical religion, by the way!”

Jon took her fists and anger and silence, only tightening his hold on her and putting his chin on the top of her head. When she ran out of energy again, gosh why was she so weak, he said, almost dourly:

"All religions are hypocritical, at one point or the other. Besides, I was taking my first breaths when I was promised a wife and a religion, Adara. Daemon was betrothed to Gael the moment they were born, too. If we can do it, so can Maegor." He kissed her forehead, even as she twisted inside his hold again, "None of us are free, Adara. It is unfair to him, I know, and we will try to compensate as much as we can. But we love him, his siblings love him, and at one point, he will understand that we do not ask him to sacrifice anything we don't ourselves. I have faith, because he is our child, and no child of ours will be weak, selfish, or fatuous."

She stopped fighting, only slackening her entire frame, too tired and too hopeless to object anymore. She only raged because she could not help herself. Of course, she understood what he meant. She was also aware that she was being hypocritical. Just yesterday morning, she had regarded Robb's wedding in a dispassionate way, explaining it away by claiming it was a hard world they lived in. Yet, now, when the person being sold off was her own son, she started feeling as if it was the end of the world. Adara laid her head on her husband's chest, evening out her breathing and letting his heartbeats lull her into serenity.

They executed Tywin Lannister and Cersei Lannister the next morning. 'Execution' was a more respectable and hygienic way of putting it. In fact, they all gathered in front of the Great Sept of Baelor, citing the lists of crimes the two had committed (all pompously and righteously), before throwing them down into the throng of raging smallfolks below. The High Sparrow called it the Walk of Atonement, but Jon regarded them as the Public Ultimate Judgement. It could not be the Walk of Shame, because neither of those two people was stripped naked (none of them were barbarians, after all), and neither of them had been able to do much walking, as the bloodthirsty crowd had surged toward them with fists and stones and clawing hands. Cersei's screams were horrific, but she had killed Uncle Ned, and had plotted for an even more graphic death of Robb, so Adara didn't let herself feel any ounces of pity for the woman. In the end, both of them were trampled to death, and the crowd looked sated and happy, even as half of the nobles present were retching or swaying on their feet.

Tyrion Lannister was unaccounted for, but Jon didn't seem to worry, so she didn't, either. News of Jaime Lannister's capture had arrived earlier that morning, and Rattleshirt seemed to be having a field day with him, though Jon had made clear that Jaime be delivered to them whole and sane, so hopefully the Lord of Bones knew his bloody limits. He would be escorted to King's Landing in the next few days. A letter was sent to Dorne about Myrcella Baratheon, and a letter was sent back with information about Oberyn Martell's travel to King's Landing in the next few weeks. As of that moment, Tommen and Myrcella were still alive, and had been stripped of their ranks and last name, condemned by the Church of the Seven as bastards. Jon legitimized them as 'Lannisters', despite the High Sparrow's objection (he should not have been so opinionated, Adara was still very raw about the entire concession their family had been forced to make, and the old man should know when enough was enough). Tommen was allowed the title and the seat of the Warden of the West, though thus far, he had to stay in King's Landing as a hostage, at least until Jaime was secured and a few other complications had been smoothed out. Jon had tasked her with finding Tommen's a wife, and just out of spite, Adara had considered pitting one of her spearwives on him. It would be such an interesting match, but she felt the Southern nobles would deem her cruel for it.

Lady Olenna had been declared Hand of the King, in the midst of people's outrage and confusion. The rest of the Small Council would be decided in one week, after Adara had picked up the children and deposited Lady Stark at Winterfell, and after Jon had finished obliterating the Vale's army, using the abduction of Sansa Stark as his legitimate reason to do so. Lady Catelyn had begged for mercy for Lysa Arryn and her son, but Jon had not promised anything. Robb supported his decision, since he was still smarting about the betrayal of the woman as she took Peryr Baelish's side (which meant an indirect hand in the death of Ned Stark and the abduction of Sansa Stark). Talks circulated that Robert Arryn was Petyr's, and after the merciful sentences of Tommen and Myrcella, Jon could not afford to be lenient to another claimant of bastardy. He would have to make an example, and Robert Arryn would have been better than the two newly legitimized Lannisters, whose entire family had already been punished most terribly. (It was interesting how one decision could change a person's entire perspective in life. Just one week ago, Adara was balking at Jon's harsh treatment of Tommen Lannister. Now, after knowing how her own son had to be sacrificed for the greater good, she was no longer feeling much of anything when considering the death of another child in the Vale).

Lady Catelyn railed against them (Again! This woman never learned.), but Jon was exhausted and annoyed enough to ask her point-blank if she wanted insurance regarding Sansa's life or regarding Lysa's and Robert's. He wasn't a bloody god, so he could only promise one of the two. She subsided then, but the muffled hatred in her eyes was scorching. Robb took on the role of mother-sitter again, and had to spend hours trying to make her see sense. Robb and Lady Olenna would rule when the twins had to be away (probably just a few days but it was better to be safe than sorry).

Her children made her a tiny bit happier, as all of them showed a certain level of longing and joyfulness when they reunited. Maegor's dragon grew at an alarming rate, already three times the size of Gael's, and Adara was a bit worried since they had found no writings and information about the growth of Leng's dragons, what they eat, how they breed, and whether they spew fire or ice. At the very least, they knew that the dragon digested raw meat, just like the native Valyrian dragons, but the rest of the questions stayed unanswered. Her Daemon was chirpy, he was entirely too pleased with himself, especially for a child whose dragon just swallowed several humans in one go. She would like to berate him, but she felt herself hypocritical, because she would have probably felt the same way if her dragon had chanced upon monsters the likes of Boltons and Greyjoys.

She worried about Bran, who was thinner than she remembered, had dark circles underneath his eyes, and a grim coldness that was so conspicuous on the face of a ten-year-old. His expression didn't even change when being encompassed in his mother's embrace, and Uncle Benjen had whispered of the terrible weight he had been bearing ever since they took back Winterfell. He had to pass terrible sentences, had to be present for atrocities, had to listen to cruel revelations of the Bastard's Boys, and had to come to terms with the fact that winter had always been there and had sunk its claws into his entire family for ages without their knowing. He had to grow up too soon, Uncle Benjen had said regretfully, and Adara had given him a confused look because 'who hadn't?'.

Uncle Benjen returned to hold the Wall with Lord Commander Mormont. Half of their wilding horde also retreated to the Gift, offering men to help the Night's Watch patrolling the Wall. Mother Mole and her cult stayed, even moving further South and converting anyone with half a brain cell to start praying under the sculptures of dragons. Lady Catelyn and Bran ruled over Winterfell, at least until Robb and his household had finished the negotiation down South. Ser Arthur Dayne flew back on Aegarax's back, alongside a merry Daemon and his young warband (who were also his band of nannies). The two smaller dragons flew casually back behind Suvion, both Gael and Maegor strapped on her and Ygritte's back. They evoke another scene. Seeing two giant dragons flying above was one thing, witnessing a flight of four dragons was a bit much for the smallfolks. She could still hear their awe and horror down below as the shadows of the dragons passed above their abodes.

When Adara and Jon visited the cell of Jaime Lannister, he was lacking a hand, with bloodshot eyes and a deranged edge of a smile on his face. Adara could not see any grievous wound, but knowing Rattleshirt, she wouldn’t be too surprised if he had overstepped again.

“I tried to protect you,” Jaime barked a laugh, “A part of me knew who you were, but I kept it from my father. Even after the strange whispers of dragons abound. I told my father that it was such jests, that he needn’t care about such fancifulness. I kept you a secret. For Arthur, and for my Prince.” His laugh was half splutters and half crackles, it sounded unnerving, “Only for you to fly back on your dragon and throw my sister into hell.”

Jon stood like a statue, with no expression, not even a twitch of the muscles. He just stared unfeelingly at Jaime Lannister having a breakdown on the dirty dungeon floor. Adara looked up at the ceiling, wondering if it was too callous of her to call for a stool to sit down and do her needlework.

When Jon finally spoke, his voice was more contemplative than anything.

“I wanted to kill you.”

Jaime’s chuckles were short and harsh enough that Adara had the feeling he no longer cared all that much by then. But Jon hadn’t finished yet.

“Less because of what you’ve done, but more because of what you will do.” The slight smile Jon gave him was rueful, “I cannot afford you trying to take stupid revenge. You won’t do it because you were your father’s son, but you will surely do it because you were her lover.”

Jaime was no longer smiling, his face was a mask of hard indifference, though his teeth ground together and his jaws locked.

“So yes, I wanted to kill you,” Jon concluded matter-of-factly. “But then… I wouldn’t want to become your father. I dislike the thought of being perceived the same way as he did.”

At that, Jon turned and signaled to the guard a distance away to bring in the chairs. Adara gave him a fleeting appreciative look before sitting down and pulling her needlework out. Jon sat down beside her, continuing the conversation as if nothing had interrupted them.

“I have never considered how difficult it is to rule, you know. No one ever teaches us that. Too much, and I’ll become your father. Too little, and I’ll become my uncle. The best of me could not be as good as my uncle, and the worst of me could not be as gross as your father, so in the end, I will have to stand on the knife’s edge and try to balance myself.”

He sent Jaime - chained and exhausted and dazedly furious - a benign smile (that still hadn’t worked; her brother really should have given up the dream of disarming people with a smile; it tended to have the opposite effect instead).

“Though I know it's unlikely that you will feel grateful, try. You still have children to protect, and now, Ser, instead of being a headless corpse, you are allowed to take the Black to protect them from the Long Night."

The look Jaime sent Jon would have curdled the blood, but Adara's brother only laid back leisurely on the back of his chair, an assured expression settled on his face:

"Now then, shall we discuss the details?"

Chapter 8: INTERLUDE: THE END OF A CENTURY

Chapter Text

By the latter half of 301 AC, the Seven Kingdoms had almost settled down. There was still distant news of unrest across the Free Cities (as Danaerys Targaryen rose in power, talks of random Aegon Targaryen VI and the Golden Company started brewing, and Stannis Baratheon fled toward Asshai with his Red Woman) and whispers of crazy Euron Greyjoy causing troubles by the coastline, but internally, at least, things were generally in place.

Valerion Targaryen - the First of His Name - was crowned 'King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men' in the Great Sept of Baelor by the High Septon (still parading in his grey robe like a wise old man in the wood). Queen Daenys Targaryen sat beside him in both the Throne Room and the Small Council. Daemon Targaryen was titled the Prince of Dragonstone, Maegor Targaryen the Prince of Harrenhal, and Gael Targaryen was the first Princess, betrothed to her brother Daemon. Their only living relative (who wasn’t burning slavers in the Free Cities) was restored as an Archmaester in the Citadel. Maester Aemon Targaryen was ancient already, and always needed a steward around to care for his health and help read him books, but his mind was sound enough, and his spirit was high enough, that the two carried his physical body almost every step of the way.

Valerion Targaryen’s Small Council was a revolution and the topic of much debate in the years to come. Lady Olenna Tyrell was the Hand of the King. Lord Wyman Manderly sat the Small Council as the Master of Ships. Samwell Tarly became the Grand Maester. Oberyn Martell occupied the seat of Master of Coins. Howland Reed stayed in King’s Landing as the Master of Laws. Lord Varys served once more as the Master of Whisperers. Ser Arthur Dayne became the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

The Kingsguards of this generation bucked conventions as well, allowing two female, one savage, and one heathen hedge knight into their ranks:

Arthur Dayne - Lord Commander

Barristan Selmy

Loras Tyrell

Brienne of Tarth

Lyra Mormont

Torwynd Tormundsson (Jon would have preferred Torreg, but he was a first son; the Vow of Chastity would just be cruel)

Thoros of Myr (people objected so much it gave Jon a permanent migraine, but he had his reasons)

The rest of the Kingdoms churned and rumbled under the new regime.

Robb Stark was the Lord of Winterfell, the Warden of the North, and the First Sword of the Realm. He was also a shoo-in replacement for the Hand's seat once Lady Olenna kicked the bucket - people whispered amongst each other - but neither he nor the King had confirmed either way. Most of the wildling horde settled at the Gift of the First Men, and some of the leaders also got arranged into marriage matches with Northern and Southern Lords and Ladies. Those warband's leaders were elevated to nobility, by the grace of both the King and the Lord of Winterfell. Brandon Stark went to squire for Lord Greatjon Umber, and he was promised to Myrcella Lannister, though due to some complications between the Crown and Dorne, the lady had yet been shipped up North to meet her betrothed. Sansa Stark was presented with the choice of a Northern Lord (Torreg Tormundson being the prime candidate), and Willas Tyrell. She had nearly fainted and was reported to have wept one whole night. Lady Catelyn was reported to have fought with Robb Stark for allowing such matches to be offered. The Lord of Winterfell was reported to have his mother escorted back to her chamber and to summon his sister for a talk. Lady Sansa Stark had left her brother's solar much more assured and determined. She personally wrote to Torreg Tormundsson to accept the betrothal. (Her betrothed was unlikely to have even understood a word, but at least he was gallant enough to ask the maester to read it to him and help him compose a sincere reply.)

The Tyrells boasted the second-best position in the new country, with one member being the current Hand, one Small Council seat once she passed away, and grandchildren betrothed to the royal line. In one more generation, the Tyrells would have dragonriders of their own. But of course, in true Southron manner, the Lord of the Reach still sported passing regret on his face when people weren't looking too closely.

In the Riverlands, Brynden Tully became the Lord of Riverrun, married to Lady Mya Blackwood, the widowed sister of Lord Tytos Blackwood. No effort was made to rebuild the Twins, the land deemed cursed enough that no one dared venturing too near.

Tommen Lannister inherited Westerland, betrothed to Meera Reed, and had to struggle to rule over a land where his people grew resentful, his entire family was either maimed or dead, and he had to spend his entire (short) life working to scrape up anything and everything to sustain his household, as the Crown confiscated their personal vault and swallowed up half of Lannisport. Jaime Lannister was sent to the Wall, living under the scrutiny of Mance Rayder and Lord Commander Mormont. Tyrion Lannister fled East, later, he would make them grieve as he joined forces with Aegon the Pretender, but in 301 AC, he was marked as missing. Kevan Lannister's line was wiped clear off the earth. Even Ser Lancel, who had pledged his vows to the Church of the Seven, was found committed suicide a day after the news of his family members arrived. The only Lannisters still alive by the end of the third century were Jaime, Tommen, Myrcella, and Tyrion (unaccounted for). Halleck's and the Weeper's warband marched South with a part of the Neck's army to escort Lady Meera. That part of the Reeds' army and the Weeper's warband settled down in the West, breathing down on the Casterly Rock's necks and making sure no mischief would arise.

In the Vale, Petyr Baelish was eaten by Sonagon, and neither Lysa nor Robert survived the destruction of the Eyrie. (People whispered, of course, but no one was surprised that the King allowed none of them to live). In the end, the two contenders for the seat of Warden of the East were Harry the Heir and Arwen Arryn - the only daughter of Elbert Arryn and his lady cousin born from Alys Arryn. Technically, as a woman and the grandchild of a younger brother, Lady Arwen (and her son - Roland Egen), should be as far as possible from the line of succession. However, Jon disliked Harry the Heir (Sansa had returned and had regaled the most disgusting tales of the ungallant man, and her family was outraged), and so he decided to be contrary and put the woman up as a contender anyway. The result was both surprising and pleasing to the Crown. Harry the Heir was too arrogant and too much of a man-whor* to gather much sympathy. On the other hand, Lady Arwen's goodfather (Ser Vardis Egen) had been a favorite of many, and Lady Arwen herself (freshly widowed after the siege of the Eyrie) had had a reputation so pristine, that she and her newly-born son won by a huge margin. So Roland Arryn (previously Egen) would be the Lord of the Vale, whereas his mother Arwen Arryn would rule as regent for a few years until he reached majority. (Harry died on the bed of his favorite whor*. People were saying how even the Gods wouldn't bear his whoring way, but people just hadn't known that it hadn't been the Gods. It was just Jon - who was both protective of his family - yes, even Sansa - and averse to having loose ends).

The Iron Islands were still divided. Euron Greyjoy was still guerilla-warring near the coastlines, and a couple of Ironborns were still mourning the decapitated head of Theon Greyjoy (beheaded by Robb and spiked on the wall of Winterfell), but the general consensus fell to Asha Greyjoy, who was brought to the knees by Queen Daenys, her dragon and her warband. In the end, the Lady swore loyalty and became the main ruler of the Iron Islands. She was married to Rattleshirt, and his entire warband settled on the islands to keep an eye on the treacherous people.

The Stormlands presented a challenge. The only/most legitimate Lord of the land had fled East, sacrificing his only daughter to the flame beforehand, so the place was on the verge of a second Vale crisis. At least, Edric Storm had been recovered before he was thrown into the flame with his pitiful lady cousin. He was legitimized into Edric Baratheon and betrothed to Lady Lyanna Mormont. Lady Valerie Umber (yes, that Val) traveled to the Stormlands with Lady Lyanna, assisting her in keeping the peace and getting ready for any internal and external efforts of Stannis's loyalists. Lord Dondarrion made a miraculous reappearance with Ser Thoros by his side. After a very long and private talk with the King, Ser Thoros was given the White Cloak (to the outrage of half of the court) and Lord Dondarrion marched home to assist his new liege lord and future lady in rebuilding the turbulent Storm’s End.

Dorne was the most complicated of all. They did not openly defy the new Targaryen regime, they owed that much to the twins, with the gift of Gregor Clegane's head sent years ago. Still, they could not (in good conscience) support the children of Lyanna Stark. Endorsing Daenerys Targaryen would have been much less distasteful to them, and if that Aegon of the Golden Company was the real babe of Elia Martell, they would have even more choices to consider. Unfortunately for them, Daenerys had not replied to a single letter of theirs, and Aegon didn’t have even half a dragon to prove his parentage, whereas both his supposed siblings and his aunts had an abundance of them. Even desperate as they were, they had to see hopelessness when it was staring at them in the face. So Oberyn sat the Small Council, and they agreed to send Myrcella back, though not immediately, due to complications . The King was in good humor enough to allow them two years to deal with their complications.

The Faith and the Citadel had supported the King and Queen in their decision to change the Law of Succession. It probably wasn't a dig toward Aegon the Pretender, because the the Law had been changed before the first sightings of the man were made, still, it was pretty hilarious how spot-on it was. From 301 AC onward, the Law of Succession of House Targaryen stated that: Dragonriders came before non-bonded children of the blood. Of the dragonriders, male heirs came before female ones, and a son came before an uncle. That put Aegon the Pretender (even if he was the real Aegon VI) further down the line of succession than even Daenerys Targaryen, unless he had been resourceful enough to charm his way into a dragon. And even then...

301 AC also saw several betrothals being made, weddings being arranged, and children being born.

Of the Northern Households, it marked the betrothals of Arya Stark to Edric Dayne (not without a lot of grievances, the Queen had to fly to Winterfell herself to persuade the Lady), Bran Stark to Myrcella Lannister, and Rickon Stark to Liv Magnar (the betrothal was made when the corpse of the young lady's father was still warm; the King and the Lord of Winterfell led the raid themselves early into the year).

The year also marked the wedding of Sansa Stark to Torreg Tormundsson, Alys Karstark to Sigorn Thenn, Wynafryd Manderly to Willas Tyrell, Wylla Manderly to Dormund Tormundsson, Lyanna Mormont to Edric Baratheon (previously Storm), and of Meera Reed to Tommen Lannister. Each of the ladies marrying down South had with her a group of household knights and two wildling warbands to ensure her protection.

301 AC celebrated the birth of Egan Stark - the Heir of Winterfell, and Harald Thenn - the Heir of Karhold, son of Alys Karstark and Sigorn Thenn. Harrion Karstark had been rescued from Maidenpool, but his body was so ravaged, it was not possible for him to have children of his own. A few pregnancies had been recorded across Westeros: the third pregnancy of the Queen, the first pregnancy of Sansa Stark and Wynafryd Manderly, amongst other smaller Houses' good news.

Winter seemed to have halted in its progression (temporarily, as the King would often say), the last harvests were no longer a dream, and trade took its first shaky steps toward stability. Up North, a new religion had taken hold, and had been assimilating into the Old Northern Beliefs. The Faith was shimmering at the competition, but there wasn't any chance for them to protest, as the religion stopped dead at the Neck, and refused to cross the border to infiltrate the South. Since it was stuck up North, the Faith of the Seven really didn't have much ground to whine. Talks circulated that it was the King's doing, but there was no proof, and as usual, the Crown claimed absolute innocence and ignorance.

By and by, 301 AC marked a new beginning for the Seven Kingdoms, and though not all was well, King Valerion Targaryen's reign started off on a prosperous note. People started having hope - or the prelude of one. The fear that the Iron Throne would fall within this lifetime had finally been (temporarily) put to rest.

Still, that did not mean that everything was well and truly peaceful.

Across the Narrow Sea, Queen Daenerys Targaryen made her mark as the Queen of Meereen and the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. In her list of titles, 'Queen of the Seven Kingdoms', 'Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men' were notably missing, but people still waited with bated breaths as the implications of such titles still hung heavily in every move she made, seeing as she was the only Targaryen whose parentage was of absolute certainty. During the year 301 AC, Daenerys was still wrestling with the Sons of the Harpy to cement her hold on Meereen, but everyone was very much aware that it would come to a head soon, that the Dragons of the West and the Dragons of the East would soon collide, one way or another. The outcome of such collision would set the course of Fate for the whole of Westeros, and of the lands beyond.

Whispers of dark magic rising along the coast of Westeros, of Euron Greyjoy the pirate dabbling in heathen sorcery. Nothing of note had happened yet, but people still buzzed with nervous energy at the impending horror about to burst forth. The call for the King to track down and destroy Euron's fleets became louder and louder as time went by, and the Crown neither confirmed nor denied their preparation for such a feat. Their dragons were still mostly deployed up North and in King's Landing, and with the Queen so heavily pregnant of late, it was not an easy decision to have Suvion and herself up in the sky right then.

By the end of the year, people also started talking about the Golden Company and the Young Man riding in front of their procession. Speculations of Aegon VI Targaryen started going around, but more often than not, it was the taunting laughter about Aegon the Pretender. In the age where dragons abound, this claimant of the throne was the only one shameless enough to claim legitimacy even without a shadow of one. The Imp was seen in this horde, though even then, no one took this Aegon seriously, not when even the South started familiarizing themselves with the sight of dragons flying above.

Stannis Baratheon had vanished into thin air. People suspected that he had fled to Asshai with his Red Woman. Crueler men even claimed that he was sacrificed on the fire by his own sorceress, which served him right, for all the heathen and terrible deeds he had wreaked upon their lands. All the kinslaying and deceit and violence committed on both his people and the people he claimed he wished to rule. The smallfolks cared little for kings and queens, but they did care if said Queen was sh*tting on them from her high seat (the Faith drove the narrative, but who cared?) and if said King brought a horde of faithless pirates to knock on their doors.

In true Westeros dramatic fashion, they ended the century with a change of dynasty, the revival of mythical beasts, and a bunch of mixed-blooded babies. Historians would call it a day and go to bed with an easy smile. (They should appreciate that at least they could still do so.)

“Letting Tommen live is a mistake. Letting him live without being a septon or take the black is lunacy. I do not understand.”

“Says the person who got miffed at me for being too callous with children. And just a month or two ago, too. Such an inconsistent woman.”

“Well, I changed my mind. Is that a problem? And you are not answering the question.”

“Which part don’t you understand? The fact that he witnessed his mother raped and mutilated publicly? The fact that he won’t always be a child? The fact that he won’t always be afraid?”

“All that and more. Even now, people can still flock to his banner. Even if he has no will to - and that might not last - he is a symbol. The last ‘Baratheon’. There’s no insurance that people won’t desert the Faith just to put a mummer king on the throne.”

“And who to say he will live long enough for them to do so?”

“… You said that you would spare him.”

“And I do, I am.”

“Arranging assassination or poison doesn’t count.”

“Not me, no. When I’m not there to do their dirty work for them, some people will be very anxious.”

“… the Faith?”

“Aye. Even if they don’t want to disobey me too directly, they will find a way. Even if Tommen lives, he will live sickly, childless, and messily.”

“… They are more afraid of a rebellion with him at its head than us?”

“We risk only the throne. They risk several hundred years of credibility. Tommen getting anywhere near the seat of power means that their condemnation of him is ridiculous. And their image is all they have, unlike us.”

“Was that us or was that them that killed Lancel Lannister?”

“Who do you think?”

“Ugh, and they preached piety.”

“Well, like they said, ‘it’s always the holy man…’.”

“… It got me thinking, though.”

“About what?”

“About punishments. Is it better to be wiped out the way the Freys did, or is it better to be wiped out the way the Arryns did?”

“Ah, feeling pity for poor little Tommen, are we?”

“Maybe. It would have been better if he was killed cleanly.”

“For him, yes. Not for me. It will only be another mark against us. Against the savage bastard King from Beyond the Wall.”

“And it would make the Faith so much holier, no? I reckon that’s why you did it. To pull the High Sparrow into this bloody mess. To implicate him, more or less.”

“You know me so well.”

“And what if, as usual, the truth doesn’t matter? What if the Faith had someone dwelling inside Casterly Rocks, whispering lies about us into Tommen’s ears, pitting all the crimes the Faith committed against him and the Lannisters to us? What’s then?”

“His wife is Meera Reed. His entire household is Northmen or wildlings. Any and all servants would go through Halleck’s careful inspection first. They shouldn’t have that chance.”

“… So you are saying that the Faith will get close enough to poison him, but not close enough to whisper nonsense into his ears?”

“No, the High Sparrow already sent his regards back when we held the boy in the capital. By the time he reaches Casterly Rocks, they won’t have any chance to go near.”

“They do have Septs in Westerland? And septon? And septa?”

“… All cleaned up now, the septas and septons were sent from Riverlands and the Vale. You know how tight Lady Catelyn and Lady Arwen’s hold on their religious figures is. Theoretically, Tommen will be surrounded by our people.”

“It won’t be foolproof, though. There’s still a chance that they will find a way to come back and bite us in the arse. Either Tommen or the Faith, or both of them - perhaps not together, but, you get the idea.”

“Obviously. Half of the people populating this castle can and will come back to bite us in the arse. But we have to be delicate with them anyway. We’ll work on it when we get there.”

“… It would be so much easier if we just kill him cleanly. Him and Myrcella and Jaime.”

“That again? It will come with its own set of problems, I told you. We might need Jaime across the Wall. With Tommen here, Jaime won’t act out. With Tommen here, Tyrion does not have the legitimacy to take Casterly Rocks when he rides back with the Golden Company. Myrcella will be the icing on the cake, to see how far we can push Dorne. Let’s look on the bright side.”

“… Alright. Leaving that alone, who are the main people we need to watch for in the Red Keep? You sound like you have a list.”

“I do. Are you sure you want to know it though? You don’t know how to lie and you’re rubbish at feigning ignorance.”

“… Fine, don’t tell me. We can exchange notes on that later on.”

“There is…something else we need to exchange right about now, though, just so we are all on the same page.”

“... Who are our enemies? Those notes?”

“No, what are our main problems at the moment? They might not be enemies just yet.”

“... Are we talking about Daenerys Targaryen?”

“She is…an issue, a long-festered one, but not an enemy, I don’t think.”

“Aegon the Pretender?”

“Aye, though he isn’t that high on my priority list. I have plans for him.”

“Euron Greyjoy? I distinctly remember you ignoring the call to subjugate him in the council today.”

“Oh, let him terrorize Old Town a bit more. It’s never unwise to keep the High Sparrow on his toe. I can always try some random things and conclude that Euron is crafty enough to hide away. The sea is a difficult place to give chase, after all. He is somewhat competent at hide-and-seek.”

“The Faith?”

“One day, if we survive the Long Night.”

“... Has the Long Night ended yet? That was entirely too anticlimactic, compared to your obsessive preparation for it.”

“No, of course not. But our efforts during the First Great Battle were timely enough that we put a damper on their plan. With half of the White Walkers murdered and they had to retreat further to the Lands Of Always Winter, rest assured that we might have bought ourselves enough time - perhaps a few years - to work on the squabbling down South to prepare for the true march later on.”

“... They would be that accommodating?”

“Obviously not. They might…”

“...Might?”

“There are talks that one of their own is half human.”

“What?”

“That one can pass the Wall - easier than the rest, at least. Some said he already has.”

“... Gods be good.”

“That’s why we have to reach Daenerys Targaryen soon. I do not doubt that our hold on our dragons is strong enough and our dragons are safe enough bonded to us - the warg made everything easier. But our aunt has two unbonded beasts, and the halfbreed could very well masquerade himself to get close enough to steal one, or both of them.”

“They would dare venture so far South?”

“It will cost them, yes, and I suspect they are willing to sacrifice even that halfbreed if it comes down to it.”

“...This is absurd, I would be prone to believe that the halfbreed crosses the Wall and starts raising the dead to march on us from this side of it. But why would it risk so much just to steal dragons? They had loads of dragons up North back then, and I didn’t see them do anything about it.”

“One, they could not do anything about it, it takes the blood of both a Stark (to dispel the residue enchantment of Brandon) and the blood of a Targaryen to free and wake the dragons. They probably haven’t counted on us suicide enough to cross the Wall so early on. If we had crossed the Wall any later, they might have prepared traps in wait to steal our dragons the moment we freed them.

And two, your speculation only works if we are the White Walkers' main enemy. I believe that… we are not. We are likely just bulls mulling on their warpath as they reach their true enemies. Their army needs to get through us to get to the true enemies, and the halfbreed is sent only so that he can prevent something else from getting their hands on the dragons.”

“What is this something else ?”

“... I don’t know yet. But I suspect.”

“... Brother...”

“It’s all too convenient, don’t you think? The revival of dragons, the rise of the White Walkers, the appearance of R'hllor’s shadow assassins, the Drowned God's sudden grace… All within one lifetime.”

“...By that reasoning, humans are becoming collateral.”

“Aye, and fast.”

“Ugh. We just have to be born in this time and age, no?”

“On the brighter side, we are heralding the Age of Gods and Monsters. That can be considered an honor.”

“...Only if we live long enough to enjoy it. If we die, historians can shove that honor up their arses, mayhaps their heads would be fertile enough to sprout leaves then.”

“... You amaze me sometimes, do you know that?”

“Only sometimes? Are you trying to pick a fight?”

“You are so adorable when you are being recalcitrant.”

“... I resent that. I do.”

Chapter 9: DAEMON II

Chapter Text

Daemon was three when he came to a horrific realization that he was, in fact, the Heir to the Iron Throne. It wasn’t as if he had actually been a child, or that he had been simple, to miss that fact. There had been too many happenings, too many things he needed to focus his attention on for the information to register. He had known he was the firstborn (obviously), and that he had the responsibility to support his parents, to protect his siblings, and to later bring glory to his family name. That was basically the same as in his last life, sans the crippling expectations heaped on him all of a sudden.

He had to calm himself down. This hadn’t been the first time he was first in line. However, his previous experience being the heir had always been marred by the anticipation of being kicked down from the line of succession at any time. Because he had been heir to a brother who had still been in child-bearing age (… that sounded wrong but never mind), he had been ready to have a nephew at any given moment. In the end, he also had to cede that title to his niece (the niece that he had loved, in a way, but that wasn’t the point). So in conclusion, his ‘first-in-line’ experience had been a temporary and generally fake one. That was why it had not prepared him for the assuredness of his current position.

In this life, short of him dying young or the dynasty changed again (or him becoming a Septon, though he highly doubted such insanity would ever take hold of him), he would always be first-in-line and would most certainly ascend the Iron Throne. The thought made him dizzy with both the heady excitement and the muted dread roiling in his stomach.

It would be a lie if Daemon said he had never dreamed of the Iron Throne (who hadn’t?). He had even sat on it a few times, sometimes as a test, but mostly as a jest, in his last life. The chair itself hadn’t been particularly impressive - cold, hard, edgy, pretentious, and hurt his butt (in a why-can’t-it-had-a-bloody-cushion kind of hurt, not oh-no-it-cut-me kind of hurt, but even so). It was the feeling of power that rushed through people’s veins when they sat above everyone in that dreary entombed seat, the feeling of something much bigger, much more ancient swallowing them whole as the world below them appeared inconsequential. He had not been that impressed by said chair back then, and had often reserved a decent amount of respect for anyone who loved that chair so much they could endure it for years (aye, even his spineless older brother).

He had wanted it, yes, but not as much when he had grown older (he at least had that much self-awareness, his lack of patience made ruling a disaster) and not at all when he had passed his days in glorious freedom with Laena. Then Laena had died, and he had loved Rhaenyra enough to allow himself to be pulled back into the torrent of madness and ambition. He learned to appreciate the throne again, as he strived to put his niece-wife on it.

Either way, he had never expected to be able to sit on it so frequently, not when his new body was only four years of age, at the very least. The had been no precedence, aye, but it seemed his father had not cared all that much, because he made it a habit to let Daemon sit on his lap as he stared dispassionately at his subjects from the Iron Throne, looking serious but mostly bored as he took in their daily grievances. It wasn’t as if Valerion Targaryen was not taking the process seriously. It was, in fact, because people were taking the King too seriously that he felt the need to bounce his heir on his knees to give off a more personable impression. Daemon did not know how to convey to him (without making himself a demon baby), but his strategy was not working. Even with a babe of three on his knees, people still trembled when meeting his father’s eyes (and that was when Sonagon had already gone flying somewhere and not sticking his snout through the window and huffing needily), and even when his father mustered his kind smile, people still blanched and looked ready to piss themselves.

Targaryens were a mad bunch, Daemon admitted, but they had been a mad and fun bunch. Their charms were magnetic, and their beauty attracted people to them like moths to flames. His father had both of those, the Valyrian beauty (yes, even with those hair and eye colors), and even that irresistible charm that drew people to him even without his conscious effort. It seemed his blood was diluted a bit too thoroughly with the Stark’s blood, though, giving him a cold and serious edge that disheartened people. It seemed others would much prefer to glance discretely at him from the corner of their eyes (and shift their feet in discomfort, or blush - in some ladies’ cases), than to flock to him with ingratiating smiles and to deliver their reports with zeal and confidence. Daemon considered it a strength, it was much better being feared than being desired (speaking from personal experiences), but perhaps the mass’s skittishness was hindering his father’s efforts to rule a proper country.

So Daemon sat on his knees (literally) and listened to national matters and sometimes fell asleep against Valerion’s warm chest. Not for long, he had finally come to terms that this would be his lot in life - being the heir, learning the ropes of ruling, and accepting the overwhelming burden of expectations.

Daemon disagreed with a lot of his father’s decisions. Betrothals between Maegor and the spawn of Hightowers? (As if Daemon wasn’t already foaming at the mouth when he found out his Rhaena had married a Hightower and went on to give him children?) Maegor being promised to the Faith? What use would he be in there? If Father had confirmed that Maegor would only be there to burn the f*cking thing down from the inside, he might have found a morsel of sense in it. Granted, Valerion probably hadn’t known that one of his sons was a reincarnated ancestor, one who had spent his whole life trying to crush the Faith and its strangling hold on both the land and the people. So for him, he had only done what was necessary, considering that the other choice was to burn the whole South down and pretend that the people who had followed the Faith (peasants and nobles alike) had never existed.

Daemon might have chosen that route himself, but Valerion Targaryen wasn’t the rogue prince, and Daemon almost broke his silence and pulled an ‘I-am-your-great-grandpa-and-you-are-being-stupid’ on him right then and there. He refrained, though.

How many cradle betrothals had survived into adulthood in history, anyway? Maegor was essentially a boy, and unless Daemon had been very mistaken about how the world had evolved in the last two hundred years, he would not be married into Winterfell. It would be the other way around, Winterfell/Highgarden would be married to Harrenhal.

…It would just be an interesting marriage, is all. Hightowers always produced such obnoxious women.

(He pitied Maegor a bit, but then again… it might be entertaining to watch his recalcitrant brother managing a Hightower wife. Mayhaps he would be lucky enough and she would be more Stark than Tyrell.)

As for that interesting offer of Maegor to the Faith Militant (when it got reestablished, of course; judging from his father’s procrastination, it might be years), well, Daemon might be onto something, and their father actually would aim to make Maegor his weapon to destroy the Faith. The amount of time the King was spending on Maegor all alone was suspicious. But, well, let's see how it will play out first. Daemon refused to believe the father that he had been watching all these years was a fool, or a pushover.

Daemon was four when he met Daenerys Targaryen for the first time.

It had been early into 302 AC, his mother had just suffered through her first (and only) miscarriage, and conspirators had whispered terribly through their hands how it was the most dreadful of omens that the King and Queen’s first babe into his reign was stillborn. ‘A sign from the Sevens’, they said, ‘Serves them right for overreaching themselves even when they were only bastards, and heathens besides.’ Valerion took their tongues (some personally, some by the hands of their soldiers) and heads were spiked on the castle’s wall in neat rows (he should know, he even borrowed Aegarax’s body to go watch). No such talks ever circulated inside King’s Landing again.

It was during this time that news of the Pretender started ballooning, and speculations of him groveling in front of Daenerys for dragons were entertained in the Small Councils (aye, sometimes he got to sit on his father’s lap over there as well). In the end, his father assigned his mother (and her warband) to fly to Meereen to treat with their aunt, with Daemon tagging along with his band of nannies. Daenys Targaryen - thin, waned, and much more reserved after her miscarriage - had a fleeting look of confusion for half a second, before accepting the order with grace. As usual, though, his parents only started discussing once they were in private.

“It will be better if it is you, Dara. Trust me.”

“… Her letter was sent to you, though? And that Pretender went himself, so me coming instead of you might not bring about a show of faith.”

“Precisely. Aegon went himself, to ask for her hands in marriage. Dara, if I came myself, too, what would it look like?”

“… Wait, you don’t mean?”

“Yes, beloved. Targaryen Kings have taken two wives before, our own father had taken two wives. Me coming there in competition with Aegon would warrant a misunderstanding.”

Daenys grimaced, but Valerion hadn’t finished yet:

“Besides, even if I have no such intentions, won’t it be better for the both of us if you be there yourself instead of staying back and worrying every day whether or not I am cheating on you?”

“… You think too highly of yourself, brother, but okay. And you will stay in King’s Landing?”

“Maybe. Or maybe I will fly to Oldtown and investigate Euron’s black magic.”

That was the reason Valerion gave to Daenys. Daemon, though, had his guesses. The miscarriage had taken a lot out of his mother (it was due to the residue poison from her last labor, and should have been fluxed out fully after this incident), she could not eat, could barely sleep, and even though she tried, she found it difficult to stay in the presence for too long. The treasonous whispers had not helped, and Daemon suspected her reactions to them (pained silences and quiet, quivering breaths) had been the main reason why the King had resorted to such brutalities over something so seemingly inconsequential. (Daemon didn’t fault him. If only he had been more grown, he would have helped.) So probably Valerion had not wished to put more stress onto Daenys’s fraying mental health, and had also wanted his sister-wife to be able to stay away from King’s Landing and have something else to do to keep her mind off things for a while.

And so Daemon said goodbye to a mildly forlorn Gael, a grumpy Maegor (who threw a wooden toy wolf at his head at the news, growling ferociously instead of uttering the civilized words his siblings and nannies had been painstakingly teaching him - Maegor was a late bloomer, pretty sure no one in his family had struggled with words even at two, but Daemon loved him anyway), and got bundled up onto his mother's back. Suvion took flight in a flurry of joyous roar and flapping of wings, Aegarax grumbling discontentedly behind her as he lumbered upward and spread his wings across the sky. The dragons weren't kept in the Pit. His father had forbade it, looking affronted at the suggestion that any pets of his would be treated like common animals. The Council had squeaked and protested and had only shut up after they had proven the dragons did not do any harm to anyone (after one whole year of flying free and taking shelter along the caves of the coastline).

When Daemon came face-to-face with Daenerys Targaryen, his first thought was 'The Dragonblood is strong in this one', and his second was 'Gods she looks like Rheanyra', and his third was '...Mother's airy beauty is still more refreshing, though.' Daenerys had looked like a thousand years of Valyrian blood distilled into a person, nearly no trace of Andals or Rhoynar was present on her face and posture. She also greatly resembled a young Rhaenyra Targaryen, though her eyes were softer, her breasts were smaller and her body was leaner, suggesting a healthier and more disciplined lifestyle. The familiar regal slant of her cheekbones and the deceptively sweet shape of her mouth still made goosebumps crawl up the side of Daemon's neck, though, and he refrained from turning away into the crook of his mother's neck. He was entirely too old for that, he blamed his parents' overindulgence for such a weakness.

They met midair, as Daenerys rode her dragon to meet with the two beasts encroaching on her children's territory. There was a long pause and a beat of silence as neither woman spoke or moved, and the beasts flapped their wings midair with rumbling roars swallowed deep inside their throats. (Daenerys's dragon looked like a baby bird in front of the gigantic Suvion and Aegarax, but he seemed brave enough, with barely any signs of squeaky skittishness or cowed movements.) Daemon knew, because he, too, was straining for Aegarax to behave, the smell of another male contender so near was making his salivary glands gearing up.

Only the Cannibal would be so systematically hungry every time a fellow creature showed up. It had been such a pain keeping him from tormenting or eating Gaelithox (what do you know, his sister Gael had a good sense in naming pets, apparently) and Maegor's beast from Leng. He had only stopped recently, after the dragon from Leng had ballooned into size and was now around the same size as Caraxes, and had retaliated most viciously at any efforts to bully him. It was ridiculous, no Valyrian dragon would have grown up that fast. He was barely two years old, and already Valerion Targaryen was amassing a war band (nannies band) for Maegor to help him with caring for, bathing, and guarding the dragon. Daemon was not sure if it was a blessing or a curse that he still hadn't spat fire yet. No one in his family was very certain whether the beast would spit fire or ice or anything else. He was also still nameless, because Maegor refused to speak any human word so far, but the Leng beast behaved well enough, and was so affectionate with his bonded that their parents let the size differences slide. It still worried them, though, Daemon knew, because his father had been hoarding books and tomes about the Empire of Leng and its history of late.

But he digressed.

After the suffocating silence, there was a distinct gesture from the Queen of Meereen, and she turned to lead them down to her pyramids. After disembarking and ordering the rest of the warbands to care for the dragons, Daenys Targaryen took Daemon's hand as they strode confidently toward the dark throne of Meereen, Ser Barristan and Lyra Mormont flanking their sides. Daenerys Targaryen was faster than them, and had already situated herself comfortably on the throne, acting regal as her herald rambled on about her titles. Daenys Targaryen, as usual, had no patience for such pomps. She raised a hand, and the child herald stuttered into silence as his mother interrupted calmly:

"Please don’t. We have come too far for such pomposity, dear aunt. I would appreciate some basic manners of hospitability. A seat, if you will."

Before the next bout of silence could settle, she continued softly in her usual deadpanned and irreverent fashion:

"Or have you been staying far from civilizations for so long that you have forgotten how to be courteous to family members?"

For a second, Daemon thought he saw Daenerys's eyes flash in anger, and her entire household had held their breaths. However, the moment passed quickly, and the younger queen exhaled quietly as she commanded for chairs to be brought in. After everyone had seated, and his mother was making a show of fixing his hair away from his face (which was also one of her nervous ticks), Daenerys started again:

"It was remiss of me. But indeed, have you also forgotten your own courtesy? You have intruded on my home, barged into my throne room, without so much as a polite introduction."

Daemon's mother had finally finished and left his hair alone. She straightened her back before answering in that delicate voice of hers:

"You already know who I am. But since you are determined to play the games the way Andals do... Greetings, dear aunt. I am Daenys Targaryen, the second daughter of your brother Rhaegar Targaryen."

Before anyone could react to her succinct introduction, Lyra Mormont's eyes sparkled as she smoothly continued from where her queen left off:

"Presenting Queen Daenys Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen On the Wall and Beyond the Wall, the Dreamer Reborn, and the First Child of Winter."

The stunned silence afterward was made hilarious, as even his mother herself whirled around to stare incredulously at Lyra Mormont, her face a slackened mask of disbelief, as if she was asking silently 'How dare you?', 'Did I ask you?', 'What kind of a hypocritical display...?', 'Since when were Northmen so pompous?', etc. Maybe because of her interesting reactions, coupled with Lady Lyra's innocent shrug (it was Daemon's father, 100% it was Daemon's father who put that idea into her head), even the atmosphere inside the throne room started loosening up, and the Queen of Meereen stifled a laugh, the sound young and carefree in ways he had not thought possible.

That startled laughter softened the air further, and after a brief glance at each other, both Queens sat straighter but with a warmer twinkle in their eyes. The talk could finally begin in cordiality. Daemon had to give his father a thumbs-up.

They stayed in Meereen for a few weeks. Nothing too important had been discussed yet, because Daenerys had made clear that while she welcomed them into Meereen, it was only to deepen the familial bonds and get to know each other. Only after boundaries had been set, and they had understood each other more, would they start negotiating more serious matters. She also refused to confirm or deny Aegon the Pretender's reaching out, or his presence within the city. Such matters would only be discussed once they have gotten more comfortable with each other. That seemed so far away, though. The relationship between the two Queens was still awkward, not without a lack of trying. Daemon suspected one of the reasons was because of the elephant in the room - namely, his father.

He highly doubted Daenerys had harbored any romantic feelings toward a man/boy she had never met, but he imagined her slight and pain at being ignored so long by family members was smarting with the presence of his mother. He wondered if she was also a bit jealous, that she had grown up with a brother who sold her like a mare (he had ears, and he wasn't actually a child), whereas Daenys Targaryen was lucky enough to grow up half-spoiled and protected to the brim by a brother who obviously loved her quite a lot. Daemon remembered there was also a report that the Queen of Meereen was barren, that her first miscarriage was so horrific she could no longer bear a child. He wondered if they were rubbing salt in her wound, bringing him to visit alongside his mother. The longing in her violet eyes as they followed him every time he was in the room made him feel that that was the case.

Daenys, too, was feeling the discomfort of a complicated female companionship. His mother had never seemed the type to easily make female friends ( feminine female friends - not female friends the likes of Aunty Arya or Lyra Mormont or Valerie Umber), but it was worse this time around, because the recent miscarriage was sapping at her confidence enough as it was. The proximity with a beautiful, glorious, and confident Targaryen (one who many were speculating to be the better queen) had made her feel even worse about herself, and though she did not show it (the Stark's blood forced a permanent state of iciness on all its descendants' face, apparently), Daemon knew her enough to pick out some of her absent-minded nervous ticks.

Personally, Daemon felt that his father had handled the entire thing quite badly. In the first place, he shouldn't have ignored Greataunt Dany's (she was quite adamant that he called her that) effort in reaching out. His avoidance of her felt almost personal, though Daemon could not fathom how two people worlds apart from each other would have any kind of history to warrant such evasive behaviors. If Valerion had done things the correct way back then, with Greataunt Dany more mellow, she would be more successful in drawing his mother out of her dark, deep depression. Well, no use crying over spilled milk. Since his father was of no help (except for that one instance of ingenuity when they first met), Daemon had to take it upon himself to fix things.

"Gaomagon ao vēdros issa muñnykeā?" Do you hate my mother? He asked Daenerys in one of their playdate without his mother. It seemed the Stark's bluntness was rubbing off on him.

"Daor. Yn nyke zūgagon ziry vēdros issa." No, but I'm afraid she might hate me. Dany's face had a passing look of sadness, but she braced herself up quickly enough to flash a small smile at Daemon. "It's complicated. The adult world is very complicated. Don't trouble yourself with it."

Daemon had to refrain from pointing out that he was the adult here, fifty years of age if counting his last life as well, but he settled on only a glum glare that had no heat.

" You don't smile as much when in her presence, why? " He stuck to High Valyrian. It was always a joy speaking the language with another master. Neither of his parents were bad at it, but they weren't that good, either, their pronunciation and their willingness to speak left much to be desired.

Daenerys ruffled his hair and gave him a small smile:

"Such a precocious child. It was terrible of us, no? Letting you notice such things."

"You are not answering the question, Ñamar."

"... She is... fortunate. She is, but I feel as if she isn't appreciating it."

"..." That wasn't for her to judge, but Daemon had to be mindful not to appear too perceptive, or too eloquent. He was only four years old, after all.

"I suppose I am a bit jealous, my boy. I am a bit angry, too."

"... Because kepa never wrote back?"

"You know about that?"

"..."

"...I have only ever wanted a family, Daemon. A family, a home, a peaceful life. Valerion Targaryen would have given me all that, and he had refused to do so. Not by words, not really, but no answer was already an answer on its own. The metaphorical slap hurt just as much."

By that point, Daemon was quite certain she was speaking mostly to herself, not to him. Because she had that faraway look in her eyes, and her hands stilled on his head. They were the only ones inside the chamber, and even if there were more people, he doubted they would understand all of what she was saying. He stayed docile and quiet as she mused distantly.

"If I cannot have that, if he will not give me that, I will have to take it on my own, no? By my own hands. Through fire and blood. Through pain and sacrifices and mistakes and triumphs..."

Suddenly, she huffed a soft self-deprecating laugh through her nostrils, closing her eyes and laying a hand on her temper as if in pain.

"And now, when I have finally prepared myself for the terrible road ahead, when I have triumphed in the first few steps to go home and take back what's mine, she comes. She comes with her gigantic dragons, her loyal subjects who stare at her the way people stare at the stars, her unencumbered manners, her willfulness and thoughtless arrogance that can only be the result of years of indulgence, and her perfect baby boy who is both beautiful and loving and precocious. Still, she has the gall to ask for more, and to parade around with that tired, forlorn look on her face. If all that isn't another slap to my face, what is it?"

"...We want you home, is all. We all want you home, with us." Daemon soothed, voice clear and childish enough that the content didn't seem as manipulative, "She is hurting, too, though she has made me promise not to tell. She isn't very good with words, and kepa isn't very good with juggling all his troubles at the same time. I'm sure he has wanted to bring you home sooner, too, but Varys had intercepted the correspondence, and by the time the letter came, he had had other focuses, and it would seem so...awkward, no? He has missed so much time, sending the reply by then would just be...shameless."

"... They taught you even that word."

"Muña has said once, that children born during wars always grow up faster. Same with bastard children."

She paused at that, and Daemon knew he had her now. Her face darkened, as if she was imagining how her niece and nephew had grown up in Winterfell - bowing, scraping, and squeezing themselves into the tight nooks of the castle as people jeered and taunted behind their backs. She probably thought that such upbringings had fostered their passive natures and worrisome habits. It might make their late interaction with her a bit more bearable. Her imagination probably wasn't correct, judging from his parent's relationship with their cousins, and the way they held themselves. There had been hardships, most likely, but there had been joy, too, and the two had probably been spoilt rotten by Arthur Dayne that the slights from others should have been deemed inconsequential. But he didn't correct Daenerys's misunderstanding. The more pity (empathy? he didn't believe in that, by the way) she felt toward his parents, the less likely she would refuse their requests or side with the Pretender.

After a beat of silence, Daenerys picked him up to sit on her lap, and smiled down at him in that mischievous way that made her look her age:

"How astute of you, my little dragon. Since you have tried so very hard, it wouldn't be very nice of me not to make an effort, no?"

Daemon felt (himself) gross, but he could not show it on his face, because he was in the middle of a diplomatic mission. So he mustered an innocent smile (that probably looked angelic, because his father had assured him so) and gave her a happy hug (that made goosebumps rise up behind his neck, more because of his own brazenness instead of any aversion toward her).

"Thank you, greataunt." Ugh, the thing one did for the greater good.

(A part of him wondered if his father had predicted this outcome when he sent him along with his mother on this diplomatic quest.)

After that, Daenerys holed up inside the meeting room alone with Daenys (his mother sporting a particularly alarmed expression at the request). They talked all evening and all night, too, only breaking up at dawn, both seemingly pleased but knackered, which was explainable, they had spent a night negotiating away, after all. Daemon wished to know what they had discussed in there, but he had to be content with just knowing that they were amiable now.

They didn’t get to enjoy their newfound geniality, though, as the soldiers rushed in with panic in their steps, announcing that intruders were breaking into the dragon pit, one of them a dwarf. The Queen of Meereen widened her eyes and shared a sharp look with his mother (whose face was carved into stones), and Daemon knew.

He would have cursed. Had Daenerys been hiding Tyrion Lannister and Aegon the Pretender under her roof? All this time? Only steps away from Daemon’s and his mother’s chamber? The implication of such a deceit didn't escape him. Had she been juggling with the decision of whether or not to sell the Pretender out to them, or to sell them to the Pretender's horde? They were dragonlords, aye, but they were flesh and blood, too, and would bleed just like anyone else if their throats were sliced open in their sleep. What good would their dragons do when they were made unaware and compliant? Had Daenerys been indecisive about their demise all these times, as she played with his hair and told him of foreign fairy tales in High Valyrian?

Anger pulsed through Daemon's veins like a separate appendix, red flashed beneath his eyelids and his head ached with the painful fire within. He had trusted her! So the Queen of Meereen had not only liked to negotiate the way Andals do, she would prefer the treacherous band of politics the Andals employed? And against families, too? Had the House of the Dragons fallen so far?

Immediately, Daemon forcefully clamped down on his rage, making sure nothing was showing on his face. He was still in the middle of a diplomatic mission. He would not disappoint his father now. So even as fury roiled in his guts, Daemon tried to maintain a blank and innocent appearance as he tightened his hold on Ser Barristan’s back. The situation was a bit too dangerous to leave the Heir alone, so his knight was commanded to carry Daemon on his back and follow the queens’ procession.

Their mad dash had been in vain. The raid to the dragon pit had been a diversion, and by the time they got there, the Imp and the Pretender had already escaped the city through the western gate, as the bulk of the main army had been hot on the Queen's heels and he rest were flooding the pyramids in waiting for the subjugation of dragons. It seemed that the news of the two Queens reconciling within the meeting chamber had reached the ears of the Imp, and he had acted fast, absconding before Daenerys could sell them out as a reconciliation gift to the two dragonlords and their warband.

The pit came into view, only the maimed and tortured bodies of the decoys (a few grown men and a dwarf) were left twitching on the floor as they wrestled with wounds and burns. Far behind them, almost hidden within the darkness, were Rhaegal and Viserion, keening pitifully and straining forward as chains dug deeper into the scales and flesh of their necks. Speak like Andals, plot like Andals, and even chain dragons like Andals. Daemon could not withhold his wrath anymore. He flipped.

He had had enough sense not to rage inside his own body, and to slip inside Aegarax, as he beat his powerful wings and descended upon the dragon pit of Meereen. Inside the beast, his rage resonated with the bloodthirsty craving for violence, and the intense dislike for the damp, dark space beneath the pyramids. The Cannibal was too big to squeeze into the hole, and Daemon was too blind with fury to hold him back, so both of them roared viciously, black-red flames torn out of their throats. Their forelegs (wings and all) dug deep into the structure as they draped themselves around one side of the Great Pyramid, tearing down stones and bricks and a few bands of humans. People screamed and scattered in horror below, some soldiers stupidly held up their spears, looking like ants trying to go up against a hawk. Daenys Targaryen clobbered them over the head and had her warband pull them back to allow Daemon/Aegarax to have enough space to rage and burn. She probably said something to Daenerys Targaryen as well, because no further efforts were made to incense the Cannibals further. Suvion arrived a few minutes later, but seemed content to let the male dragon have his fill of carnage, only folding her wings protectively over Daenys, Daemon's body and their warband, perching silently and watching almost owlishly.

Halfway through, Daemon was aware of the tiny bird form of Drogon flying back and trying in vain to prevent Aegarax from further destruction. They (Daemon and the Cannibal both) swiped their tail in one annoyed movement (he learned it from Sonagon, that one was so very good at annoyed dismissals of others), sending the baby bird clear off their path and slamming into another, smaller structure, breaking it down as well. Drogon stayed clear after that, only crouched down low and growled warningly (worriedly) at the Cannibal on a warpath.

In the end, they tore one-third of the Great Pyramid off, freed Viserion and Rhaegal from their chains, and disciplined them viciously enough that they had to cow back uncertainly from the bigger male, distinguishing their will to fly away and leave their Mother forever. Drogon hopped closer, looking ready to defend his brothers, only to be stopped dead on his track at Aegarax's ferocious growl. All three unwillingly folded over in a gesture of submission, and Suvion let out a warning grunt behind the Cannibal, and Daemon's beast huffed contently, before once more spreading his wings, leading the three hatchlings (because they were hatchlings, nothing more, in front of Suvion and Aegarax) into the sky to hunt and let off some steam after so long being confined in that dark, dank place.

Daemon waited till the four dragons' shadows had passed over the gate of Meereen before returning to his own body, which had grown a bit cold even if there was no longer blood running down his nose. He was lying in his mother's arms, her soft hand holding his head in place. Daemon opted to continue closing his eyes and eavesdropped on the adults' conversation:

"Are they chasing Aegon and Tyrion?" That was Daenerys, her voice wasn't as fazzled as he had expected, but the worrying note irked him a bit. Was she worrying about the f*cking Pretender? He knew it, women were deceitful creatures. (Except for his mother, who could not lie convincingly to a teapot, and maybe Gael, who was scared of her own voice.)

"They are hunting, and stretching their wings after so long being confined." His mother's voice was cold again, it seemed she was also displeased at the treatment of the dragons, "And even if they do, are you going to turn on us?"

"... Don't use that tone with me. What would you have done, if your dragons were eating your people off the street?"

"My dragon doesn't do that. That's the point. Why can't you have... I don't know, dragon guards, dragon keepers or something, to care for them and to make sure they are never hungry enough to chew up your citizen?"

"... They don't accept other people going near."

"Then that's your problem, no?"

If he was being objective, warging was a cheat skill that made the life of dragonlords so much easier, and his mother should not have said such things to the Queen of Meereen, not when the younger woman had an obvious handicap compared to her. But Daemon wasn't being objective, so he felt a meanness, a grain of gratification swelling up inside his chest. He should get a hold of himself, it should be only his body that was younger, his mind should not be.

"Is Daemon alright? He had been unconscious for a while. We shouldn’t have brought him, all this violence might traumatize him."

There was an interesting silence, and Daemon wondered if his mother was giving Greataunt Dany her ultimate judging look - her best so far, which used to make even his father duck down from sight. In the end, he heard her say:

"He's fine. He's throwing a tantrum, is all."

"... What?"

He could feel his mother's lips as she kissed him on the forehead, her voice fond but resigned:

"Other toddlers scream and throw things when having a tantrum, my boy tore half a Pyramid off to throw his."

Later that same day, after people were still busying themselves with cleaning up (his tantrum had apparently not killed that many people - only a few dozens, just resulted in devastating destruction of property), Daemon sneaked out of bed and sat quietly on the balcony of his chamber. His knight was by the door and his nannies stood silently at the foot of the bed. He ignored them. He could feel Aegarax's joy at the back of his mind, as he munched on an entire carcass of elephants. After a while, he felt someone approaching from behind him, but he didn't react. He could recognize his mother's footsteps from acres away.

She stood behind him, a warm hand tugging him to her side, as if wanting to spread her wings and cover him in her protective embrace. He closed his eyes:

"I'm not suited for the throne, Muña."

"Because of your temper? Impressive, by the way, I don't think anyone has ever done that much damage when they are your age."

For some reason, perhaps because the wind was too warm, or his mother's arm was too soft, her tone too soothing, or his toddler's mind wasn't that resilient, but Daemon could not seem to help himself:

"It's always like that to me. My rage surged up, and suddenly I could not think. I am impulsive, quick to anger, and hate diplomacy with a passion. It has taken everything from me just to keep a straight face and not spit at Greataunt Dany after knowing how she harbored the Imp and the Pretender... Did she tell you in the meeting? How could you keep your head and not hit her square in the face?"

He didn't even care that he was being too eloquent for a four-year-old.

"... What's done is done. I was more worried about how to proceed from then. She was... more lonely than I thought. I could understand how she found it difficult to execute people who might be family to her."

"They would have sneaked into the chamber and gut me from throat to navel, Muña. They would have cut your throat, too, and our dragons would have destroyed the city for that. We have been too relaxed since coming here. We have trusted that, even if she wasn't allying with us yet, she was, is, family. And that she would have our best interests in mind."

"She is human, Daemon, and human has weaknesses, hers was just more damning than most. Aegon promises her a family, something that your Kepa has refused - or close enough. And the Pretender is charming, from what I gather."

Daemon made a face at that, and he could hear her laughter reverberating from deep within her chest.

"She should thank the Gods, any Gods that she follows, that nothing has happened to you or our dragons. If any of you has been hurt..."

"You would have made her pay? Come now, my sweet, you are sounding more and more like your father. That isn't a nice habit to have."

Daemon was silent for a beat after that. Then he made up his mind.

"I am still not very suited for the throne, Muña. My temper is one thing, my impatience and impulsiveness are another.” He turned and looked straight into her eyes, saying in a much slower tone, “I wanted the throne once, but even I was forced to admit my limits. I am always more suited to be a protector. Jaehaerys knew the truth of it. Baelon knew the truth of it. The Gods knew the truth of it. That's why I was born a second son. That's why I should have been born a second son this time around, too."

He paused then, short of breath (even though there had not been any exertion), and waited patiently for her response.

There was none.

At first, he thought she did not hear him. Her face was too blank and too cold. Then, in one agonizing moment, he feared she might not understand what he was saying, and that would be worse, because shouldn’t his parents been educated about their own history? Or had her Valyrian dictionary decided on selective translation right at that moment, and that was the expression of someone who had no idea what he was on about? If Daemon was less of an egotistical maniac, he might have blushed.

Then she blinked, and he could not decipher the look in her eyes.

“Should have, would have, might have… those are all dumb suppositions. It won’t change the fact that you are the firstborn now. Our firstborn. And though it isn’t as if I have a lot of experience to give counsel, who is to say there is only one kind of king? Or one kind of personality suited for the Throne? Do you think your father is similar to Aerys? Or Aegon V? Or the Conciliator? Or the Conqueror? He is no one’s reborn. He will become his own type of King, and so will you. Who is to say you have to be mild-tempered or kind or diplomatic to be a good king? You just need the right time and the right experience to grow into your ideal of a monarch. You might just be the right King for Westeros by the time you ascend.”

He felt as if something was shattering inside his ribcage. He had not realized that he had been wishing to hear this. He had not even suspected that such answers could exist. His head throbbed, and he raised a hand to steady himself:

“I… people called me Maegor Reborn.”

“The Faith drove the narrative, as usual. And besides, without Maegor I, do you think Jaehaerys’s reign would have started on such a marvelous note? Maegor showed them the worst of what we could do already, so it could only be uphill from there. That’s why both the Faith and the Crown took a step back, and found a precarious balance to work with each other for the next dozens of years.”

“… Do you think Maegor did it on purpose?”

“Sacrificing himself as a villain so that future generations can breathe more easily than Aenys? Maybe, or maybe he had just been desperate. We thought ourselves to be Conquerors, and yet our House had almost been swallowed up by the slow maw of the Faith and the customs of this land. Did we conquer them or did they conquer us, in truth? How much of the Valyrian’s histories and practices are still alive by now? Before this generation, we have our looks and our tempers, but little else. Thank Gods for the dragons, because at least now a part of ourselves has returned to us. Mayhaps Maegor foresaw it, even then, as his weak brother laid meekly on the Throne - Andals’ teaching whispered insidiously into his ears. He might have desired the Throne, but he might also have the niggling fear of being assimilated, so he fought against the constraints being thrown upon him. He fought, and he lost. And only victors write history. That was all there was to it.”

Daemon felt a rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins. She understood, she understood the exact things he and Rhaenyra had been speculating and fighting under. Did his father also of a similar mind? Would he be so lucky this time around?

“He was cruel, though, all those wives, all those deaths, all those tortures.”

“Like I said, he might have the right goal, but not the right methods to go about it, and the circ*mstances haven’t allowed him the luxury of a better method. He was driven to desperation, he had had no other choice, though a part of me do believe he might have enjoyed the gore. Ours is a violent and beastly bloodline. But if he had won, or at least had figured out sooner how the Faith had probably poisoned him into infertility, well… We might not stand here today and speculate so deeply about it, and the main religion in the South might have been the Fourteen Flames instead of the Seven-Pointed Star.”

By the time Daemon realized it, he had already been staring at his mother in awe for nigh on a minute. She gave him a small smile back, before picking him up and commanding the nannies and Kingsguard to leave them. Ser Barristan would probably still stand on the other side of the chamber door, but that was fine. Daemon was still crossed at the lax security they had been exercising since settling here.

His mother laid him down on the bed, tugging the quilts over his chest, and smoothing the strands of hair on his forehead. Her chamber was adjoined with his, but she had never forgotten to come to wish him goodnight every evening. Before she could straighten up and leave, though, his hand had latched onto her wrist as he asked, still in High Valyrian:

“Are you going to ignore my confession from before?”

She stared at him, and it was that blank stare again, making him feel stupid and anxious. But then, she lowered her head to kiss him on the forehead (twice a day! even though she had shied away from physical contact ever since the miscarriage.)

“You are my son now. Whatever past, dream, or life that you used to have, you are my son now. You are the son that I have labored for three hours to squeeze out. Do you think I would have ceded you to anyone or anything else, be it a person or a dream or a faraway past?"

Daemon felt that she had missed the main point again. She always got hung up on the strangest of things.

"Muña... you don't think I'm mad? Or that I'm lying?"

"Are you? Lying, I mean?"

"No, but..."

"You feel yourself too nonsensical, is that it?"

"..."

"Yours is a strange tale, I admit. Rest assured, though, your mother has heard of stranger tales. Dreaming of being an ancestor is of no impediment."

"It's not a dream. I ate and shat and killed and f*ck in that dream, Muña. The sensations and experiences were real, I can still feel them through my pores and in my fingertips."

His mother didn't look skeptical, she just frowned disapprovingly:

"Language, young man. Whoever you were, you are my son now, and no sons of mine are going to utter such languages."

He made a face, but clamped his mouth shut, as if in reflex. He had been a child for too long. Her child.

"I have expected to be strung up by my ankles and whipped bloody, or perhaps tied up in front of a square and got torched to death."

"... Don’t sound so excited about it. Your admission relating to the Rogue Prince doesn't worry me as much as the violent fantasy of your punishment. Please don't."

A corner of his lips was lifting into a teasing grin (a huge weight was lifted from his shoulders), when his eyes caught the minute movement behind her back. His jaws tightened and blood bleached from his face. The candle was burning low, yet for some reason, his mother's shadow was growing longer. Longer, bigger, faster, too. It moved even though his mother was staying still, and even though the firelight barely flickered enough to warrant the stir. Daemon's body processed faster than his mind.

"Behind you, Muña!"

The shadow had teeth, and it was laughing as it drove a knife into his mother's back.

Blood was everywhere. Blood was on the sheets, on the quilts, on his clothes (his mother made him these clothes), on his hands, and on his face. Not his blood, though, and not the shadow's blood. The shadow had no blood, even as Daemon stabbed his weirwood toy sword into his throat as it reached toward him. Kepa gave me two blades. He thought stupidly. A real dagger of Valyrian steel and a toy one made from weirwood. He had not known how he had known to pull out the weirwood one instead of the Valyrian one. Luck? Either way, the shadow assassin scattered into black dust and the room was heady with the smell of blood and ash.

He thought he heard Ser Barristan barging in, alarm and worries lacing his voice and clamors. There were other noises, people were coming. But Daemon didn't care. He could not care. All he could care about was the weight of his mother sagging on his arms, almost falling over him, and the warmth of her blood as it seeped through his fingers and into his clothes.

His mother was supposed to have only one wound on her back, but she had twisted her pained torso over to wrestle with the monster. He had watched in horror as his fingers fumbled to pull out his weapons. His mother had stabbed at it (him? the form was distinctly male) with her Valyrian dagger, and the arm had gone straight through its body (as if she was fighting with air). The shadow solidified again, though, in one heartbeat, as his mother tried to recover from her overreach, it slashed again at her throat, the cut only avoiding vitals because Daenys had dodged and the blade cut deep through her collarbone instead. The dagger went south, south, very near her... Blood was everywhere, and Daenys had only been able to tug feebly at the hilt of the dagger to prevent it from going any lower. His mother had stifled a groan, and had not been able to help but fall back onto Daemon, who had been ready to catch her and stab at the monster with his toy sword.

Daemon knew he was in a state of shock, mostly induced by his inexperienced shell of a body. He himself had been through much more bloodshed, and had witnessed and endured greater wounds before. But he had been inside an adult's body, with reflexes and bloodstream drilled into a state of hyperreadiness. In this body, though, blood wasn't even rushing fast enough to his head to truly shake himself out of his stupor, and he could not think or care for anything else but trying desperately to stem his mother's blood. He might have bitten Ser Barristan's finger off when he tried to pull him free.

In the end, his mother's warm hands on his cheeks galvanized him into action. Her face was marred with pain, but her eyes were clear enough, and her voice sharp enough to force him into focus.

"Suvion. Go to Suvion. My pain will affect Suvion, and her wounds will affect me."

No one had ever told Daemon about that. Was this a quirk of the Ice Dragons? Why had no one thought of telling them something so important? Would his mother die if Suvion was killed? His mind worked fast, should he run? On these legs? No. Only Aegarax would have reached Suvion in time. So he left his body in a flurry of abandonment, falling backward to his knight's chest as Maesters and servants swarmed his mother's form.

In half a second, he was in Aegarax's body. The beast was flying back in haste, feeling Daemon's shock and anger pulsing through him. The four dragons arrived just in time to see Suvion seizing in pain, vomiting her food out in drained confusion. Dragonsbane. That his father had educated him about. Greyscale-infected meat could become the most effective of dragonsbane. But that also meant that the poison fed to Suvion was not by the hands of the shadow assassin. Suvion's food had been tampered with much earlier, and the Pretender had been infamous for sailing across the waters of the Sorrows.

Suvion was quarantined, and Daenys Targaryen was bedridden. Her wounds weren't infected (fortunately), but Suvion's poison ate at her, and his mother spent her days spatting blood and vomiting out all of the food she had consumed. Daemon was incandescent with rage, and had forbidden Daenerys Targaryen and her entourage to go near his mother's chamber. A letter had been sent back to his father shortly, and he paced her chamber like a cornered animal every day until Sonagon's wings were spotted across the sky.

His father's dragon was really a mountain made flesh, the shadow of his wingspan covered one-third of the city. Aegarax - who had still been keeping his eyes on Daenerys's hatchlings as they were chained out in the open - perked up at Sonagon's arrival and flew over to welcome the leader of his flight with (as usual) violent joy. Sonagon slapped him silly with his monstrous wings, making him fall over painfully and crouching low at the smaller pyramid to catch his breaths. The three hatchlings stared in awe and yelped alarmingly at the brutal demonstration.

His father had prepared for the chance of poison, he had told them before, so he came with a batch of medicine from the Citadel and jumped down from Sonagon's head when the beast had scarcely dropped to the ground. Valerion ignored the welcome entourage, having eyes only for his wheezing little sister as she was carried out in a cast to go to him. It was one of the very rare times when Daemon saw his father looking so anxious, his silver pupils blown wide and his clothes seemed hazardous. He had probably flown here without stopping to rest, because he seemed to be missing half of his warband, and the ones that did come were retching onto the floor of the pyramid.

Valerion hoisted his sister onto his arms, examining her pallid face and feverish body. Turning back, he barked a succinct order for Ser Loras and Torwynd to fly on Sonagon's back and help Suvion with the cure. Daemon was worried, still. The cure worked, should be, but it had never been tested for real, and the recovery rate would depend on each of the dragons and the rider. What if his mother would be bedridden for months on end from now?

Thankfully, his worries were unfounded. Suvion recovered slowly, but Daenys could start practicing her spears in the yard by the end of the second week. During the time it took for her to recover, Valerion had been talking with Daenerys and her council. As was his habit, he had Daemon on his lap for most of the talks.

Daenerys Targaryen looked tired, as if she, too, had not been able to rest easy ever since her niece was poisoned. She also got over herself and became the one to initiate the parley before Valerion could say anything. First, she apologized (sincerely, he had to note, none of those awkward off-hand apologies politicians were used to give), and confirmed solemnly that it hadn't been her intention for the situation to deteriorate so badly. She had not foreseen that the Pretender (though she still called him Aegon) would do terrible things like that. She had hoped (and her voice even broke a bit at this point, but most everyone on the table pretended not to notice) that she would be able to introduce and help the two branches of Targaryen House to reconcile, and... (Daemon stopped listening to her at that point. Mother had been right. She was too young, and too lonely, and too idealistic. Family was her weakness, she could not help herself.)

He had to respect his father, though, because he patiently listened to everything without even a twitch on his face, his hand idly rolling the black ball in front of his seat. There was no expression on his face, and he didn't look at Greataunt Dany. He only turned his head to look directly at the Queen of Meereen, after she had finished making her case.

"What have you been expecting, then, Your Grace? His claim would destroy my children's birthright. And he would not be worth half a sh*t with me and my line on the throne, and the law of succession being as it is. There is no conciliation. There cannot be. You either trust him and give him dragons, in which case, I will have to burn the city down and torch your dragons to bits. Or, of course, you work with us, who have been so very lenient, by the way, and provide a show of faith that we can trust. One side or another, Your Grace. There is no in-between. Haven't you already known that the first time you destroyed the masters and saved the slaves? There are positions in this world that can never be reconciled."

Greataunt Dany stared at Valerion, her eyes large and her brows furrowed. As with all the Targaryens, she was never one to take kindly to threats. Nevertheless, she deflated after her gaze crossed Daemon's. He might have been sporting an accusatory expression, because he could see the flash of shame and hurt across her fine features. She took a deep breath:

"I understand. I... will not promise by words, which is meaningless now that you have almost lost a wife and a mother. I will, however," When she looked at father and son, her entire bearing was resolute now, "I will send both Rhaegal and Viserion to you. A gift, for your future children, and a proof of faith that I will have no dragons left to give to Aegon the Treacherous. With my two dragons gone across the sea, the only way he would ever have a dragon is by murdering me and taking Drogon by force."

The silence inside the chamber was suffocating, before her court exploded into objection behind her. Drogon roared outside the window, though, making them subside into discontent quietness.

"And you?" Valerion asked, his voice softer, but the expression on his face was still the same, "Will you come back with us, Your Grace? I believe my children would love to know their greataunt."

All the fight seemed to have left Daenerys's body at his words, and she flashed him a grateful smile:

"I will come home, too, one day. But not today. I will finish everything in the Free Cities first, and will sail home with my army and my support to the rest of my family."

His father's eyes were contemplative as he looked into Greataunt's eyes, and slowly, a smile spread across his face, too.

"Do be quick with your quest, then. We await your arrival, dear aunt."

Chapter 10: MAEGOR I

Chapter Text

Maegor spent the first few years of his life hating the world. Granted, he hated himself, too, but mostly the world.

It took a long time for him to gather enough information about the era and the people and the problems they were facing. (He was startled enough that he bit his nanny’s finger clean off the first time he realized that he had been reborn into a time when the Faith of the Seven was dancing on everyone’s head. Alright, Maegor hadn’t expected much after he had died, but for f*ck’s sake, really? There had even been a Septon-King? What in the bloody…?) It didn’t help that his nannies were all wildling savages, who couldn’t read half a letter even if they merged their brains together. His siblings seemed adept enough, specifically for ones so young, but being toddlers as they were, still hadn’t been much help. Still, he could feel their love and care so clearly, from Gael’s sweet hums of lullabies to him every night when mother was busy, from Daemon’s patience (remarkable patience, for a child, anyway) when teaching him how to speak, how to walk, and how to stab with his toy sword. The moves his brother showed him were surprisingly refined, if a bit simple, which could be attributed to his age and the lack of muscles.

If Maegor had actually been a child, or if he had been less jaded and hateful toward the world, he might have enjoyed their attention. But in this case, all their efforts did was raise his suspicions. Gael’s lullaby was exactly the same as the tunes of Old Valyrian that Visenya used to sing to him, and his new mother didn’t seem to know the tunes, opting to sing him Northern hymns instead. Now, where would sweet little Gael learn of such songs, if they hadn’t been sung to her by their mother or their savage nannies? Then there was his older brother (whose name was a sore spot for Maegor - don’t think he had ever forgotten treacherous Daemon f*cking Velaryon), whose eyes gleamed a bit too knowingly every time they eavesdropped on their parents’ talks of states. There was Daemon's refined Valyrian accent and ingenious swordplays (because aye, he had been allowed to train with the sword as long as he could walk, so did Maegor, though he pretended the practice bored him and often played truants instead). The swordplay Maegor could explain away with good blood (Daemon was Targaryen, please, and Maegor had seen his father fight before), but the flawless Valyrian (of which their parents were adequate but nothing of note)? The shrew way he spoke? The complicated books he read? (Aye, he had caught that, by the way, even though his brother had been trying to hide it, he had been three at the time, after all.)

So aye, Maegor suspected. Had he not been the only one reincarnated?

He wondered about it, contemplated some more, then decided that it was none of his business. He was not living for the mysteries, after all. He was not living for anything. He just hadn't found the right cause to die under, and Targaryens committing suicide was just debasing. (Once had been humiliating enough.)

He refused to talk, only learning to walk because his body was not wired for sitting still. He refused to read - out loud at the very least - and only took to zealously devour the books while no one was near. He refused to train, knowing for certain he would have excelled but didn't see the point. Not even the twinge he felt when his father graced him with a calm but mildly disappointed look could change his mind. Maegor told himself that he had been used to disappointment already. It confused him a bit when his father's disappointment did not result in cold dismissals or even disciplinary violence.

Valerion did not have much time to personally teach his son so frequently, not in those first few years of his reign, but each time he did, he always patiently went himself to pick up the wooden swords and put it into Maegor's hands, then repeated the entire steps when his son was infuriating enough to throw it away again, right at that moment. In most of those cases, Maegor had to be the one to concede. His father was much too consistent, and though he hated himself and the world (which had been well-established), he could not find it within himself to torment a man who looked at him the way Valerion did, who had barely gotten three hours of sleep per day due to complicating state works, yet still cared enough about his children to make time to teach them warging and fighting.

Maegor disapproved of warging by the way, he was beastly enough without immersing himself further into his dragon's body. Ironically, he was abnormally good at it, without even trying. He had dragon's dreams daily, and he could slip into his beast's skin even with his original body still conscious, which was phenomenal at his age, and much better than even his brother. He felt that his adeptness made Gael a bit sad, so he refrained from doing so in front of her.

He also refused to participate in family bonding - which happened at least once every day inside the nursery and later in Daemon's chamber as he started having one. His refusal...did not work. He could hide, but his brother was somehow an expert on the secret passages of the castle (more so than he, who had bloody commissioned their construction), thus always managed to find him easily and picked him up by the collar to force him to join the family time. He could try to fight Daemon, but he was somehow just as nasty as he was at hand-to-hand combat. It wasn't the finesse (what finesse, they were barely more than toddlers), but the single-minded ferocity and the distinct lack of fear were similar enough to he himself, that any brawl they had always lasted for ages, neither were willing to concede halfway. So even Maegor had to accept his fate on this point.

One thing he did not refuse, though, was flying on his dragon (he still refused to name him, calling him Number Two in his mind) every day, even though he had to endure nannies tagging along to be able to take flight. He believed himself to be able to let go of most mortal desires (he eavesdropped that he would be joining the Faith Militants in a few years, so mayhaps it was for the best… that wasn’t to say he hadn’t laughed so hard he got stomachache back when he heard of it the first time; oh, the f*cking irony), except for the incessant drive to take to the sky. That had haunted him most of his old life, when he had (secretly) been rejected by all hatchlings on Dragonstone, and he had grown up amongst people who had flaunted their bonds with uncaring ease. (He had had Balerion several years later, but it hadn’t been the same.) He had thought himself to be defective (still not too sure if he hadn't been) and had desperately tried to overreach himself in other fields to compensate.

It hadn’t worked, obviously, and it enraged him further still that all his efforts only came down to a derogatory moniker of ‘the Cruel’ in history books. He supposed he should feel pleased, in a way. He had left behind such a glorious legacy that people feared even the mention of his name, and in the last three centuries, rarely anyone had dared to bestow his given name to children of the blood. (Not counting Valerion I Targaryen, who had the creepiest sense of humor and the general attitude of I-don’t-give-a-flying-f*ck most of the time, even if his solemn Northern face had not conveyed it.) Maegor Targaryen became the monster underneath the bed, the disease that repulsed people, and the dread that settled inside people’s ribcages like an ulcer. If Maegor had been exactly as historians had painted him to be, he would have been exceptionally pleased.

It pissed him off even more that he didn’t take that much pleasure in such slanders. He liked being feared well enough. (And it was true that he had always possessed a meaner streak than most, but so what? All Targaryens were mean, just to which degree and in which situations. Such delicate sensibilities, these Andal sheeps.) It was true that one ought to be content with ruling by fear if one cannot ensure people’s love. But it would be even better if it was the balance of both. He had known that, true, he wasn’t stupid. But knowing and doing were two different things. He hadn’t been built for soft words and effortless charms (he still wasn’t, he was pretty sure), and circ*mstances had driven him to a point where he could not even try to practice either. He had gone past despair already, he had accepted his loss by the end of his last life, and had started this new life with the resolution to hate the world as much as it had hated him.

For the most part, he was successful, the world being how it was, nasty and complicated and unlovable. For other parts, however, his new family made it exceptionally difficult to completely abandon care and happiness. He was very displeased with them for that, and had still been valiantly fighting against their efforts to endear him to life again. No chance. He wouldn’t make the mistake of wanting and hoping again.

Life didn’t mean sh*t, and Maegor was determined to let it pass through him and become an inconsequential sideline spectator. Mayhaps he would be lucky enough to die early (without demeaning his blood by using his own hands) and he would consider his goal well-achieved.

(If he did, please make it so he died before he had to join the Faith Militant. And definitely, before he had to tie the knots with the Hightower’s spawn… She was half Stark, everyone kept telling him that. But that didn’t clear away the taint of that half/quarter Hightower’s blood, did it?)

His brother and mother returned from Meereen with twice the number of dragons that they had departed with. Maegor wondered if he had to commend their resourcefulness or worried about how easily dragons were falling off from the sky. His father had returned a week earlier than them, but he had not been able to visit the nursery that much, as Euron Greyjoy once again terrorized the coast of Old Town to lure Valerion out for pest control, and his father had had to hole up in meeting chambers and his solar to deal with the ramifications of it.

During one of the family's bonding times inside Daemon's chamber, his parents discussed the shadow assassins, and even Maegor perked up a bit at hearing such fanciful tales. He had not known how to feel when Suvion lumbered back tiredly and sickly, and his mother had looked as if it was taking her every effort to act healthy and unbothered. For one tiny moment, Maegor had felt his age-old rage rampaged inside his tiny body, and had had to remind himself that life was meaningless, and people got hurt all the time. He should be ascending the zenith state of not giving a damn already, and leaving the mortal dealings to its own denizens.

"So we are certain it is the shadow assassins?"

"Aye, the Great War will most likely be between the Great Other and the Lord of Light. I suspected before, but this incident proves it."

"... The White Walkers will try to kill Valyrian Dragons, and the Shadow Assassins will destroy the Ice Dragon?" Maegor thought he heard his mother grumbling under her breath about 'Bloody unfair, there's only one Ice Dragon, no need to single us out.'

"Their Thousands-Year War restarts and magic stirs in every corner of the world. Dragons might be the only line of defense that humans have to protect themselves from the Immortal players."

"Euron's heathen magic?"

"That, too, though I doubt he is accommodating enough to join forces with us, in which case, I will have to put him down. Clear the path so that we can focus fully on keeping both the Winter and the Doom at bay."

"..."

"You are quiet, sister. Tell me what's on your mind."

"It puts things into perspective when you throw words like 'the Long Night' and 'the Doom' around."

Valerion smiled at her as he picked his younger son up to sit on his lap. Maegor immediately scowled and struggled unsuccessfully. His father ignored his efforts, he didn't even budge. Gosh, he hated his child's body.

"You thought that our seven dragons are a force to be reckoned with, didn't you?"

"... Embarrassingly enough to admit, aye. I have even entertained thoughts that we might make an Empire out of the Seven Kingdoms and the Free Cities." And then Valerion had spoken of 'Doom' and 'Long Night', and suddenly their flight of dragons seemed no more than flying flowerpots.

"We can still make it, love, after we fight the Great War."

"...Those of us that survive, you mean."

His father reached out for his mother's hand (the free one that wasn't fixing the bangs on Gael's forehead), covering her smaller fingers with his rougher ones.

"We won't lose, Adara. I will not allow us to lose."

"... Please don't offer promises you can't keep. War is merciless, and we never know who might die or who might not. It comes down to luck."

"... Am I not lucky?"

"You are, but I am not. And our children might not."

"... If I say..."

"If you dare say that we are lucky enough to be born as your sister, or your children, I might just hit you."

His father's small smirk made Maegor think that he would actually like it if she did.

"Enough with the doom and gloom. Let's consider things from a more optimistic standpoint. If we all succumb during the Great War, our dear Maegor can avoid having to join the Faith Militant, our smart Daemon won't have to die of boredom from politicians' squabbles, and sweet little Gael can become a real Angel that shines down on peasants with her magnanimous light."

Daenys Targaryen scowled and swatted at him:

"It's not funny. It's really not."

As if to avoid making the two new dragons a waste of space, his parents worked on a schedule and had two consecutive babies in 303 AC and 304 AC. Both boys went to the world heavy, healthy, and very loud, despite the niggling fear of miscarriage and speculation of difficult pregnancies. It seemed that the last stillbirth had flushed all of the poison out of Daenys's system, or her body was just built more resilient than other women, because his mother survived two poisonings and still came back strong enough to squeeze out two more babes. All the pregnancies should have made her fat, Maegor was given to believe that women got fat after giving birth so many times, but Daenys exercised like a demon and her postpartum recovery was smoother than most. By 305 AC, his mother still looked lean and in shape, and though her duties patrolling between King's Landing and the Wall made it difficult for her to spend much time with her children, she tried her best.

Valerion Targaryen still spent much of his days either withering away with stateworks, or flying every other way to visit the Wall, Daenerys and random lordlings, or training his children at arms, alongside both Ser Arthur and Torwynd Giantsbane. Maegor was still uncooperative, and Valerion was still ignoring the wails of people to do pest control near the coast of Old Town. It wasn't as if his father hadn't flown Sonagon over there, but Euron Greyjoy was crafty enough to always hide away when the wings of the monstrous beast were spotted from the sky. After the third time this had happened, the King had been fed up enough to declare ignorance from now on, at least until Euron had enough guts to have his dumb beast face the dragon properly. The Greyjoy was only so spotty because his goddamn Kraken was still feeble and delicate. Once the monster grew into his size, the pirate wouldn't be so inconsistent. Greyjoys were a bunch of desperate attention-whor*s, after all.

Maegor was rebellious in the training yard, only ever showing up after being manhandled by his nannies (spearwives with forearms of tree trunks, poor things, no wonder they could not get married and had to spend their youth wrestling unruly children), and throwing the weapons away every time people put one into his hand. Ser Arthur asked the King for permission to discipline him, mentioning off-handedly that Maegor's bad habits were nothing a few bloody shins and calves could not fix. Valerion Targaryen refused, giving his Kingsguard an amused look. His father tried to teach him personally as frequently as he could, and as established, Maegor could not be too mutinous in front of his father, but even if he didn't throw weapons away, he didn't make any efforts to train or spar properly, either. Still the King was patient and forgiving, to the point that it made his second son a tiny bit guilty. Only a bit, though, then he remembered how he was aspiring to reach enlightenment, and the guilt seeped away.

As expected of those behaviors, Maegor became the pariah of the training yard. Admittedly, it wasn't his siblings who ostracized him (they would stick to him like glue if he ever allowed them), it was he who distanced himself from them. He already couldn't avoid them during family bonding times (Daemon still collared him like a dog and pulled him along every single time), he would be damned if he let them swarm him again in the training yards. So he threw tantrums often and sat out every day to stare dispassionately at his brother and sister practicing with weapons. At one point, even two-year-old Aenar started joining them in the yard. The black-haired boy (the only child in the family who inherited their father's hair color, and with his grey eyes that shone silver, he was truly the miniature version of Valerion I) distracted Daemon and Gael enough from Maegor for him to sit alone in peace.

Daemon was incredible with the blade, as Maegor had suspected, decent with the spears, excellent with the bow, and creative in hand-to-hand combat. By this point, Maegor was fairly certain that his brother was a child reborn, he was just not sure if he had been the Rogue Prince or the Black Dragon (if he was a Blackfyre, he must have been the first Daemon, because the rest had just been embarrassing). Historians had made neither of them out to be decent people, but taking the leaf from Maegor's own book, he decided to give them the benefit of the doubt.

In looks, his brother was pretty enough for Maegor to consider Daemon Blackfyre, but he had always held himself a bit too arrogantly and too assuredly for a baseborn reincarnation. Besides, the Black Dragon had been hailed for his beauty, but no one had ever said anything about the Rogue Prince being ugly. There was also a high chance that Daemon hadn't grown up looking the same as in his last life, and all his beauty was inherited from Valerion and Daenys instead (Gods knew, Maegor didn't think that he himself resembled his past self all the way, either. Most of his features stayed the same, but there was an abstruse finesse that softened his appearance and annoyed him to no end every time he saw his reflection in the mirror. That, and his eyes were blue-grey, mostly grey, just like his parents).

In temperament, his Daemon was daring and mercurial enough, and had that mischievous charm that drew people to him in droves, male and female. He was also vicious, stubborn, and efficacious, all known attributes of both Daemons in the past. All the unnecessary similarities between the Rogue Prince and the Black Dragon were making it hard for Maegor to pinpoint who exactly his brother had been. (A part of him laughed at his own useless dwellings. What would he even do if he knew who his brother had been anyway? Confronting him? Blackmailing him? For what? He was not in need of anything. Avoiding him for being a demon baby? Well, excuse you, he was also a demon baby himself, and he had already tried avoiding his brother and family even before knowing any such stupid secrets. He had just not been very successful. Maegor blamed his weak toddling body.)

In the end, after many (useless) speculations, Maegor decided that his brother must have been the Rogue Prince. The ease and the natural familiarity Daemon had when flying and playing with Aegarax tipped the scale toward the dragonlord of the first century. If he had been forced to learn to fly and maneuver for the first time, he wouldn't have had such panache and insouciance. Furthermore, Prince Daemon Targaryen sounded like the type of person who would decide on pretentious names like Aegarax. The same would not be said of the bastard of Aegon IV, who would probably have named his dragon some insipid and blackwater names like Black Wings or Fyreflight or whatnot.

His sister, Gael, was more of a conundrum. The only Gael Targaryen in history was a frail lackwit, and though his sister was sweet and kind (and soft-spoken, so very unlike any Targaryens he had ever known or read about), she also had a quiet stubbornness that could not be explained through words, and she was healthy and adaptable enough to train diligently in the yard with the bow and arrows. She was clumsy with blades, barely knowing how to stab with the pointy end, but her aim when using ranged weapons was impressive, indicating fantastic eyesight and steadfast movements. Their father took them hunting sometimes, and aside from the tiny shakings on the first occasion, Gael had taken to shooting birds and deers and boars with cold focus and effective motions. Knowing the King, Maegor suspected he would let her graduate from games to humans soon, and have her practice shooting inmates and criminals. Killing a human was different from killing an animal, after all, and they were all trained to be useful in the battlefield of men and monsters, not just for sports and prey.

She was beautiful, though that was no surprise for a Targaryen. Her beauty was incongruous, emitting a strange sharpness even when her body was tiny and her features as fine as porcelain. Her shyness didn't shine through, because her large violet eyes were too striking for people to dwell further and pick out the passing uncertainty that often flitted across them. Their family knew, though, and everyone, in one way or another, tried to imperceptibly fold a layer of protection around her (without her knowing, because Gael got depressed when she felt useless).

Aenar was...not very Targaryen. That was all Maegor would conclude at that point. He was a bit too young and gave off such a different smell from the usual dragonseeds that Maegor was fairly certain that he wasn't a reincarnated Targaryen. From what he gathered, if Daemon was a contemplating baby, Gael was a crying baby, Maegor was a biting baby (he resented that observation, by the way), the youngest Aemon was a frowning baby, then Aenar was a smiling baby. Ugh, impossible. A Targaryen born with a smile on his face? Well, in all honesty, there were probably some Targaryens that had been born with a smile on their face in history. Maegor had just not been present for any of those births, so it would take a hard time for him to be convinced.

Aenar was black of hair, grey of eyes, easy to smile and Maegor would have hated him to bits, if not for his prodigious swordplay. Unlike Daemon and Maegor, who most likely retained the weapon mastery of the last life, and only needed to train their bodies to accommodate the Valyrian martial arts they had already been versed in, Aenar was a true prodigy who stared at their father's rough wildlings movements and replicated it within a few minutes. Maegor didn't care how annoying Aenar's smiles were, so long as he could move like that and learn their father's barbaric swordplay at a rate like that, the two-year-old deserved his grudging respect. (And Maegor had never been one to respect people easily).

Aemon was too young to join them in the training yard, but knowing their family, it wouldn't take that long for him to be brought to the yard and excel at some kind of weapons anyway (Unless he was like Maegor, who fought tooth and nail to not having to touch a weapon again). He also found the youngest to be boring, in both looks and temperament, so Maegor didn't even dredge up enough interest to speculate about his history (if he had one, as a reincarnated Targaryen). He just accepted that there were four boys within the family now, and this would take a significant portion of the burden away from their mother's shoulders. With five heirs under her belt, she wouldn't be too pressured about the line of succession, and filthy Andals would know better than to cause trouble to a strong, united royal family.

Maegor was five when he met a White Walker, shadow assassins, and a gigantic sea monster for the first time. (All in a day’s worth, too. He had to commend his father on the ingenuity of multitasking).

That day, he was in the King’s Solar with his father, being grounded for breaking Ser Loras's arm as the Kingsguard tried to manhandle him into the training yard that morning. He endured his nannies' touches in respect for their care of him since birth, he accepted his family's touches because they were families, and he tolerated Ser Arthur's touches because the guy was half family and decent with his sword, but how dare that... that f*cking Knight o' Pansies laid his hand on him? That filthy Hightower spawn (granted - he was only half Hightower, but goddamnit the resemblance was uncanny) should bloody well be thankful that Maegor didn't have any weapons in hand, and had only resorted to jumping on the arm and twisting it. If he had had weapons then...

But anyway, he broke one arm and was punished by being forced to stand facing the wall of his father's solar for the whole week. He accepted the punishment agreeably enough, finding it much easier to eavesdrop on his father than to stay in the yard, itching to touch a blade and forcing himself to stay away regardless.

In the second evening, there was an uproar in the Keep, raucous enough that even Maegor could pick up from his stance inside the solar. Before he could piece together the full picture, Torreg Giantsbane and the Weaper had slammed in, pulling along a creepy creature chained from head to toe, and chained to a cast for safe measures. The thing was so beaten up (bloodied and black and blue) that it was hard to determine what exactly it was, but the cold blue eyes that burned like ice were easy enough to spot. The Weeper looked triumphant, and Torreg looked numb and grim.

"King Snow," The Tormundsson said respectfully, "As you request, the strayed Halfbreed."

"Thank you, Torreg. I will be taking your report later. Rest now, I will interrogate the monster myself. You, too, Weeper."

Both wildlings protested vehemently at that:

"By yourself? King Snow, it is too dangerous. Where are the Kingsguards?"

"No bloody way I'm moving from this spot, Snow! Where the f*ck is my reward?"

Valerion slammed a fist to the table and silenced both men with a look.

"On your way out, Torreg, get me a Lance of knight here. The Kingsguards are either with the children or in the Pit. I had some urgent plans for that place and I need at least two of them there to monitor. Weeper, watch how you speak to me, and you will have your reward after you deliver your report. A highborn wife, a castle, and gold, isn't it? I have everything prepared well in hand."

The Weeper scowled but locked his jaws and stormed out in a huff. Torreg bowed awkwardly and moved back out the door as well.

The knights filled in quickly enough, and Valerion called Maegor to stay close to him. His father also took out a Valyrian dagger and pushed it into his child's palm, ignoring Maegor's frown and his minute effort not to close his fingers around the hilt. Valerion Targaryen kneeled down in front of Maegor and looked into his eyes. The two sets of eyes were so similar it felt disarmingly like staring into a mirror. His father did not say anything, just stared at him with hard eyes, and closed Maegor's fingers around the hilt of the dagger. For some inexplicable reasons, Maegor deflated and stopped resisting.

The chain covering the thing’s face was removed. Its face looked human enough, though the shriveled frozen surface was disgusting. The f*cking thing shifted, though, and Maegor heard some knights swear under their breath as the White Walker’s skin rippled from ice to flesh and flesh to ice. His father acted as if he didn’t notice the disconcerting sight:

“Are you the Night King’s son?”

The monster laughed, his face still bubbling between one extreme to the other. Valerion didn’t even blink as he drove his small Valyrian dagger into the Other’s cheek, turning his laughter into startled screams. His face froze over, no longer shifting like grotesque sand, and the wound on his cheek fizzled. (It didn’t heal, Maegor noticed.) His father twisted the blade before drawing it out in one smooth movement. He asked between his prisoner’s groans:

“You are, aren’t you? Who is your mother?”

Then, when the Halfbreed didn’t answer, only twisting uselessly inside his binds and grinding his teeth so as not to groan, the King turned the blade and cut off an ear. The groans started again.

“Hmm. Probably a mortal human. If your mother is the Corpse Bride, and I’m not sure if that thing can still procreate, you wouldn’t have been able to go past the Wall… Three-fourth Human, one-fourth White Walker. Or did it become half-half by the sheer will of the Night King?” Valerion gave it a benign smile (ew, creepy, who taught his father to smile like that?), “Poor thing. Did they bully you something bad back when you were with them?”

The Halfbreed spat in Valerion’s direction. His father dodged, almost expectantly. The knights hissed behind them, and sounds of steel being drawn resounded inside the chamber. The King signaled behind his back, and a guard scooped Maegor up. He was almost on the verge of going full ballistic on the unwelcoming arms (how dare he?), before remembering that they were interrogating important prisoners, and it would not do to show indiscipline in front of enemies. So, even though his fingers itched to draw his Valyrian knife across the offending hand, Maegor locked all of his muscles and played dead instead. He was put to stand on the desk, where he could still glimpse a bit of what was happening, but was far enough for any violent attempts to reach him. The audacious guard was still hovering next to the desk (and to Maegor) with a jittery posture.

“Hit a nerve, didn’t I?”

“… There is a way…” The creature finally spoke, his voice gravel and his face twisted cruelly. It was Common Tongue, though there was an icy cracking edge that made his words sound foreign regardless, “for even full White Walkers to past the Wall. Don’t you know that?”

Valerion was quiet, but only for a moment:

“Sure, but don’t change the subject. That’s them. You, though, obviously went past the Wall because you are a mongrel.”

The Halfbreed looked halfway through spitting in the King’s direction again, but refrained and hissed instead:

“Traitors, that’s how. We can have traitors from the Night’s Watch verbally inviting us in. Are you sure you should be here torturing me while your wife is vulnerable in a Wall full of treacherous Brothers? Who could invite our army in at any time?”

His father’s face was blank, even as he whispered dispassionately:

“Well, why do you think she’s being there in the first place?” At the look on the Halfbreed’s face, Valerion twitched a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “We already received tidings of suspicious movements near the Wall for weeks. My Queen, I assure you, are capable enough to both hunt down the undead lurking nearby and burn down traitors.”

Maegor immediately realized what he meant. Daenys Targaryen was probably staying on the Wall, in disguise, with Suvion in Mole’s Town or someplace near. She would wait till some cravens actually did get scared enough to invite the Others stationing close in, then swooping in for the kill of both men and wights, and Wight Walkers. Risky plan, but likely to succeed, and if so, it would certainly deter further attempts, as she would make it brutal enough to make an example of those oathbreakers. That would ensure at least a year or two of peace and order on the Wall.

The conversation continued in those veins for nearly the whole day, more of a taunting fess than any actual interrogation. It seemed that his father had already been aware of most of the information the Halfbreed was holding, and was only initiating this process for some unfathomable reasons, or just to torment the thing more than necessary. (Maegor liked it.) He gathered enough to understand that the chains used on the White Walkers were made from melted Valyrian steel mixed with normal bronze. The combination balanced things out, making sure the thing didn't die, but certainly could not move without imeasurable pain, and preventing it from practicing magic, any kind of magic. Then, as the sun came down from the sky, Maegor felt doziness reach out its talons and his mind whirled with speculations as to his father's purpose for this farce of an interrogation, all hell broke loose.

The shadow assassins attacked almost the moment the candles were lit. Two shadows sprang out from under the knights' feet and sliced their throats where they stood. Panic draped over the solar like a wet quilt, and the knights - only three of them left - scrambled over each other to try and reach for their steel (Which would not work. Why didn't they carry the weirwood stakes his father had commissioned for everyone inside the Red Keep? Did they think what happened to his mother was a jest?). It surprised Maegor a bit that the quivering boy that had scooped him up before was still by his side, looking fit to faint, but was still pointing his weapon in the right direction. (The dumb boy also didn't have a weirwood stake, goddamnit.)

Valerion turned and threw his stake clean across the room, striking down one shadow as the other one hissed and disappeared, most likely lurking in other parts of the room, in wait for the perfect chance. His father's stake trembled as it embedded deep in the wall so far away. His father lurched the Halfbreed to his feet, tugging his prone body along. The creature hissed with rasping breaths:

"Release me. They come for me. You just threw your only weapon away. Release me so I can save you and the youngling."

His father pulled the creepy things over and stood right in front of Maegor, signaling for Podrick Payne (Maegor's personal trembling knight, he finally remembered) to cover their back. Valerion hoisted Maegor onto his back, before pulling the chains away from the Halfbreed's body, snarling under his breath:

"You don't mention the youngling, ever."

The thing huffed a laugh again, but was obliging enough to stalk away from them when the last of the links left his body. One minute of suspended silence as the Halfbreed treaded silently and snapped his gazes in all corners of the solar, then everything happened all at once. The Other's ice blade (which was created from its own palm - gross) pierced the second shadow assassin, emitting a muted scream and the hissing sound of the dark thing's writhing in pain. In the same breath, the window glass beside them exploded, Podrick screamed and fell down. As Valerion swirled around, a hand on Maegor's back, both father and son saw five men with tattled clothes, broken limbs, and wiggling, unnatural movements struggling to stand up where the windowsill used to be. Valerion cursed under his breath, and Maegor was mildly aware that both Number Two and Sonagon were racing back to the Keep after their Hunt, as they felt their riders' distress.

The dead men made quick work of their knights, and then their knights rose as well, with jerky movements and dead intents in their eyes. As Valerion jumped into the fray, Valyrians dagger danced as he trounced on their assailants, Maegor felt coldness breathed down his neck. Still holding tight onto his father's back and dodging the strayed swipes of the dead men, he turned his head just enough to see that the Halfbreed had finished with the shadow assassins and was stalking toward them, a twist of a smile on his mutilated face (Valerion was nasty enough in ruining his face during their talk; he would look almost comely otherwise), his steps quiet but there was a taunting spring to it.

Maegor wished to alert his father, but the King was already swarmed by nearly ten dead men (six by that time), and had to ignore his son's silent tugging and struggling behind his back. The Halfbreed was closer now, and Maegor's heart hammered inside his chest. Should he speak up? What use would that be? His calling out to his father will alert Valerion to the danger behind him, but did it look like the King could do anything about it at that moment? And could he even speak up? Would any sounds come out? After so long? Valerion cut down two more men during the time he spent contemplating. Or mayhaps Maegor wouldn't even need to? His father would finish in time? Then he saw a shadow moved above their head. There were f*cking three?

Maegor swore silently inside his mind. Even though he had wished for death, and even though he had told himself that life was meaningless, that people's deaths didn't mean anything to him, that he would rise above life and death and would welcome oblivion with an easy smile, Maegor's stomach twisted to think of his father's body, broken and butchered on the floor of the solar. The telltale heat built in his head, and Maegor stopped thinking altogether.

“Above you!” His voice sounded high and raspy to even his ears, and he twisted as quickly as he could, throwing himself away from his father’s back and plunging his Valyrian blade in between the astonished blue eyes of the Other. The blade sunk in, and Maegor fell to the floor, rolling to a crouched position and hissing at the White Walker still standing prone behind his father. He died standing, his face a permanent mask of frozen surprise.

Almost immediately, every wight clattered to the floor, and Valerion twisted his left hand to brandish his wierwood cane, before swinging it smoothly up to cut the shadow assassin falling down on it into two. The chamber reeked of ash and rotten stenches.

Maegor stared at his father’s fingers as they held the weirwood cane, his face twitching and his head whirling with torrents of thoughts. He ended up with a strangled accusation:

“You did it on purpose!”

His father shrugged in that blood-boiling insouciant way of his:

“Well, one dead White Walker in exchange for three dead shadow assassins, five dead men and a few wounds in exchange for you finally speaking. I consider this evening lucrative, don’t you think, my sweet?”

Maegor flung the dagger straight at his face. (Of which he dodged and laughed good-naturedly, as if being pelted by the blades of his sons were daily occurrences.)

They were flying on Sonagon’s back an hour later, Number Two flapping his powerful wings beside them with mournful glances at Maegor sitting on Sonagon’s head, just before his father. His Number Two was glorious. At five, he was only a tiny bit smaller than Aegarax and Suvion, the difference in size would probably lessen in the coming years. His scales were glossy black, with blue and grey markings on the edges of his six-spined wings. The neck and tail were abnormally long, though, coupling with the strange-looking fan behind the horns and the two whiskers on either side of his snouts, making Number Two look more like a strange serpent, or a Sea Dragon with wings than any Valyrian beast. His eyes were also opalescent blue in color, and though Maegor wasn't one to preen, he was well aware that his Number Two was the most beautiful dragon this side of the Narrow Sea, even when compared to the oppressive White Death of his father, or the ethereal glass dragon of his mother.

He ought to give him a name. He should, but he could not think of anything worthy of him yet, and Maegor disliked having to settle for mediocrity.

"Are you going to revert to your sulking silent self, Maegor?" His father asked, mindful to keep it in High Valyrian, so that his warband behind them wouldn't be able to eavesdrop.

He wanted to, at first, but he felt himself too childish to do so. And he was curious about a few things.

"How did you catch that White Walker?"

"Oh, that." Valerion shrugged behind Maegor's back, "We already knew he was coming for Daenerys's dragons, but when your mother and Daemon beat him to the punch, I suspect that he didn't have much choice but to return and try to steal them in the bowel of King's Landing, before they could be bonded. And there were only so many harbors he could pass through. He might look like that, but that Halfbreed was more of a baby than anything. He was very young, by the Others' standard, and had probably never gone past the Wall before. A green boy like that wouldn't dare make the same mistake as he did when passing the first time, which was creating an ice bridge to cross through the Narrow Sea. He must find that he had attracted too much attention, and being pelted with stones by zealous peasants was never a pleasant experience."

"Why bother? The shadow assassins always get spawned right back, no?"

"Unlike wights, those shadows had to be born. And each of the births put the strain on both the bearer - a Priestess of Light - and their chosen partners - usually men of high propaganda values. The stronger the belief in both the man and the woman (via the worship of R'hllor) is, the greater the power and resilience of the shadow babies they produced. As of the moment, I do not believe the Temple of Light is in possession of many men of renown, aside from Stannis Baratheon. Kill as many of his shadow babies as possible, and he might die early and save us all from the trouble of tracking him down. And it never hurts to kill off any White Walkers - Halfbreed or no, south of the Wall."

"..."

"Nothing else, my boy? Or are you trying to punish me for 'plotting' against you? You must know that I need to try something, no? You are five and you never speak, you never train, and you have the habit of breaking people's bones and biting off fingers every time you get annoyed. As your Kepa, of course, I am worried."

Maegor did not know how he was feeling. He had had a father once, and that father had been... distant, and cold. He had felt his nonexistence intimately every single day of his last life, had been used to it, had fought against it, and had resigned to it. He had always known Valerion Targaryen was no Aegon the Conqueror (and that was not to say he was better or worse), but it was in moments like this that Maegor could feel the stark differences between what he knew, what he used to, and what he had right now. He...did not know what to think, or how to feel, and the unfamiliar confusion and doubt angered him a bit. So he clamped his mouth shut, wishing (futilely) that his father would leave him the hell alone if he no longer reacted to his words.

After a beat of silence, Valerion Targaryen attacked instead:

"I know of another Maegor once, we all do."

Maegor's tiny stomach did a little somersault that he hadn't known was physically possible. He felt his ears ring and his fingers itched to tear something out, likely the King's tongue, just so he could shut up. His father hadn't finished, though:

"He was a skilled warrior, but a poor ruler and a worse family man. He was cruel and wrathful, paranoid to a fault, and savage in every decision."

Maegor felt his eyes go blurry, and a distant part of him noted that he had drawn blood as his grips on his father's hands tightened into claws, and his breaths were coming up harsh and fast and painful. He hated this child's body. Would it start breaking into tears? Maegor decided he would gouge his own eyeballs out before they could start watering.

Then his father said:

"Or so the Citadel made us believe." Valerion's warm palms held Maegor's frozen fingers within his, massaging lightly so that the blood could circulate again, "They should have noted down that Maegor was a biting baby. That he had the tendency to bite his nannies' fingers off, then got guilty enough to tolerate them for years after. That he had anger issues, but often fell into a dark deep depression after all the rage had been flushed out of his system. That he had a soft spot for nervous Valyrian girls. That he couldn't help but be intimidated by the smallest amount of kindness from his family. That his first reaction to any of his emotional fluctuations was violence. That he touched his forehead to his dragon every day and would have flown away to live with him forever, far from human civilization, if only people would have let him. That he would have died for a father he did not respect, even if he could never articulate it as much."

Maegor felt his heartbeats slowing down, his eyes stung even worse, and heat rushing to his face.

"... I respect you. Who said that I didn’t?”

“Why? Are you going to pull off his tongue and force-feed him with it? Now you have just become predictable, my sweet.”

“I… Maegor Targaryen wasn’t a martyr, if that’s what you believe.” He said haltingly, each word squeezing out of his parched, unused throat like a painful draw of a blade across the skin, “He was proud… and desperate. He had been greedy, too, opting to swallow the whole world just to compensate for the yawning nothingness inside of him. But he had neither the strength, the luck, nor the heart to accomplish as much. He tried, and he failed, was all. He… I didn’t do it for anyone or any grand cause. I did it because I was selfish, and because I thought fulfilling his legacy would have filled the empty ‘something’ inside my heart. I believed it would have made me whole.”

“Did it?”

“No. So halfway through, I decided to let it go.”

“… That’s why you killed yourself. That’s why you are reborn with a listlessness that colors the world grey. That’s why you refused our embraces and gave up practicing at arms?”

“… If I… distance myself enough, I might be able to ascend enlightenment. I might be able to rid myself of all unnecessary feelings and ambitions.”

Valerion was silent long enough that Maegor chanced a glance back, just in time to see him sporting an incredulous look:

“My boy, I don’t know how to phrase it for you to not feel bad… But people who aspire to enlightenment don’t break bones on a daily basis, don’t bite fingers off just when they were touched physically, don’t kick their Tyrell knight in the shins at random intervals, and most definitely don’t throw stones at people’s head every time they said something displeasing to hear. You might have been going about it the wrong way.”

“…”

“Don’t look so astonished… Now you just make me feel bad.” Valerion groaned into his hands, and once again Maegor was reminded of how young he truly was. Two and twenty, wasn’t it? Much younger than Maegor had been when he died. “I blundered pretty badly offering you - of all people - to the Faith, no?”

“… Admittedly, I have been quite miffed the first time I heard about it."

"... Wasn't that the day you nearly shoved Ser Loras out of the window?"

"Like I said, I was miffed."

Valerion sighed and kneaded at his temple:

"The Faith Militant hasn't been officially established yet, I am still putting it off for a million reasons. But we have to expect its fruition after the Long Night, which will be the latest. I would try to apologize and ask to exchange another son... Still, with how adamant the High Septon was about having a Maegor Targaryen serving the Seven..."

"No need. If someone has to be there, it'd be better if it's me, who will never hesitate to burn them down with or without order. Any other sons and you risk them being turned against you. There's no chance I will ever be the Faith's sympathizer." Besides, if I am lucky enough, he thought, I might get myself killed way before then.

It was as if Valerion Targaryen was a mind-reader, because his father was silent only for a minute, before he spoke, his voice was matter-of-factly:

"...If you die, I will put your dragon down."

"What?" Maegor's head turned around so fast he got whiplash, "Why?"

"... That's a scary face. Now I truly believe that I have birthed the Maegor Targaryen." Valerion didn't look scared, though. He looked cold and expressionless, "It will be a waste, but his usefulness ceases to exist once you are not there, and his being alive will only be a reminder of the son we have lost. The son we have loved and lost. I would rather have him dead than have other family members paw all over him in your place. So aye, if you die, by your hands or others - on purpose or no - I will put down your Leng dragon."

Maegor was pretty certain his lips were pulled back into a snarl, and his entire body vibrated with anger. Targaryens never responded well to threats. But then, even in his tumultuous mind, an insidious helplessness started taking hold. His father was so f*cking unfair. He knew well how Maegor would not bear to harm him, and he knew well that this was the one threat Maegor would not dare risk. He...cared for his family in his life, but not enough to value his life to live with them. They loved him, most likely, but they would be fine without him. Number Two was a different matter, though. Valerion was destroying his choices by tying his dragon's life to his own. Maegor could never bear it if his beautiful dragon got killed because he could not get over himself. So even if he raged (silently), he was resigned, too, and angrily turning away from his father and looking straight ahead without a response.

(He was quite certain the King wasn't waiting for one anyway.)

(Beside them, Number Two was keening softly. Maegor realized that he had been doing so ever since Valerion had first mentioned his previous life.)

(Maegor felt even worse.)

When it rained, it poured. Every enemy of theirs just had to choose the exact same day to be the pain in their arses. While the White Walkers were whispering treasons into the Black Brothers' ears up North, the Halfbreed and shadow assassins were putting on their own mummer show in King's Landing, and Euron Greyjoy was unleashing his abominable monster onto the Starry Sept and Citadel.

Euron Greyjoy had a Kraken and a fleet, but mostly a Kraken. The sea monster was four times the size of a battleship. When extending, the tentacles covered nearly the whole of the harbor in Oldtown.

By the time Sonagon and Number Two reached the city, half of the Citadel had been torn off (no wonder his father had sent escorts to bring Granduncle Aemon back to King's Landing half a year ago), the ships and harbor were in pieces, houses were burning, corpses littered the ground, and people were running amok, screaming in the street. At least three of Euron's ships had disembarked, and his pirates were killing, looting, and raping on the street. The Starry Sept was locked from the inside out, and the steps of its front entrance were flooded with people screaming and banging on the door. How dramatic. Maegor was pretty certain they had arrived only a few hours late. The Greyjoy must have been pretty productive to drive them to the edge in just a few hours.

"Timing is everything," Valerion was musing, in Common Tongue, "Too early, and people will resent us for not arriving sooner - the fear of Gods has yet been put into them. Too late, and you have no one left to save."

He barked an order for his warband to ready the munitions to rain down on the pirates, before turning back to Maegor:

"Call your dragon here and move to his head instead. Have Torwynd sit with you. The blow to kill the Kraken had to come from you and your dragon."

Maegor scowled:

"Because I'm the one promised to them?"

"Don't ask stupid questions. Go!"

As Number Two's head drew near, Maegor got exchanged from hand to hand. Torwynd Tormunsson took him and strapped the both of them behind the horns. Maegor was still a bit annoyed with his father, so he missed the chance to complain that he didn't even know if his Number Two could shoot fire, ice, or nothingness. What was he supposed to do? Controlling his beast to physically wrestle with the Kraken? (That...actually sounded quite appealing, but he doubted his band of nannies behind him - on Number Two's back - would be very appreciative of the turbulent ride.) By the time he remembered as much, Sonagon had already flown away, drawing back for a long torrent of white flame.

Maegor scowled at the white dragon's back, before shrugging and heading toward the Kraken.

Wrestling wasn't a good idea. They labored for nearly half an hour, demolishing the Citadel fully under their weight, demolishing one-fifth of the city, crushing no less than a few dozen people, and sustaining wounds from small to big everywhere. Both Number Two's and the Kraken's blood was marring the cobblestones. Half of Maegor's band of nannies had fallen off, and he was pretty certain Torwynd was holding onto him only by sheer stubbornness. When a tentacle nearly took Number Two's left eye out, Maegor slipped into his skin to soothe his rage and panic, and took off to the sky to allow the gigantic body a few minutes of rest. There was a hole in Number Two's right wing, and though it wasn't big enough that it affected him flying, it was painful enough to make him hissed in pain every beat of the wing.

Still inside the dragon, Maegor was contemplating his next steps, when he felt Number Two's presence push him (gently but firmly) over to the side, hemming him in a corner of his mind as a cloud of fury took over him. This had never happened to Maegor before, Number Two was such a sweet, docile thing. He must have been in too much pain to tolerate a breach of his mind at the moment. Maegor decided to wait and see what his dragon would do. He had tried 'Dracarys' on him several times during the wrestles, but the beast had mostly ignored the command, emitting a confused feeling when he heard his rider hissing that word over and over. Maegor had given up having him breathe fire by now.

His thoughts were cut short as he felt his/their belly rumbled, their lungs expanded, and a strange sensation coiled around the area that the air sacs should have been. Maegor felt the skin stretched taught and their whole body trembled with tension. Their scales rippled. What was this?

It started with a roaring noise. It was an indescribable roar, more force than sound, and the wave was similar enough to a typhoon that the air rattled around them, and the entire sea was torn asunder. As the roar reached the Kraken, it hissed and tried to lash at the dragon with its lancing tentacles, but ended up being crushed into minced meat, tentacles stripped of its flesh, flesh splashing widely and organs smearing the sea and ground of Oldtown. (Such an unceremonious death for such a grand creature. Euron raised it up and fattened it for two years, and his dragon destroyed it in ten seconds) Number Two wasn't done, though, as his first roar neared its limit with the destruction of the giant kraken, he twisted his powerful body closer to the sea - still churning violently in the residue of the roar - and opened his maw toward the rest of Euron's fleet, another wave of noise distorted the air and demolished the ships in a few moments. Battleships turned to woods and splinters, sails and flags were torn to shreds and flapping like rags in the air. People were either turned into splatters of blood and organs, or were screaming in terror as they paddled their arms uselessly to reach the harbor again. The force of Number Two's roars was terrible enough that it forced the waves to turn outward, fostering a storm driving all survivors away from shore.

Even Maegor was infected with the preening satisfaction of the dragon, and together, they turned back to the city, looking for Sonagon for a compliment and a pat on the head. Instead, Maegor saw the White Death venting his frustration into the sea and the rest of the fleets some distance away, as he struggled to play hide-and-seek with an ugly creature that resembled a deformed giant whale. Sonagon was marvelous at destroying things, but not so much when it came to the craftiness and speed of a creature that had kept taunting him and then drove straight back into the depth of the sea. Muña’s Suvion might have been more effective against this beast… Was that a Leviathan, by the way? Ugh, Euron called for two giant sea monsters? Just to terrorize a tiny city stocked full of balding old men and preachy nuns?

In answer to Maegor’s silent question, Euron Greyjoy brought his whole circus, as Maegor zoomed in to the squabbles on the highest balcony of the Starry Sept, just in time to see one of the men putting one of the strange-looking horns to his mouth and blow out a soundless hiss. Number Two's eyesight was magnificent. Were those Septons and a few pirates? Was that Euron Greyjoy? Had they infiltrated the Sept before the priests could close their door?

Before he could contemplate further, another giant tentacle rose from the sea. Oh, for f*ck’s sake. Not tentacle. Tentacles. The thing looked a bit smaller than the one Number Two had just destroyed (summoning so many at the same time must have put a strain on Euron’s wrapped magic), but it still had a monstrous number of tentacles, and at least three of them were winding around the towers of the Starry Sept, squeezing in with glee and a free head trying to snap straight at the struggle on the highest tower.

Maegor could not believe his luck.

... Should he?

Well, this could certainly be explained away as an accident, a collateral. A Kraken was squeezing them tight, after all, and Euron Greyjoy was there as a nice bonus. Even his father would have to admit that Maegor was doing Gods’ work.

... That meant he should.

So Maegor cheerfully flew over, nudging at Number Two, and enjoying the sight of another Kraken’s head bursting into blood vessels and the Starry Sept shattering into rubbles under Dragonwind. All in one step.

"..."

"..."

"... It was an accident. I swear."

"Of course, it was. I should have known better."

"... It really was an accident. Mostly."

“Never mind that. You did salvage Euron’s head? And the Horn I told you about?”

“Here they are.”

“… Don’t look so proud. What’s happened to the skin of half his face? You know what, I don’t even want to know. The Horn?”

“Kepa, it is hard enough to save a mostly intact human head in that storm. The horn… Well, here, Torwynd saved a few shards.”

“... That didn’t look like the shards of a horn… This means they are either hidden away or have been shattered to pieces… Pieces can still be recovered, and mended.”

“… What is this horn, anyway? Why are you so wary about it? It calls for sea monsters? Is that it?

“Should be the Horn of Winter, or something similar.”

“Kepa… It’s in the Western sea, in the hand of a Greyjoy, and I don’t see it calling Giants anywhere. Are you sure we are talking about the same horn? Are there more than one?”

“Mayhaps. It’s First Men’s Horn, regardless. It is said that the Horn, or Horns - in your speculation - can summon great magical phenomena. That line, if deciphered properly, also means that the Horn(s) can channel the divine power of the Old Gods its owner followed.”

“... Wait, that means…”

“All First Men can use it, but the power being channeled might differ. In the hand of Joramun, the Horn can wake Giants. In the hand of a Stark, it might ignite a stampede of Giant Warging Animals. In the hand of an Ironborn, it calls for Giant Sea Monsters. In the hand of Dornish First Men, the Daynes, for example, it might amass an army of Giant Manticores and Basilisks, or a Sand Djinn, that would be interesting.”

“Euron called for three beasts, though. Is he so strong? How many is the limit? ”

“His Faith is what was strong, and besides, it’s all subjective. Why do you think each of his Monsters is so easy to destroy? He overreached his limits, that was what happened.”

“... How do you know all this, Kepa?”

“... I read a lot.”

“... Kepa, what do you think will happen if there is more than one Horn, and it falls into the hands of the White Walkers?” Because even a fool could know the disparity between the magical limit of Euron Greyjoy’s faith and the inherent mythical power reserves of a White Walker.

“Take a guess, dear boy, and tell me why I am so hung up on a bloody horn this side of the ocean.”

“... Ugh. But if even broken horns can be mended…”

“Agreed. Ugh. But what’s done is done. I will burn this place down to clean up any residue shards. Have your dragon herd the survivors away.”

“We can burn the Sept down just like that? Without having to think of excuses?”

"We are helping them clean off the traces of heathen magic. I expect a little gratitude.”

“By the way, Granduncle Aemon has been able to find out some information about your dragon a few days back. In looks, he is similar to Imperials and Celestials of the Leng Dynasty."

"And that wind?"

"The Divine Wind, they called it, is reserved for only Celestials. That breed is rare, usually, a Celestial egg is only given to the Heir to the Throne of Jade. People have been killed for trying to possess such eggs and dragons when they are not the Heirs."

"..."

"Congratulations. You are in possession of a dragon bred specifically for God-Empresses."

"..."

"At least give him a name. Wipe that look off your face. Don't be misogynistic."

"... Temeraire."

"..."

"I dreamed about that name once, there’s no deeper meaning to it. It just sounds right.” And they were running out of Fourteen Flames to name dragons, anyway.

"Your dragon, your choice. Temeraire it is then."

The High Septon refused the offer to have another Targaryen son, even after Maegor had allegedly destroyed his Starry Sept. The persistence of this bastard... Valerion did a round and tried to offer Maegor Summerhall instead of Harrenhal - in fear that the castle would trigger his sensibilities. He needn't, though. Maegor had no sensibilities regarding a block of stones and distant memories of a wife he had despised the most. He would enjoy turning the thing into Temeraire's playground and pissing on any Harroway portraits he could find.

Two days after their return from Oldtown, after Maegor had gotten enough rest and thinking in his chamber, he got over himself. He didn't feel less listless about the world, but if his life was bound to Temeraire's now, it wouldn't do if he succumbed to something stupid and sentenced his poor, sweet dragon to a gory death. So even though his body felt like it was made of lead and his mind tired of every interaction, he dragged himself out of bed (without his knights' or nannies' forcing him) and came to the training yard on the early morn.

It was the first time ever he was there so early, and he was the first to arrive. As Maegor took the wooden swords in his hand, testing the weight for the best one, he could feel Ser Loras’s bulbous stares following him. (Valerion had offered to change his sworn shield, too, but once again, Maegor had refused. What would he do with a new Kingsguard anyway? At least, Ser Loras had a wonderful entertainment value. Maegor could always just kick him in the shin or throw him out of the window when he was feeling testy. It wouldn’t be as satisfying if he had Lady Brienne the Killjoy or Ser Barristan the Patient.) He chose the one that weighed the most, the feeling of familiarity rushed back to his limbs, and he moved into positions for a warmup drill. The natural ease once more settled inside him, and he could almost ignore the nagging feeling of nervousness tickling the underside of his belly.

When his siblings arrived at the yard, there was a gasp from Gael and silent shock from Daemon and Aenar. Maegor stopped his movements, breathing heavily and turning toward them. He had not met any of them after his return from Oldtown, had not said anything to them, either, and he...did not know what to say as his arms awkwardly fell to his side. They beat him to it, though, as Gael gave him a shy smile as she haltingly wrapped him into a tight hug:

"Congratulations on your victory in Oldtown, brother. I heard that your Temeraire has been marvelous."

Aenar, as usual, pranced over with a joyous grin that stretched his face into two, his tiny arms holding up for a hug (Maegor had refused to pick him up a thousand times by now. It had never deterred him from trying the next time, though):

"Congrats, Maemae!"

"Don't call me that." His voice was stern and rough from disuse, even as he did pick the boy up.

The last one approaching was his shrew older brother. Daemon's footsteps were quiet as he gave Maegor a light slap on the back:

"About time, little brother."

"... Your patience is appreciated, Little Rogue Prince."

Chapter 11: AEMON I

Chapter Text

In his second life, people often said that Aemon was a frowning babe, and the fact made him sad. He had not intended to frown, but truly, the expression had been carved into him for decades before his last death, and he no longer remembered how he had felt and what he had looked like without the deep-rooted melancholy.

It hadn't always been like that. He remembered a childhood racing under the sun with Naerys on his back, laughing breathlessly, and an adolescence full of promises, shared looks, and giggles behind curtains. He remembered how he had been happy once, how the world had seemed so bright and promising, and how he had felt as if a tiny distance further and he could have reached the sky. He had only ever had two lifelong dreams - the prosperity of the realm and the smiles of his delicate little sister. During those long summer years, he had believed in honor and happiness and a future full of glory and songs.

That had been before Viserys II's order. Naerys had stumbled and nearly been bedridden from the shock of the announcement, but she had been mindful of his moods and still attempted a shaky smile that exuded more pain than peace. He had been... he did not know how to explain what he had felt back then, as his heart clenched and his head hazy with an unfamiliar rage that had so rarely been present inside his mind. He had come to his father, he had begged, on his feet and then on his knees. They all knew that Aegon had hated Aemon, and he would seek to destroy him by breaking Naerys. But Viserys had been adamant, and he had been more than just a father to a dysfunctional family. In one second of madness, Aemon had thought of killing Aegon, of ridding the world of a monster that would seek to taint his own family and the world with its wickedness. The second passed, and Aemon had been so ashamed of himself that he had nearly wept.

(Because of that thought, because of that guilt, Aemon had spent the next half century defending his brother with everything he had. Half a century of wasted efforts, as historians had deemed.)

And so Aemon had donned the white cloak, Naerys had turned further into the Faith to escape the pain inflicted on both her mind and her frail body. They had endured it, to the best of their abilities.

Until they had not been able to.

Daeron had just turned eighteen, Aegon had beaten his wife bloody after her most recent refusal to share his bed - it had only been two months after her last miscarriage, and Aemon had spent another night staying awake outside the door, his nails digging to his palms and his eyes blurry with numb fury as the sounds of his sister's pained gasps (she hadn't even the strength to scream and fight) and his brother's beastly advances had traveled through the thin wooden door. (Aegon had enjoyed that, opting to always visit Naerys when it had been Aemon's shift to guard her, and though the first time had killed something in him, he still had enough to die a little more each time.)

A part of Naerys might have been broken that day, too. Because after Aegon had left for one of his mistresses, she had dressed herself and sneaked into Aemon's chamber. It had been the first time in eighteen years. She had preferred to bundle up her pain and seek help from the Faith instead of worrying him. They had only enjoyed each other's company in the presence of many others, maintaining a strict distance and trying to ignore the elephant in the room. Not this time, though. This time, they met each other in the private quarter of his chamber, no words exchanged, no smiles given, her beautiful face still marred with blood and bruises. She had fallen into his embrace and she had silently cried all the tears she had been secreted away in the deepest corner of her heart. (People had been so mistaken about her. She had been frail of body, but never of heart or mind. She had always been stronger than she looked. She had endured all those years with that monster, after all, even when her own body betrayed her and her dignity got questioned unjustly in every corner of the court. She had successfully raised a stellar son, despite all the horrible examples this court had provided him.)

That night, she had even... attempted, kissing him and reaching for him as her tears dried up and her eyes shone with a harsh, resolute light. He had recoiled from her - not because he had not wanted to, or because of honor, or because of his devotion to the Faith, but because he had feared her regret when everything had been said and done. He wouldn't have been able to endure it. She may feel that need right then, when her rage and her pain and her grief had been too raw to withstand, but she would rue that night later, she would hate herself, her Faith would be broken, and he would rather she live hating the world (and him) while loving herself, than acting on his desire and ruining her in every way possible. She had taken his rejection with grace, as her eyes shuttled and she pushed herself primly away from him. Naerys walked away from him without a word and they had never mentioned that night again.

He had been the one to regret it later, as she had distanced herself from him for the next seven years of their lives, had offered him the smiles that had not reached her eyes, and had not allowed him to enter her birthing chamber of the twins - which she had always allowed for all her previous labors. It had hurt him something terrible, to hear her groans and muffled screams through the wall without being able to be there and hold her hands. They had never reconciled, not before his death, and he had closed his eyes with her name on his lips and the sorrow spreading across his limbs.

And so he had been reborn with a frown on his face, a frown that deepened still as he gleaned from his new family that Naerys had passed away just a year from him, once more being treated like a broodmare and enduring indignity even in death.

Not even the loving embrace of his new parents could fix that frown, neither could the kindness and sweetness of his new siblings do so. Aemon felt a world apart from them, feeling as if a part of him had been dead when he had been reborn without her by his side. A part of him (a part that he dared not voice even to himself) resented the Sevens for bringing him back to life, when it was Naerys who deserved a second chance at life. Every drop of love (from the kisses, the hugs, and the sweet words) he received in this life only ever made guilt well up inside him and his thoughts plagued with the whispers of 'It should have been you, Naerys. This should have been you.'

So when his mother gave birth to another girl in 306 AC, and the girl looked so similar to the tiny babe he had sniffed at a century and a half ago, Aemon cried and spoke his first word: 'Naerys'. He turned his tearful eyes toward his father, who was looking both undecided and frozen with... something (fear? realization?) and begged again, in a nasal voice still wet with tears: 'Naerys.'

Aemon could see Valerion Targaryen lock his jaws together, see the sadness and resignation settle in his grey orbs. In the end, his father closed his eyes and kneaded at the sides of his nose, breathing out almost heavily:

"Aye, let's name her Naerys."

Viserion refused Aenar, almost violently, and daily. Rhaegal…did not, but also did not show any signs of anything other than disinterest toward him. After two whole years of trying, their parents had finally given up, especially after Rhaegal had taken to zealously following Aemon everywhere when he was in the vicinity (oh gosh, he had a dragon now, even though he was still not big enough for him to fly - because apparently, his parents only allowed him to fly if he had a band of nannies with him). Naerys’s birth put the final nail in that coffin, as in her third-month celebration, their mother carried her toward the flight of dragons that had just descended on the yard to honor the family day, and Viserion fairly fell over himself trying to get a better look at her. He even pushed Aeragax’s wing out of the way to get closer, which earned him a tail swipe powerful enough that he flew halfway across the yard. They touched snouts (Viserion with his gigantic snout and Naerys with her wispy forehead), in the end, and Naerys’s nannies had been instructed to bring her to the yard every afternoon to babble to her dragon, the same way her four siblings always gathered over there at the same time to either fly or bond with their own beasts.

At first, Aemon worried that this incident would sour Aenar and Naerys’s relationship. In history, siblings had killed each other for less. His worries were unfounded, as Aenar had only spared a passing interest in the news, and even sported a brief look of relief when he asked if he no longer had to follow Viserion around. It was not very Targaryen of him, admittedly, but Aemon was just grateful his brother was such a generous and mature child.

It seemed he wasn’t the only one grateful, because he caught Daemon and Maegor’s loaded glance at each other after Aenar’s reaction, golden coins exchanged behind their backs. Aemon was aghast, were they betting? Weren’t they a bit too young for that? He had to refrain from scowling disapprovingly. He was a bit too young for that , too.

Well, at least they were on good terms now, even quite close, all things considered. Unlike a year or two ago, when Aemon had barely been one and had been having an unhealthy obsession with eating his toe (he blamed the nonsensical physiology of a baby). He had heard in passing how the two oldest princes had had the worst fallout after the Ironborn’s subjugation. It wasn’t the usual rough-housing those two had always had. They each had aimed for blood during that fight in the yard. Maegor had nearly taken out Daemon’s left eye (he still bore a light scar on his brow) and Daemon had pulled out half of Maegor’s hair, almost tearing his ear off (the ear recovered, but Maegor had taken to shave his head clean after that). The King had chained them up by the ankles and thrown them through the window of Maegor’s Holdfast, distressing their dragons and traumatizing the denizens of the Red Keep. Fortunately, Aegarax and Temeraire had been able to scoop them up in time, just before their heads got smashed on the ground. It had been messy, and Aemon remembered the dread roiling inside him at the thought of being reborn once again into a dysfunctional family. Thanks the Seven that the enmity hadn't lasted, and after a few days, the two were spotted together again, thick as thieves and terrorizing the Red Keep as a unit.

Aenar and Aemon were too small to join them, and neither of them was such hellions, besides. Aenar was a happy child, but it was a genuine happiness, as he lacked the deadpanned mischievousness and general mercurial temper the first two sons had, and Aemon was... well, even Aemon knew he was a boring child. He had been boring the first time around, and the addition of a long period of self-imposed chastity had only made things worse.

His family was accepting of him, even though he was pretty certain Daemon always choked on his spits and Maegor always shot him confused disapproving looks whenever Aemon uttered something pious. Often enough, his second brother would turn his head toward his first, giving him a look that Aemon did not understand, and Daemon would make a complicated face and shrug sheepishly before looking away. Even so, all three of his brothers played with him often, reading him books (for some reason, the books they chose were very complicated for a child, which was strange, considering he was two years old) and showing him swordplay moves (which he didn't really need to relearn, but he was appreciative anyway, and often clapped enthusiastically to encourage their young heart - the claps often earned him another concerned look by the two eldests, which confused him). His sister Gael sang him and Naerys lullabies most nights, and brought them (and their entourage of nannies) to the yard to play with the dragons and watch the princes' practice. Gael trained, too, though never as hard as the boys, and always mindful of the fact that there were small children on the sideline waiting for her to finish.

Naerys was a babe, and Aemon had been worried that she might have been reincarnated with memories as well. He was right, most likely, because Naerys rarely cried and her eyes as she gazed at the world were so very knowing . Besides, the look she gave him was scorching in its distant politeness - ridiculously out of place on the face of a newborn babe. She smiled often in the presence of Gael and Aenar, but tensed up imperceptibly when Daemon or Maegor visited, while spending most of her awake time ignoring Aemon (who stuck to her bedside zealously despite himself). It pained him when he finally realized she might be agitated due to their oldest brothers’ similarities to Aegon. It isn’t the same , he whispered to her in the middle of the night, sneaking out of his bed and talking to a quietly awake Naerys, They are not the same. She ignored him, as usual, but he was happy to note that she no longer flinched as badly in the oldest princes’ presence, and not at all as time went by.

Their parents were always busy, but they still tried to show up as much as possible in the nursery and the training yard whenever they did have free time. His father was kinder than what Aemon had expected of a King that age - with the reputation of a savage conqueror besides. Both of them were solemn (and beautiful, and younger than their age, but that was neither here nor there), but his mother was soft in a prickly way, and his father was disciplined in an indulgent manner. They suited each other well enough, and mayhaps because of that, they fostered such a harmonious family life for all of their children, despite their grueling schedule and all the stress that should be piling up on them. Aemon and Naerys were basically raised by their older siblings, but their childhoods were fulfilled enough.

Aemon was three when he met Greataunt Daenerys for the first time.

Daenerys had sacked Volantis, taken over the Southern part of the Dothraki Sea, uniting it with her previous territory of Slaver's Bay, building herself a whole Southern Kingdom below the Free Cities, hemming the Eight Cities in between Westeros and her new nation. Said eight had shaken with the sudden aggressive trespass of their territories, and were up at arms to unite against the common cause - the hubristic little dragon queen. That had been before Sonagon and Temeraire had flown over with their dragonlords. Maegor hadn't even dismounted, and King Valerion (alongside half of his warband) had taken but a night and a day of parley with the leaders of the eight remaining cities, before the Free Cities (or what was left of them) had to grudgingly agree to a truce with Queen Daenerys, and accepted that Volantis might not return to their fold anytime soon. Mayhaps they had been harboring the hope that the Triarchy would rise once more and make enough noise to buckle the hold of the dragon queen on their cities. Their hope might come true one day, but not in 307 AC, and definitely not when Daenerys had nieces and nephews flying above the Free Cities to and fro to visit her in the five years after their acquaintances.

Only after she had secured her hold on the Kingdom of Meereen (her new name for the large Southern area), did Daenerys finally set foot on Westeros’s soil for the very first time.

People had been saying that Daenerys shared great resemblances with Naerys. Aemon… didn’t see it.

His sister had been more slender, and though she was small, she was taller than Daenerys. Their greataunt of this life was just tiny. Their faces had some similarities, but mostly the generic features that Targaryens of Rhaenys's branch tended to share. Daenerys's cheeks were fuller, whereas his sister's had been delicate, almost gaunt. Naerys's eyes were imperceptibly bigger, and the outer canthus drooped lower, fanning by thick silvery eyelashes. Aemon was not sure if Daenerys Targaryen had ever lowered her eyes in her life. Even if she had, no trace of that was left behind, as she surveyed the welcome party with sharp, calm eyes. His mother took a step forward and gave her an embrace. Only then that the expressions of the Dragon Queen of the East soften, and she reciprocated with a slight smile. (Even the smile was not the same. What was wrong with historians?)

Daenerys didn't stay, for long anyway. She was given a quarter in both the Red Keep and on Dragonstone (because apparently, she had good relations with Daemon, though Aemon would be hard-pressed to find it, since Daemon treated her with the polite interest he reserved for everyone outside of the family; were there some histories between them?). However, she was a Queen of her own Kingdom now, and said Kingdom was detrimental for both herself (and her ideology of freeing and taking care of all the slaves in the world) and for the Great War, as Father had said during one of the family bonding times. So every year, Daenerys would spend three months in Westeros, and the rest in Meereen. Their family would visit often, as they were already doing now. It wasn't the best arrangement, pray, but their Greataunt had that grand dream that could not be contained within the restricting walls of Westeros, and the Seven Kingdoms were crowded enough with seven dragons flying around and cantankerous dragonlords knee-deep in dirty politics. So in the end, the arrangement worked well enough for both sides.

Daenerys did ask for a Valyrian ward by her side, and Aemon was nervous that she might pick him, or Naerys, and he did not think he could bear the separation (even only for three-fourths of the year). Valerion shrugged and asked the kids outright if any of them would volunteer ('Except for you, Maegor, put your hand down. You are already promised to something else.'). Aenar did, and he was even cheerful enough to ask if she could be fine with a Targaryen child without a dragon. Daenerys had given him a glorious smile that would melt any grown man's heart, though Daenys did cut in that Aenar could only be Greataunt Dany's ward in a year - he was only four at the moment. The Queen of Meereen agreed amicably, pleased that she would have a companion in the years to come.

Aemon was also three when he finally realized that his father was more calculating than he had thought. At first, he hadn't cared all that much when, two years ago, he overheard Valerion suggesting (almost as an afterthought) for Daemon and Gael to start taking over as the patron of the orphanages in King's Landing and in Dragonstone. They were a bit young, but endearing the First-in-line to the mass was never a bad idea, and their Lady Mother and Lord Father were entirely too busy to visit so often, so Aemon didn't dwell on it. However, he did care after he woke up in the middle of the night and once again, overhearing his father and Daemon in the next room. It was Aenar's fourth birthday, their mother had just rushed back from the Wall, so their father allowed all six children to have a sleepover in the chamber adjoined theirs. His mother was still breathing calmly beside him, her eyes shut in restless sleep.

"I will be collecting orphaned boys and girls of good potential and have them as my... hm... personal servants."

"Pull out from being a patron, then, have Gael be the only one at the moment. Gael’s charity efforts and your... garrison should be separate properly."

"Garrison? So that truly was your purpose when introducing me to charity work. You want me to have a personal army of my own, Kepa?"

Aemon's High Valyrian was blotchy, he had never used it all that much in his last life, but since all three of his oldest siblings were adamant in teaching and forcing him to speak the language daily, he gathered enough in the bits and pieces he did catch.

"You are the first in line. You cannot always rely on my army, nor the fleeting loyalty of the bannermen. Not when one day I will be dead, and mayhaps not even when I am alive. It's timely enough that you figured it out on your own."

"... I might... Kepa, I might pose a danger to Maegor, Aenar, and Aemon. Is it wise to initiate a move that might divide this family like that?”

Aemon felt his heart warmed, though the touching moment was ruined as the sound of the King's light chuckle resounded through the crack of the door:

"Well, thank you for being so thoughtful, my boy, but I sure hope none of the children I raise would be so greedy and ungrateful. Besides, that is the chance we have to take. I want you to snatch the orphans up before they can be brainwashed by the Faith. It is always the impoverished and the orphaned that are most vulnerable to their doctrine. Besides, don't worry, I'm not playing favorite. Maegor and your younger brothers, each will be allowed to build their own personal force, after all. Big or small, I don't believe in letting children rely fully on their family's soldiers. Especially not in this turbulent time."

That was alarming enough. It was as if his father was encouraging them to stay aggressive at all times, to think he would condone even making use of orphaned children. And to do what? Aemon was naive, he admitted, compared to many people of his line, but even he wasn’t so naive as to not recognize Daemon’s goal of building an elite martyr army that would lay down their lives for him without half a thought. His father supported that, even though his children were so young. The oldest hadn't even reached ten, and already he was schooling them in hoarding personal armies.

A few months later, Lady Olenna passed away on her deathbed, supposedly peacefully, but one never knew in this Red Keep. A large funeral was held, and Lord Robb Stark traveled South with his family to pay his respects. A bunch of unrelated Lords also flocked to King's Landing, eyeing the vacant seat of the Hand while Lady Olenna's body had barely been put to rest. It was the first time Aemon got to see Uncle Robb, Uncle Bran, Lady Margaery, and Cousin Egan. It seemed that Cousin Lyarra - who would be Aemon's goodsister in the future - had come down with a cold and had to stay behind in Winterfell, and Cousin Alaric was a babe still, too small and too frail to travel so far.

Cousin Egan was a bright-eyed boy with beautiful blue eyes and a head full of dark brown curls. He smiled widely when introduced to the Targaryen children, shaking hands with Daemon and Aenar most enthusiastically, bowing a bit fumblingly in front of Gael and Naerys, and prodding teasingly at Aemon's cheek. When he was face-to-face with Maegor, though, who was his age and was still fuming after being grounded for kicking Ser Loras down the stairs (accidentally, he had insisted, but anyway), Cousin Egan froze and stared. The silence got awkward, and Maegor's face darkened, looking ready to crush some skulls. When even Daemon looked as if he would intervene, Egan stuttered dazedly, freckles bright and almost blushing:

"... Pretty."

The reactions were instantaneous. Daemon broke into a fit of roaring laughter (which he tried to muffle under his hand, unsuccessfully), Gael bit her lips to cover her own smile while hissing 'Daemon!', Aenar snorted, Aemon hiccupped, baby Naerys giggled, and Maegor waited a beat longer for the word to sink in properly before springing himself at Cousin Egan.

Cousin Egan lost two front teeth (at least it were only milk teeth) and sported a large bruise on his left eye, his nose still bleeding profusely when the Maester was brought into the chamber... And still, for some inexplicable reasons, Egan seemed unfazed by the entire debacle and kept following Maegor all around with a bright smile on his face, like a lost puppy. Cousin Egan had a puppy, by the way, a direwolf puppy from Nymeria's litter. A puppy that was the same size as his owner and was also trodding happily behind the two boys - Egan tugging and pulling and Maegor looking close to giving him another uppercut, which he did, in just a few seconds later.

"Your son is a menace," said Uncle Robb, seemingly amused at the sight of the two boys wrestling each other in the yard, "I will call him Menace Targaryen from now on."

The Lord of Winterfell and the King were sitting in his solar, Kingsguards outside the door while Aemon and Aenar were playing on the mat in the corner of the room. Sometimes Valerion would miss the young children, and he would allow them to be brought into his solar and play quietly together while he worked. It was fortunate that all of his children were very well-behaved, though Aenar was more talkative than others.

"Egan earned it, to be honest. No boys would be pleased to be called 'pretty', not at that age, and definitely not with Maegor's temper."

Robb shrugged, looking amazed:

"Aye, well, yet my boy seemed entranced by the young prince anyway. I have never seen him so taken with anything before, even after being beaten like that..."

"... Do you think that wife of yours...?"

"I know what you are worried about, but that's not it. The boy wasn't close to her, following me around all day every day, and he had already been following the Old Gods for years."

"So she chose Lyarra to educate on the Faith of the Seven?"

"... Aye, though I'm not too sure if my girl is very pleased with that. She is usually so docile, but is getting rebellious now that her friends up North are ostracizing her because she was the only one who keeps being herded into the Sept."

Valerion's smile was small but pleased, and Aemon was stunned. He had never seen his father so relaxed in front of anyone but his mother. The King closed his eyes for a beat, though, before musing almost absentmindedly:

"... This works out better than I thought."

"What?" Uncle Robb's head snapped back from the window, "Don't tell me, you want Egan to be Maegor's Second?"

"Aye, why not? They seemed fond enough of each other."

"
... Prince Maegor just punched my son in the gut. And Egan is following the Old Gods already. Shouldn't Maegor's Second and Third have to follow the Seven for them to join the Seventh Order with him?"

"Egan can still stand up normally after Maegor's punch? That means fondness in Maegor's book. Don't look at me like that, it isn't my fault my boy is special in his way of expressing affection." Aemon's father twitched another smile, "Can you ask Egan and Lyarra to switch?"

Uncle Robb gave Valerion an incredulous look:

"Don't jest. It is a religion, not a pie that they can share or exchange at will."

"I'm not jesting. The nature of the Seventh Order means that those who finish serving their time will no longer have to follow the Seven. It will, of course, be bad publicity if a previous Brother of the Seven Order immediately turned to another religion, or turned atheist. However, by law - confirmed by written documents of the High Septon himself - it isn't illegal or a betrayal by scriptures."

The Lord of Winterfell's face was hard:

"Think about what you are asking. You are asking the Heir of Winterfell to fake-following the Faith for nefarious reasons, joining a dangerous Order and probably risking his life even in the selection stage, then becoming a turncloak after the serving time is finished. All for what? Politics?"

"... I am not asking Egan anything I haven't already asked of my own son. And no, it isn't for politics. My son is for politics, your son is for protecting my own."

"... How can he ever rule the North when he follows the Southron religions?"

"I have already talked with Mother Mole and the next religious leader. Don't worry, once he comes back, the Northern Belief and its followers will welcome him with open arms. The Northern Lords might grieve, as usual, but they won't when their smallfolks are coming at them with pitchforks and zealous support of Egan Stark."

"... I do have a second son, don't you remember?"

"Aye, and that put a damper on my plan. But it's fine, within the next year, I will be sending Daemon up North to be fostered at Last Hearth and man the Wall. Allow him to pick Alaric up and he will get used enough to the Wall that people will get the hint."

"So you are asking me to offer up one son to play chess with the Faith, and another to freeze his dick off across the Wall?"

"... Well, do you wish to try talking with your family about it? I'm quite certain Egan will agree, Lyarra will be happy she can change back to following the Northern religions and hold on to her friends, and Margaery will be ecstatic she has the firstborn following the Faith and a second son close to the Heir."

The two adults stared at each other, before Uncle Robb shook his head almost resignedly:

"I hate that you are making my family an extension of yours."

"... Doesn't that mean that I love yours just as much as mine?"

The Lord of Winterfell hit him across the back at that, looking disgruntled still.

As expected, Lord Robb Stark became the Hand of the King, to the widespread disappointment of the vultures. He stayed in King's Landing without any of his family members, despite his wife's wish to remain with him. His brother Bran Stark stayed in the North as the regent to his son Egan Stark. Prince Maegor was instructed to fly North often, once every fortnight, till he even had a chamber of his own in Winterfell. He allowed Egan on Temeraire sometimes, too, and brought him South to visit his diligent father.

The wedding between Lord Edric Dayne and Lady Arya Stark had finally happened, and the celebration in Starfall was magnificent. Their entire family, even baby Naerys, joined the festivities and congratulated Aunt Arya (who looked pretty, nervous but determined, and likely to punch her husband in the face during the bedding, or so Uncle Robb and their father had snickered to each other). Nymeria sat docilely on the side of the throne of Starfall, licking her paws as her eyes followed the jittery steps of her bonded. There was no bedding ceremony, though, and neither the King nor the Lord of Winterfell had to command it, the groom himself - Lord of Starfall, tall, blond, dark-skinned, dark blue eyes, and ridiculously handsome - had stood up and smiled courteously as he said firmly that Starfall had no such customs, and he would not disrespect his ancestors by suddenly initiating it in his one and only wedding.

The ceremony was joyous. Lady Catelyn (who had been shipped here on dragon's back with Lady Sansa and young Lord Rickon) had cried uncontrollably, blaming her age for such a disgraceful display. Lady Sansa (two sons and a third on the way) was sporting a complicated expression on her face, before breathing out a rueful sigh, and smiling whole-heartedly at the mix of panic and confused joy on her sister's face. Lord Rickon didn't say much, only grunted a few congratulatory words like a caveman, and suddenly, Aemon felt as if he knew where his father had inherited his occasional broodiness that scared the courtiers so much.

That was the celebration, though. Two hours after the groom and the bride had left for their bedding, and the guests had all retired to their chambers, Aemon was awakened by his mother, and he was astonished to find their entire family on dragon's back. They flew high above the clouds, everyone got bundled up in heavy clothes even though they were in the Southern sky. No one said much of anything, his older brothers and sister sitting astride their own dragons with grim faces and sharp eyes. The nannies and the warbands were on the dragons' backs as well. Aemon wondered if they were going to war.

When the destination was finally in sight, Aemon's heart dropped to his gut. How many times had he been here? Had there ever been any good memories attached to this place? Why was it that this place had not changed all that much after all those long years?

In the dark, quiet as the death, seven dragons descended around the Old Palace of Sunspear.

This plan must have been a long time in coming, because every single step was much too smooth for it to be anything but a carefully crafted scheme. Many of the guards had fallen unconscious - or sleeping - around the outer wall, those that hadn't were made silent quickly as the Kings and warbands sliced their necks open. The dragons had all snapped their wings up into the shadows (aye, even Aemon had learned the final details of warging, though the entire practice crept him out a bit), but were close enough for a grand introduction when it came down to it. But even so, the entire Shadow City outside seemed to have been put to sleep (too quiet, too dark, too dead), and the terrible memories of the first Dornish War flashed in Aemon's mind.

They took over the palace in twenty minutes, perhaps less. After the Outer Wall, two silent Dornish men had appeared in front of them and led them to the internal walls, past sleeping guardsmen and directing them to the throne room inside the Tower of the Sun. Aemon kept expecting an ambush or an assassin to jump out from the shadow to attack them, but nothing happened. After Valerion Targaryen and Daenys Targaryen had situated themselves comfortably on the thrones, and the children had been directed to stand behind and next to them on both sides, their Kingsguards, nannies, and warbands flanking them, the two Dornish servants curtsied quietly and left the room.

Right after that, the door creaked open once more, and though the children and the warbands tensed up, the King and the Queen seemed composed and expectant. The big belly of the Lord of Whisperers appeared from the other side of the door. He gushed sweetly, as always, and kneeled down while putting his slimy lips on Father's fingers. Aemon respected Valerion a bit more when not a trace of disgust could be seen on his face. Lord Varys stood up straight behind the King, and cleared his throat delicately toward the billowing darkness on the other side of the door.

In a moment, a crowd of people was ushered in.

"Your Grace!" Prince Oberyn Martell was jovial in his greetings, more so than when he had usually been at King's Landing. "It is our honor that you can visit so early, and in the middle of your beloved cousin's special day, as well."

He and his daughters (because they must be, judging from the resemblances) were the only ones not in chains or escorted by Dornish spearmen. Behind him, an older man on a wheeled chair had his hands tied up to the armrest and was staring unblinkingly at the King and the Queen, his face cold and harsh, despite the frailty exuding from the bent back and the legs that couldn't walk on their own. Next to him was a beautiful Dornish lady, who shared certain resemblances with both the man in the wheeled chair and Prince Oberyn Tyrell, she walked with her back straightened and her head held high, even as her hands were tied behind her back. The young man behind her didn't have her poise, or their father's calmness. Trystane Martell was fidgeting nervously, shifting on his feet and tugging at his bonds behind his back. A sweet-looking young girl with fearful green eyes and golden curls was hiding behind Trystane's back, tugging at him with her tied-up hands (why was she the only one whose hands were tied in front of her?). Further back was an even older man, looking shriveled and half-dead as he got hauled over by the guardsmen.

"Isn't this too harsh a treatment, Your Grace? Only because we were remiss in sending back a young lady that has been too taken with our son?"

King Valerion had his chin on his hand, his entire torso leaning on the right side of the throne in (deceptive) indolence and his left eyebrow was raised:

"Well, that too. But do you truly believe treason can be covered away with a minor trespass?"

At his word, Lord Oberyn signaled so that the guard pushed the three hooded figures to the front, a few other men struggled to hold them back, but was knocked unconscious. The hoods came off, and Aemon peaked from behind Maegor's back to watch as an Imp, a bald middle-aged man with blue eyes, red beard, and hateful expressions, and a comely young man with silver locks and light purple eyes all got pushed to their knees in front of the royal household. Aemon's blood went cold, and he could actually feel Naery's body seized behind him in shock, he grasped blindly back to hold her tiny hand. This man looked so familiar it was painful to stare into his face. How many times had he imagined Aegon's bastard with Daena to look like when he grew up? It would be like this. Daemon Blackfyre would have grown up looking exactly like this Aegon the Pretender.

"Brother," The man was saying with a gallant smile that was more youthful bravado than any actual substance, "Are you so afraid of me that you would resort to an underhanded tactic like this instead of honorably meeting me on a field?"

The King’s eyes gleamed, and Aemon might have imagined his whispers of 'Now who's the one using underhanded tactic again?'. Whatever he might have said, the words were soft enough that Aemon doubted anyone but their family could decipher. No one moved a muscle, though.

Prince Oberyn cleared his throat, moving forward, but was mindful enough to keep a certain distance from the Throne.

"As Lord Varys's letter has stated, My Lord, I have been most distraught that my brother would be so desperate as to bring in a child of unknown origin, with the intention of wedding his own daughter to him and plotting treason against the Iron Throne. I, well, of course, as your seven-year Master of Coins, could not bear to watch him commit such a mistake. So here you are, the Pretender himself, and the Traitor Jon Connington, and of course, Tyrion Lannister."

The King gave Lord Oberyn a bland smile - that didn't reach his eyes - and asked almost softly (softer than Aemon had ever heard from him):

"Indeed. In exchange, what would you wish to have as a reward for such...outstanding contributions, my Lord?"

The Red Viper kept the taunting smile on his face, taking three more steps near the throne, and opened his mouth to answer.

Everything happened all at once.

The Snake's blade sprang from beneath his sleeves as he rushed toward the children, and the spears of Dornish guardsmen all turned as one toward the King and his family. They weren't the only ones moving, though. In one breath, less than even that, Maegor's sword (when did he draw it?) swung and Oberyn lost the arm he was holding the dagger. As the Red Viper reared back in surprised pain, the tendons of his knee got torn open as Aemon’s second brother slashed at his legs from behind. The Prince of House Martell stumbled into a kneeling position with an astounded look on his face, Maegor’s sword leveled at his throat. Still within that one breath, Gael and the wildling archers took a step back behind Daemon and his nannies and shot straight at Trystane's throat and Arianne's eye. Myrcella’s scream was horrific. Daemon and the warriors by his side didn't waste a single moment and started cutting down the guards surrounding them. From behind the Martells, a portly man with a big round head and milky grey eyes was stumbling away from the fighting, only to fall unceremoniously down as Queen Daenys’s spear went straight through his skull. By her side, the King had effortlessly broken Varys’s knees with a swift kick, the bald Spider lying face-first on the floor with Valerion’s foot stomping on his back.

A lot of things happened, but it was just one moment. The Martells did bring a considerable number of guards, but the wildlings were more vicious, and each had been used to slay at least four men in the same moment, so they made quick work of it. Daemon, encompassed in their circle of protection, managed to kill one grown man and pull Tyrion Lannister (who was shorter than even Daemon) to his feet, and hold him by sword point as he retreated to his family’s side.

Silence reigned as Myrcella ceased her hysterics when Arianne (arrow pulled out but the eye was lost and was bleeding profusely) pulled her into a hug that looked more like a restraint (now where was the rope binding her hands?). It was Oberyn Martell who broke it, a bloody smile on his lips:

"...Was I laying it on a bit thick?"

Valerion shrugged politely:

"Aye, my Lord. It's hard to believe that you would betray your brother so readily. Your whor* and your daughters? Sure. But you?... Besides..."

Tyrion gave a smile that twisted his grotesque face further, still being restrained by a stone-faced Daemon:

"As promised, Jon Snow, I deliver Aegon the Pretender to you in chains."

Sharp intakes of breath were heard around the room. Jon Connington shot the Imp a spiteful look, while the actual Pretender just looked shocked, disbelieving, and heartbroken.

The King only nodded, his face expressionless:

"Aye, and as promised, my Lord, Tommen and Myrcella are safe and sound."

The hiss of outrage from the Martells was strangling, but nothing would be more terrible than the venomous spits of Ellaria Sand, even as she and the Sand Snakes were held at swordpoint by the wildling nannies:

"Not anymore."

The moment she finished her words, Myrcella started convulsing violently, blood seeping down her eyes and her nose, bubbling in her surprised, open mouth. Arianne still held her close in a vice grip, the gesture almost lovingly, if not for the tiny, golden form suddenly turning frozen inside it. The Princess of Dorne turned toward the throne, flashing a bloody smile not much different than Ellaria Sand and the Sand Snakes a few steps away from her:

"Don't look so devastated, my Lord Tyrion. You brought the tyrant King to our door, you killed my brother, and you took my eyes. Surely you don't think all that slights will go unavenged."

The Imp's face contorted in anger - though the grief showing up there might seem a tad theatrical, but he stilled as Daemon's hand once again squeezed warningly on his shoulder. Daenys Targaryen sighed to conclude this chapter of the matter:

"Must you? Now I will have to find my cousin Bran another wife."

The Seven knew, Aemon's mother was rubbish at matchmaking. He had heard of a few of her infamous matches, and they were outrageous.

"Moving on," The King spared Lord Tyrion a (shallow) look of sympathy, before continuing insouciantly, his foot digging deeper into the meaty back of the Spider, "Don't thrash, Viserys Blackfyre, you are unsightly enough staying still."

Another shocked silence followed. This was entirely too much excitement in one night, for a tiny body of a toddler.

"Your Grace," Varys's voice was pitiful as he whined up the foot of the King, "Please, Your Grace, I do not understand. I am not a part of Prince Oberyn's mad scheme, I swear..."

"To whom, I wonder…" Valerion pushed his feet further still, before calmly reaching down and cutting Varys's left wrist open, swiftly and matter-of-factly, "Confirm, Viserys Blackfyre. Is that your true name?"

Varys hissed out in pain, tears streaming down his meaty face (somehow, the entire expression seemed fake to Aemon's eyes):

"My Lord, I am Varys, I am but your humble servant. I do not understand what you mean."

The King looked contemplative, then he broke an arm, and the scream emitted from the Master of Whisperer was nothing short of horrific, the high-pitched voice rose an octave and everyone inside that Throne Room finched.

"No?" Aemon's father seemed fascinated with the resilience, "Answer to the heart of the question. Who said that you cannot be both Varys the Spider and Viserys Blackfyre at the same time? Now that I think about it..." He stomped the other foot down and Aemon could hear a 'crack' sound as the obese man's left knee got snapped into two. Another wet scream of pain, "Viserys Blackfyre, Varys the Spider, A Faceless Man of the House of Black and White... How resourceful of you."

When Varys stuck to his silence and pitiful sobbing, Valerion looked up and shared a glance with his Queen. Daenys didn't even nod, she stood up and stepped forward, Lyra Mormont and Ygritte flanking her side. Before anyone knew what just happened, the Queen had already had the Pretender's neck in her grip, pulling him to the side, away from the snarls and thrashings of Jon Connington toward his liege. Lady Mormont gave the older Lord a swipe of her sword scabbard, silencing the noises he made.

It was at that moment that Aemon realized that Varys was getting nervous. The moment the Queen got hold of the Pretender, the Spider had ceased his fake crying and was twisting under the King's foot. Valerion ground down without a thought, almost smiling now that Varys stilled under him when Daenys's dagger dragged across Aegon's neck. Aemon's father repeated his question:

"Are you Viserys Blackfyre?"

The bald man tensed up, eyes still locked onto Aegon's, but he stayed silent. Valerion didn't need to gesture, Daenys cut off an ear. The Pretender screamed, Jon Connington jerked toward him, and Varys twitched like an insect.

"Are you Viserys Blackfyre?"

"... Yes."

"Too small, I cannot hear you."

The Queen drew her blade across Aegon's face, cutting from the edge of the left eye, across the straight nose, to his right cheek. The man twitched and groaned.

"Yes! Yes! I am Viserys Blackfyre, once upon a time."

The sound vibrated within the close space, and everyone's face turned deathly white, even the Martells.

"Good," Valerion spoke softly, "Is he your nephew then, Aegon Blackfyre?"

A pin dropped could have been heard in the ensuing silence, before the Pretender yanked at his bond and shouted in crazed pain:

"No! How dare you?! I am Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of His Name, the rightful..."

Another shriek replaced his ramblings, as the Queen's dagger cut off his other ear. When she moved, methodologically toward the Pretender's nose, Viserys Blackfyre rasped out, painfully:

"Yes! Stop! Yes... He is... He..."

"...is your sister's son, no? Serra Blackfyre's child with Illyrio Mopatis."

The Spider didn't answer, only slumping down in defeat and staring unblinkingly at the Pretender's face, as if making sure he was still alright. This particular no-answer was already an answer enough. Aegon Blackfyre's lavender eyes were wide, less from pain and more from the shock of his entire life being upheaved by a lie. He tugged blindly at his binds, not caring that Daenys's blade was drawing blood from his movements.

"That is a vile lie! That's...! Griff! Lord Connington, tell them! I am no Blackfyre! I am..."

One look at the lord of griffins, and the Pretender shattered before their eyes. The balding griffin's face was a frozen mask, his eyes red-rimmed and far away. He looked like a dead man whose mind had escaped him and was circling back to twenty-five years of efforts and love pouring on a bastard child unrelated to his Prince in every way. His lips were mumbling quietly, painfully, almost deliriously:

"His eyes are lighter than Rhaegar's, that's all..."

Aegon shrank back into his corner, his bleeding face forgotten and his grief and disbelief raged on in waves. Ygritte and Borroq each took one arm and hoisted him to an upright position. The Queen and Lady Lyra Mormont returned to their seats.

Ignoring the existential crisis both Connington and the Pretender were having, Valerion quietly cut off all the tendons in Viserys Blackfyre's body, making sure he could no longer move, only lying soullessly like a doll on the floor. Then, the King sank into his throne once more, and addressed Prince Doran Martell, whose wizened face looked as if it had aged another century in just a few minutes in here. Still, all throughout the shenanigans, the old Prince still had not looked away from the King:

"What are you looking at, Prince Doran?" Aemon's father asked conversationally, holding one hand up almost tauntingly, "Wondering when the poison you put on the armrest of the Throne will start working inside my body?"

That statement upset both their side and the other side. Maegor whirled his head back, while Daemon and Gael, alongside the Kingsguard, glanced anxiously at the King and Queen, whose face seemed calm as usual. Valerion pulled something very thin out of his hand, before letting go and that thin film bounced back.

"Skinned gloves. Same structure as the masks some of the lesser assassins used to employ without the magic of the Many-Faced God. You wouldn't think I would be so careless as to bring my entire family here, to this pit of venom, without precaution?"

Queen Daenys continued beside him:

"And before you ask, we have put more antidotes inside our body than we have eaten or drunk in a week. So the mist outside the inner wall and the perfume on the two Dornish guards you sent us are only minor inconveniences."

Aemon knew there was a reason why he had been forced to drink a whole bunch of medicine the last weeks. They all had to build their tolerance of poison, which always started when the prince or princess turned three. This practice was new, probably only put into practice by Valerion Targaryen, and was only safely employed because Archmaester Aemon was still alive and in charge of this project. He doubted anyone in his family had trusted the rest of the Citadel that much. But even with the habitual doses to build tolerance, the amount of things they had to drink the last two weeks was impossible. That was also why each of them had been bundled in several layers of clothes and gloves even though the business was so far South. Their parents wouldn't take that many chances.

Prince Oberyn and the rest of his family looked restless at the revelation, but there was still an eerie ease from Prince Doran and Princess Arianne, who had still not successfully stemmed the blood. Slowly, almost scornfully, the older Prince said:

"You look like him, Your Grace. You look more like your father than your mother. But the coloring is all hers." Then his lips twisted into a self-deprecating smile, "Such griefs they gave us. I should have agreed to Oberyn's decision to kill Lyanna Stark the moment the Silver Prince gave her that damn garland of blue roses. Would have saved the realm then."

Both the King's and the Queen's faces had darkened at the callous mentions of their parents, but Valerion put a hand on Daenys's, stilling her, as he replied coldly:

"The realm burned because my Grandfather was mad and cruel, it would have burned either way. The naive star-crossed lovers just put a nice lid on it."

Aemon's mother entered the conversation with a frown of her own:

"So Dorne only knows how to act on spite, doesn't it? No one sees the head and tail of Dorne when the Baratheon was warming the Iron Throne, and yet, you cannot accept Lyanna's children sitting where you think Aegon should have, is that it?"

Prince Oberyn finally snarled in his broken form on the floor:

"We would rather die than kneel to the bastards of that Northern whor*!"

Valerion moved faster than anyone's eyes could catch, and Prince Oberyn's head flew in a wide arc before falling unceremoniously down just in front of Doran's feet. Ellaria Sand screamed and the Sand Snakes jerked away from their captors, not caring that the blades were digging into their skin. The King nodded, and the heads of the entire family of the Viper went flying. Another one moment and another batch of Martells got dispatched without fanfare.

"I thank you for your contributions to the Kingdom when you held the seat, Prince Oberyn." Aemon's father said, just as callous as Doran had been when speaking of his grandmother.

He addressed the purple face of Prince Doran once more:

"Are you waiting for the Golden Company to barge in? Don't bother, they won't."

Princess Arianne was clutching at the shoulders of her father, her face grim and her fingers shook, but she braved through:

"Let us go. We can strike a deal together. You have only a handful of people here, whereas the Golden Company is hiding just outside the Winding Walls. Your dragons won't find them amidst the sand. One word from us and the people of the Shadow City will either lead them through the tunnels here, or will burn them in their barracks. The choice is yours, Your Grace."

The King blinked at her:

"What people of the Shadow City?"

Even as he said that, an explosion was heard right outside. The screams and the terror could be heard even in the Throne room. Even without closing his eyes to reach Rhaegal, Aemon knew that his dragon was following Sonagon to destroy the city. Prince Doran looked ready to faint, and Princess Arianne’s face was white with disbelieved terror:

"You would commit genocide without a thought? Dorne will fight you till the last breath. Like the First War, we will hide under trenches and beneath the sand, and you will break, just like your ancestors."

Valerion Targaryen leaned forward:

"Only Sunspear and the Shadow City will fight to the last breath, I'm afraid. Isn't that right, goodcousin?"

The group of hooded people who had been standing at the back of the room pushed forward and pulled down their hoods. In their ranks, Edric Dayne stood tall, Aunt Arya beside him, looking feral as her eyes drilled into Arianne's, and her hand resting on the pommel of her sword. Behind them stood Lord Ryon Allyrion (whose mother passed away a month ago), Lady Larra Blackmont (whose face was wet with tears and whose eyes were glued on the headless corpse of Prince Oberyn), the Fowler twins, Lord Trebor Jordayne, Lord Gulian Qorgyle (whose father had been bedridden for half a year), Lady Sylva Santagar and her husband Lord Eldon Estermont, Lady Nymella Toland, Lord Daeron Vaith, Lord Wyllis Wyl, and Ser Cletus Yronwood. (Now Aemon knew why one-third of the wildling nannies had been absent. They had to stay behind to make room for the Dornish Lords and Ladies.) Notably, no Uller was present. Behind them, the Maester of Sunspear stumbled forward, confirming that the ravens had been sent, Arya gave her cousin an imperceptible nod, indicating that the message was written properly.

"From today forth, House Martell and Sunspear will be no more. With the Lords and Ladies of Dorne as witnesses, let it be known that my family and I have shown our goodwill, have elevated the House for years, have even willingly come to Sunspear to give them a chance to explain themselves, only to be met with further treachery. By the law of Gods and Men, House Martell has broken faith in every possible way, and has tried to put a Black Dragon on the Throne due to their greed and their personal dislike of the Northen lineage. The people of the Shadow City have harbored foreign sellswords within their homes and walls, seeking to unleash carnage upon the Kingdom. To that end,” The King nodded grimly at the two pale Martells in the middle of the hall, “I sentence them all to death."

Prince Doran gripped the armrest of his chair, his eyes bloodshot:

"You cannot kill them all. Both the people of Sunspear and the Golden Company, they will run away through the tunnels, they will hide beneath the sand, and hit back. Our son, Quentyn Martell, and Tyene Sand will avenge this barbaric display. Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken ."

Queen Daenys stared at him with her signature dispassionate eyes:

"No, they won't. Why do you think Ser Arthur isn't with us right now? Why do you think he hasn't been with us for nigh on a year now?"

Aemon's mind worked faster than it had ever done in this life. No wonder, Ser Arthur had been sent here. He and his men had found secret entrances to and fro Sunspear, and had destroyed all hiding places within a few hundred miles radius, leaving no place for the people of Sunspear and the Golden Company to run or hide. Aemon chanced a glance at Edric Dayne, finally realizing why a Minor Lord's wedding had attracted nearly all Dornish Houses, many other Houses all across Westeros, and even the personal attendance of the entire Royal Household. No wonder his parents had been confident. This wasn't a war between Dorne and foreign invaders. This was a war between the Dornishes themselves.

The King waved his hand and two boxes were brought forward, the content spilling out onto the floor:

"This son, you mean? And this lady?"

The sightless heads of Quentyn and Tyene stared unblinkingly at their only remaining family members, and Arianne turned to retch onto the marbled floor, hands covering her mouth in disgust. (Where had it gone? Her ruthlessness as she held Myrcella’s twitching corpse in her arms?)

"You shouldn't have sent them to the Free Cities. My aunt is never slow to act."

They could smell smoke now, and fire, everything was so near. The temperature had been rising so steadily since after the first explosion was heard. His nanny picked Aemon up, and his parents stood, even as the wildings surged forward to smash the Pretender's skull into two and behead Jon Connington in one smooth movement. His father turned to Tyrion, who was thanking the wildling who was picking his niece's body up from the ground:

"Was Connington the one who had been in contact with the Faith of the Seven?"

"Aye, though I don't know if he contacted the High Septon himself, or another branch of the Faith. Letters were exchanged for five years now."

Valerion's face was indifferent, even as he commanded:

"Put his head in a box and send it to the High Sparrow, then."

Queen Daenys gave him a look, as if asking 'Should we antagonize them so early?'. The King only shrugged back 'They are dancing on our heads; we are just letting them know that we know.'

As their entourage passed the frozen forms of the Prince and Princess of Dorne, Valerion turned to address them one last time, before the blade of the wildlings could pierce their hearts:

"Farewell, my Lord and Lady. Please give my stepmother and my half-siblings my regards. If not for you, we would have honored them properly, as we have always done these long years."

Two more heads fell down, and their entire family (still wearing the gaudy ceremonial attires of the wedding inside the cloaks and gloves) shed their outer clothes on the steps of the Old Palace. They marched out into the burning street, wildlings and Kingsguards making a protective circle to shield them from the crazed and terrified people howling and burning all around. As they mounted the dragons, the sun was already rising, though its light was distant enough that it could not dwarf the roaring flame behind and around them.

Aemon felt as if he had been able to get over his trauma with Dorne, though it was likely he would develop a few new ones after this day could end.

Chapter 12: INTERLUDE: THE SQUABBLES OF MEN

Chapter Text

In 307 AC, the Fifth Blackfyre Rebellion was snuffed out even before it could start properly. The Pretender was put down within four months of him setting foot on Westeros's soil. In the Free Cities, all holdings and manses of Illyrio Mopatis had been put to the flame, and the assassinated corpse of the lord of cheese was found unburned and cut apart on the top floor of his manse. The Golden Company was burnt or flayed to the last men. Even if there were any survivors, they would be wise enough to keep their mouths shut and hide away from the rest of Westeros and Meereen.

In Dorne, there was a swift and decisive change in regime. People went to bed after a wedding ceremony and woke up to Sunspear and Hellholt burnt to the ground and Starfall the new Seat of their Overlord. Within one day and one night, Edric Dayne acquired a wife (a warrior wife, if the tales were to be believed) and the title of Lord Paramount of Dorne. All ten great Houses of Dorne had taken to the knees without bloodshed, with House Martell and House Uller disappearing from the face of the map. A thousand years of history, the direct descendants of the Rhoynish warrior queen, and the House had been obliterated within a night, not a drop of blood left behind.

In the aftermath of that, the cleansing of both the Faith and the Small Council was the talk of the entire Kingdom for the next few years. Lord Robb Stark served as the Hand of the King. Lord Wylis Manderly replaced his ailing father as the Master of Ships. Willas Tyrell became the Master of Coins. Lord Tyrion Lannister occupied the seat of Master of Whisperers. Only Lord Howland Reed kept his seat as the Master of Laws and Samwell Tarly stayed the Grand Maester. The Faith flushed out a great number of Septons and Septas, a whole branch of the Faith was excommunicated and the devouts floundered with the sudden upheaval. The crime as noted down in the Book of Faith was 'fraternizing with Pretenders' and 'succumbing to personal greed and ambitions'. Even the Citadel (or what little had been rebuilt of it) had made a response, by rounding up and sending a row of Dornish inmates escorted heavily by armed soldiers to the Red Keep. One acolyte by the name of Alleras had tried to make a break for it during her capture, but was noted down as the first casualty, as the Lord Hand - sent to lead the host - had swung his sword so fast barely anyone could catch it. In the end, the female head with dark hair and light-brown skin of the acolyte was strung up alongside the sack of documents condemning the prisoners on Lord Stark’s horse, and no other prisoner chanced an escape after that.

In the Stormlands and Dornish Marches, the reconstruction of Summerhall and Hellgate Hall had finished by the end of the year, after several years of rebuilding and renovating. Summerhall stood close to the border of the Reach and Stormlands - the very same place it had stood before the Tragedy, whereas Hellgate Hall had been rebuilt almost from rubbles in the Southeast end of Dorne. The seat of House Dryland had been a collection of ruins after King Lucifer Dryland had been exiled from his own land by the will of Queen Nymeria in her Conquest. After its reconstruction, however, it was a fortified castle that had enough space to accommodate two or more dragons. By that year, Prince Aenar was proclaimed the Prince of Summerhall, and Prince Aemon - betrothed to his sister Naerys (to the great disappointment of all Houses big and small with an Heir around the Princess's age) - was titled the Prince and Princess of Hellgate Hall. Together with Starfall, the three castles created a perfect triangle surrounding the entire south-eastern peninsula, hemming any rebellions or conspiracies in the confines of its wall without much room to breathe. With the Iron Islands, the Riverlands, the Crownlands, the Stormlands, and Dorne surrounding the Reach and the Westerlands, barring the two possible disputed lands from reaching North or West or South, anyone who was half mindful of the political terrains would guess at the King’s true intentions with them.

307 AC was also when the shift in power truly came into play. If in 301 AC, things had been mostly hearsays and contracts and negotiations, then in 307 AC, all those contracts started bearing fruits, and people suddenly realized how high the Starks had climbed, how House Dayne was actually a House of more than Kingsguards and tragic beauties, and how low a House could be brought down if they follow in the Martell's footsteps.

House Stark now had one Hand of the King, one Kingsguard (Ser Bran Stark replaced Ser Selmy Barristan, who had become too old to hold his post securely, and who still stayed as an advisor for the Kingsguard, but no longer on active duty), and one lady married to the Lord Paramount of Dorne. Ill-intended people whispered behind their hands of how the Small Council and the White Book had effectively become the Starks' back garden, as three out of seven members of the Small Council were from the North, and three out of seven Kingsguard descended from the Northern land as well. Never before in history had the North been so integrated into the Seven Kingdoms, or the politics of the South. Not since the days of Cregan Stark. Interestingly enough, and disconcertingly enough (for the Southron's lordlings), they held their own well.

Lord Robb Stark left Winterfell behind with his young son as the ruling Heir and Lord Rickon Stark as his regent. Lady Margaery Tyrell stayed in King's Landing with her Lord husband, bringing with her the young Lady Lyarra, who was the known betrothed of Prince Maegor. Lady Margaery's effort to get them close might have backfired, because after each intentional 'chance' she created for them to spend together, Prince Maegor would pack his bags and leave for Winterfell for a whole week before returning - nannies in tow, of course. In the end, all she did was foster the relationship between the Prince and her first son, who became attached at the hips by the end of the year, and at one point, the Prince of Harrenhal spent more time at Winterfell than in King's Landing with his betrothed. Lady Margaery was still a social butterfly, but her time in the North and her motherhood had distilled much of her dramatic frivolity. This somehow made her even more dangerous to the Queen's flimsy hold on the social circles, but her competition might be more in the form of the Little Princess Gael, who had spent the last two years endearing herself to both the ladies of the Court and the smallfolks of King's Landing.

Ser Bran Stark was reserved in his grief for his betrothed - who had died most horrifically at the hands of Oberyn's whor*, but had still declared celibacy to honor Lady Myrcella Lannister. In fact, he had claimed that joining the White Cloaks would be the highest honor for a second son like him - who no longer had any intention of marrying, and was sincere enough in his request that the King allowed his enlistment. Lady Catelyn was bedridden from the grief - words went around that the lady had even prepared a list of replacements for the seat of her second gooddaughter, only for her son to up and abandon all lands and titles and marriage. She recovered much later, and started focusing on the future by preparing the wedding for her youngest son instead. Previously, it had been said that Lady Catelyn had disliked Lady Liv Magnar with a passion (the girl was a cannibal who climbed trees and spat foul meat at anyone that ventured near, much worse than even the wildlings), but by that point, the older Lady Stark had just been grateful that her last son hadn't declared celibacy on her. Lady Sansa had given Torreg Giantsbane three strong sons, all sported glorious red hair, blue eyes, and fine features of their mother, but thankfully inherited the strength and hulking height from their Lord Father. (Torreg Giantsbane had finally learned to read and write, and was one of the first wildling chieftains - alongside Sigorn Thenn - to have been deemed fully assimilated to the civilized world by that year.)

House Tyrell boasted one seat on the Small Council, a Grand Maester from their sworn House, grandchildren attached to the hips with Princes and Princesses, and close relations to three of the most powerful Houses of that era. In truth, with the passing of Lady Olenna, the Tyrells’ power had dwindled from 307 AC, and any voice they had was only in relation to their in-laws - which was the Starks, and perhaps, the Targaryens, in the future. Nevertheless, one would find it difficult to spot any melancholy or displeasure on the beefy face of Lord Mace Tyrell. The Cull of Dorne (as the historians started calling it) had put everything into perspective, after all. Many ambitious Lords all across the South instantly found themselves quite satisfied with their lot in life.

Worse still, the reconstruction of Old Town was still underway, two years after its destruction in the Battle of Monsters. The skirmish had been between Euron Greyjoy, his fleets, and three of his Great Monsters, fighting with the King of Westeros and his White Death, alongside the Second Prince and his Celestial Wings. Only after battles of that magnitude, the people of the Seven Kingdoms, Lords and peasants alike, started having the niggling feeling of being preys, the feeling that they were surrounded by the great unknowns, and that they were dealing with more than just mortal politics and lordling’s quarrels. No one laughed behind their backs at talks of the Others and the shadow assassins, not anymore. And the Tyrells, alongside their in-laws - the Hightowers, fairly bled themselves dry trying to rebuild a bigger and better Starry Sept and Citadel, all the while hoping to endear people back to the Heart of the Faith.

The Battle of Monsters had shaken the faith of many people. In the age of Dragons and magic, what had the Faith done to protect their followers from the monstrosity of the unknown? Most of those who had survived the destruction of Old Town during that faithful battle had returned to their lives with talks of doubt and uncertainty. Was it wise for them to cling to the Faith when it was so feeble it nearly got upheaved by heathen monsters? Aye, the King and his family might have been half-monsters themselves, but they were monsters that brought results, no? They were monsters that had protected them, that had ruled over them with magnanimity and justice… There was a religion dedicated to them as well, should they…? One might never be certain what went on inside their head, or whether or not the barbaric Northern Beliefs had truly invaded the South so smoothly and insidiously, without any grand entrance or declaration. All that was known was the closed-door whispers of discontent toward the Faith of the Seven, the decrease in religious offerings, and the dwindling of devoted ceremonies in the years after the Battle of Monsters.

House Dayne emerged suddenly into the spotlight, and abruptly, people realized with some trepidation that the pretty and soft-spoken greenhorn of Starfall (who had barely turned twenty by that point) had actually gathered enough support from the Dornish Great Houses that the change of dynasty hadn’t made much wave and amassed for himself an army of ten thousand men strong (bannermen not yet included) within the seven years of him coming into his seat. House Dayne had not possessed such military strength since the time of Ancient Dorne, before the coming of the Andals and when the Kings of the Torrentine (whose name was Dayne) had still been one of the three great pillars that had shouldered the Sky of Dorne. The Lord of Starfall proved his worth further during the months of tracking down and weeding the rest of the Golden Company - losing its head and the majority of its men or not, the free brotherhood of exiles had still provided a vicious display of bravery and perseverance. Bravery that Edric Dayne broke and perseverance that Arthur Dayne forced into despair. By the end of it, the sellswords were reported to have gone down begging and sobbing or hiding like rats beneath the sand dunes of Dorne.

The implications of the Daynes’ rise were stark and numerous.

First, it indicated that they had the full support of the Crown (gosh, Lady Arya Stark had been betrothed to Edric Dayne the moment the King had first sat on the Throne), and the Lords once again felt cold sweats dripping down their necks because had the King been nurturing House Dayne’s power all the while he smiled at Prince Oberyn across the table of the Small Council? Great Lords everywhere started looking closely at each of their bannermen, fearing that they might spot the familiar signature of the Crown across their own lands and people.

Second, House Tyrell once again contracted the restlessness that had been brewing ever more apparent since the passing of their Lady Hand. Never before had they been so aware of the fact that their title as the Warden of the South had been given before Dorne was a part of the realm. People could understand the Crown’s hesitation in allowing the Martells to don the title, as the assimilation of the two realms had never been as peaceful as the rest of the Kingdom, and they feared the increase in power of a land already so difficult it might declare independence any day. However, such wouldn’t be the case for House Dayne, who prided themselves as First Men - the same ethnic group as the King and Queen, who boasted a Sword of the Morning that had raised the royals with his own two hands, and who enjoyed the unbreakable bond of wedding the Crown’s favorite cousin.

Their fear wasn’t in vain, because in the last days of the year 307 AC, the King summoned Lord Willas for a private discussion, and the next day, Lord Edric Dayne was rewarded for his contributions during the short-lived Blackfyre Rebellion. He became the Warden of the South, the Lord Paramount of Dorne, and the Second Sword of the Realm. House Dayne also had with them the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and a Lady married to the true power of Stormlands. (Lady Allyria had given Lord Beric Dondarrion an heir during their lost years in the War of the Five Kings. However, it had been noted that no new children had been born to the lightning lord after the ascension of the new King.)

The West shook with both surprise and relief, when it came out that Lord Tyrion Lannister had been in contact with the King even before the dragons flew South. People finally understood the reason why Jaime, Tommen, and Myrcella Lannister had been able to keep their heads all these years. The Imp’s reputation as a conniving turncloak had been cemented once more, but everything remained whispers and speculations, because conniving or no, turncloak or no, Tyrion Lannister had chosen the correct side to turn to. He, arguably, had single-handedly brought down a rebellion, saved the lives of half his family, and ensured the continuity of the Lannister line, despite all the bad blood with the North and the displeasure of the Faith with his kins.

The Lannisters’ financial situation hadn’t improved much, the Crown still had not relinquished their half of the Lannisport, nor the vault, and it wasn’t as if that House was audacious enough to ask. Things deteriorated further, as the Iron Bank - who had discreetly backed Aegon the Pretender in his failed rebellion - swept in like vultures the moment news of the Blackfyre's failure had started brewing. Most of the related people had died, but Tyrion Lannister was still alive and well, and had even been the one to negotiate all that money for the Pretender in the first place. So it was said that the representative of the Iron Bank hounded the Imp all day every day, whether he be at court or in his homeland. The King allowed said representative an audience, and after that meeting, the Iron Bank had conceded one step, allowing the debt to be paid within the lifetime of two Lannister's generations.

Lord Tommen Lannister had been married for six whole years, yet no heirs were in sight, and the Westerland churned with worries about the uncertain line of succession. Most disliked the Imp, because whoever would like a deformed Lord sitting on their head? (Who cared if he was cunning and competent and contributed the most to the current stability of the West?) But Jaime was North of the Wall, Myrcella was dead, and Tommen seemed more likely to keel over than provide an heir within the next few years. So the Queen showed off her shocking match-making skill again, and arranged for a match between Lord Tyrion Lannister and Lady Valerie Umber. So the Lordings and the people were averse to having an Imp as their Overlord? Good for them, they should be prepared to kneel down in front of the spawns of said Imp. As expected of Lord Umber, he rode South and made a huge fuss, growling that he had already lost a daughter to a turncloak-turn-wildling, how could the Queen and the King be so cruel as to force him to lose another daughter to an evil Southron Imp? The Queen threw him a dirty look, before tasking Lady Valerie herself with talking to her father. Lady Valerie did, and in the end, Greatjon Umber glumly agreed and took part in the wedding, stabbing his meal and glaring daggers at Lord Tyrion the whole way through.

The departure of Lady Valerie Umber from the Stormlands was made possible due to the delivery of the Heir of Storm's Ends earlier that year. Even though the marriage of Lady Lyanna Mormont and Lord Edric Baratheon had been dramatic in the whole three years of its consummation (what's with them disagreeing frequently - mostly deteriorating into the Lady pulling the Lord's hair out, or bloodying his nose), they had still taken their duty seriously, and provided a daughter just before any whispers of barrenness could make the round. Obviously, a daughter would never be as good as a son (and the Lord and Lady had tried to poke each other's eyes out on that point as well), but it took them three years for that one daughter, and Lady Lyanna had been used to a lineage passing down on daughters instead of sons, so the Lord Baratheon had to concede and declare Argella Baratheon (Lady Lyanna had always had a flare for dramatics) the temporary Heir to Storm's End.

There were not many exciting things that had happened to the rest of the Great Houses. A few babies had been born to the Greyjoys and the Tullys, and Lady Arwen Arryn had gotten close enough to the Queen in recent years that it was almost certain young Lord Roland Arryn would become a companion of a prince (which prince was the question.) The marriage bed of the Tullys was said to have gone cold by now, both the Lord and the Lady well passed the age of passion, and with two heirs in tow, they were safe enough from any succession crisis that people just left them be.

The marriage bed of the Greyjoys, however, was... tumultuous. Both the Lord of Bones and the Weeper in the West had made a name for themselves as... difficult husbands. They didn't beat their wives, because the King had made a whole new law about beating wives, and most men feared the punishment they might receive if they dared break it. There might be some trouble enforcing such laws in blackwater areas. However, for Lords and Ladies, and especially for the wildlings, who had enjoyed first-hand the taste of what the King dealt out for those who broke his law, it was relatively unwise to risk it. Still, not beating their wives did not mean that they had no other means of tormenting them. People whispered that Asha Greyjoy had finally found her match, and had mellowed down a bit (only a tiny bit) in recent years, after her fourth babe and several years of being forced to count the number of bones Rattleshirt had on his person, reciting the history of each one, each death, and each torture. She was the only remainder of her entire family, her husband and his warband had hunted down the rest, and she had been forced to watch what he did to them afterward. Somehow, Rattleshirt had evolved from a simple, savage brute into a refined monster that knew well how to terrorize others without actually touching them. The Lord of Bones and the Weeper were creatures that walked straight out of the dark fairy tales told to children about the North of the Wall. Many people had ended up resenting the King for bringing them South.

That was, of course, before Euron Greyjoy, and many of those lords had finally realized after the Battle of Monsters that aye, the King had more sh*ts to worry about than their minor skirmishes with each other and with the wildlings. Furthermore, for every Rattleshirt and Weeper, there would be a Torreg Giantsbane and Valerie Umber and Sigorn Thenn and Halleck Dogshead. At the very least, the King's wildlings had been tame enough to generally have civilized conversations with. Things were still difficult, some of them still made the lords sick to their stomachs, but people started trying now, instead of stewing futilely in their holdings.

House Targaryen of this generation reminded the rest of the Houses uncomfortably of two centuries ago, when dragons crowded the sky and the number of Valyrians walking the land effortlessly came to the dozens. Worse yet, it was without any of the weaknesses the House of the Dragons had had during that time. Any hope of a civil war had dwindled when Queen Daenys returned from Essos with two more dragons to their arsenal, and had absolutely decomposed by the time the Queen of Meereen made it her habit to come visit her kin three months every year. Granted, they had to face monsters the likes of giants sea creatures, random shadow assassins - some of the lords were lucky enough to have survived a few encounters with such creatures, and undead North of the Wall (difficult to believe, and the King hadn't been able to provide much proof after the White Walkers went into seclusion, but with the existences of all other fanciful creatures, what would be surprising about a few more snarks and grumpkins?).

However, the fact that people knew about those creatures now, and believed in them, one way or another, also meant that the House of the Dragon was suddenly held in much higher esteem than any other time in history. The smallfolk were dumb, and the lords were quarrelsome, but neither of them was foolish enough to not realize that their Dragon King and Queens were the ones who had been holding all those monsters at bay. It went both ways, actually, there were some stubborn enough to harangue about how the King and his ilks had probably brought the monsters in with them when they traveled South. Any such treasonous words spoken in the North meant a gruesome death by the hand of the people themselves, who had mostly been converted to the Northern religions by the sheer brutalities and persistence of Mother Mole - who looked halfway through dying, but still hadn't died yet. The South suffered some uneasinesses of the same kind, but with dragons flying overheads, and several humane laws in place to prevent both wildlings and their beastly husbands and neighbors from doing the unthinkable, they learned to be private in their suspicions. Then the Cull of Dorne happened, and suddenly, even the privacy of their home wasn't reasonable enough to contemplate such things anymore, and so such thoughts were stashed into the darkest, deepest corner of their minds only.

307 AC started with Daenerys Targaryen's grand visit, escalated with the Cull of Dorne, and ended with the appearance of the ninth dragon in the known world. Said dragon was the ninth of his race to appear, but he was the second of his race to have wings of shattered ice and breaths of cold and winter.

“Out with it.”

“Kepa, are we to leave Tyrion Lannister alone? After the poisoning of Suvion in Meereen?”

“Is that truly what you want to ask, Little Rogue Prince?”

“... Maegor told you? Or was it Muña?”

“No one. Though one sees the pattern well enough.”

“... You don’t mind?”

“I don’t care. You are my son now. You are my Heir. Let’s just get on without skirting around the harsh truth. Ask me the true question you wish to know.”

“... Are you the one allowing the Imp to poison Suvion back in Meereen?”

“...”

“...”

“Stop. Don’t look like I’m about to hit you. Am I that kind of father?”

“You should have seen your face just now, Kepa, and no one ever looks like that kind of father, or husband, until he becomes one.”

“... True enough. Still, even I know how to get offended. Are you accusing me of sacrificing my own sister and her bonded for… what? Two tiny dragons and my aunt’s capitulation?”

“You asked me to be frank, and it did work out rather… conveniently, no? Kepa?”

“I had no hand in it… Though I cannot promise whether or not the Imp had acted on his own with the intention of ‘helping’ me wrench a concession out of Daenerys Targaryen.”

“Kepa! It does not change the fact that he harmed Suvion! Muña nearly died! That deserves a thousand deaths!”

“Did you go to your Muña about this yet?”

“... She knew? For f*ck’s sake? She knew? Before or after she scared me sh*tless and vomited blood onto the sheet for a week?”

“She knew about the Imp, but she knew nothing of the poisoning. She would never have risked Suvion in that way.”

“... Then it comes back to my previous question: Is there any reason for us to keep Tyrion Lannister? Regardless of his goal, or his presumptuous helpfulness, he has harmed one of ours, that’s clear enough.”

“Let’s make this an exercise, then. You are the Heir, you tell me why this father of yours kept him alive. Guess.”

“... Are you serious?”

“Never been more serious in my life. Go on.”

“... The Iron Bank?”

“What part?”

“... With the Pretender dead, the Iron Bank will need one outlet to demand payment. The Pretender’s line has been wiped out, and they have no ground to come to us… They will not accept the loss one-sidedly, though, so they will come after Tyrion Lannister. With him dead, they will come after his next of kin, Tommen Lannister.”

“Who is likely to die within this year. So who will they come after next?”

“... His wife, Meera Lannister.”

“Aye.”

“So you let Tyrion live to preserve the Reeds. And…because Tyrion is the only one who would have the brain and the resourcefulness to pay the Iron Bank up within two generations, even with a hollow vault and only half of Lannisport… You want to avoid peasant rebellions from the Westerlands.”

“Indeed. The Iron Bank will plunder the West till they get back their money’s worth. Tyrion is there to pay his own debt without implicating his lords and smallfolks. Anything else?”

“... You want a Lannister Heir, and Tommen cannot provide one. I do not understand why it has to be a Lannister. We could deal with them the way we dealt with the Martells. There should be other, more worthy Western Houses for us to raise.”

“... Really? Because I happen to despise all of them. And personal preferences aside, we don’t have an Arthur Dayne in the Westerlands. We do not have a high-potential seed like Edric Dayne, either.”

“Okay… But isn’t it a bit risky having Tyrion alive to raise the Lannister Heir?”

“... Why do you think I will let him live long enough to raise his Heir?”

“Oh. I don’t know… Because he might not have finished paying back the Iron Bank by then, and it will somehow dissolve into the first problem we discussed before?”

“Don’t worry about that. The Imp is… crafty. He will try to delay the birth of his heir for as long as possible.”

“And that is okay?”

“At the moment? Aye. The longer it takes for him to provide an heir, the louder the Western lords will grumble. He will have to choose between displeasing his lords - who hate him with a passion, and will probably suspect him of poisoning his nephew and niece, despite our announcement to the contrary - and giving birth to an heir that will most likely result in him being indisposed, or dead.”

“How unfortunate. He does not lack the charisma, but surely lack the stature to pull such charisma off properly.”

“Aye, and I want that marriage to be done and over with. Val will have a field day with him. She was, is, your mother’s best friend, do you know that? And she held grudges over the poisoning in Meereen, too.”

“... Muña does have a type when it comes to female companions, doesn’t she.”

“Aye, one more thing. I will move Lady Meera Reed back to King’s Landing as soon as her husband dies. A life beside your Muña will make it easier to breathe for a widow than staying in Casterly Rock.”

“... Why the special attention? She is also one of the reasons why you kept Tyrion alive, right, Kepa? She’s important because Lord Howland Reed wishes it?”

“That, too, but also… Tell me, why do you think your Uncle Bran decided to become a Kingsguard?”

“... Because of Myrcella… Wait. No. Wait. Because of Meera Reed?”

“The obsession of a budding first love is no joke, my dear. The only reason Bran accepted his betrothal to Myrcella and Meera’s marriage to Tommen is because of my promise that both Lannisters will not live past ten years.”

“Then Lady Myrcella died, before Tommen did. Everyone, Lady Catelyn, too, immediately prepared a second list of wives for Uncle Bran, while Lady Meera had yet to be freed…”

“In hindsight, he would rather become a Kingsguard than miss another chance with Lady Reed.”

“I wouldn’t call it a chance. He swore an oath of celibacy after all… No, Kepa!”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“But you look… oh never mind. I do not think Uncle Bran is… hm… dishonorable enough to ignore his oath and start f*cking the Lannister widow.”

“Language. And your Uncle Bran is… innocent enough when it comes to love. He probably hasn’t thought that far.”

“... So he still thinks love is holding hands and staring longingly at each other? And not breaking his oath of celibacy?”

“Maybe.”

“Someone should have told him otherwise.”

“Someone has, and he has not listened.”

“Ugh… Naivety seems to be a family trait.”

“Speaking for yourself? That is also your family, you know.”

“... So you keep reminding me.”

“...”

“... Kepa?”

“Hmm?”

“So for now, we are mostly just preparing for the Great War, right? No more mortal politics?”

“... Aye. Should be. Though most of the time it tends to happen all at once anyway.”

“... We have prepared enough, I think. You have, at least.”

“In war, no preparation is ever enough. But thanks for trying to lighten up the mood, my boy.”

Chapter 13: AENAR I

Chapter Text

Jon had gone to bed with a particularly nasty backache (old age was a pain, truly) and woke up a few thousand years later with the name of Aenar Targaryen. Aenar had laughed himself silly the moment he heard his new name. Hadn't he just spent a few dozen years butting heads with one dude of the same name? Granted, he might have misplaced it somehow, as he had spent all his previous life butting heads with so many different enemies that he might have mistaken one with the other. There had been one river, one bloody river (the White Knife, he remembered), and everyone and their mother had felt the need to encroach on it and dance on his f*cking head. He had just wanted to build a nice, cozy castle to finally be able to piss and sleep indoors when traveling south. What had been wrong with all those people? He learned later, through reading, that one of his sons had been illiterate enough to name his castle the Wolf's Den, and Jon, sorry, Aenar had been embarrassed enough by the pretentiousness of the name that he had not been able to eat for three whole hours - distressing his nannies and worrying his Kingsguard. He also learned, through reading, that he might have been lucky enough in his last life to cross blade with every possible race of note back then: pretty sure the lanky bunches with white hair and spitting language had been Valyrians, the red-skinned hollering half-monkeys had been Ibbenese, and the short, talkative, and hairy brutes at the end of his last life had been the Andals. If that hadn't been one exciting life, then he probably had been mistaken about the definition of 'exciting' all along.

Since he had still felt a bit senile most days after his reincarnation, Aenar had to focus on remembering how long he had actually lived in his last life. A hundred years? No? At least seventy? He mildly remembered one of his fouler-mouthed sons had grumbled some years ago about how he had hoarded the throne for a bit too long. Another son of his had taken a hammer to his knees right then and there, having the boy (man?) fall over with hissing screams of pain. The whole drama had unfolded right in front of Jon, wait, Aenar, before he had even been able to squint his eyes long enough to find out which son had said such nasty sh*ts... The kid had actually inherited his sense of humor. Poor thing, his beheading brother obviously had not. He had not remembered the names of either son in that story, having at least two dozen children back then. It surprised him a bit to read about the exploits of the Stark after the Andal's invasion and the Conquest of House Targaryen. Historians had made them out to be such a brooding, faithful, honorable, and righteous (stupid, too) bunch, and... that hadn't been Aenar's experience at all. (Maybe the brooding part, and only applicable to some of them; but the rest? Hmm...). He had to come to terms with the fact that his line had been domesticated in the few thousand years after his death.

His time, similar to his sire's and his grandsire's time, had been much more simple and barbaric. He remembered brutal battles for territories and dominance, remembered raiding up North and down South, remembered bloodlines being wiped clear off the face of the Earth just for random offenses. They said that most Northern Lords were more loyal and honorable than the messy lot South of the Neck, but if so, it was a loyalty that had been branded into them by inherent fear and generations of calculated bloodshed, and it was an honor that had been born out of insidious indoctrination. He remembered one wife, several mistresses, and… a few war prizes as well. Depending on how much free time a Lord had, the number of children he had would have amounted to a few dozen. The definition of trueborn had been a bit murky back then, because barren Ladies or Ladies with incompetent sons had usually adopted one of their stepchildren to present her instead. Jon, ah no, Aenar, had had a dozen of brothers as well, and he remembered the tiresome inheritance process the lot of them had been forced to join back then.

Since the bastardy moniker had not been that damning during that era, the succession law had been hereditary, but not based on the concept of ‘firstborn took all’. Instead, the sons were rounded up to make their claims (or refuse theirs) in a council (of sorts) with other lords and chieftains as witnesses. The ‘making their claims’ part hadn’t necessarily been verbal, as some of the more aggressive sons had spared only a few words of introduction before brandishing their steel and demanding their siblings to come at them if they wanted to take the throne. Sometimes, the presentation stage resulted in maimed siblings, or unfortunate enough, dead ones. The claimants won if they passed the trial without any deaths, though some rare cases did allow legitimacy and justifiable self-defense if, after a King had been declared, one of his siblings was a sore loser enough to attack unprovoked. But still, those who had ascended the throne after (or with) the death of sibling(s) were considered extremely unlucky, and often enough had to endure whispers behind their backs throughout their (short) reign. If the trial had been kept fully verbal and diplomatic (which was rare, only one - two cases that Aenar had known), the votes of their siblings would have been detrimental for the final claimants to win. If even the votes of other contestants weren’t enough - not enough of a majority, they would often dissolve into the physical aspect and battle it out for a final result.

Aenar had had a dozen brothers, and since at least one-third of them had been brutes (who had used grunts as the main form of communication), they had duked it out from the second minute. He won (obviously), and had been lucky enough to not have any deaths during his trials (though many of them had been maimed beyond recognition). After the trial, many of his brothers had stopped speaking to him and had struck out on their own with their warband and holed up somewhere the sun hadn’t shone to wallow in their loss. This had been normal. Better that than staying near him and stewing broodingly till they died of depression (or rebellions). It had been such a pain having so many brothers. Too much drama and too much competition.

And yet, Aenar had had a few dozen kids, too, more than ten sons, so one had to forgive him if his memories of each and every one of them had been a bit blurry. And with those ten quarrelsome sons, the succession process after his death must have been interesting. According to historians, Rickard Stark had been his successor. That one he remembered, though not very clearly. He had been the youngest of his brood, still in his youth back when Aenar had last seen him, and had been the son of his third wife. Pretty neat, if he had to say so himself. For the youngest son to usurp all ten of his brothers and ascend the throne, leaving behind the legacy of expanding the Kingdom to the Neck, Rickard Stark must have been outstanding, and Aenar regretted that he hadn't been able to get to know the kid better, if only for bragging right (that was moot when he was born under a different name and in a different era, but still).

Well, regardless, the culture shock Aenar had experienced in his second life was enormous. This era was so...mild and cultured, and battles for them were intricate, malignant, and insidious. They battled with speeches and parleys, too, and sometimes even with social cues that hurt Aenar's head the first few times he tried to decipher. He had been used to a time when blades were brandished much easier, and often enough he could just cut off a head (or two, or a few dozens, if he was in the mood to eradicate an entire family) and the problem would somehow solve itself by the end of it. He had rarely had to practice diplomacy, and his own brand of negotiation had been... particularly quick and violent. Now, though, when he had to put his feet into the shoes of a civilized prince down South, there was a lot of unwarranted sympathizing and comforting going around. In true insouciant ancient warlord manners, though, Aenar laughed it off and blended in just fine. He had always been a quick learner.

His new family seemed a bit unnerved by Aenar's constant geniality. He inherited his father's face (and hair, and eyes), and seeing so many smiles and lively expressions on their brooding father's face must have been pretty creepy. They just didn't get it. He had had to laugh even when he had been a King of a starving, cannibalizing, and shambling nation. He had had to laugh through invasions, destitution, famine, plague, and natural disasters - godly disasters, too, now that he thought about it. (Sometimes, one could do nothing but laugh, and if so, one ought to learn to see the humor in everything in life. It would be too bleak otherwise.) Nothing could be worse than that, so a large part of Aenar was just grateful for whatever scraps life managed to deal out to him this time around.

He had been dealt a pretty sweet hand in this life, Aenar believed. He was highborn enough to have an easy life and sneer on ninety-nine percent of the population, but wasn't high enough that he had to struggle with crippling responsibilities and scrutinies every day. He was born in a family big enough for him to be able to blend into the background (though the fact that his hair color was unique inside the family was a bit inconvenient) but wasn't big enough that he would be lacking in care, love, or attention. 'Just enough' was the motto he would like to follow in this life - which might not be a very long life, anyway, judging from the terrible Winter knocking on the door up North, and the sinister magic that was milking life forces in the East. Even he had not experienced the Long Night (he had been old, but not that old), but the fear of such had been branded into children of his generation so clearly that just the names of such things were sacrilege to throw around. Back then, it hadn't been that long since their closest Long Night, either, only a few centuries ago, so the memories of terror had still been fresh in the mind of every First Men that walked the North. There was some fear that lasted generations.

It took Aenar a while to realize that he might be the only one who was so familiar with the arcane phenomenon of the world in his family. It seemed that thousands of years after his death, magic had become obscure, hailed as both miracles and calamities, and feared by most living humans. Aenar... didn't understand that, really. He might not have seen fire dragons before (his Valyrian invaders had not been accommodating enough to bring their pets to war with him, and he was frankly offended), but he had grown up alongside Giants, had wrestled with Walrus-men, had eaten Giant ice spider, had rode Unicorns and had thrown rocks at Children of the Forest when he had been a kid and thought it was a mighty impressive thing to do. He had been a warg, all generations of Starks had been (at least since the time they had brought down the Warg King and had taken his daughters for prizes), of at least five animals, three of which were mythical ones. During boring winter nights, when he was too tired of coupling and siring more children, he would hole up on the Wall with his warbands and watch the aurora borealis falling down like glorious curtains on the misshapen corpses of ice dragons North of the Wall. He had encountered a few living ice dragons, too, though they had been the last of their kind, smaller than their ancestors and more skittish from the lack of a proper flight, the lonely sight of their wings, as they flew North for the last time, had been etched into Aenar's mind when he had been a youth.

He shouldn't have bothered being so sentimental, though, because he was choked full of smoke and scales in this second life, to the point that he was a bit annoyed every time he had been forced to accost a fire dragon that had obviously not been very impressed with him. (He would have been content with sitting on Ghost and riding him every day across the Red Keep instead of spending so much time on creatures that had no appreciation of his value. He had even called dibs on any cub the direwolf would have, and was always so very sad every time the beast was sent back to the Wall on patrol.) These Valyrian dragons were marvelous, he had to admit, but that was about it. They were smaller than even the smallest Ice Dragons he had seen in his last life (Rhaegal and Viserion, that was), more prickly in their eating habits, and were such drama queens that Aenar had half a mind to just throw rocks at their heads whenever they got too difficult. He refrained, though, because his father frowned upon animal abuse (what about when they were abusing him with their stupid temper?), and as he had expected, the beasts ended up being bonded with his other siblings, so it was all around a happy ending that he hadn't escalated the bad blood between them. He cared about his siblings, after all, and would feel bad if he had made them choose between their brother and their bonded.

His family of this lifetime was... wholesome, so much so that sometimes it felt almost like a burden. He had been used to the archaic family form, where the father was brutish, the mother was cold, the mistresses were histrionic, and the children dropped like flies due to high mortality rates and internal squabbles. And now, when he had been thrust into a family of hand-holding in the training yard, flying on dragons’ backs together, reading and learning languages by each other's bedside (he was not impressed with High Valyrian, though he refrained from complaining that the language sounded too much like spitting, after being hung by his ankles and shaken till his face turned purple by Maegor the last time he did so), and consistent family bonding every day regardless of how busy their parents were. Their father was faithful to their mother, and their relationship was embarrassing to watch, even if they were mild when it came to physical affection. The siblings were close, too, though rough-housing was a must in a household with so many boys, but everything was done in moderation and good nature.

It was a bit icky to him that their parents were siblings, and that his own siblings would be marrying each other in the future. Aenar had had interesting sexual exploits in his last life, but... he drew a line at f*cking sisters. Valyrians had such queer customs. But then again, it wasn't him who was promised to any of his sisters, so it wasn't really his problem to probe or complain. His family members were also abnormally beautiful, the lot of them, and even he, too (urgh). So maybe that was why they had decided to keep it in the family, because Gods knew the level of perversion people would sink to when faced with beauties of the extreme level. It might be safer this way, for both the girls and the boys.

It amused Aenar that his entire family kept sending him pitying look after Naerys had bonded with Viserion. He secretly wished that they could stop. Should he just warg into random big animals he came across to show them that he was not feeling lonely or jealous of his siblings? His father would definitely be able to feel it if he extended his consciousness, so it should be enough for him. And he would tell the rest of them so that they could stop doing that unwelcome compensating thing they were embarking on. Aenar was still laughing, day in and day out, of course, because their antics were hilarious, but it was frustrating that they kept believing him to be forcing himself to smile.

It came to a head when his mother bundled him up on Suvion and flew them to the Wall, with the goal of finding him a dragon of his own up North, because apparently, dragons liked hibernating in the Lands of Always Winter. His father had not rebuked her, and the rest of his siblings had even cheered her on through their windows as they stumbled from bed to see what the fuss in the yard was about. Alright, she should do what she wants. If they could not find any dragon, Aenar would just acquire a mammoth or direwolf so she would not be too crestfallen.

... They found a dragon, unlikely enough.

Well, it was more like it had found them. After spending a few hours hearing his mother recite the story of how she had met her Suvion (... it actually wasn't the conventional way of bonding with ice dragons, but good for her), and a few days of tracking icebergs and water holes everywhere (in vain, by the way), Aenar had finally let go of his worry for his mother and let himself sink into a deep sleep on her back. As usual, his dreams were restless. He didn't usually remember his dreams, opting to intentionally forget them to keep the peace of mind. This time, though, the vision got too... peculiar for him to put it out of his mind.

He dreamed of the nothingness, of the floating feeling of being but not being, of a sentient thing that wasn't very certain about its own existence. And he felt its pull throbbing inside him with a longing that made the hair at the base of his neck rise on end. Aenar sprang awake with a gasp, then proceeded to lead his mother toward the source of the pull.

It was a pond north of Thenn, close to the Shivering Sea and riddled with the charred corpses of sea creatures. Adara blanched, and before Aenar could ask, she huffed a disbelieving laugh:

"Wasn't this the place where your father found Daemon's Aegarax?"

That piqued Aenar's interest, and he wondered if he should explain to his mother the true nature of an ice dragon, but felt it would make him a demon baby, so he stopped himself. If a fire dragon had been sealed here for hundreds of years, it didn't surprise Aenar that there was probably one or two ice dragons slumbering in the area. These beasts of ice were much more complicated than the fire dragons, from what he read about those Valyrian beasts. Unlike what his mother believed, ice dragons were born, too, not created. They were not really created, not in their first life, at least. The complications happened after they died - and usually, it was an intentional choice, because ice dragons, once in form, were more of an idea of being than any actual flesh and blood, so they could only die by their own desire instead of any flesh wound. Many ice dragons had died because they had bonded and their bonded had succumbed to death, one way or the other. After they died, their body would either decompose slowly from misshapen icebergs into the unformed residue magic that was woven into the water and the air of the area (then solidified once again when certain requirements were met, sealing something dangerous, for one, or bonding with someone of their choosing), or they would choose the form they would like to... pass into after they ended their lives. Suvion had probably chosen the former type of death, before she met Adara, whereas the Wall (which people kept saying that Brandon had built) had been built from the corpse of the ice dragons that had chosen the latter.

Back in his time, he had been used to people bonding with ice dragons in their first life, then living longer than a human's lifetime (there had been people who lived to their hundred years with ease), or dying early due to one stupidity or another and pulled their pitiful ice dragons to oblivion with them. A few of his Stark ancestors had warged and bonded with ice dragons in that way, and had enjoyed a very long life (and fruitful life, seeing as they had spent those hundreds of years breeding like rabbits, making sure at least two-thirds of the current northmen had been descended from their seeds). The mass passing of ice dragons had happened during Brandon's years, and had still been going on by Aenar's first lifetime, though by then, it had only been the stragglers, the last of their kinds. Most people back then still remembered why those ice dragons had decided to die, and the fear of the Long Night had still been raw enough that no one dared wake any of them up, for selfish or selfless reasons. Though Aenar had to admit, they could only make that choice because Brandon's and the ice dragon's magic had been strong then, and waking them would result in more losses than gains. Now, however, even as he sat on Suvion, tied up to his mother, Aenar could feel the dwindling sparkles of the sorcery that had once resounded thousands of leagues North of the Wall.

So Aenar woke his own ice dragon, though the entire process wasn't as spectacular as his mother had probably hoped for. He had seen how people had done it, several times in his last life, so he only replicated their methods. He extended his mind, probing forward till he felt that bubbling consciousness. When he got hold of it, he yanked. His ice dragon emerged with the force of an avalanche. He could feel mountains rumbling far away, and the muted sound of something tearing the fabric of the world into being, shattering the still air of Northern Thenn. From the slight look of surprise his mother sported, Aenar was almost certain that this hadn't been her experience when she had woken Suvion before. But, well, it wasn't as if he himself was an expert on ice dragons anyway, to be able to analyze the differences.

His dragon was larger than Suvion, though not by much, and he must have been a tiny bit smaller than Sonagon. His body and wings were more translucent than any ice dragons Aenar had ever encountered, only sporting very faint grey lines on the underside of his wings. When he was staying still, the beast almost blended into the scenery, and passing travelers might have mistaken him for an invisible film of air instead of any actual creature. When he moved, it gave off the effect that the air rippled, the snow coiled tight, and no detection of any humongous monster lurking nearby. He was a nearly perfect chameleon, and Aenar wasn't very sure if he was pleased with the fact. Fear was one of the most important effects a dragon could produce in war, after all, and the fact that their enemies had to try to see him properly would probably make such an effect nonexistent.

The dragon's mind was... cold and matter-of-fact, mostly. He did emit a certain level of joy and welcome at Aenar's warging, but his interest in the world (which was supposed to be very new and very fascinating to something who had slumbered for thousands of years) was minimal. He sniffed at Suvion, conveying approval (one that the elderly often gave to children of the same race), and snorted boredly at the sky... The beast was making Aenar feel that he was not very appreciative of being brought back into life, and the third prince had to wonder how a bundle of joy like himself could come to be saddled with such a jaded and deadpanned creature.

It was fine, Aenar reminded himself, he had warged with boring partners before. He would be optimistic. Perhaps his dragon would grow to be interesting in later years. All was not lost yet.

Aenar named him AuRon, and the beast seemed pleased enough that he huffed a long cold breath that froze half a mile of seaside in seconds.

(Adara hugged Aenar and tousled his hair with a small, proud smile on her lips. And that was enough for him to stretch his face into a bright smile and be content with his efforts.)

(... He had become simple, if he had to say so himself. This family was making him simple.)

Their trip home wasn't as smooth, though, since they got cornered by the bloody Three-Eyed Crow. That thing invaded Adara's mind, forcing his mother to have a horrific dream and threatening to hold her hostage inside her mind if she did not bring Aenar and come visit him. The filthy little... Aenar had sprung awake the moment he felt a foreign mind reaching toward them, and he could guess most of what the dirty lowlife had been whispering into his mother's mind, judging from her pained sleeptalking. He wasn't strong enough to enter her mind and kick the intruder out without hurting her further, and stealing others' thoughts and bodies had been strictly forbidden where he came from, he could not risk hurting her mind further. So Aenar had AuRon soothe an enraged Suvion instead, and gritted his teeth as he thought of everything he would do to the Three-Eyed Crow once he got his hands on him.

When his mother woke, soaked in sweat and looking furious, Aenar had tried to calm her, too, and lessen her aversion to going to that shriveled corpse by whispering innocently:

"It's okay, mother. A little detour is fine, I look forward to it."

And so they flew to the frozen outcrop the Three-Eyed Crow had led them to. When they entered the maze under the weirwood tree, though, Aenar immediately realized something was wrong, but his warning had still come too late, and his mother's hand had been snatched away from his and he could feel her startled struggles as the maze pulled her further away from him. Aenar's eyes flashed with rage, and he turned to rush toward her, but his other hand had been pulled back by a dispassionate Child of the Forest.

It was a familiar face, because Aenar remembered how often he had thrown rocks at her face thousands of years ago, when he had been a child the first time, and the Children had seemed like beggars as they occasionally sneaked into the First Men's playground and hooted at the raucous younglings playing together in the clearing. Was this payback for his cruelty back then? Even that distant memory couldn't sooth his worry for his mother and anger refused to abate inside his ribcages. His lips pulled back into a smile that did not reach his eyes, and the familiar True Tongue slipped past his teeth in a snarl:

"Hands off!"

The Child's hold on his hands tightened, and her animalistic eyes glowed vindictively:

"There you are. I knew it. The eyes don't lie."

In his mind, Aenar could feel AuRon clawed at the ground and growled low in the back of his throat, wanting but fearing to go closer and tear the weirwood tree apart to rescue him. As usual for the First Weirwood Tree, no creatures - be it dragons or direwolves or Giants - dared to come too close without an invitation. The repelling magic in this place boasted the finest in all the known world. There was a reason why the Children of the Forest chose this place to save themselves from extinction, after all. The ward surrounding the place had only ever become stronger, after they had welcomed the first greenseer into their fold, and the magic had surged alongside the sense of destiny following the Immortal Crow.

This wouldn't do. Aenar took deep breaths to calm down, working himself into a frenzy would not save his mother. It seemed that the Crow wanted to meet him. Let's get it over with, then both Adara and him can leave this disgusting place. So he subsided and plastered on his usual calm smile, before letting the Child of the Forest lead him through the winding maze of the First Roots.

The Three-Eyed Crow of this generation looked like a shriveled corpse, and yet vitality was still somehow present under the unseeing depth of his eyes. He started the conversation without any preamble:

"Welcome, Prince Aenar. I have been wanting to meet you for a long time. Brynden Rivers, my dear. We are kins, do you know that?"

Aenar snorted a laugh:

"Oh, come now, save the lies for the summer children, Crow. Brynden Rivers is only your 'ego' of this generation, or have you been playing with ego transfer for so long that you have forgotten your own original form?"

In history, there has always been a Crow. The first greenseer had taken the form of a crow. Said greenseer had made peace with the Children of the Forest, had taken their home for his own, and had been using the First Weirwood Tree as the base of his powers for several thousands of years. He stayed there, to use his thousand eyes and ears to watch over Westeros and the lands beyond, not really for protecting, but not really for sabotaging, either. At one point, the Crow had become the unannointed advisor of the Kings of Winter, having them come to him and ask for advice or predictions.

The reason why Aenar had used the singular form of address was because there had always been only one Crow. Each time the Crow was about to die, he (sometimes a 'she', but mostly a 'he') would lure promising greenseer to his seat, training them, fostering them, before taking over their body and power once their old shell dried up and died. Often enough, the Crow would be smooth and delicate in his takeover, and so the 'ego' being taken over sometimes even forgot that he/she wasn't actually that ego, but only an inherited shell of great power and foresight. Not for long, though, and never forever. So aye, as one of the longest reigning King of Winter, Aenar was well-aware that this Brynden River was a slimy old thing that ingested the minds of others and stole their flesh. In his last life, he had met the Crow a few times, after all, and had never gotten over his disgust for the damn parasite.

Brynden Rivers was silent for a good long moment, before his lips cracked into a sinister smile that grossed Aenar out:

"Interesting. I have never met something like you before." He mused, almost as if he was talking to himself than to the boy, "Whose name was I using the last time you met me?"

"... Rodwell Bolton."

"Ah", the smile the Crow had was similar to a cat that got a canary in its paws, "My etiquettes were remiss, then. Welcome again, King Jon Stark, Builder of the Wolf's Den. Or are you one of his two sons that often frequented my seat after your death?"

Aenar's lips twisted into a nasty smile of his own:

"Why don't you guess?"

"The King, then. Only he could muster that deceptive smile with such ease."

Aenar wasn't surprised that the greenseer could deduce things so easily. During his time, aside from the children of House Stark and the greenseer replacement, rarely any outsiders had been invited into the First Roots.

"No wonder the Children have been in a frenzy ever since your dragon landed. You have had such a bad reputation among them the first time around, after all."

"Is that all you have to say to me? Do I look like I have that much free time?"

"Patience, Your Grace. I am still pondering the fascinating circ*mstances of your existence. Did you steal that body for yourself?"

Aenar had to bite back a snarl, and settled on narrowed eyes and a smile full of teeth instead:

"Is that an insult I hear? Do you want to f*cking die? Have you a body to slip into yet? To act so brazenly in front of me?"

"Well... I should have one, how do you like it if the next time you meet, you call me Uncle Bran?"

Another smirk made its way across Aenar's face:

"The only lesson you learned after thousands of years is inept lying, is that it? You wish to have Uncle Bran's body, I'm sure, but hasn't my father made it nigh impossible for you to do so?"

Finally, the insouciance on the Three-Eyed Crow slipped off his face, leaving behind a blank and mildly annoyed expression:

"Aye. So devious of your father. He encouraged Bran's infatuation with the Reed girl, yet refused to give him her hand, fostering inside him a permanent state of longing and desperation."

"And that's the worst possible state for anyone to steal his body, no? Makes it impossible, since the takeover only works best if the body's owner is either uncaring about the world, or too exalted already that boredom tethered on the edge of their consciousness. It won't work if he is awake and wanting."

"... I have forgotten how well-informed you Kings of Winter had been."

"Hah, I'm sure you have been having field days bullying ignorant summer children. Isn't that what you have in mind when you lured me into this little hole of yours? Wanting to steal my body, aren't you? Since you have no more chance with Uncle Bran's body?"

Good luck with that, Crow. There was a Pact between the first greenseer and Brandon the Builder. That Pact was sealed with blood and magic under the watchful gazes of the Old Gods themselves. The Crow could continue living his parasitic life, but the bodies of Kings of Winters were off-limit, and he had to wrestle a verbal oath of allowance out of the Stark descendants that did not have the title of King. Meaning, that the Crow would have some chances of taking Bran Stark's body (before his tragic love with Meera Reed, that was) if he could fool him into saying the oath, but it was impossible for him to ever take over Aenar's body, whose owner had once been a King of Winter.

Brynden Rivers realized that, too, because he scowled and closed his eyes in a show of tiredness.

"Don't taunt. Most other Kings of Winter had the decency to show me a morsel of respect."

"Really? You have enough face to demand respect when you were poised to steal children's bodies? Have you no shame?"

"... You are so difficult, always have been."

"Thanks, I do try."

Then suddenly the Crow's lined face crinkled into another disgusting smile, and Aenar immediately felt dread crawling up his throat, as the corpse said:

"There you have it, my Queen. How do you feel knowing your son's body has been taken over by a belligerent old man? A cranky ancestor, of all people?"

Aenar whirled around just in time to see the wall of tree roots on his left opened up, and his mother, disheveled and tight-faced, stumbled out into the open. His heart hammered inside his chest, and his hands turned clammy inside his fists. Aenar had not expected this. The spiteful little c*nt. He just had to have the last word, no?

"Mother..." Aenar took a step toward her, and for the first time, tried and failed to muster a smile on his face. Despite himself, he faltered. If she turned to him and her eyes held disgust or hatred, he might want to cry. (And he would, too, he had the advantage of blaming his young body).

Adara's face was cold, and she wasn't looking at him. But when Aenar had braced himself for rejection, his mother had stepped in front of him, her arm pushing him back in a gesture of protection. She looked at Brynden Rivers, and Aenar could almost see why his father had loved her so, all these years and without even one distraction.

"He is my son now. The only son I know inside that body. I don't see why it is any of your business how I am feeling. It is a family matter, is it not? And the moment you turned into the Crow, you are no longer our great uncle." Her voice was stern as she echoed Aenar's sentiments, "Have you no shame?'

The Crow narrowed his eyes in anger, before catching Aenar's warning glare behind Adara. Then, he squeezed his eyes shut and tightened his jaws. The Pact of Brandon had done more than just ensure the autonomy of his descendants' bodies, it also made clear that the Kings of Winter would be the only being that could mortally wound the Crow. Perhaps not to the point of killing him, but close enough, and the Crow might have to resign himself to skip a few generations if he ever fell to the blade of a King of Winter.

In the end, Brynden Rivers waved his hand in dismissal, looking his actual age (which was fossil's) and gave them a parting word.

"Leave, then. Since I repulsed you two so much. One advice, though, keep it in mind so that you will know what to do when the time comes."

The mother and son had almost turned away and walked hand-in-hand toward the Child of the Forest that Aenar used to throw stones at, but they stopped briefly and turned their head back a bit to listen to the Crow's last words.

"Whatever people said, it is fitting that you two are bonded to the ice dragons. Remember, you were born for this."

Then he sank further into the root of his tree, the wooden branches reaching out to cover him in their embrace. At the cryptic words, Adara's face was mildly confused, but Aenar only took a moment to get it. His blood went cold and he had to refrain from glaring at where the Crow had laid down. Instead, he took a shuddering breath, plastering on a smile and pushing his mother by the back, demanding cheerfully:

"Come on, mother. Let us be quick. I am tired of this depressing place."

For a second, his mother looked like she would protest. Then the moment passed, and she quietly followed the Child of the Forest's lead and got out of the First Roots.

Their flight back was quiet, any efforts of Aenar trying to open that can of worms had been rejected by his mother. In the end, Adara had just sighed, scowling faintly and concluding:

"You know what, I don't even want to know. Leave it be, kid." She might have been grumbling something about 'Not even one of them! Gods damn it.', but it was too faint and the howling of the wind was too strong for him to know for certain.

All in all, she didn't treat him all that much differently, save for the glum trip back home, when she was annoyed, but not specifically at him, from what he could gather. A part of Aenar was relieved, it was better that she got occupied with mindless worries and minor irritation, instead of her dwelling on the Three-Eyed Crow's cryptic words.

Even he himself was struggling to keep his mind off the old man's words. The Crow hadn't said anything new, really. He had just rubbed Aenar's face into a truth that the prince had already known and had been ignoring for peace of mind. In the end, Aener reminded himself of his motto in this life: 'Just enough'. If thinking about it wouldn't help, why would he bother wasting his time and brain cells?

The rest of his family was ecstatic that he had a dragon now, Daemon making a round in the training yard with Aenar on his back, and Gael enlisting Maegor's help to hold a small family celebration on dragon's back to congratulate their baby brother's success. It was fun, though neither of their parents were present, as Jon flew North to check on the Wall and Adara was forced to fly East to help Lady Arwen with some skirmishes on her border. Aenar was offended a bit that they had only ever taken Ghost for granted instead of offering him the same fanfare and appreciation they were giving the scaly beasts. Only his parents ever acted like proper Starks with how they treated the direwolf. The rest... well, the twins jumped on his back and rolled around with him, Maegor gave him a walk every day, but that was about it. Aemon was uncomfortable with the direwolf, often freezing up in its presence, and imperceptibly pulling Naerys away as he shrank minutely away from their father's bonded. (Aenar didn’t want to, but he somewhat understood Maegor’s and Daemon’s feelings as they stared disappointingly at Aemon sometimes. Their youngest brother was sweet, but also very… mismatched when put into this family. One accepted it, of course, because family was family, but one was also entitled to feel the occasional disappointment.)

On the other hand, it never ceased to amaze Aenar how much the people in his family treasured dragons, and how worried they had been back when they thought he had been left out of the flying routine. Aenar also realized that the knights, the servants, and random lordlings had finally started looking down in his presence, and there were much fewer whispers following him inside the hall of the Red Keep. It seemed that he had been disrespected without him knowing for quite a while, and it was the existence of his AuRon that defined his new status as a true Targaryen and fostered the sudden awe the plebians had toward him. Aenar was fond enough of his dragon, but it galled him (a tiny bit only, because he was a sunshine boy) that people had believed his values only came from the beast. If he lived long enough, Aenar would choose a nice day to kick off a stampede right in the middle of the Crownland, just to show those nasty people that life had more interesting challenges to offer than just dragons.

There was never a lack of entertainment in life, after all. One just had to be resourceful enough to find it. Or create it.

308 AC marked the year that the grand march toward the Wall started being put into motion, and the year that Aenar officially became the Ward to the Queen of Meereen.

Aenar had eavesdropped on their parents enough to know that his father would start decreeing the Houses to offer up at least half of their army to march North, in preparation for the Great War, which would be in a year or two. But of course, they had to consider the fact that some of the Lords would yelp and whine, so they decided to boil them slowly, and started with provisions being commanded to be shipped up North. All noble Houses had to send wagons and ships of provisions to support the wildling army and the Northen army stationing on the Wall. Then, perhaps in half a year, the true march would begin as the King forced them to part with their army for the good of the Realm of Men. Ideally, each House had to offer up at least the heir, or the current Lord, to join in on the war effort. The Night's Watch was zealously trying to round up wights for the dragonlords to ship South, just to provide proof to the more stubborn and stupid highborn. Depending on the Lords' reaction and their level of trustworthiness (as assessed by the King and Queen), the Crown might just burn their Houses down to a crisp. They were in too much sh*t already - warring with Immortals had never been a walk in the park - to worry about their flanks as well.

But those were the details considered for the future, as of 308 AC, Aenar had distanced himself from all of those dramas, and focused on following his aunt dutifully through the halls of Dragonstone and the Pyramids of Meereen. Daenerys Targaryen was the most beautiful woman Jon - Aenar - had ever seen in either of his lives. It embarrassed him a bit that he had been struck dumb the first time he had met her (which had been last year), then he had remembered that she was his greataunt, he was a babe of four, and he should stop being a creep when she could very well give birth to someone like him. That immediately sobered him up. But ignoring the striking outward appearance, Danaerys was a sweet person, a loving aunt, and an awkward little duckling that got easily mortified and only strong-armed through it by sheer arrogance. Aenar found her interesting enough, so when Father had asked for one child to become her ward, he had not hesitated to put up his arm. (Maegor had done the same, but likely just out of jest or spite. One could never be sure with him.)

So after the first three months together on Dragonstone and King's Landing, the both of them flew back to Meereen together, Aenar's nannies and Ser Thoros of Myr on AuRon's back.

Aenar enjoyed his time in Meereen.

He had to get used to both the heat, the scanty dressing habits, and the crowded metropolitan life. His Northern Kingdom was sparse in human settlements, and King's Landing, though packed, was smaller than the City of Meereen. In Westeros, people either dressed fashionably and frivolously in the Crownlands, or bundled from head to toe in furs in the North. Now that Aenar thought about it, he might have missed a lot of interesting things in his first life when he had decided to hole up North instead of invading further South. The fashion of his homeland left much to be desired. People were either covered in furs or running naked to the sheets or the carpets. The weather wasn't accommodating enough for anything in between. He had frankly been scandalized when he first saw women in see-through clothes or with their teats hanging out like sacks of potatoes on the street of Meereen. No one batted an eyelash, but Aenar had had to use airdrops to clean his optic from the graphic details he had not signed up to see.

He got used to it, though, as he had to get used to himself being dressed up like a doll by Greataunt Daenerys and staying up late listening to her soothing voice retelling one fairy tale to another. As soon as she was certain he had become her kid (kind of, somewhat), without any doubts, she started taking a lot of liberty with his person. She dressed him in all kinds of clothes she liked, she spoiled him rotten with delicacies all across the known world, she showered him with gifts and books and swords and treasures, and she brought him everywhere she went (within the walls of the Pyramid and outside of it). Fortunately for her, Aenar was not actually a child, so her overindulgence did not damage him fundamentally, like it would have with any other kid. Children should be raised with balance, just enough leniency and care, and just enough discipline and order. Daenerys had waited too long for a child of her own, and she had been too touched by Aenar's demeanors, that she could not help herself. Aenar knew that, and so he indulged her. He had been way past the age when he got agitated at such small sacrifices.

He also got to visit Asshai with Daenerys. They had to be discreet, of course, flying really high above the cloud, and only monitoring the city from a safe distance. They had received updates from their spies within the cities, but the feeling of actually seeing what was happening on the other side of the Great War was much more remarkable. At first glance, the city seemed gloomy and dead, with high buildings constructed from black stone, the distinct lack of humans roaming the street, and the stank air that wafted toward them even a great distance away. Looking closely, though, Aenar could make out Stannis's fleets (tattered and pitiful) scattering on the harbor, and very few people making their way across the street hidden by the dark mist.

Dany was speaking to him then, reciting some of the reports she had received about the place, and probably expressing her confusion as to the importance of a dead land so far away from their home. Tried as he might, Aenar could not focus on her words, his mind drifting back to the dreams he had always had in this lifetime, to the cryptic reminder of Brynden Rivers, and of his own conclusion after everything. His ears rang, his head hurt, and his eyes blurred with an unfamiliar emotion that he had never known he possessed. So it was true that people grew more sentimental as they had more things to lose. This is it, he thought, This will be my battlefield.

And so he turned toward his greataunt, flashing her a smile as if nothing had ever happened:

"Will we march on this city, Auntie?"

"... You did not listen to a thing I was saying, did you?"

"Sorry..." He gave her an innocent and sheepish smile. He was truly sheepish. It was quite rude not to listen to people when they were speaking to you. "My mind was on something else."

Dany only sighed and gave him a little flick on his forehead, before saying:

"Aye, we will have to go past the Red Waste, but I do believe we need to go the long way to avoid Yiti and Leng. We don't have enough men to stumble upon those hissing creeps. But I was saying... An acquaintance of mine is a shadowbinder from Asshai. I was thinking of contacting her to see if she could help with the sack of the city."

Aenar's blood went cold, but he clamped down on the urge to show it. His father hadn't told her yet? Or was it someone else?

"What is her name, Ñamar?"

"Hm? Oh, Quaithe."

... So it was the one his father had spoken about. He had overheard his parents discussing things, his father had blinked a bit owlishly when his mother had gotten to the part about the Three-Eyed Crow, even shooting Aenar a dubious look over her shoulders. Aenar was pretty certain the King had guessed at his true identity, even if his mother had tried to skirt it. He had said nothing about it, though, and just pushed on calmly as if the information was of no consequence. He had not been very clear on it, but he had alluded that there was one native Asshai shadowbinder that had the same living mechanism as the Crow, meaning ego transfer and immortal parasitic lifestyle. He said that her name might be Quaithe in this lifetime, and she was the main reason why Thoros of Myr had defected to their side (though his father seemed skeptical about the Red Priest's true intention, hence his position as Kingsguard - as he was shadowing them, they were monitoring him as well.). His father had warned him to be mindful of any and all shadowbinder he or Aunt Dany encountered.

Aenar stared at his aunt, before clearing his throat and saying:

"Have you talked about this with Kepa before, Auntie?"

He knew it, the moment Danaerys narrowed her eyes in confusion and her hand kneaded at the side of her head. He knew that his father's speculation was right. 'Quaithe' was, at the very least, a shadowbinder that could muddle someone's mind to a point that they had an automated reaction when triggered. Aunt Dany had probably been programmed to forget about Quaithe entirely in the presence of her nephew and niece, obscuring the shadowbinder's existence from beings that could detect her malignance.

She erred, though, because she had only prevented Dany's mind from circling back to her when she was in the presence of adult wargs or magicians. Quaithe probably hadn't thought that Daenerys had a six-year-old great nephew who was as knowledgeable and adept as any adult wargs of this generation. So he gave his aunt a comforting smile, before soothing her:

"I think we ought not, Ñamar. Let's revisit it after we have consulted with father and mother, no? We are not certain of this person's intentions, after all. What is to say she won't betray us for her Faith?"

Dany nodded, then shook her head, and sighed:

"She was... a savior of mine, or something of that sort. So I have probably been thinking about this too shallowly. You are right. Let's wait for your father's decision.
"

They flew back to Meereen in silence, Daenerys's hand still absentmindedly pushing at her temper all the while.

Late that night, after they had returned, Aenar commanded Thoros of Myr to stay in his bedchamber, while ushering the rest of his household out. Jon could only suspect and worry, because he didn't know of a way to find out the truth. Aenar did.

Aenar truly disliked what he was about to do, and the practice had been deemed forbidden for several centuries before he had even been born the first time. Still, Thoros wouldn't be forthcoming, and he needed to be certain. He needed to, so he took a breath and got over himself.

"Your Grace?" The old man was asking, a jovial smile on his face.

Aenar wished he hadn't been smiling. But he had. And the boy had to do the unthinkable to him anyway. So Aenar smiled up at him, a disarming smile (that was miles better than his father of this life, who couldn't squeeze out one to save his life), and forced his way into Thoros's head.

At first, the man seized in shock, both the physical body and the mental existence shuddering convulsively. Then, he fought. Not with his body, which had been rendered useless the moment Aenar entered him (rudimentary lesson, really; you really should not, but if you do, you have to be quick and brutal about it), but with a wall of flame (crude, but effective, in usual circ*mstances, that was) that roared manically inside his mind. Too much, and at the same time, not enough. Aenar's mental presence was too large, too encompassing. Thoros's wall of flame was distinguished as the Prince's shadow fell upon it, swelling up and swallowing it into its dark, deep, cavernous maw.

Just that, and Aenar was inside Thoros's mind.

He was sitting in front of Valerion Targaryen. He didn't look much different than now, even if his surroundings seemed as if they belonged at least five to ten years ago. He remembered his father's solar looking distinctly less garish than this.

"So you raised Lord Dondarrion from the death?"

"Aye, you don't look surprised."

"Why would I? Isn't it a dream of everyone to revitalize the dead?"

"You are speaking of the White Walkers?"

"I am speaking of everyone. White Walker raised wights. Red Priests and Shadowbinders raised dead people by the last kiss of the Lord of Light. And humans dabbled in reanimating deceased bodies for nefarious purposes..."

"That is news for me. The sacrilege of human bodies from the human's side."

"Why do you think the Guildhall of the Alchemists must be demolished at all costs? Even when I risked setting off wildfire and burning half the city off? I would rather lose half of the population in King's Landing than allow even one seed of that filthy, unnatural science to live on."

Aenar pushed away from the memory, tearing deeper into Thoros's psyche, drilling to find information regarding Quaithe. So chaotic, this generation is so chaotic, so irreverent. Everyone and their mother were looking to violate the sanctity of death. What was there to honor and cherish anymore, if even death was ravaged so profoundly? The longer humans lived, the less reasonable they became, apparently. He tugged at another memory.

A big fat man with blue eyes and a head full of wiry black hair was guffawing as he clinked his cup with his.

"The best, Thoros. You are the best!"

"You flatter me, Your Grace. I'm sure Lord Hand has done that a thousand times."

"Ned?" The fat man seemed sobered up at that, though his face was still red and his eyes seemed frustrated, "Ned has, aye, but never for me. And he has grown... tiring, of late. Always nagging, always digging. I would have thought Jon had returned from the dead and was frowning at me with a Northern face."

A beat of silence. No one spoke. And then Robert Baratheon (because even Aenar knew his history) spat on the floor and grumbled:

"Bloody war. Bloody realm. Bloody politics. Turned Ned against me for years, and even when he came back, he wasn't the same. Took Jon from me. Took Lyanna from me. And they advised me to stay my hands. Mine! When I want to kill that f*cking dragonspawn bitch. Hah! Try to lose as much as me, and then see if they can stay their hands, then!"

Aenar tore the memory away as well. Gross. He did not sign up for swine's whining. He dug deeper this time. Going as far as peering at a toothless Thoros running on the streets of Myr and tripping on his own two feet. Too far, then. Aenar backtracked, before dunking himself into a colorful patch that looked like the interior of a Red Temple of R'hllor in Myr.

He had hair, for once, his hand was not wrinkled, and his belly was moderate, so Thoros was younger in this. He was also restrained by several hands, as he thrashed and roared at the people in front of him to stop. They did not.

Instead, only the woman in the red wooden mask paused, as she turned toward him and stared at his desperation with calm yet fascinated eyes. Behind the masked woman, the young girl Thoros was screaming for was red of hair, brown of eyes, tiny of body, and she was struggling in terror as the Servants of the Red God chained her to the altar. She was gagged and tied and tears were streaming down the side of her face.

"Not this! The Red God does not want this! Our Lord would never have wanted this!" He was screaming, spits and sweats flying all over as he strained against the hands holding him, "Please stop! We are only in Asshai as pilgrims, we did not come as sacrifices!"

The tall, masked woman waved a hand and the people chaining the girl retreated back to the shadow. He was still not released, though. As she came closer to him, the woman brought with her the tempting smell of flowers (how? in this closed-space temple?) and the air of stillness that made his heart beat faster. She stared down at him from her stance, and said in a melodic voice:

"Sacrifices are not offered, not by us. Sacrifices are chosen, by our Lord himself." Then she tugged the mask down from her face, revealing a face that must have been incredibly beautiful once upon a time. Now, though, its skin was flaking and peeling off like a grotesque snake in its shedding period. Even clueless as Thoros was, he felt as if he knew what his sister was being sacrificed for. The woman could see recognition sparkling in his eyes, and her lips twisted into a rueful smile, "Aye, just like me."

His eyes roamed her face, frantically looking for anything that could be used as leverage, as a weapon to save his pitiful baby sister. Heart-shaped face, silver roots of the hair that was hidden behind the hood, eyes... one blue and one green. He recoiled:

"... Seastar!"

A surprised but pleased smile split her now grotesque face into two:

"Interesting. I have thought only the Westerosi remembers me."

Then the shadow behind her sharpened and grew bigger, right in front of his eyes, and her smile disappeared without a trace. She waved a hand again, and Thoros was gagged as she turned her head toward the altar. Her shadow grew ever larger, the light of the candles burning low as the darkness encompassed one whole side of the room, swallowing his terrified sister in its maw. It took but a few moments, and when the moment passed, and the shadow roiled into a rope and disappeared into thin air, no part of his sister was left behind, only the scattering chains and the empty altar greeted them.

Then Shiera Seastar turned back to look at him, and her face was as perfect as any sixteen-year-old girl, none of the peeling skins were present. She smiled at him, almost tauntingly:

"The Lord wants my face, then, and my mind, and so she is only nourishment. Accept his edict, priest. It would have gone either way, you know."

Aenar slammed back to his body the moment he felt the Thoros in his memories started keening and about to be knocked unconscious. He closed his eyes against the headache and disorientation, acutely aware that Thoros would only stay dazed and indisposed for a few minutes, and he had to clean him up quickly. Another rudimentary lesson. You don't do it, but if you do, make sure the violated one won't live long enough to implicate you.

So Aenar opened his eyes, uttering a shattering scream that he knew would attract both his aunt in the other chamber, and the guards, who were stationed very closely outside. The door slammed open almost immediately, and he slipped back into Thoros's skin, ignoring the migraine and the dizziness. Inside the Red Priest, he unleashed the sword and brought it down onto the little boy's prone body on the bed. Distantly, Dany’s scream did not sound like anything a human could utter, and Aenar was jarred enough that he immediately skipped back to his body as a whole sword was thrown from the door, its blade went clean through Thoros’s skull, the sword clattered from the Red Priest’s hands and his large body crumpled onto the floor.

Aenar turned and wheezed, more due to his own adventure than any fear or physical exertion. He could feel Daenerys rushing to his side, hugging him in her arms, trying to check his body for wounds, and hissing at everyone to call for the physician. Aenar had found what he needed, at least. Quaithe was the equivalence of the Three-Eyed Crow on this side of the world. Unlike the Crow, though, she chose a side, and would probably be one of R’hllor’s weapons in the Great War. And with this farce with Thoros, Aenar had made it so that his greataunt wouldn't be trusting any Servants of the Light or shadowbinders anytime soon. That should be enough, at the moment. Aenar finally allowed himself to fall into a restless sleep in his aunt's arms.

Chapter 14: DAENERYS I

Chapter Text

Daenerys could not remember a time when she could have a dreamless and restful sleep, not after the house in Braavos with the red door and the lemon tree heavy by her window. Not when she had been a child, wound tight in the arms of her restless brother on the streets. Not as she had laid hugging herself in the extravagant beds within the halls of magisters, archons, and merchant princes. Not even in Drogo's arms, which had made her feel safe but not in the face of visions and dreams of destiny. And definitely not after his death. The only haven she could find then was inside her memories and the warmth of her children. Her children that she had then had to cede for grudging and slow-burning familial love.

She had accepted it, in the end, because she had grown to love them - her strange family in the faraway land of the North. She had learned not to view the absence of Viserion and Rhaegal as a loss. It would have been a loss only if her nieces and nephews were not her family. They were, from the youngest babe to the oldest ones (who were older than even her). They flew to Meereen to visit her often, even though she knew that Valerion and Daenys were up to their ears in paperwork and patrol work up North. The children came, too, not the two youngest, but the rest had frequented her Pyramid so many times that the sight of children running across the hall was no longer a novelty.

In the next few years, she was swept away once more into a war of her own making, zealously throwing herself into building a kingdom of her own, both for herself and for the confidence it would surely bring her once she cemented a great position of use to show to her family. It had brought confidence alright, and she had finally been able to set foot on the soil of her homeland, breathing in the air that her brother had once grieved so badly to take in once more, and walking in the the halls of her ancestors with her head held high. She touched the cheeks of her infant niece, she flew with her nieces and nephews, she visited the Wall and the Eyrie, she shook hands with the Lord of Winterfell and the Lord of Starfall, and she bathed in the thermae with her nieces and went to bed listening to children's voices teasing each other. Her dreams became less frequent, and their absence was both welcoming and unbalancing.

Then the Cull of Dorne had happened, and Dany had not hesitated to lend the family her strength and her swords, ambushing and punishing Illyrio Mopatis for the crime of treachery and the hidden identity of a Black Dragon. She did not spare much sympathy for him, even with her years of living under his roof and feasting upon his table. She was a Targaryen, previously exiled or not, and all Red Dragons knew to dread and despise Black Dragons. She could not believe she had almost fallen for the charms of one, and nearly lost her dear niece along the way. The humiliation had burned as much as the pain. She had never been able to bear betrayal, not when she had been a child, and even less when she was grown and trust was sparse and hard to give. She had not been able to accept her brother's betrayal, as he had pointed a sword to his flesh and blood inside her womb. She had not been able to forgive Jorah Mormont, after his crimes had come to light during Daenys's first visits and the hesitant confession of Ser Barristan Selmy. (She had executed him the next day, as the rage of his betrayal had overlapped with Aegon's betrayal still raw within the hall of her mind, while her niece lay prone and sickly just a few chambers away from hers.) And she had most certainly not been able to forgive Aegon the Pretender, with his shining eyes, his easy charms, his earnest valor, and his sweet blushing face. If she had been trained in arms, Dany would probably have asked Valerion to allow her the pleasure of hacking the Pretender apart and watching on owlishly as the breaths left his body in ragged torture.

But what was done was done. The Pretender's head was spiked on the wall of the Red Keep (probably all maggots and bone by now), and Daenerys went on with her life as she navigated the Eastern border of the Great War and raised her little Aenar to be a respectable young man. He was far from being a young man yet, being only seven, but Dany took her responsibility as his guardian very seriously, and had been preparing for every single milestone of his growth the moment he started following her. Valerion and Daenys had six children (five now, when one was sent to her to raise), so they could afford the laxed practice of letting them grow up naturally. Daenerys, however, had only one, and the lack of experience and the hyper-excitement were making it hard for her to relax during the entire ordeal. She feared herself to be lacking in some way, as she hadn't actually given birth to him, and she would not have been able to bear it if Aenar had to endure any disadvantage compared to his siblings.

Her boy was a beautiful child, with the black hair and grey eyes of the First Men, but with the finer features and sharper cheekbones of the dragonlords of Valyria. His dark hair was luscious, though he didn't wear it as long as his father or his older brothers (before Maegor decided on that monstrosity of a shaved head), only past his shoulders. Daenerys enjoyed braiding his hair in intricate Valyrian braids every day, trying a different pattern each time, whenever the fancy struck her. He wasn't as tall as Daemon when he was his age, nor did he possess the delicate features of Maegor's (so incongruous with that kid's temper - and that unpleasantly bald head). Still, as all children of Valerion and Daenys Targaryen, the boy looked like a walking porcelain doll, tall for his age (not comparing to his eldest brother, who had surely been possessed by a giant after all that time up North), long limbs and nimble fingers. He excelled in the training yard, surprising the swordmasters far and wide, and at one point, Dany had foreign swordmasters and martial artists all across the Free Cities submitting requests to meet him for a friendly spar. Her boy, a child of six (last year) and seven (now)! (It made her both proud and worried when he won all his matches, the few that she did allow to happen within her halls.)

Her court and her people loved him, the handsome boy with a bright smile and welcoming demeanor. He was easy to love, even Daenerys had to admit as much. For a child of his station, he was entirely too sweet and genial, lacking the spoiled arrogance that often dripped like oil from every pore of highborn children. Valerion and Daenys raised their offspring well, but each of them tended to still retain an inevitable morsel of shortcoming anyway. Daemon was arrogant (though he often hid it well enough), Gael was negative in her assessment of herself and the world (though she tried to bury it), Maegor was recalcitrant and violent (that one had no compunction to hide anything), Aemon was rigid and too serious (for any age, not just his age; even an old man would be more flexible than he was), and Naerys was passive-aggressive in her act of childlike sweetness (too theatrical by far, but at least no one ever noticed it). Only Aenar was a perfect child, with a mild temper, good behavior, genial smiles, and a helpful attitude. He wasn't a pushover, obviously (Dany highly doubted her niece and nephew would ever have produced a child weak enough to allow people to walk all over them). But he was more persuasive than most of his siblings, lacking the overbearing force of Daemon, the brutishness of Maegor, and the righteous disapproval of Aemon. People listened to him anyway, and Daenerys attributed it to Aenar's dazzling smile and his ability to play his baby privilege and pretty privilege exceptionally well. Even she had to stop sometimes to contemplate whether or not he had used it on her, then concluded that he had not. He didn't seem comfortable with using his skills on family.

She would have loved him even if he had been difficult (like Maegor), or galling (like Aemon), so of course she had been exceptionally thankful that Aenar had been such a good child, easy to love, easy to teach, and easy to bond with. Dany showered him with love, care, luxury, and comfort. At one point, even Aenar had to point out, laughingly, that he would be spoilt rotten if she continued on as she did. Only then did she start slowing down on her path, and started taking a more moderate approach to raising the boy. It all went out the drain in early 309 AC, though, as Ser Thoros of Myr had proven to be a turncloak, and had tried to assassinate her boy in his bedchamber, when he had confronted him about his possible fraternization with the follower of the Red God and the shadowbinders of Asshai. Within a week, the news reached her that Lord Beric Dondarrion had also succumbed to an unknown sickness and passed away, leaving his son the new heir to Blackhaven, with his mother, Allyria Dayne, the regent till he reached majority. Ser Podrick Payne (famous for his unimaginable conquest with the ladies (?) and being the sole survivor of the King’s interrogation of a White Walker and several shadow assassins a few years back) replaced Thoros’s seat as a White Cloak (to the grief of half the whor*s in King’s Landing) and was sent to Meereen to shadow the third prince in place of his disgraced predecessor. Aenar got away unscathed, mostly, but Dany had still been out of her mind with worries as he had been bedridden for a whole week due to shock and exhaustion (It was the physician’s words, though Dany was dubious of his competency, because what kind of shock and exhaustion would keep an active and healthy child like Aenar abed for so long? He had never been sick a day in his life, that she had known for a fact.)

He recovered, in the end, and still, the Queen of Meereen fussed over him like a mother hen (people whispered such behind her back, but Dany didn't mind the title). Aenar seemed resigned to his fate, and he was so adorable in his cheerful acceptance that Dany could not help laughing at herself. The months and years they spent together were so peaceful, and before Daenerys knew it, she had been able to go to sleep without unwanted dreams. So it was true that sometimes one just needed one person, one thing, to ground themselves and to dispel all restlessness and anxiety. She rarely had prophetic dreams, either, though she wasn't too sure they had been prophetic in the first place. More likely than not, they were just illusions conjured up by her active mind after the whole day of contemplating and worrying.

Quaithe never visited her dreams after Ser Thoros's death, and a part of Dany wanted to meet her, just to question her about whether or not she had been stringing her along as a glorified pet, or a pawn to further her effort in the Great War between the Lord of the Light and the Great Other. No one would be pleased being used so thoroughly, but since the masked woman never showed up, Dany didn't have the chance to know for sure. It was always the uncertainty that distressed her the most. She had hated it back when she had been uncertain about Aegon, she had hated it when she had been doubtful about Daenys and Valerion, and she hated it now, when it seemed that her doubt and hatred of a religion that dared hurt her boy was tainting the memories of gratefulness she had held for Quaithe once upon a time.

All in all, Dany's life had become infinitely better after Aenar started staying with her, loneliness seeping away into probing mist, and happiness no longer a vague concept bubbling around in the back of her mind. She could almost taste it, smell it, feel it, name it. A small part of her - the young girl part that had stared unblinkingly at the lemon tree by the sunlight every day, and had never really grown up - had wished for these days to never end.

Then, just as sudden as the showering rain on a hot summer day, the War began.

It started all at once.

Late 311 AC, ravens had swarmed Meereen's rookery about the outbreak of the War at the Wall at the same time that Dany and her councilmen were running themselves ragged with war councils since the sudden insurgence from the Temple of the Lord of the Light started kindling in every Free City and their Southern Kingdom. They had planted people inside the Temple, of course, for they had the whole of seven-eight years to prepare for this. Still, the priests were too cunning, and their believers too radical for all of those people to escape torture and death as the whole religion came together into one huge red beast that breathed as one, chanted as one, and swallowed the world as one. For every temple they demolished (they had two dragons, and another one on the way, since Valerion had seen fit to send Daemon over to help as well), another three rose up against them, and the dragons could not be everywhere at the same time. It pleased Dany that at least Aenar wasn’t faint of heart enough that she had to explain to him the importance and machination of decisive destruction. Her boy was efficient and extremely clean in each of his burnings of temples. It hurt, though, as her Unsullied had to enforce the order to stay indoors on all her citizens, and her khalasar were flaying rebels on the streets. The believers of the Red God took her move against their priests to be a personal attack, and were marching toward her Pyramid with zealous howling and burning pitchforks. She had wanted to break the wheel, to change the world, yet this War had not allowed her the luxury of coaxing people into surrender. Every breath she took for a ‘Dracarys’ was a taunting whisper of ‘the Mad King’s daughter’ inside her mind, yet Dany had to push on anyway.

Then came the shadow assassins. The second night after the first Red Temple, one-third of her war councils and allies were decapitated in their sleep, ashes and the smell of smoke smearing the sheets. The rest had either taken her words of caution to heart, or had been lucky enough to escape with only wounds. Even the lesser folks being forced to stay inside had finally realized what they were dealing with, and Daenerys risked facing panic-ridden hordes trying to start riots to escape the city. She needn’t, though, as her Unsullied were swift in their execution of her orders. That, and AuRon (with Aenar on his back) had frozen an entire crowd of people brazen enough to make the first breakthrough through the lines of Unsullied, and chomped on them (ice and blood and frozen fleshes all over the street). In the tales that had reached her ears, her boy had concluded pleasantly, yet clearly, that the people were welcome to violate the Queen’s law, but that meant that they had refused her protection, and they submitted themselves to the fickle peckishness of his foreign dragon. “So you do you, I do I. No hard feelings.” There had been no more panicked dash to escape from the denizens. (Dany was frankly not very certain how she felt about it. But it wasn’t as if she was allowed a lot of time to contemplate.)

Before they could fully clean up the messes left behind by the shadow assassins and the insurgence of the Red Temples, their Eastern border by the Red Waste reported horrifying news of an unnatural army of scattering shadows fifty thousand strong marching onto the land of mortals. None of the shadows had a face, nor a corporeal form that could be touched or hurt, and yet they wreaked havoc with every step they took. Dany and Aenar packed up and got on their dragons (with only half of his nannies, for once, despite Daenerys’s protests), orders of the infantry and cavalry to march toward the heart of the battlefield (following their wings) were given to the remaining councilmen. They did not have enough time to stick around to monitor whether or not the orders were relayed and carried out properly, though Daenerys was confident that she had built a marginally respectable and trustworthy council, enough so that they would most likely rise to the occasion and do her proud.

The first time they saw the army of shadows, Dany went into a panic. Each shadow had looked bigger than any mortal man, their bodies clearly composed of ashes that buzzed and roiled restlessly within the ephemeral and deceptive mammal form. Their faces were blank masks, without noses, eyes, or mouths, and that somehow made things worse, as their inhumanness shone as starkly as the red and black sky they brought with them, trailing after their steps. Before she could do something radical, though, Aenar called out to her from the back of Auron.

“What is it?” She asked, her face still bleached of color from the sight below her.

“Ñamar, don’t get hung up on their army. Let’s go further. Just in case this all these fanfares were a diversion.”

That sobered her up. Hadn’t she already been led by the nose by a diversion tactic once? It seemed she hadn’t grown up at all from then.

They flew higher (hidden amongst the clouds) and further south-east. Aenar might have been on to something, because the army of shadows truly wasn’t endless, though the sky remained blackened and ashy red in their wake, days after they passed by. The air felt hot, even to a Targaryen, and there was an oppressing silence that encompassed the world the further they flew. By the time they reached the Shadow Lands, they could feel something amiss.

“It is a diversion.” Aenar sighed and concluded tightly.

At her inquisitive look, he pointed downward. She had to squint, as there had been nothing of note at first glance, still the dank air, the misty shadow covering everything, and the queasy smell of the dead. On second glance, though, she could feel the tremor under the earth, raw and strong enough that she had been able to feel even miles above the ground. There wasn’t any sign of earthquakes or volcanic eruptions, not yet. However, the way the earth churned and quaked like monstrous worms were slithering under them in wait for prey was disconcerting enough that even Dany arrived at a cataclysmic conclusion. She did not wish to alarm her baby boy, but she couldn’t help it. The words slipped from her lips before she could think better of it:

“Was this how the Doom started the first time?”

Then Daenerys covered her lips with her hands, horrified at herself for putting such horrors to words. It would have been possible if they were fighting an army of shadows, she was sure they could think of something, with three dragons and her several armies. But if they were dealing with a Doom, or even the lesser replication of one … Well, Daenerys was usually confident, but she had never been delusional.

Despite her worries, though, Aenar seemed grim but unfazed, even though she was tossing catastrophic words around.

“…I imagine it might be so, Ñamar.” A beat of silence, and Dany was still too shaken to pay attention to the complicated expressions fleeting across Aenar’s face. Her mind was also reeling, trying fervently to make sense of what she was seeing, and attempting to (and failing) find a proper course of action to move from there, so she also hadn’t paid attention to his sad, cryptic words musing under her boy’s breath: “… You were born for this, he said.” Aenar might have huffed a laugh, too, before asking, almost absentmindedly, “What do you think that means, Auntie?”

“Hmm?” Dany replied distractedly, her mind held in the vice grip of worries and strategies. She even missed his airy next words, and by the time she was focused enough to turn back and ask him to repeat himself, her boy had shaken his head ruefully and offered her his suggestions:

“Please go back, Ñamar. Please go back and regroup with Daemon and your armies. The shadow army will be destroyed when its shadowbinders are put down. Both the host father, the host mother, and any additional shadowbinders had to cease living for their creations to vanish. My warband and I will take on that role. You and your armies just focus on preventing the shadows’ progress, buying time for me to finish the demolition of the whole of Asshai, or hunting down any stragglers or deserters.”

“… You are seven, my boy. You are not unwell enough to believe I will leave you behind to do all the work? And with signs of the… the catastrophe so near?” She couldn’t even bear to repeat the damning word again.

“My dragon is bigger than yours, my manpower,” Aenar gestured at Sir Podrick and his warband sitting on AuRon’s back, “is greater than yours, now. If it is the destruction of a whole city-state, I am sure I am much more suited than you, and much quicker, too. We should not waste both dragons here, when it’s clear that the shadow army might be violating your people as we speak.” He gave her a sweet smile, “And besides, we might have some time before the eruption, we need more help to deal with it. Your Drogon has greater speed than AuRon, you can reach the city sooner and send ravens for help more easily. Ñamar, I know you worry for me. However, we do not have any other choices.”

Well, they did, if Dany just bundled Aenar up and flew them far away to hide from the terrible future. She could, too. Why fight a War they would surely lose?

Then she remembered her people, the dirty, trembling hands of the slaves, the earnest eyes of her Unsullied, their chants of ‘Mhysa, Mhysa’ as they stared at her with stars in their eyes and reverence in their smiles. Just that, and she remembered why people fought wars at all. And so Dany gritted her teeth, swallowing back the tears threatening to fall, and jumping down from Drogon onto AuRon’s back to give her boy a final kiss on the forehead. He whispered something in a language she didn’t understand as he hugged her back, before they parted and she climbed on Drogon once more to fly West.

“And then? You left him there on his own?” Daemon didn’t raise his voice, but he didn’t need to. His suppressed fury was clear enough for all to see.

The Prince of Dragonstone had arrived a week prior, immediately launching into holding the shadow army at bay alongside her. Two dragons spitting fire didn't seem as effective (it was ashes they were dealing with here), but Drogon and Aegarax made do with their bulk and physical wrestling instead of their fire. Valerion had commissioned dragon armors made from weirwood, and the plates by the sides and the joints had been formed into jagged thorns. It wasn't a full armor, as it would greatly affect the beasts' mobility, but it did provide protection and weapons all in one when putting the separate plates onto the dragons' joints and underside. Most of Daenerys's army had been equipped with weirwood weapons, and those were much more effective than ordinary steel. Nevertheless, the casualties still came to the thousands, and Dany was having a headache worrying how the Free Cities would swarm her flank and invade her kingdom while her strength was sapped from this War. A part of her was resentful of the fact that she had to sacrifice everything to save the lot of them, when they got to stay nice and cozy in their manse without an inkling of what lurked outside their doors, and even accumulate enough power to bite her in the back. But she had promised Valerion, and she had also seen the prelude of something akin to the Doom herself, and was she so callous as to allow such monsters to march upon her land and swallow up her people? Just to let the Free Cities get a taste of their own medicine?

But she digressed, her first grandnephew had restrained himself valiantly during the battles, allowing her to focus on the tasks at hand and choking back on his questions and worries about his absent brother. And besides, it wasn't as if the shadow army had allowed them a lot of time to talk or disengaged themselves enough to come to assist Aenar. Still, now, after two weeks of back-and-forth with the shadow army, and finally the entire crowd of monsters had suddenly combusted into scattered ashes and flew lifelessly onto the ground, painting half of the map in black. Aenar had succeeded, and it was time for them to go get him. The Prince of Dragonstone had finally had enough time to question his greataunt about the absence of his baby brother.

At nearly thirteen, Daemon had barely retained any innocence or patience left for her, and Dany was truly quite hurt by it, but a guilty part of her felt that it was a given, and that she could not blame him for her own naivety and mistakes of the past. What could she say to him, then, for it to not be an excuse? 'He has his warband and we are at war, Daemon.'? 'He has been adamant and we cannot waste both dragons in that hell hole, Daemon.'? 'Demolishing Asshai is easier and safer than having him butting head with the shadow army on his own, Daemon, because my army won't listen to him enough to help when monsters are in the equation.'?

Besides, she felt like screaming, too, because she hated herself just as much for making that choice. She didn’t know where the sudden dread roiling in her stomach came from, but she had been having it since half a day ago, and had attributed it to the adrenaline of battles. She only gave Daemon a look at his impertinent question, before giving her orders to her men for the aftermaths and saddling Drogon to fly east to get her boy back.

Daemon was persistent, though, he mounted his Aegarax, too, and continued hounding her as they flew on dragons’ back:

“What exactly did he say, Ñamar?”

Daenerys was already digging into her memories, trying to remember the last moments before they parted. She had been so distracted, and his words had gone over her head… Her blood went cold, even as she didn’t fully understand why. She cleared her throat, raising her voice so that Daemon could hear her over the sounds of the wind and wingbeat.

“You were born for this… He asked if I understood what that meant.”

From her position, looking down, she could see Daemon narrow his eyes, and blink very slowly. Then he swore, or at least it seemed like he did, since the roaring sound of the wind swallowed up his words before they could travel to her ears.

“And still you thought it was a good idea to leave him behind? Ñamar, when someone said ‘you were born for this’, what they meant was ‘you will die for this’.”

Dany’s heart dropped to her stomach, her skin crawled and she felt her temper throbbed painfully. No. He didn’t mean that. Surely, her boy would not…

She did not say anything, though, and twisted Drogon’s rein to race faster, leaving Aegarax behind. She had the advantage of speed, and weight, as her son wasn’t burdened with an entire war band on his back. She didn’t care who could follow and who could not. Nothing mattered, not anymore, not until she had her boy in her arms once more and this burning fear inside her heart became baseless.

(They were late, anyway.)

They arrived to absolute pandemonium, and it was only half of the way, right by the Poison Sea and barely out of the Red Waste. It wasn't as if they did not want to move further, but it was because they could not move further, even if they tried.

The sounds came to them first, leagues away from the actual actions. Daenerys could not place it at first, with how loud and how miscellaneous they were. She just knew that even Drogon was spooked, his spine coiled skittishly and he almost halted distrustfully on the sky. There were the great rumbles akin to mountains being cracked open, or the earth rearranging themselves. There were sounds of waves crashing on the shores, too, even though they were so far inland (and the Poison Sea was more of a glorified pond than any actual sea) that it made her doubt her ears. It was the Red Waste, so it was no surprise that there were no people about, but even she could feel the wrongness as the stampede of desert animals scrambled desperately over themselves below to flee west. Drogon was hesitating long enough for Aegarax to catch up, and she shared a worried glance with Daemon. They did not exchange a word, though, and continued pushing on.

Then came the smell. The smell of smoke and ash, the smell of burnt fleshes, boiled streams, and scorched earth. Too heady, too much. Smoke and ash, Dany could understand, even the sky was darkened with them (even though it was only early afternoon), and the air was thick and nigh impossible to breathe in. But the rest? What kind of fire could burn through water, and soil, and bring with them the smells of living beings' fleshes being burned thousands of leagues away?

The fire of Doom, apparently.

Historians had been moderate of words, or had been pitiful of imagination, because their accounts of the Doom had been wholeheartedly inadequate compared to the real thing. It had come close enough to start dripping lava into the Poison Sea, and its progression was terrible in its inevitability. There had probably been earthquakes and volcano eruptions where it started, but by the time it got to the Red Waste, there had only been the roaring sea of flame swallowing up everything in its path, waves smashing as high as the sky, and unnatural flaming tornados spearing upward to catch the frantic movements of the dragons above. Both Drogon and Aegarax swirled over to dodge in alarm, their movements jittery and their terror plain for their riders to detect. The monstrous whirl of flame twisted further, snapping at their wings and following their desperate movements. Everywhere they looked, it was fire and lava and ashes, as if the torrent of flame was erasing the rest of the world under its insatiable maw.

Every fiber of Dany's being was screaming at her to run, to fly away and hide from the end of the world. But she could not, she would not, not until she found her boy. How had Valerion ever expected them to be able to stop this ?

And there, even in their mad acrobatic game of dodge, Daenerys caught the movement from the southeast, and AuRon's enormous wings came into view. His color had always been so difficult to pick out, and he had blended in especially well with the grey sky and the red timbers sparkling upward. Flaming tornados tracked his movements as well, though much less enthusiastic, and one roar of AuRon could freeze the whole area off and halt its dripping progression. Her eyes stung with sweat and tears, and the smoke was obstructing her vision, still, was her Aenar all alone on the dragon? Where were his warband and nannies? On her left, Aegarax was growling madly, trying to catch the Ice Dragon's attention and call him to their side. Her boy either didn't hear them (possibly, the sounds here were ear-shattering) or was studiously ignoring them.

Neither Drogon nor Aegarax could afford the luxury of a joyous reunion, as they had to once more veered madly this way and that to avoid the giant whirls of flame shooting continuously up at them. By the time Dany had enough of a pause to take a breath, she could finally take a glimpse at her baby boy, and just in time to see AuRon twisting upward, gaining height with every powerful beat of his wings. He flew higher than even the highest of the lava spears, and when both rider and dragon were but small blotches dotting the sky, AuRon turned and suspended mid-air. What was he doing? Dany didn’t dare to take her eyes off the ice dragon, not even to catch Daemon’s gaze for a silent question. AuRon stayed there for half a minute, seemingly winded, before letting out an earth-shattering roar, even so far above the ground. Something was aching in that roar, and Dany could feel Drogon growling restlessly under his breath in answer. So did Aegarax, a distance away from her.

Their collective roars echoed painfully across the raging desert, dwarfing even the hissing sounds of fire and lava swallowing the world. Daenerys blinked, tears suddenly sprang to her eyes, without reason and without her understanding. When she opened her eyes again, AuRon was diving down with unbelievable speed, head-first into the place she could roughly calculate to be the middle of the Poison Sea. Dany’s heart was in her throat, terror shuddered through her mind in waves. What was her boy thinking? At that speed and with that weight, even water would feel like concrete. Why was he throwing himself headfirst into grave danger? Her screams were muffled by the roaring sound of a lance of fire that almost took Drogon's right wing, and she could distantly feel Aegarax's and Daemon's panic as he threw himself at his brother's dragon, not caring for the torrents of fire springing up at him.

AuRon's collision with the water of the Poison Sea emits the force of a mountain crashing down from the sky. Even before she could register the sight before her, the pit in Dany's heart widened, and she screamed. Her scream was immediately swallowed up by the deafening sound of the world being torn asunder.

The place AuRon and Aenar touched turned to ice. Not jagged pieces of ice, small and inconsequential in the face of the Doom. It was a sea of ice. AuRon's entire body (with tiny tiny Aenar on his back) melted, mixed with the Poison Sea, before solidifying into a frozen pond, then expanded with incredible speed, spilling over and freezing into a wall of ice digging and ripping into the surrounding soil, inducing earthquakes and tearing the lands into two. The pit of ice underneath ballooned further and further, on all sides, until there was a barrier of great thick ice dividing the land, reaching as far as the eyes could see on either side (and still expanding), and the width was still cracking open, solidifying and melting in a vicious circle to deter the sea of fire from intruding further west. Though she had not seen it for herself, the part of Dany that wasn't numb with grief and horror had realized that this ice pit was dividing the entire continent into two, one where the sea of flames was still raging, and one where the Red God could not touch. In the end, after stretching itself to the size of a large river, the ice melted into silvery water that made any morsel of flame touching it fizzle and die. Larger waves of flame tried to slam over the river, only to be met with an invisible wall that smashed them right back into their side of the land.

It almost seemed as if the river was creating an invisible barrier that reached even the sky, because the ashes and smoke seemed to be vacuumed back to the eastern side of the bank, and their own sky cleared up with unreasonable speed, air and wind resumed their circulation almost immediately above their heads.

Just like that, easy and quick and clean, and barely taking a few minutes, the Doom ceased its steps.

Daenerys spared no thought to the miracle happening before her eyes, though, as her vision was blurry with tears, and she tugged at Drogon's reins to land on the west bank of the river, where she could see a tomb of unnatural ice solidified itself into the size of a child, rising just to the level of the water. Of her child.

She jumped down from Drogon's back and blindly waded into the river. The water level was higher than she thought, and Dany almost drowned the moment she pushed past the third step. Drogon was there, though, wading in with her and holding her aloft by the collar. She made a sound - she was not sure what sound it was, but Drogon dutifully waded forward and let go of her when they reached the shining ice tomb.

Aenar looked like he was sleeping, his expression calm and sweet, as if anytime now, he would open his eyes and smile at her. His skin was translucently white, though, and even through the ice coffin, Dany could see how he looked as if he was a doll made of ice, hard and cold to the touch, his clothes riddled with frost and ice. She could not touch him to be sure, because the ice was too thick, too cold, and too solid. It didn't budge even though she was punching and clawing at it with all her might. Her hands were bruised and her fingernails bloodied by the time Daemon pulled her away. She flinched, expecting him to hit her, or say some cruel words that she was already saying to herself ('It is your fault. It is all your fault.'), but he did not. A part of her watched him warily through the corner of her eyes, wondering if he was like her. She had never been one to be able to express herself well during grief, her brain froze up and her tears refused to come. Mayhaps he was volatile during normal times, but went cold and dead and calm when tragedies struck.

(He could not pull her away from the ice coffin, only from hurting herself by beating senselessly on the hard surface.)

She did not know how long she sat there, cold and wet and exhausted and numb, staring dumbly at the frozen face of her boy. She did not eat, she did not talk, she did not move, she barely even breathed. She only knew that, by the time she came to once more, the sky had turned dark, stars reflected upon the silvery water of Aenar's river, and Daemon was beating Ser Podrick within an inch of his life behind her. It seemed that Aenar's warband had ridden nonstop toward them, after being left behind by their prince on the shore of Qarth. Dany listened to everything without even a sparkle of feeling and understanding. Nothing really mattered anymore. Absentmindedly, she concluded that she was correct in her initial assessment, Daemon got violent when he was in grief, he was just reasonable enough to turn his anger on to outsiders instead of family. She wondered mildly if he intended to beat Ser Podrick to death, then realized that she wouldn't care all that much if he did. The man was just like her, guilty of incompetence, so he probably deserved it.

... She should not think like that. She wasn't that kind of person, but she had to blame someone , anyone, and it was better to blame the knight than blame herself.

"Stop! Please, my prince. Please... Ser Podrick has Prince Aenar's last words!" The plea came from a tear-stained young girl, with the rugged bone structure and awkward posture of a wildling. Her warband was holding her back from going to Ser Podrick and Daemon, but she strained against them anyway.

Daemon stopped, and from her position, Daenerys could feel him letting go of the Kingsguard, allowing his bloodied head to fall back onto the sand. When the Heir spoke, his voice was surprisingly neutral, though the throbbing fury still colored the edge with much restraint:

"What did Aenar say?"

"He said," Ser Podrick was crying, Dany thought, he hadn't even defended himself all the while, "He said to tell you, my Prince, that... 'You will be a great King. I know you will.'"

The silence in the aftermath was suffocating, Dany wasn't sure if people remembered how to breathe, and Daemon's unmoving back seemed so lonely. (He had not even passed his thirteenth birthday, a forlorn part of her whispered in her mind. He was not yet even thirteenth, and her baby boy was barely eight.) His voice was raw as he asked:

"And for others?"

The knight curled into a ball and started crying harder, the rest of Aenar's warband drew into themselves, rigid and grieving. Daemon's fist tightened further:

"He didn't have enough time?"

Ser Podrick took a shuddering breath:

"...Only Queen Daenerys. He only had enough time to leave words for the Queen."

Time slowed, then refocused. Daenerys was aware that she was turning toward the sounds of her name, but she didn't feel as if she could understand anything he would say.

"My prince said... just..." The Kingsguard paused to take another breath, "' I am sorry that I cannot go home with you."

Daenerys didn't realize that she had started crying, bawling, really, and was inconsolable in her grief as the tiny black-maned direwolf pup Daemon brought from the Wall swam over and licked at her palm. She looked down at it, through the blurry film of her tears, and felt wretched as the twinkle in the golden eyes of the beast looked so familiar to the same light that used to sparkle so often in her baby boy’s eyes. Dany drifted off after a while, only remembered falling unconscious still hiccuping and weeping uncontrollably. The last thing she registered before losing consciousness was someone's warm arms tugging her away from the middle of the river and Daemon's faint voice as he discussed with his warband and Aenar's.

“I will fly over to check the situation of Asshai. We need to make sure that Aenar has successfully burned down every shadowbinder and red priest over there.”

“Other cities, my prince? Should we make a round to look for those sorcerers in other cities as well?”

“...Not yet. We don’t have enough men yet, to spread our forces so thin. And Aenar’s… my brother’s effort has either brought us plenty of time or has already crippled the magic of R'hllor enough that we can feel safe on this side of his barrier.”

A beat of silence, then:

"Send ravens to my father, he needs to know at once. We have to look for precedents. There might be ways to reverse this."

Another voice - distinctly male, young, and troubled - asked lowly:

"Would that be wise, my prince? Reversing it might mean that the fire... the Doom might resume its path..."

Another sound reached Dany's ears. That sound was familiar enough, the sound of flesh striking flesh, then a groan of pain and a quivering apology torn from a nasal hiccup. Daemon must have punched the person in the face. (Dany agreed with his reaction.)

Then, all of a sudden, Daemon's voice turned cold and urgent:

"... Wait, is this an Aenar thing? Or is this an Ice Dragon thing?"

And Daenerys forced herself to fall under. The implication of the question would have damned her further, she was sure. The Queen of Meereen didn't feel that she could have borne it.

Chapter 15: GAEL II

Chapter Text

Five months before her thirteenth birthday, Gael was rethinking her romantic assessment of the North. In her childhood, she had remembered her homeland to be cold but beautiful, its novel silence and peacefulness resonated with something deep within her, something that had never really grown up and was still quivering every day under the newfound burdens on its shoulders. Now, though, after two years of marching and burning turncloaks, and holing up where the sun didn't shine waiting for the Others to attack and tracking down stragglers, even she had become restless and mildly fed up of the cold and the dark and the silence. And when she got fed up, she tended to indulge in senseless thoughts and memories.

It had truly been a great jump between an inconsequential youngest child to a second-born and shoo-in Queen. She had to juggle between taking care of her younger siblings (while pretending not to realize how unchildlike the lot of them were), charming the ladies of the court (because her mother definitely wouldn't do it, with how busy she was, and with her personality...), and endearing the smallfolk to their family. It was hectic, but it was good in helping Gael in keeping her mind off of useless things. She was too knackered most days to worry ceaselessly about every little mistake or insecurity. In hindsight, that probably was what she truly needed, even in the last life and in this one. She was grateful to her parents for giving her these chances. She refused to disappoint them, and so far, she had been successful enough that her twitching anxiety didn't have time to take root. She considered herself lucky.

If there was anything that displeased - no, more like worried - her in this life, it would be Daemon. It hadn't taken that much time for Gael to realize that her Daemon was the one she had been acquainted with two hundred years ago. She couldn't pinpoint the exact time she recognized him (because it wasn't as if she had been especially close to that Daemon in the first place), but she did remember one morning, when he had disarmed Lady Brienne in the practice yard (Maegor had still been in his sulking era back then) and he had turned his head up and had smirked at the sky. The expression had been so... disconcerting, and familiar, too, for her. So when he had called her name later, asking if she wanted to join him in flying, Gael had plastered on a shaky smile and had said "Of course, Daemon." without really knowing which one she had been addressing.

She hadn’t hated that Daemon, not really. She had just been scared of him. It had been a fear borne from the feeling of inadequacy when in his presence, and the stubborn hurt at his thoughtless dismissal. She had known she had not been much of a dragon back then, but must he have made her feel so…small and useless? It might not have been his fault, specifically, not when the problem was rooted in her own person and esteem. Still, Gael was human (even if some had referred to her as a sheep, once), and humans had always found it easier to blame others than to accept the fault to themselves.

It took her weeks to resume acting normally in front of him, and Daemon's frustration was a clear indication that he probably had no idea that she was also reincarnated. Was she so unremarkable the first time around that he didn't even remember her that much to make a comparison? She shouldn't have thought about that; for she could think of nothing else once she had.

To keep her mind off that stupid well she had dug for herself, Gael ended up staring at her other siblings and reaching uncomfortable conclusions. Maegor was her baby, her first baby, she had decided, yet she still had to try not to flinch from him once she realized the patterns and understood who she was singing to sleep every day, and whose hair she was playing with every morning as she braided it and tied it with pink ribbons. (He had never complained, why did he never complain about the pink ribbons?) Even so, something new must have shown on her face when in Maegor's presence, because he had quietly pushed her hand away that one time when it was trembling as she combed his hair. He had stood up, too, and glared at her with big grey eyes that were both condemning and desolate. She understood the look immediately: 'You don't have to do it if you don't want to. Go away.' How could she when she felt like crying when she saw him like that? So Gael surged forward and hugged him into her arms (not that much bigger than him, but anyway), apologizing profusely and asking tentatively if she could resume. Maegor had scowled, but had subsided and allowed her to touch his hair again.

She got over herself after that. She had not understood Maegor - the one in history, at least, the one that had killed and raped and destroyed his way into and out of his throne. She had feared that faraway figure, true, the way she had feared almost everything else in life. But regardless of who he had been in his last life, regardless of how the world had seen him since then, the Maegor in front of her now was her brother, her first baby, the child she had loved and cared for and had been ready to lay down her life for if need be. He had still been that beautiful and grumpy baby that bit nannies, kicked Kingsguard, threw rocks at people, and sat still and docile as she braided his hair every day and sang him lullabies every night. She felt as if she might understand why he had decided not to open his lips ever again, and had decided right then and there that, the rest of the world might have turned its backs on him, and might still turn its backs on him in the future, but she, at least, would never do so. She must not, and she could not.

Things got better a few years later, when Maegor had a field trip with their father in Old Town, and returned with a named dragon and an awkward effort at talking and participating. Despite his immediate fight with Daemon, Gael was ecstatic anyway.

"Ouch!" Daemon had hissed as she helped bandage his bleeding forehead, and she had swatted at him for acting like a baby.

"You deserved it." She had said, marveling at her own grumpiness at him, since when had such audacious gestures come so naturally to her? "What made you think it was a good idea to pick a fight with a five-year-old kid anyway?"

Daemon winced but made an affronted face:

"I am only one year older than him! At least try to be fair if you are going to nag."

She had tightened the bandage further and had made him hiss:

"You started it. Don't think I didn’t see it. And you are much bigger than Maegor physically. You should have known some moderation."

Daemon had probably realized that any protest would only result in further pain being inflicted upon his person, so he had scowled but sighed heavily:

"Stop thinking of him as a fragile little thing. He is neither fragile nor little. He gave as much as he took, if you haven't noticed. And I have just survived being blinded in one eye, and being thrown hundreds of feet in the air. I think I deserve a betrothed who would at least take my side a little bit."

That flared up her anger. He only ever referred to her as his betrothed when he wanted to guilt-trip her into something. Such a terrible habit. She pulled at his bandage even more, and hissed at him:

"Don't be nasty. Why do you think I am here instead of by Maegor's bedside? Regardless of my preferences, I know my duty. Try not to abuse it, brother."

At that, she had moved away from him, intending to busied herself with cleaning up and leaving the chamber altogether, but he tugged her back by the arm. Before Gael knew it, Daemon had buried his head into her stomach, his arms wrapping around her middle. He didn't say anything, but this was as good an apology as anything, coming from him. From the back of his head, he did look contrite, and she had always been weak to this stupid move. So Gael sighed and patted his head, hugging him back with the other arm. She had her guesses regarding the cause of the fight, but she was entirely too exhausted to analyze it further back then.

She had guessed right, they did recognize each other during that fight. They speculated about her as well, she was sure. They weren't so dumb. But neither of them acted any differently than usual, and Gael was of the suspicion that they had probably thought her too simple to recognize them, or to notice how they turned the younger babes into their own personal betting pool. Aye, she knew about them, as well, most of them, at least. She knew her history well, their parents made sure of it, and both Aemon and Naerys had left quite a mark in history for their quirks not to be noticed when they got reborn.

Aenar was more of a quandary, but Gael had still been able to take note of how he knew a bit too much about all things up North, how protective of Ghost he was, how disinterested he was in the dragons, and how displeased he was when people acted differently with him the moment he got a flying mount of his own. Gael wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, admittedly, but she wasn't so clueless not to suspect that Aenar was a Stark ancestor reborn. She wasn't as well-versed in Northern history, unfortunately, and she was under the impression that most Stark Kings and Lords had been solemn, honorable, and deeply serious. So Aenar fell within an unknown territory, wherein she had no idea exactly which Stark ancestor he had been. Gael resolved, though, that the next time they saw each other, she would probe him till she found out the answer to this curiosity.

(She didn't have the chance to do so, she just hadn't known it yet.)

Just when Gael was lamenting the stagnation of recent years, the War broke out, brutally and spectacularly, months before her thirteenth birthday.

It started with a missing Prince and the missing warband he brought behind his dragon's back.

It was Maegor's round to patrol the usual route toward the Fist of the First Men. That route usually took only a few hours to-and-fro on dragonsback, and the schedule was such that their father took over four out of the seven days of patrolling, whereas each of them (Daemon, Gael, and Maegor) would take one day with their warband. Their mother was responsible for the eastern route, Hardhome, and the southern part of the Shivering Sea. Seven-year-old Aemon (sometimes with five-year-old Naerys, too) and their nannies - chief being Ser Bran Stark and the Lady Dowager Meera Lannister - acted as messengers between King's Landing (where Lord Stark and Lord Dayne ruled in their stead) and the Wall.

But yes, the main point was, Maegor had travelled that route a hundred times without any issues, returning home just in time for dinner and kicking the tent flaps open with grumpy annoyance at the cold. This time, though, it was well into the evening and the rest of the family was still waiting for him before starting supper. Until the King had stood up and mounted his Sonagon to go pick his son up. It had only been an hour or two later than the usual hour Maegor would have landed, but of course, their father wasn't one to be careless when it came to his children. They only started realizing the gravity of the situation, when even father hadn't returned yet by midnight. Daemon sprang up and looked ready to depart himself, but was stilled by the cold command of their mother. Daenys would not allow any of them to move from the Wall and the camp. She would not saddle her Suvion, either, explaining calmly that she would only move when morning came, when she would not risk the rest of her children over momentary panic and blinding worries.

Their father returned a short while later, sharp and stone-faced, holding a twitching wight bearing Harle the Huntsman’s face. The silence was suffocating, because Harle had been one of the forefront of Maegor’s warband, and he was wearing Maegor’s cloak (the one mother had made him, and the one he had refused to change since arriving up North). Daemon swore under his breath, and Gael tugged at their mother’s elbow, both to steady her and herself. Daenys Targaryen wouldn’t fall so easily, not when no actual corpse of Maegor had been delivered, but still, just in case.

Then came the breach of the Wall from Eastwatch, just hours later, when their father and Daemon were still zealously turning every stone on the path to the Fist of the First Men, scouring for signs of their second Prince. Queen Daenys Targaryen flew to meet the army of the Others, though, and Gael was there, alongside her mother, to witness the crucifixion of Ser Jaime Lannister and his thirteen turncloaks that had allowed the White Walkers’ entrance. By the time mother and daughter arrived, that wight troop and their leader had left for the Gift, and might be raising their armies and killing people as they pleased already. The Queen had closed her eyes at the report, and had taken a deep breath, before snapping her eyes open to see Ser Alliser Thorne on his knees. The knight looked contrite and determined, brandishing his steel and decisively lopping off his left arm as a self-punishment for the fault of gross negligence on his part. Several of his men gasped, and Gael was aghast at the barbaric display of loyalty, but her mother’s face remained unchanged, grim acceptance was the only thing that showed through as she calmly commanded the knight to patch himself up and get back on duty.

Then she glided almost airily toward the groaning Jaime Lannister, still being nailed studiously onto the board. Gael’s hair at the back of her head fairly stood on ends at her mother’s next words. Daenys’s voice was conversational:

“Twenty-three.”

“Pardon?” Ser Jaime Lannister still had the gall to squeeze a pained smirk at the Queen.

Gael’s mother did not flinch, none of her facial muscles even twitched. She only continued slowly and emphatically:

“Twenty-three. That is the number of men who violated your sister on that square. Before she was torn apart limb by limb. There were a few that… took liberty, but actual rapers? Only twenty-three.” She didn’t smile, she didn’t need to. Her blank face was terrifying enough, “I should know. I counted.”

The Kingslayer made a guttural sound that seemed little like what a human could make, and she could see a man being broken into pieces right in front of her eyes, agony written across his face. Gael immediately asked for leave, to track down the missing Other. She misliked staying here, witnessing further atrocities and having her heart broken at her mother’s cruelty. The Queen refused, saddling her own Suvion and commanding Gael to stay and burn the traitors after the torture had been finished. So Gael stood there, rigid and hiding her trembling lips and hands as men were tormented in front of her. She had a feeling she knew why Mother left her here, so even though she dearly wanted to, she did not utter any ‘Dracarys’ before all of them had truly been dead. Jaime Lannister was still screaming nonsensically when the final nail was driven to the middle of his forehead. Then, as his body went limp (he was the last), Gael’s eyelashes fluttered as she commanded resolutely, tucking her trembling fingers behind her back:

“Dracarys.”

As the men burned, a part of her world with them, Gael could feel Daenys’s cold arms wrapping around her, her mother’s voice soothing as she hummed to her the lullabies of her childhood. She had not heard her returning, so distracted and distressed as she had been. Still, Gael hugged the Queen back, her eyes closing and her heart galloping inside her ribcages.

“Have you been able to find them, Muña?”

“Some.”

“The White Walker?”

“Not him. He hid well, we might need another dragon that can be spared for a long time to track him down. And I worry about this side more.”

It had been proven that Daenys Targaryen’s instincts were accurate to the point of abnormality. Because half an hour later, they found Maegor. Or better yet, he was served to them.

There were only two White Walkers, or at least two that they could see. They rode in with their horde of wights and dead corpses of Giant Ice Spider. The Night’s King wasn’t with them, and it didn’t take a genius to guess that the Night’s King might be attacking elsewhere right at that moment. Gael dearly hoped that her father would arrive on time, wherever it was. Then, she realized that she didn’t have time to hope for anyone or anything else, as both Suvion and Gaelithox snapped their heads up and growled low under their throats. And from beneath the frozen trees of the Haunted Forest, a chained and wounded Temeraire was carted out.

Gael’s heart was in her throat. The beast looked half dead, there was a giant bolt still speared through the lower side of one wing. The blood seemed to have clotted, from what Gael could see, but the tattered leather of his wings and the wounds big and small smattering his frame still forced tears to gather in her eyes. Where was his rider? Where was her baby brother?

Her question got answered quickly enough, and Maegor was carted out as well, his tiny frame being chained to an ice pillar and his bloodied face turned boredly toward the sky in defiance. Was he injured? She could not be sure, they were still so far away… From her side, Gael was aware that Daenys Targaryen had stopped breathing, and she grasped blindly at her mother’s hand, feeling the coldness and clamminess that rivaled her own. Instinctively, Suvion and Gaelithox surged up, their riders with them, but they stilled, when the taller White Walker stabbed an ice spear into the twitching side of Temeraire, prompting a pained gasp that he tried to swallow with his snapping maws. Even from this distance, Gael could see Maegor's head twisted dangerously as he strained against his bonds.

In her panicked worries, and the desperation of one who so dearly wished to act, and could not, Gael clawed blindly into her mind, and for the first time in her life, her claws took hold, and she climbed past the threshold of Gaelithox's mind. Finally, Gael understood her parents and her siblings' obsession with their dragons. They loved them as their beasts, and yet they loved them as a part of themselves, too. Inside Gaelithox, Gael strained her (their) eyes toward the squirming figure of her brother. Maegor was tattered and bloodied, but the way he moved indicated a lack of mortal wounds, and Gael breathed a sigh of relief at that. He was angry, though. Her brother looked more angry than she had ever seen in her life, and Maegor had never been slow to fury in the first place. She slammed back into her body, and mumblingly reported back to her mother, concluding with:

"They are holding Temeraire hostage, Muña. For us, and for Maegor, too, I suspect. He might have been captured because Temeraire was being tortured within hearing range. His current anger is too... too much even for him."

Daenys's fingers tightened on hers, but she did not say anything.

Before they could formulate a plan, the White Walkers stopped in their march, uniformly and spontaneously. The shorter one of them, the one who had not stabbed at Temeraire, took a few steps forward, tilting his head sideway in interest, studying the bristling Suvion and Gaelithox the way someone stared at ugly yet fascinating bugs. When he spoke, his voice was rattling and mocking, and close enough that it almost felt as if he was standing in front of them, even though he had most definitely not raised his voice:

"Curious. Where is the golden human?"

Daenys Targaryen's eyes narrowed, and she raised an arm. The pillar that held a crucified and burned Jaime Lannister was lifted upward, just enough so that he could be seen by the army a distance below them. The White Walker tutted, his voice derisive:

"Pity. He promised to invite more of us in, if only we brought him one of the silver-haired children, and their beast."

Gael felt disgust roil inside her stomach, and for the first time in her life, she regretted not hurting someone more than she had. She should have made Jaime Lannister suffer even more before granting him such a peaceful death. The White Walker still hadn't finished, though. He co*cked his head to the side, and his face split into a grotesque mockery of a smile:

"Won't you let us pass, too, little Queen? In exchange for," He pulled at the chain locking around Maegor's neck, jerking his head forward like a dog, "This fledgling's life?"

When Gael's mother did not reply, only trembled visibly and drew blood with her nails across her palms, the monster's voice traveled back almost conversationally toward their ears:

"Our quarrels are not with you, little human. That husband of yours might have told you. Let us in, and we will travel South to free you from the grasping hold of that greedy Lord of Light. Or are you willing to let them win, like...ah... four hundred years ago?"

Daenys Targaryen barked a laugh that was both mad and off-tuned, and for the first time after she spotted her son, she spoke:

"What of it? Your quarrels are not with us? Do you mean to say that you wouldn't be raising our deads along the way, to fight in your War? Can you even promise that your army wouldn't harm the living during your march? When we both know how you thrive on the destruction of every creature with hot blood in its veins?" She smiled, and Gael had never seen such a painful smile on her face before, "Humans cannot help but breathe, and you cannot help but feast on the warmth of creatures you cannot be."

The Other blinked, the gesture unnatural and theatrical:

"So no?"

Gael's eyes were snatched onto the battered form of her brother, tears threatening to fall. It didn't help that she knew her mother was doing the same. Daenys Targaryen took a shuddering breath, and when she opened her eyes, her gray orbs were hard and cold:

"No."

Almost in the same breath, the White Walker drew his blade down Maegor's face. It was a smooth movement, splitting the boy's lower lips into two, cutting down to the tip of his chin. Gael couldn't withhold a scream. Her boy! Her beautiful baby boy! The cut was done with finesse, yes, tearing the skin and flesh just enough so that Maegor's bone structure and teeth weren't affected, just his skin peeling open, not being able to hide the gritted jaws and bleeding gum. Gael had seen Aegon the Pretender screaming from a wound of less magnitude, but her brother, eleven going on twelve, had his teeth stubbornly closed, and his eyes sparkled with murderous defiance.

"Still no?" The monster cracked another smile in his shattering face, voice casual and guttural.

Gael almost didn't dare to look at her mother's face. She feared what she could see there.

"No."

"Hmm." The White Walker dragged his blade into a moon arc around the outer side of Maegor's left eye, blood dripping over his beautiful face and his dragon keening in distress. The second prince's face was made of stone, though, and he didn't even twitch a muscle.

Queen Daenys Targaryen made a violent gesture, drawing Gael's gaze to her. In that second, her mother's stormy eyes and harsh face overlapped with the image of Daenys after Maegor's birth, and all Gael could see was the glorious picture of a relieved mother with a teary smile and grateful kisses across his forehead. Just that, and Gael felt like tearing up herself. The Queen climbed and stood on the battlements, her voice clear and resolute:

"Maegor! You are a Prince of the blood!"

... What did she mean? What was that supposed to mean? Gael tugged at Gaelithox's mind again, trying to see what Maegor would do after hearing that. Her brother was staring at their mother like he was seeing her for the first time, and Gael could not make out whether he was proud or disappointed. He turned his head, though, and scrunched his lips in a way that attracted the White Walker's attention, making him lean over to listen to what he intended to say.

People (and non-people) waited with bated breath, before Maegor twitched his lips and spat at his captor. Shards of some dark metals flew out of his mouth (Was that dragonglass? Had he been holding them in his mouth all the while?), landing on the White Walker's neck and face, making his skin fizzle and burn. Before any reactions would occur, Maegor twisted his neck like a viper, and his teeth sank into the fleshy part of the monster's neck, latching on like a beast and spreading the burns of the broken shards with the wound. The Other grappled with the boy, but it was too late and too futile. Whatever Maegor was doing with his bite and his tricks with the dragonglass, the burns expanded across his captor's head, and the Prince tore out a chunk of icy fleshes and spat blue blood onto the snow with a vicious smile full of blood (both blue and red). Many of the wights froze and clanked down into bones and tattered clothing. His captor slunk over, before falling down like an ice pillar and shattering into a million pieces.

It seemed long, but in all actualities, only a few seconds had passed. The taller White Walker was still co*cking his head and smirking when his kin fell over and died. He must have thought the two of them were playing. As the corpse stumbled, though, the smirk froze on his shattered face, and he gave a roar of shock and fury, before spitefully drawing his arm back for a throw of ice blades toward Maegor. The blades did not leave his hands, though, as a gigantic black dragon pounced on him from behind the trees, Daemon on his back and his warband hollowing on foot behind him. The remaining wights and Ice Spiders jerked toward the chained Maegor, blue eyes gleaming and weapons raised. The Queen hissed ‘Now!’ and both Suvion and Gaelithox were galvanized into action, though something else beat them to Maegor first. Ghost swooped in and positioned himself in front of the Prince, a pack of direwolf pups yelping and following his steps, gnawing at the joints of the wights, rendering them useless as they crawled ineffectually toward the captured princeling. Both female dragons opened their maws and rained fire and cold down on the wights, all the while the pups snapped at the chains holding Maegor, and Ghost kept the enemies at bay.

Daemon slew his first White Walker that day, Maegor killed his second, and Ghost presented his pups to the family in the most fashionable way possible. (‘I always knew father had a flare for the dramatics’ - said Daemon Targaryen). Temeraire survived, though it would take time for him to recover properly, and Maegor needed to be sewn up all over the face. Most of the wounds would scar, but he suffered no internal injuries or lasting wounds elsewhere. They could be grateful for that, at least.

"The Night's King is attacking Castle Black?" The Queen's voice was tight, though Gael was glad to feel her strength coming back through the words.

"Aye, Kepa has to hold the Castle. I was sent to retrieve Maegor; we found his trails on the east of Craster's Keep."

Gael tuned them out, once more breaking into tears as she stood beside Maegor, watching on as the Maester sewed his face close. He winced occasionally, but did not utter a sound, and the hand-holding they were doing seemed to be for her comfort more than for his. She just couldn't help it. He had been such a beautiful child, the prettiest in the family, really; and now her baby brother had a mutilated face with scars all over the place. They did not distort his features, but definitely brought out the grotesque savagery that had never shown up in his appearance. He had half a moon of a scar around the outer shell of his left eyes, and his entire chin had to be sewn up with (very large) threads for his gum to not show. One of his eyes was bruised and bloodshot (it was an old injury, not something that had been done in their presence), as if someone had given him a close-knuckled punch, and the shock of the blow had half-blinded him in that eye. The Maester had examined it carefully, before solemnly concluding that the right eye would heal but would be weaker than the left one, and would likely change color, since there was some strange substance (magic?) that was interfering with the healing process. Gael had had to turn away at that, weeping silently into her hand and only turning back because Daemon started patting her back soothingly. She buried her head into his chest, hiccuping inconsolably, her hand still held tight in Maegor's grip.

Their mother came back into the chamber a little bit later, looking grim but awake. She only stayed to check on Maegor for a few minutes, though, before leaving again to take command of things outside. By then, Gael had been able to calm herself down and was sitting on the floor by Maegor's chair, back to back to a resting Daemon. There was only one chair in the chamber, and they had felt it prudent to leave it to the injured person. Ghost was on Daenys' heels when she came in, his pups swarming him in a pack, yelping excitedly and joyously. Gael's numb face broke into a small smile at the sight. When had Ghost taken the time to sire so many offspring?

She liked that Ghost was always around when Father was not there. They took the direwolf for granted, admittedly, the same way they took their wildling nannies for granted for years, and it shamed Gael a bit that it took her thirteen years to finally realize the fatal flaw that all Targaryens had: entitlement. They took people and things for granted, and often enough only realized the value of such things when it had passed to the mourning period and sometimes not even then. It could be said that the coming of age of Targaryens was when they recognized their hubristic nature and started to fully appreciate what they had instead of demanding it one-sidedly. That wasn't to say that the people in her family were spoilt or hopeless (though some of them seemed to be so). It just meant that each Targaryen needed to grow up for them to reach the full potential of their greatness and divinity. The fact stood that many of them never did. They forever stayed the ignorant children of the divine, and usually had to pay for it in blood.

She was pushed out of her philosophical musings by Ghost, who was nudging a direwolf pup into her lap. It was a beautiful pup, with a silver mane and big turquoise eyes. Gael picked him up and fairly gushed:

"Mine, Ghost?"

The direwolf stared at her with a complicated expression (and how could she even know that, really?), before licking her palm and trodding over to pick up another pup. Daemon turned to spoon her from behind, his chin on her shoulder:

"Not really, Gael. That pup is for Maegor, but he keeps being excitable and trying to jump onto your lap, so Ghost was trying to nudge him away."

... Wow, that was embarrassing. She looked up at Maegor and gave him a sheepish smile, one which he returned hesitantly, before shrugging:

"You can keep him if you want, Mandia. I don't even know why Ghost gave him to me. Do I look like a puppy kind of person?"

"... No, you look like a kitty kind of person." Daemon deadpanned, and Maegor kicked him in the shin. He snorted and swatted back at Maegor's leg, "See? Kitty kind of person."

Ghost unceremoniously dropped another direwolf pup onto Daemon's lap, this one with a black mane and glowing golden eyes.

"Even you have one?" Gael was aghast. Why was she being left out again?

Daemon stared into Ghost's dark red eyes for a minute longer, before sighing:

"Don't be jealous now, Hāedar. This one is not for me. Ghost is asking me to bring him to Aenar."

That straightened Gael up:

"You are leaving for the War in the East then?"

"I am," Daemon groaned into her shoulder, "Kepa said that I could spend the night with you two, before flying South to help Aunt Dany and Aenar with their front."

"... Be careful."

"You, too."

All three of them (and the direwolves) stayed in comfortable silence for a while, before Maegor cleared his throat (he was exceptionally talkative today, she noticed):

"I will get tattoos."

Gael stared up at him incredulously. What was this? Was her baby brother entering his rebellious phase? Daemon seemed non-plussed, though. He asked:

"To cover up the scars?"

Maegor nodded, and Daemon turned back to her, saying cheerfully:

"Come now, Gael. What he means is: 'I don't want my sister to become teary every time she looks at me, so I will get tattoos and be done with it.'"

That was indeed touching, and Gael reached out to squeeze Maegor's hand, before asking worriedly:

"You will be entering the Faith, though, wouldn't that make a bad impression?"

Both brothers made a face at her, and Daemon tutted:

"Who cares what impression he gives to the Faith? I would prefer he enters with a much more radical look. We like seeing them squirm."

The two princes shared a glance, before breaking out into twin nasty smiles that gave Gael the pip.

"Fine. It's your face, you do what you like, Maegor. I don't think our parents would care all that much anyway."

They parted the next morning. Maegor and Temeraire (and a crippled Ser Loras Tyrell - one of the only three survivors in the second prince's warband) got transferred to Castle Black to hold it with Father. Daemon flew South to help Aunt Dany and Aenar. Gael stayed to hold Eastwatch while Mother left to track down the stray White Walker. On the other side, they received ravens that brought news of Aemon and Naerys manning the Shadow Tower with Uncle Bran. Lord Robb Stark was riding to Castle Black, leaving King's Landing to Ser Arthur Dayne, Lord Edric Dayne, and Lady Arya Stark. The lordlings and their armies were divided into three and were staying behind fighting alongside their monarchs.

It hadn't been as epic as Gael had expected the entire thing to be, or at least, her front that was. After the triumph they got the other day when they destroyed two White Walkers, the armies that attacked her part of the Wall were only wights and dead beasts, without a puppeteer in sight. Those armies, though numerous, weren't so overwhelming that she and the army of the Stormlands behind her could not hold back (her sworn shield was Lady Brienne of Tarth). At the very least, she didn't see any giant wyrms digging near her post.

Drama only ensued after the second week, when Gael was woken up in the middle of the night, as Gaelithox howled restlessly into the night's sky and the air was thick with the smell of salt and blood. She barely got enough time to dress, only throwing on pants and cloak outside of her nightshift, and shooting out of the door with her bootlaces flying every other way. Nothing, there was nothing from the side of the Haunted Forest. Lady Brienne raced after her, breathing heavily and asking what was wrong. Gael could not spare her focus, so she turned and her thoughts roiled inside her head. Not the Forest, then... the Sea!

Gael hoisted up her cloak, shouting orders for her warband to saddle Gaelithox. No, her thoughts skidded to a halt and she changed her mind halfway, commanding her men to stay on the Wall, defending against any possible assault on land. Lady Brienne was given the command during Gael's absence. The Lady was beside herself with worries and indignation, chasing after Gael and asking her to rethink her order, asking to fly alongside the Princess. Gael could not afford it, though. She wasn't confident enough to leave her post without ensuring the chain of command was taken up by someone she could trust. So she mounted Gaelithox in half a minute and started taking off for the eastern sky.

Gaelithox's instinct was correct. There was an army marching/swimming across the Bay of Seals. Gael had been taught the mechanics of the Wall, so it was disheartening that Brandon's residual magic had faded so much that it could no longer extend its effect to the surrounding waters. Gaelithox opened her maw and started firing, to no avail, of course. The giant corpses of whales, sharks, octopods, sea cows, and walruses ignored the jets of fire, diving further down to the depth of the ocean and continuing on with their march. Gael entered Gaelithox's mind, diving down to swipe at a giant shark with dead blue eyes, but even if she killed one or two that way, it was ineffectual. There were thousands of them, Gaelithox could not catch all of them bodily on time, and most of the monsters were swimming down and hiding beneath the water level. Dragons could swim, true, but Gael doubted they could be good enough divers to compete with sea creatures.

Besides, where were they swimming toward?

Gael cursed at her own slow thought process. Of course! There was only one White Walker south of the Wall at the moment. Gaelithox growled, beat her powerful wings, and flew toward the Gift to find Suvion.

Gael found her mother amidst a warzone.

She didn't know what she had expected: Suvion laying waste to the Bay of Seals? Her mother battling with the strayed White Walker? Lord Umber's army fighting with the wights in support of her mother? Maybe. At the very least, she had not imagined Suvion struggling with three sea dragons (with eyes of the dead, but still), each one the same size as her, or even bigger. She had not imagined half of the bay frozen over, the heads of many sea creatures were locked in place, waiting for Lord Umber and his army scrambling precariously on the ice to smash them to pieces. She had not imagined her mother and her warband being crowded by wights (miles away from the battle on the ice), furiously cutting them apart to get to the White Walker with a dragonhorn - who was standing high on a snowy hill, still blowing his horn and calling even more dead sea creatures and sea monsters toward them.

(She learned, much later, and after the accounts and interrogations of many people, that the horn had been Euron Greyjoy's last hand. He had sent it to the White Walkers by way of sea, with the sacrifice of ten of his loyal men. All for an alliance that he could not enjoy the fruit of.)

Gael only had a split second to think, so that was probably why she didn't. Gaelithox ignored the wights and the dead sea monsters. Instead, she shot straight toward the White Walker, throwing her entire weight down as both dragon and rider rammed into the Other. The horn crashed beneath them, and the silver dragon roared in pain as their opponent jabbed at the underside of her belly with his icy fingers. Gael was inside Gaelithox, so she could feel the White Walker unharmed as his entire body turned into a block of ice armor right at the moment of collision. She could also feel the place his fingers touched Gaelithox turn her scales into ice, and the cold burn spread rapidly across her body.

Gaelithox jerked up, trying to disentangle herself from the Other to no avail. Once more, Gael didn't have a chance to think. She cut off her saddle, sliding out of her seat and drawing her bow and arrow in one breath. The cold burn had reached Gaelithox's left leg by the time Gael's dragonglass arrow embedded itself into the right eye socket of the White Walker. He hissed and twisted his head at an unnatural angle to stare into Gael's eyes. Her heart skipped a beat at the grotesque glow on his face, almost as if he was pleased. She shot another arrow, this time straight at his throat. The place where the dragonglass met his body fizzled, before spreading into burned cracks, and in a few moments, the White Walker crashed into a million pieces below them.

The cold burn no longer expanded across Gaelithox's scales, but it had not receded, either, making Gael's dragon growl and thrash in pain. Gael turned to see that the wights had fallen over, her mother and her warband were rushing toward them. However, she could also see that the dead sea monsters were still twisting across the bay, Suvion writhed restlessly, trying to free herself from the deadlock the three sea dragons were keeping her under. The ice dragon's teeth snapped into the neck of one dragon, tearing it clean off, freezing the rest of the body over before it could once more join the fray.

Gael's voice was winded, but she still tried:

"Muña, we will be alright. Please go to Suvion. I don't think she can hold on much longer."

Just as she finished the sentence, another deafening roar shattered the air around them, and a Kraken rose unsteadily from the ocean, just a few paces away from the mess that was Suvion entangled with three monstrous sea dragons.

"Why?" Gael blurted out in astonishment. "The White Walker is dead!"

Her mother looked frazzled, her clothes were torn and bloody, her hair messy and unbound from the braid. Her face was grim, too, and the line of her mouth seemed harsh as she answered her daughter's question.

"That White Walker might only be responsible for the wights on land. The dead sea monsters are the work of something else, likely the Night's King. Since the magic on the Wall still held enough sway on this side of it, they needed the Horn to light a beacon for the mass march of undead creatures summoned on the other side of the Wall. Furthermore, without that Horn, it is unlikely that we have had to deal with anything more than dead sea creatures. All the mythical ones - dead or alive - were called by it."

Gael flinched at the line 'dead-or-alive' her mother just uttered. On second glance, she realized that the Queen was right. The Kraken was alive, and one of the sea dragons looked to be breathing well. Good grief, they were to face with both dead sea monsters and living ones?

"Focus, Gael. Remember, what is dead may never die. Killing the living is much easier."

"Yes, mother. But still, do you think it might be possible for the White Walkers to raise those beasts right at the moment we kill them the first time?"

Daenys's warband grumbled restlessly among themselves at that.

"Then we just need to kill them again, is all. Do you have enough dragonglass arrows over there?"

Gael nodded, holding up a wooden torch for Gaelithox to breathe into. With that burning torch, she hoped to use it to melt away the ice that was clodding on the underside of her dragon's belly. Her mother patted her head in one gentle movement, before leading her warband back to the seaside. Gael looked after her worriedly but had to focus on treating Gaelithox first.

She didn't have the time to do even that.

The breach of the Wall emitted a magical force raw and powerful enough that it made the whole North rumble.

Gael hadn't known what it was at first, believing it to be an untimely earthquake (Must the Gods be so nasty? They were already neck-deep in undead and blood and sh*ts. Did they have to force natural disasters on top of that as well?). But then, the air soured, and Gaelithox whimpered nervously from under her throat, rubbing her (huge) head onto her rider's back, even though the burning torch had already melted the ice off quite a huge area. Gael had never heard her dragon making that kind of noise. Dragons were arrogant, by nature. They could be wounded, they could be enraged, they could grieve, but they most certainly wouldn't show weaknesses by whimpering . They could sometimes feign bravery by ignoring the danger, or even refusing to do something, cross somewhere. They rarely resorted to running away, and definitely never whimpered .

So that was when Gael realized that something bigger was at play, and she soothed Gaelithox enough to climb on her back, wincing as she felt her pain since the ice had not fully melted away from her scales. She flew toward her mother by the seaside. The Queen was motionless, her eyes white and her face turned blindly toward the sky. Gael recognized that look, if only for the fact that she was an excellent student. Suvion was right there, though, and every creature on the sea at that moment seemed to pause and quake a bit at the force roaring toward them just now. Gael didn't know that mother had two warging partners. Right then, Daenys sprang awake, her eyes red-rimmed and her jaws tightened.

"The Wall has been breached."

"From which side?" Gael's thought drifted immediately toward the Shadow Tower, where her two youngest siblings were stationed, alongside Uncle Bran.

The Queen sighed and pushed at her temples:

"Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. A dead sea dragon showed up and rammed headfirst into it."

Gael felt guilt and panic welling up. It was her fault. She was supposed to be there.

"No, it's not." Her mother acted as if she could read her daughter's mind, "It would have been breached either way. The residual magic has gotten too weak, and your Gaelithox is too small to have made much of a difference against that monster. It's bigger than all of these," She gestured at the Sea Monsters coiling around Suvion, "combined."

Daenys Targaryen closed her eyes, and Gael thought she heard her rueful whisper: 'So that's what he meant.' When she opened her eyes, her beautiful face stretched into a brilliant smile, and she kissed Gael's forehead:

"Cover me. And whatever happens next, you must not disobey my orders."

Gael barely had time to nod, before her mother's body slackened once more, Lyra Mormont springing up to hold her prone body. In the same breath, Suvion roared. It seemed as if energy and power had been recharged, the ice dragon made use of the distraction the two sea dragons were in, to bite half the head of the living one off. She chewed and swallowed, covering the rest of the body in ice and turning to disable the last sea dragon. Gael pulled on the rein of her dragon, and the two of them breathed as one when they rained torrents of fire down onto the head of the Kraken, keeping it busy enough that it could not enter the battle between Suvion and the sea dragon.

After several minutes, Gael and Gaelithox had finally been able to neutralize the Kraken, and they could see that Suvion was dealing the final blow to the sea dragon, freezing the tornado from its mouth and tearing at its forelimb. Gael took the cue to bring Gaelithox closer and had her burn the rest of the sea dragon to a crisp. Just to be safe, the silver dragon twisted her head and breathed fire down onto all the frozen remains of the other two sea dragons.

When only the normal (dead) sea creatures were left, Daenys Targaryen didn’t stop to rest or assist Lord Umber’s men with the cleaning up. Instead, she issued several quick orders in succession, to both Lord Umber and Lady Lyra Mormont to take care of the rest. Then, before Gael could catch a breath, the Queen gave her a swift gesture to follow, and all four of them raced back to Eastwatch.

“What are we going to do, Muña?” Gael screamed through the howl of the wind and the breakneck speed they were moving.

Her mother’s voice was almost lost among the raging wind:

“We are going to mend the Wall.”

If Gael had known what ‘mending the Wall’ required, she would have done everything in her power to prevent her mother and Suvion from reaching the bloody thing.

That was all she had been able to think about when Gaelithox and her were fighting off the gigantic sea monster in tears and frustrated grief. She couldn’t even turn around, because she had promised Mother, and even now, the Queen’s direwolf puppy was monitoring unblinkingly her promise from the highest spot of Eastwatch. Ghost had given Daenys Targaryen one of his pups, one with a white mane and dark blue eyes (apparently, that wasn’t the native coloring of direwolves). It had hurt Gael something terrible when she realized that their mother had purposefully kept this new warg partner from them. Though a part of her knew that she was lashing out uncontrollably. If it was about hurtful gestures, then the Queen was already dealing out the worst one, how could a little secret about a direwolf pup compare?

No, Gael did not want to dwell on this. She had to focus and keep the sea dragon’s attention away from her mother. When they had arrived, Daenys had said (almost uncaringly) that she had not known the technique or the process to do any such things, but she needed Gael and Lady Brienne to keep people away from her and the hole on the Wall, at least till she could figure it out. Gael had felt suspicious, but she had trusted her mother. And then she had forgotten her dragonglass knife and had turned back a few minutes later to look for it, she was greeted with the horrifying sight of her mother trying to turn herself and Suvion into a statue. Gael hadn’t known that she could scream like that. It had taken time for her to register what was going on, and when she had, Gael had not minced words, nor did she refrain from dissuading the Queen from resorting to that (whatever it was that she was attempting to do). Daenys hadn’t even bothered to argue with her, only asking sternly if Gael intended to disobey her orders, and if Gael even had an ice dragon to know what she had been going through. (“Ice dragons made the Wall. They and their bonded can seal the Wall and restore Brandon’s magic to it. Do you have a better idea?” - “Kepa might still win!” - “Might, might not. The last Long Night didn’t end after some Hero defeated the Great Other. Can that thing even be defeated? It ended when Brandon sacrificed many of his brothers to make the White Walker busy, while he built the Wall with the sacrifices of his warg army, all of whom had bonded with ice dragons.” - “How do you know all that, Muña?” - “…I saw it in a dream.”) Gael would have stayed and continued arguing, if not for an explosion from the outer wall. (“Go!” Her mother had commanded, “You are the only one who could distract that thing and allow me time to save us all. Go!”) Gael had not wanted to go, but even if she had stayed, what could she have done anyway? Mother was halfway through finishing already! And her army was dying in doves outside the door!

So Gael wiped her tears away and ran out to do her duty.

It was worse that the argument might have been the last conversation the two of them ever had.

It was all Gael’s fault, too. For not suspecting, for not whisking her mother away beforehand, and for choosing the masses even when her mother was sacrificing herself inside a ruined part of the Wall. It was all her fault. Those who were at fault did not have the right to cry.

That was why, when another magical wave shattered the world that day, and all dead things (sea dragon included) exploded into minced meat as the full power of Brandon’s magic on the Wall was restored, Gael didn’t cry. She didn’t cry when she flew back to Eastwatch from her perch above the sea. She didn’t cry when she threw herself down onto the cobblestone, stumbling into people as everyone meandered around in shock and disbelief. She didn’t cry when she saw Lady Brienne holding her bleeding side (the wound was too large, there was too much blood on the floor; even then, Gael knew that her sworn shield would not survive), numerous crumbling remains of wights all around her. She didn’t cry as Lady Brienne’s last words were ‘The Queen apologized, my Princess.’ and a soft, breathless whisper of ‘Jaime’ as she fell down onto her knees, and then her stomach. She definitely did not cry, when she pushed the wooden door open and all that greeted her was the vacant yard, with all its outer walls restored and pristine, her mother’s beautiful face lost amid the wall of ice.

Gael wasn’t aware of what she was feeling as she moved into the yard, got on her knees, and looked at the distorted reflection of her mother’s face nearly lost amongst the thick ice. Everything was in a trance. She was there, and then she was not. She wished to cry, and yet, for once in her life (this life, at least), she could not. She had chosen to die, once, out of grief. She had been vindictive (a bit) when she knew how her mother of that life had grieved her passing. And now the world had seen fit to punish her for the crime of selfishness and cruelty by forcing her to feel the exact thing she had forced Alysanne to endure once upon a time. Death was easy. It was always the ones who were left behind that had to endure the pain.

After some time, Gael was able to hear distant shouts of victory, distant howls of celebration, distant cries of joy and pain. She curled into a ball on the cold, dirty floor, willing her dried, pained eyes to start tearing up. They did not.

They had won, but she had lost.

Chapter 16: JON IV

Chapter Text

The Great War had the unwelcome effect of making Valerion feel like a Jon once again. He was once more a Jon Snow who was riddled with insecurity, uncertainty, and restless depression about a hopeless war.

The last time he had been here, they hadn’t won by armaments. There hadn’t been any grand battles or heroic deeds that could be sung by bards for centuries to come. Heck, his parents’ selfish little escapade would probably provide better materials to put into songs. The War ended by armistice. Stannis Baratheon had woken up one particular day finding out that his conscience had somehow survived, after all, and decided to abandon his Grand Rite midway through. Euron had taken up his mantle, and had made a fool of himself when both Jon and Dany (still a couple by then, do not ask him how) had come together and obliterated him and his quirky efforts at initiating another Doom. They had suffered heavy casualties on their sides, as well (one of which was his short-lived romance with his aunt), though one nice result coming out of it was the White Walkers’ halt in their invasion. No, Jon hadn’t been able to win against the Great Other - or even his champion, the Night’s King. The Night’s King had just become bored when their great nemesis had been defeated before any grand battle would break out. Bored enough to agree to retreat to their land (and sleep for another few thousand years until their grand enemy could regroup and reach their talons down onto the living world again), if only the humans offered up a few concessions of their own. One of such concessions had been the dragons - one of the most glaring proofs of human magic. So aye, the Long Night had ended halfway through, with a raging Dragon Queen who had been forced to watch her children executed, and a grieving little man (Jon Snow) who had ceded his Winter Crown to Bran and Sansa, had had to bid his dragon farewell, and had had to follow the White Walkers and lived out the rest of his life in the Lands of Always Winter. Westeros was divided into two, a Winter Kingdom ruled by King Bran Stark, and a Summer Kingdom ruled by the grieving Queen Daenerys Targaryen. There had been some mad republic reformation on Dany's side back then (the Iron Throne was even melted down at one point), he had heard, but the efforts had not lasted for more than a few years, and in the end, Daenerys had had to use force and her army to retake her crown and resume the monarchy. Westeros - North or South - wasn't quite ready for a republic just yet.

That had been how it had ended the last time. It had been how he had ended the last time.

This time, though, Jon had a family of his own. He did not wish to see the look on his children’s faces when he told them they had to sacrifice their dragons for the greater good. He did not wish to abandon them and live out his life effectively exiled from the world. Besides, this time, they had nine dragons, and several reincarnated ancestors riding them. That would give them more of a chance, no? He had even cleaned up Euron beforehand, and Aenar had promised him that he had the best idea to stop the Doom once and for all, at least for the next ten thousand years. That meant they could win this thing, no? This Great War in which humans could only be fodders?

Sometimes Jon (because he was Jon now, he had been Jon the moment the War started; he could not be anything else) wished that he had been omnipotent, or at least as omnipotent as most of his family believed him to be. He wished that everything would have worked out exactly the way he had planned. But of course, life was life, and he was but a man. He just wished that it wasn't so bloody unfair all the time.

His plan had been simple. Aenar, Daemon, and Daenerys would hold the East, and the rest of the family would hold the North.

For the Eastern team, he had called Aenar into his solar, and had impressed upon him the great importance of stopping the Grand Rite before it could be finished. Last time around, it hadn't progressed enough to actually unleash the Doom, and that had likely been the only reason why they had won in the first place. Jon wasn't keen to find out what the Doom would actually look like, or if there was any way to stop it. Aenar had seemed contemplative, though, and had disclosed whom he had been in a few sentences. When Jon had still been struck dumb at the revelation, he had smiled mischievously and told his father to calm down, even if the Doom was initiated, it wouldn't be the end of the world. His third son (...it was actually difficult to think of him as one at that moment) had made a compelling argument. With dragons abound, the shadowbinders wouldn't want their Grand Rite to be interrupted or destroyed so easily, so they wouldn't hold the ceremony in obvious locations like Asshai. In the case that they could not find where the ceremony started, they had to accept that they would not be able to stop it at that step. They had to consider the worst possible scenario.

"That's impossible," Jon had said, displeased and worried, "If we cannot stop the Grand Rite and the Doom actually starts, it is not possible for us to do anything at that point."

"Not so," Aenar had cheerfully refuted him, "How does the Wall stop the Others and all manners of belligerent creatures from crossing over, Father?"

"You want to build a wall to stop the Doom?"

"... Something of the same effect."

"So the Wall has been built from the breaths of the Ice Dragons?" Jon had asked, interested and curious. He had had that question since his last life.

Something had flashed across Aenar's face at that, something complicated. In hindsight, Jon should probably have minded that reaction a bit more. But he had not. So he had only focused on Aenar's rueful answer:

"Aye. It has."

(Bleeding liar. Somewhere along the way, Jon had forgotten that before his sons were his sons, they had been Kings and Princes. He had known them to be proficient liars and calculating politicians, aye. He just hadn't considered that they would one day turn their deceptions and schemings toward their own family. He had thought that he taught them better than that... Or maybe he had taught them better, just not in the way he had hoped for.)

Jon had a million things he wished to ask from an ancient King of Winter. However, they hadn't had much time to discuss further, and Jon had even resolved to stash his questions away to unleash upon his son/not-son once everything was finished. (He should not have been so optimistic.)

The Northern front was less complicated. Maegor's abduction did put a damper to his plan, but his sons were ingenious enough to escape with flying colors. In essence, he had just expected to finish the Night's King off before the magic on the Wall would diminish enough to allow any other monsters to pass through, or until Adara could find a way to mend the Wall and restore its power. If it had been created by the breaths of ice dragons, Suvion would certainly have helped reinforce the dwindling power of Brandon. With his sister holding Eastwatch and Bran holding the Shadow Tower (the kids’s dragons supporting them), Jon could focus one hundred percent of his power on the battle with the Night's King. He had never considered the Night's King would attack anywhere else but the Black Castle (and he was right). The Others enjoyed the chase, loved the flare of dramatics, and their King would want to walk through the front gate, straight back and triumphant, or not at all.

At first, Jon had let the battle unfold in the good old-fashioned way of sieging and defending. Sonagon and the wounded Temeraire were better than any defense weapons. Maegor's dragon couldn't fly yet, but his lumbering around snapping Divine Wind at the climbing wights was effective enough. Sonagon took it upon himself to demolish every clutter of wight he could get his flames on. Jon, Rattleshirt, and the men of Winterfell manned the Wall and rained stones and bolts down from the ballista they built on the battlement, while Maegor (scarred and hobbling on his injured leg, such a courageous son) and the men of the Reach patrolled the lower levels with the help of the Brothers of the Watch. For the first few days, that seemed to be a suitable strategy. The Night's King and the sole White Walker he had by his side seemed amused by the little humans' antics. They even camped out and sat around staring interestedly at the hustling and bustling on and below the Wall. If their body would have consumed hot nourishment, Jon was certain they would have attempted to clink their cups and drink their ale heartily in front of such prime entertainment. They were assured of their victory, counting on the futility of the little humans' efforts and the dying magic of Brandon’s on the Wall.

They might have thought correctly, too, since the sky had progressively darkened throughout the week. There was no more daylight, and the cold started permeating every nook and cranny of Castle Black. Most days, people dragged their frozen feet across the stairs and the yards, noses running and faces turning blue with the freezing temperature. Jon was pleased to note that there had been no signs of mutiny and desertion, despite the hardships and the molten fear he could practically smell on some of them. The Long Night was already upon them, and the White Walkers hadn't needed to lift a finger in any actual combat for victory to fly straight at their head.

On the fifth day of the second week, the Wall was almost breached, when a giant dead wyrm nearly dug its way up from the east side, making use of Sonagon's distraction with a herd of giant ice spiders clawing at the western side. It was then that Jon decided that 'enough was enough'. He could no longer wait for news from Eastwatch. His sister needed more time to study the way to mend the Wall (Aenar had had a talk with her, too; though he had been vague enough that it ended with both sides looking confused and uncomfortable), and if his ballista and dragons could not buy her that time, he would. So he climbed on the battlement, standing straight and raising his voice at the Night's King (who was still sitting leisurely watching the entire battle with mild interest):

"Single combat! I challenge you to single combat!"

He was proud of his Old Tongue's pronunciation. After all, it had been fixed by a King of Winter himself.

Immediately, all fighting ceased as the Night's King held his hand up, his eyes glittering with unfiltered excitement. He even provoked Jon with a taunting index finger, as if he was calling a dog. The sounds of outrage rumbled behind Jon, his bannermen and Maegor bristled at the disrespect. He held a finger of his own up, silencing everyone and making them lower their head. Jon turned and looked at each of his men in turn. Maegor first, his boy was breathing heavily from the mad dash from the lower level, his grey eyes blazing and his scars stark against the paper-thin whiteness of his face. He looked ready to object, but at Jon's minute shake of the head, the boy only took a deep breath, closing his eyes as if in pain, and opening his eyelids with determination lighting up his silver orbs. As Jon's eyes met Benjen Stark's and Rattleshirt's, he signaled toward Maegor, before nodding, clasping both of them on the shoulder before turning and mounting Sonagon, who had just slammed down from the sky and waiting patiently to transfer Jon down to his one-on-one battle with the Night's King.

They started in silence, not even one polite exchange of identity or pompous gesture of theatrics. Jon flourished a standard bow, while waiting for the Night's King to crackle and do the same. (He had been here before, he thought. He had done the exact same dance with another White Walker once, in his last life. He hadn't been a King then, so after the bow, he had thrown shards of dragonglass at the Other's face and practically cheated his way into victory. He was a King now, so doing that in front of all his subjects would just be unsightly.) Jon brandished his steel, the Other created a longsword made of ice from thin air, and they exchanged blows immediately. After the third blow, the Night's King seemed to have finally realized that Jon wasn't struggling to keep up. His grotesque face stretched into another smile that split his shattering face into two, and then he got serious, too, and both of them struggled .

The fight was long, tiring, difficult, and yet, exhilarating in its own way. It had been such a long time since Jon had gotten to cross blades with a swordman so fine. Hours must have passed, grueling hours, but all he was aware of was the grips he had on his swords, the sweats flying from his hair, and the blows he had to block and parry from the dead king. Before his long exile in his last life, Jon had had to struggle to even fight on equal footing with normal White Walkers, not to mention their King. However, after several decades wasting away in the Lands of Always Winter, he had had nothing to do to pass the time, and had taken to pick fights with both the White Walkers and the Night's King for sport. Sometimes, it had been them that had gotten bored enough to taunt him into a spar as he had holed up inside his cave, wallowing in his loneliness and the hollowness of life. He had gotten maimed several times, but the White Walkers had been good sport enough to fix him with one or two frozen limb(s). By the end of his last life, he must have looked pretty much like a hybrid between man and ice block. But it had been fine, better that than the insidious nothingness that had sought to swallow him whole during those days.

Because of all those experiences, he put up a good enough fight against the Night's King. It helped that he still had Sonagon. The dragon's roaring energy and bubbling restlessness strengthened him for long enough that he was barely aware of the time he had wasted and the spark that should have been sapped out of him by then. Sounds and sights melted away until only the two blades were left in his vision. Jon dodged, parried, countered, attacked, dodged again. Until only movements and steel were all that were floating in the back of his mind. He could focus little on anything else, and was throwing everything he had at the fight, trying his best to survive first, then thinking about how he could fell a dead king that could heal from every cut.

They paused for a second, and only once, when the world rumbled and shimmered with the shattering of the magic on the Wall. Jon felt his stomach drop, but his face was frozen in its solemnity. In the end, it came down to him, then, and this neverending final battle. He could feel the dead behind him swayed, and detected the gaze of the leftover White Walker as said attention drifted to the Wall (and the magical security it no longer provided). He didn't need to read minds to guess at his thoughts. The Wall had fallen. Brandon's magic had failed. Was it even necessary to continue with the farce of the two kings? When he could just match onward and be done with it? In the back of Jon's mind, he was aware that Sonagon was growling deep in his throat at the blatant disregard, and was on the verge of twisting his neck to rain a torrent of flame down onto the head of the impudent Other.

Jon snapped his wrist and Dark Sister came straight through the Night's King's throat, stopping both his dragon's rash fury and drawing the attention of the leftover White Walker back to the fight. The cheers went up behind him, while the leftover Ọther stared disbelievingly at the battle, a warning hiss started at the base of his throat. Immediately, though, the celebration of the living and the concern of the dead were smothered, as the dead king tutted amusedly and slowly pulled the blade out from his throat. Jon kept a blank expression as he snatched the sword back from the dead thing's hand and jumped back a few feet to catch his breath. The silence behind him was painful and loaded. It seemed that his people had finally realized the gravity of the situation, and that their King was battling with something that wouldn't die even with a sword of Valyrian steel through its throat. Jon was certain he heard some muffled commotions above, then the suspense broke and he could hear the distant human sounds once again. Good job, Maegor - whatever you had done to keep order.

Unlike them, though, Jon wasn’t so pessimistic. He distinctly remembered something the Night's King had told him once, before lopping off his limbs in one of their spars his last life. "If one cannot do, how about a hundred?" It had been cryptic, but Jon had had a lot of time to himself, to do nothing but think , so he had deciphered it easily enough. If one wound made from Valyrian steel wasn't enough to kill the Night's King, should he just try to make a hundred? It was bound to work, once the number he racked up was high enough. So Jon studiously focused on his fight, enduring the cuts on his own body, ignoring the noises from the living and the dead around them, and trying to inflict as many slashes as possible on the Night's King. He could try to call Sonagon over and burn the Night's King with his flame, but he had learned that that was a cheating move that would allow the Night's King to disregard the etiquette of single combats and unleash his full magical well on them, without repercussion from the fabric of the world (and his own liege lord - the Great Other). It wouldn't even work, anyway. He had learned it firsthand.

Time passed by, and Jon couldn't keep track of how long it had been, being drawn once again back to the flurry of violence exchanged with the Night's King. His muscles ached, it felt like days (he realized much later that it was). Sweat beaded at his brows despite the temperature. His limbs felt foreign and his heart hammered noisily inside his head. How much longer could he hold the Night's King off? How many more wounds did he need to inflict for the fight to come to an end? Would it even end if he did so?

Then the world shuddered once more, and this time, a wave of shimmering magic washed through Jon, startling him awake from his fatigue and making him realize that his sister-wife had found a way to mend the Wall, after all. The flow of the magic was so dense, so raw that it blasted from the Wall with the force of an avalanche. In one breath, it rammed into the army of the dead standing listlessly by the Wall, smashing them into smithereens. The leftover White Walker turned, but Sonagon swooped down and snapped his jaws, flame licking up the edge of his teeth, and turned the Other into ashes as the upper jaw closed down on his fleeing form. In front of Jon, the Night's King's eyes blazed in anger, but his face was still composed, even as he skidded back and made to turn and run away. Jon wasn't so arrogant as to believe the dead king was running away from him, but he certainly was not looking forward to facing the wave of magic head-on. Jon jumped at the monster's retreating back before he could think better of it, hanging on to the Night's King's neck and driving Dark Sister into his back. The monster thrashed and roared in pain and anger, as the Valyrian blade speared straight through his body and dug into the ground, locking him in place as the avalanche of Brandon's recovered blessings rammed into him, and Jon's body still on his back, preventing him from removing himself.

Jon's entire body felt as if it was floating from the overload of sensations. He had never been much of a magician (or whatever it was they were calling it these days), nothing in comparison to Mother Mole or Bran Stark. But he was still a child of the North, a descendant of the Kings of Winter, whose blood sang with the power and ancient songs woven into the fabric of this land. So while he could not do much with the magic (save for skinchanging), he could feel its rage and roar. So this had been how Brandon had sealed the Wall the first time. This had been how the last War for the Dawn had ended, and this was how this War would end this time around. When Jon opened his eyes again, the Night's King's body was two-thirds part turning into ice, the freezing procession was still ongoing, crawling insidiously up his torso. The monster twisted his head unnaturally to glare at Jon with his shattering blue eyes:

"Buying time, aren't you? How crafty. Your ancestors would have wept."

" You are my ancestor. Do you see me worrying about your feelings?" This was one other thing he learned during his exile of the last life.

"...Someone knows their histories well."

"Thank you, great-granduncle. I do try."

"Then you must have known that this is not the end? Even if it seems like I die now, you are only buying a few thousand years for the human realm. T'is is the War of Gods, human. I am the Great Other's champion. As long as he is there, I will spawn back in a few dozen centuries at most. And this Wall will only last for some thousand years, too. Where will you be then? Why deny the inevitable?"

Jon was quiet, winded, knackered and so, so very sleepy. But he tried to keep his eyelids open.

"There will be mortal heroes of that age meeting you in battle then. Laws will be in place, I will make sure that the realm of men will not forget you, or the Lord of Light." He mustered his signature smile, "Do not worry, great-granduncle. I have tried so hard to herald in the Age of Gods and Monsters, I will make sure that it lasts as long as possible. My descendants will meet you then."

The ice had licked up the jaw of the Night's King, his face finally showed some resemblance to the First Men of the Stark line, when the shattered edges were smoothed away by Brandon's magic. His mouth was probably only able to utter one another sentence, and he chose the words persistently:

"Why deny the inevitable?"

"... Because we are human, great-granduncle. Because we are born, and because we wish to live as humans, not as playthings of gods and monsters."

Something pained and regretful passed across the blue orbs of the Night's King, and Jon imagined he might have seen flashes of gray sparkled in their depths. The moment passed, and the monster's body turned wholly into a statue of ice, hard and gray and lifeless. As if not allowing even one morsel of possibility, the magic around Jon snapped at the frozen corpse, and it shattered into a million pieces below Jon. His eyes blurred, and days' worth of exhaustion slammed into him with the force of a mammoth falling down from the sky. The last thing Jon remembered was the beats of Sonagon's wings as he raced toward him, his body shielding him from the cold and his back leg holding Jon's weight as he fell into unconsciousness.

Valerion Targaryen (he had to marvel at his flexibility in switching back and forth at a snap of a finger) woke to his children and courtiers kneeling on the cold floor around his lying position on Sonagon's hide, and the news of the death of his wife and third son. His first thought was 'How long have they been kneeling on the ground while he was still senseless from exhaustion?', and his second was 'Aenar is a bloody liar? A child I reared up is a bloody liar?'. Then it was blankness. There was such a quietness inside his mind, a quietness that could not be described by words, and his head felt as if it was seconds away from exploding from the migraine he suddenly contracted. Valerion mildly remembered waving his hand for people to stand up, struggling up onto his feet even though his entire body felt numb and cold. He remembered uttering a few distant commands for people to disperse and go back to their duties, all the while feeling as if he was looking down on his body doing things automatically, unconsciously, and matter-of-factly. He felt his children swarming his side, discreetly holding him up without making it seem like their father was an invalid. He blankly counted his steps as he made sure his legs did not buckle and his arms didn't tremble as he walked briskly into the King's Tower without a word to anyone.

Only when he was inside his chamber, hearing his door being closed by one of his children, did Valerion sway on his feet, stretching his arm out against the wall to hold his body up. He was still in front of his children, he could not afford to break down. He was old now, he kept telling himself, so he must not dissolve into senseless grief the way he had done in his last life. He must not punch the wall, or scream his rage into the silence of the night, or f*ck random people just to soothe his pain. He must not. He was old now, and his children were right there . Gael - nearly as tall as her mother now, with only thirteen years under her belt - hugged him from behind, and for the first time, he realized that his crybaby daughter wasn't shedding any tears. It was Aemon and Naerys who were in tears - they probably had just arrived with Bran - and were hugging his legs and weeping into his dirty pants. Maegor stood with his back leaning on the door, his arms crossed in front of him and his face looked more angry than sad (even so, Valerion noted that his mismatched eyes were red-rimmed and his jaws trembled slightly).

Valerion closed his eyes and stumbled down into a sitting position, holding his arms out for all three children to climb onto his lap and wipe their runny noses on his mudstained clothing. Even Maegor lurched forward, though he settled on an awkward standing position beside the crowd of his family making a mess of themselves on the floor.

So that was where the sense of disconcertment Valerion had felt when discussing the ice dragons and the Wall with Aenar had come from. His third son had lied, or at least, had hidden the truth. The Wall hadn't been built with the ice dragons' breaths, it had been built from the corpses of ice dragons, and the sacrifices of their bonded. How many human bodies were melted into the Wall? How many deaths were they trampling on every day as they marched through the halls and took their safety for granted? Was this the victory he was hoping for? A resounding victory of both fronts traded by the sacrifices of his wife and son?

Valerion was tired, so so tired. His entire body ached, his heart pounded, and his head throbbed. He could barely keep himself conscious, and he wished to do little more than just go under right then and there. Mayhaps he would be able to meet Adara then.

Was she born to take away all his pain, to endure all his misfortune, and to soak up all his hurt? Was this the way the Gods were expressing their favor for him? He didn't want it, he didn't want a sister (whom he had loved, in all ways possible; whom he had felt like an extension of his own, a sister who was a better, sweeter yet more resolute version of himself; who was the most perfect wife, sister, and person to have ever walked this land) to sacrifice her all for him to live a successful life. He didn't want a sister to die for his cause, to save the world so that he could enjoy the fruits. If this was what the Gods had created Adara for, he wished that they had not done so at all.

... But then, would he have been able to endure all those past years without her? Would he have been so sane, so grounded, so happy - even after the madness and the loneliness of decades in exile in his last life? No, he concluded. If he had been reborn without Adara by his side, he would have grown up to be cold, harsh, and glum. He might have reached for the throne if only to ensure manpower to fight the Great War, and would have ceded his crown to his aunt and any descendants of hers once she disembarked on Westerosi soil. He would have suffered through life, because that was what humans did: they lived, even if they had to suffer to do so. He would have sacrificed himself to mend the Wall by the end of it, because without Adara, his Sonagon would have been an ice dragon, or at least a chimera of one.

So no, he could not, in good conscience, wish for Adara to never have been born. But he would not accept her death so easily, either. He could not. His mind roiled even in its knackered haziness, and poked at all possible memories and experiences, all the stories and the myths, to see if there was any way for him to reverse these sacrifices. Even if the world burned once more, he would have to find a way to bring his wife and son back to him. What good would he be without them? Without her?

Valerion wasn't aware that he had dozed off, but he must have. He woke sometimes in the middle of the night on his bed, alone, cold, and disoriented as the noises outside his door sounded brutal and harsh. He sprang from his bed, cursing his lassitude for dulling his senses and making him complacent. Opening the door, Valerion peered blearily into the dimly lit hallway, just in time to see his first daughter - always so kind and soft-spoken - pulling a scantily-dressed lady across the hall by her hair, her hand grabbed roughly at the lady's mouth to prevent her from making noises, and her face settled on the coldest and most disgusted expression he had ever seen on her. The wildling guards by his door seemed uncomfortable but did nothing to intercept or assist. Even sleepy and bewildered as he was, Valerion had an inkling of what was going on. Ignoring his own disgust crawling up inside him, he cleared his throat anyway:

"Gael?"

His daughter snapped her head up and gave him a smile that was tight and endearing at the same time:

"It's nothing, Kepa. Please go back to bed. Aemon and Naerys are restless, I will send them to sleep with you tonight. I hope that's alright with you?"

"Of course. Care to tell me what you intend to do with Lady Vance?"

"She got lost. I will educate her so she won't do so again. Never you mind, Kepa."

Gael's rage was making Valerion calmer, or mayhaps the loss of his Adara had tempered him enough that he could not dredge up enough strength to get furious at the presumptuousness of House Vance. What was the saying? ‘There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.’ He supposed his daughter wasn’t a man, but she was gentle, and so her anger was more potent than that of her cantankerous brothers’. He shrugged and let Gael work her magic, closing the door and going back to bed. Without Adara around, his first daughter was now the lady of the castle.

He wasn’t even aware of when his youngest children had entered his chamber, he was that exhausted. He was pleased, nevertheless, as he woke up the next morning (or was it the second morning after?) with Naerys curled on his left and Aemon hugging his daggers close to his chest on his back by his right. The boy had one leg out of the bed, as if he was ready to spring up and draw his blade on any intruders that dared to venture into the chamber. Valerion could only smile, the twitches of muscle felt foreign and awkward on his face, after everything that had happened just a day ago. He could not bear to grieve uselessly by himself all day every day, though. So he kneaded at his temple and decided.

A few hours later, Bran Stark was pacing inside the King’s chamber, his face grave and his eyes troubled. There were only the two of them, Valerion had sent the kids to break their fast with Uncle Benjen a bit earlier, their guards trailing after them dutifully. Valerion had just told Bran a tale. A fairy tale, a far-fetched tale, and though his younger cousin had enough tact not to laugh in his face, he did sport a particularly distressed look after hearing it. The King had never thought he would ever tell anyone of his past life, but the situation called for it, and he needed Bran to know and to prepare.

“… I can’t!” The red-haired Kingsguard was half disbelieved and half horrified as he concluded, “Whoever I was in your past life, I am not that person! He may make miracles, but I cannot. I can’t, Jo… Your Grace!”

“Cannot, or may not?”

Bran stopped in his steps and scowled worriedly at his hands:

“…May not… I don’t know. I have never done anything like that before. I am not sure if what you are asking is possible. Just… even if I can, I don’t think there can be anything that can be considered an equivalent exchange for what you are asking.”

Valerion was dressing himself in warmer clothes, all the while Bran was drilling a hole in his carpet.

“No need to worry about that. I just need your words that you will learn and will try your best. I will get you the… equivalent exchange you need.”

His cousin turned his face up to look Valerion in the eyes, his blue eyes startling in their uncertainty:

“You are sure, then, that you wish to do this?”

The King had finished tying his fur cloak on his shoulders, and his grey eyes snapped back to his cousin’s:

“Aye. Adara first, and if it works, I want you to fly east with one of the kids to work on Aenar as well.”

Bran’s eyes hardened into resolution, though there was still a tiny edge of conflict in their depths.

“Worst case scenario, it will fail and I might nullify what they had so painstakingly done, reactivating the whole Long Night and the Doom.”

Valerion clasped him on the shoulders, mustering his most charming expression (which had probably failed, as usual):

“Then we have to hope that you wouldn’t fail us, then?”

Then the King marched out, barking orders for Gael to escort Ser Bran Stark to the place where the Queen had been frozen, for Naerys to hold the Castle Black with Benjen Stark and Rattleshirt, and for Aemon to get on Rhaegal and join him on an important field trip. Maegor was to climb on a newly recovered Temeraire and help Daemon in scouring for any residues of the Grand Rite in the east.

Valerion did not know what had possessed him to bring Aemon along. The King was actually a simpler person than what most people had expected. Half of his brilliant schemings (others’ words, not his) started from a sudden impulse that had absolutely no sense, nor any relation to his goals. It was either his luck (likely) or his astute instincts (that he inherited unfairly from both sides of his family) that had yielded such wonderful results by the end of it. The decision to bring his youngest son along was one such impulse.

He had woken up that morning feeling pity welling up for his fifth kid, finally noticing that the boy had had such a boring life compared to his siblings. His old life had probably seemed tumultuous from the views of historians, but in all actualities, he had probably just blindly followed orders and upheld the honor and duty that had been drilled into his head since the days he had been born. He had probably never acted selfishly a day in his life (like Daemon), pursued any grand ambitions of his own (like Maegor), or tried every interesting thing under the sun (like Aenar). So when he embarked on his trip to the First Root, Valerion decided to bring him along, letting him see the world a bit, curing him from all the ridiculous flinching and shrinking away from Northern magic he had been doing all these years. Call it his sudden ingenious spark of fatherhood, but Valerion did feel pleased with himself for the decision to bring Aemon along to visit the Three-Eyed Crow.

Until his boy almost stabbed an eyeball out from the socket of a Child of the Forest, shrieking like a girl and panicking enough that he automatically drew both blades and was halfway through permanently maiming the poor sod. Acorn - the name of this Child - hissed in pain, and instinctively stretched her gnarly fingers and blackened claws toward Aemon in retaliation. Valerion leaped toward his son, intending to smack the Child of the Forest away. He didn’t need to, though. Even in his hysteria, the Dragonknight was the Dragonknight. Aemon instinctively reached to snap the arm bone of the surprised Acorn, even as his body coiled in alarm and his voice came out in a hiss like a startled cat. As hilarious as the entire ordeal was, Valerion had to be the responsible adult. So he picked his kid clean off the earth and apologized (sincerely, he hoped) to the angry Child before more blood would be shed.

Acorn forgave them, because she was old and found grudges with humans tiresome, but she did shoot the Fourth Prince venomous looks all throughout their walk to the heart of the First Root. For his part, Aemon did wear a properly chastised expression on his face, even if he kept tightening his grip on his daggers every time he felt the Child’s eyes on him.

“Do you have any son that isn’t a complete menace?” The Three-Eyed Crow welcomed them almost conversationally, as if the seriousness of the situation had escaped his notice.

If Valerion was in a better mood, he would have deadpanned that Aemon was actually his most behaved son, and the Crow should be thankful that he was magnanimous enough to bring him instead of Maegor. He wasn’t in a better mood, though, so he went straight into business:

“Did you put the idea into her head? Her dreams?”

The Crow gave a smile that boiled his blood.

“Shouldn’t you be thankful to me? Usually, I wouldn’t interfere with the War all that much, but this time around, my advice has saved the realm of men, no? Sealing things is all an ice dragon is worth, after all. That's what they have been born for. That's why their bonded are chosen, too.”

Valerion saw fire at that, and he could feel his son tremble in anger beside him. The audacity. The callousness. He put a hand on Aemon’s shoulder in warning. Not yet. The boy stilled, but his blue-grey eyes blazed silently as he stared at the Bloodraven. (Valerion remembered later that the Crow's current ego was one of the Great Bastards, and remembered how the Dragonknight had felt about the whole lot of them.) The Crow ignored their displeasure, pushing on as if he were telling the most ordinary story in the world.

“Life’s hard, you need to see it that way. There needs to be a sacrifice for every victory. Your stake was higher than most, your victory more resounding than most, so of course, your sacrifice had to be more painful than most, too.”

Valerion stared at the shriveled corpse, his face was as impassive as he was feeling. He pushed imperceptibly at his son’s back, before saying:

“You’re right. I agree that every victory requires an equivalent sacrifice.”

The Crow was still nodding sagely (arrogantly) when Valerion casually reached over and snapped his neck. Aemon twisted and turned just in time to stab at the eavesdropping children of the forest in the bush behind them. His dagger killed two and maimed another. Valerion hoisted the unconscious body of the Bloodraven up on his back, unleashing his steel to finish the remaining child off. They made a mad dash for the entrance, relying on Valerion’s uncertain memory of the place. The entrance was blocked by Acorn, her face twisted in rage and the promise of violence. He couldn’t afford to pause, so Valerion repeated the unfamiliar phrase in True Tongue that Aenar had forced him to remember, his arm snatching Aemon behind his back. Acorn’s animalistic eyes widened in astonishment (what did that phrase mean?), and a complicated expression flitted across her face, before its harsh lines smoothed out into resignation. She stepped aside to let the two of them pass, an unconscious Crow on their back (unconscious, because the King knew for certain that he wouldn’t be dead just from that).

“Don’t come back.” She commanded harshly before stepping back and allowing them to pass by her.

Of course not. After today, no one in the human realm would ever have any reason to come to this place.

"Gosh, he looks like a corpse." Bran wrinkled his nose, poking at the prone form of the Crow with the scabbard of his sword. Valerion forgot how young Bran sometimes acted. In this life, he had successfully protected some parts of his baby cousin, at least. "Did any crows follow you back on the way?"

Valerion shrugged. Rhaegal and Sonagon had burned off any birds they could see within the vicinity, so they should be safe enough.

"Will he do?" He asked, his arms crossed in front of him and his eyes studiously looking away from the frozen corpse of his sister. He would not be able to bear it, Valerion thought, he wouldn't be able to bear it, so he wouldn't look at her at all, "Enough of an equivalent exchange?"

Bran looked sobered at that, pulling his scabbard back and rubbing at his neck:

"In that last life of yours, I ... revived an ailing Sonagon by pulling the life from the hearttree of Winterfell?"

They were alone in that part of the Wall, the children had been sent to bed after Valerion returned from the First Root, and the guards were forced to be stationed far away.

"Something like that. You also brought spring back to Winterfell in the same breath, so I think this request isn't too unreasonable for you."

Bran gave him a disbelieving look, but locked his jaws and concluded anyway:

"I will try. Will the Bloodraven wake up halfway?"

"Unlikely. His healing ability is severely impaired by now, so we should have till the morn... But just in case, can you fasten the progress?"

His cousin/Kingsguard grimaced again, but his blue eyes softened as they turned toward his sleeping Queen.

"... I will try."

"And here," Valerion extended his hand, giving Bran the small vial Acorn had thrown at him before they parted for real. The vial was small, and the liquid inside was white, viscous, and woven by strange red droplets that seemed like blood around the edge. He wasn't very sure what exactly it was, and he doubted he actually wanted to know. He had had half a mind to throw the vial away after receiving it. How could he trust anything from Acorn's hands, after he had just slain many of her kin?

Then he remembered Aenar, and the promise he had made to his third son in their final meeting. He had promised to deliver Aenar's words to Acorn, and had promised to accept her goodwill in any form she could give after hearing the words.

Valerion did not trust Acorn, but he trusted his son enough.

Things got queer after Bran consumed the paste inside the vial. The moment the final drop wet his tongue, his cousin's eyes rolled to the back of his head, his back snapped into an unnatural angle, and Valerion had to keep his hand on the pommel Dark Sister, poised to strike if the one who emerged into the light was the Crow. Bran maintained that precarious position for a few seconds, making the King nervous and the air taut with anticipation. When the Kingsguard opened his eyes, there was a dazedness swallowing his blue orbs, his movement was jerky and stiff. Valerion narrowed his eyes, Dark Sister was already brandished and ready:

"Bran?"

The young man swayed on his feet but did not answer, and the King gritted his teeth:

"Shall I call for Meera? Do you need her to be here?"

He blinked once, twice, and then just like that, Bran Stark was back. He shook his head, as if to rid himself of the otherworldly trance, before answering with a sigh:

"... One of these days, you ought to stop using her to bait me."

Only his cousin would make such a stupid lovestruck face, even when reprimanding him. The first greenseer would never. Valerion smiled, though the movement was faint:

"She is your anchor, of course, I will have to use her to bait you. What did you see?"

Bran turned to him, and for a moment, Valerion felt as though he was looking at Bran Stark, the King of Winter in his last life. The moment passed, and Bran rubbed at his neck nervously:

"... It's hard to explain, let me show you."

Show him Bran did.

He touched the Wall, the part where (for the first time since entering this part of the courtyard, Valerion reluctantly turned his gaze toward that particular direction) Adara was sleeping, her face frozen into a peaceful expression, her pale hair lost amongst the ice, and her long lashes fanning her cheeks as if in sleep. His sister was so beautiful, and Valerion felt like something inside him throb painfully at the sight of her, and at the thought that if Bran failed, he would never see her small smile again, never hear her deadpanned grumbles, never hold her warm, soft body in his arms, nor would he ever kiss at her temple and run his fingers through her long, glorious hair. His head numbed with the thought; his chest ached, his eyes burned, and if he had not been making a conscious effort, he was sure his hands would have trembled. Valerion blinked repeatedly to ward off tears. He was too old for tears, and Bran was right there , besides.

"She was confused." Bran had a complicated expression on his face, his voice sad.

"Did the Crow mislead her into doing it? Was she forced...?" Valerion did not know how he was keeping his voice calm. He didn't feel calm.

"No. It wasn't that. She knew that she would die, she just didn't know how. Her last thought was one of confusion. Every step she took, she was testing it. Even by the end of it, she wasn't sure if she was doing it the correct way... Or if it was supposed to be so painful."

Valerion couldn't hide his trembles then. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. Focus, he told himself.

"... Was she afraid?"

Just imagining his sister- confused, hurting, afraid, all for a task that he had asked of her (granted, Valerion hadn't known what he had been asking for, but still), he wanted to retch. Bran turned his face towards the King, his blue eyes solemn:

"No, Jon. Even while confused and in pain, Adara wasn't afraid." Then, as an afterthought, he whispered, "She was brave. She is brave, we have always known that."

Valerion tightened his jaws. Of course, she was. She had always been the bravest. He asked Bran:

"Do you need my help? Can it be done?"

Bran turned back to stare at Adara, closing his eyes and saying:

"Cut the Crow's throat when I tell you to, please."

"Alright."

The preparation of the ceremony was messy and barbaric, whereas the actual process was quick and anticlimactic.

At Bran's instruction, Valerion tied the unconscious Crow's limbs and body to the branches of the weirwoods brought to them by skittish Brothers of the Night's Watch. (Valerion wondered what they thought he was doing, but then decided that it wouldn't matter anyway.) The Bloodraven (still hadn't woken up, by some luck) was propped up against the Wall, his limbs and torso straightened by the hard weirwood branches.

"Is this a blood sacrifice?" Valerion asked mildly.

Bran shrugged:

"Aye. So be ready to sever his head, open his stomach to take out his entrails, and hang those entrails onto his straightened arms."

Valerion must have been pretty expressive in his disgust, because his cousin scowled:

"I am not the one who made those rules. You are the one who wished to do this, Jon!"

"Alright, alright. I'm not complaining."

And he was not. He dutifully opened up the Crow's stomach, pulling his bloodied entrails out and hanging them on his straightened arms. Then, when the Crow's eyelids twitched in pain (goddamn co*ckroach lifespan), Valerion twisted his head again and slammed the blade of Blackfyre into the nape of his neck, sawing his head off. He had the decency not to use Bloodraven's own sword to end his life. As the old man's blood splattered the ice, Valerion could see the place where it touched turned transparent (more transparent than before, of course), and there was a strange light glowing up from within the depth of the ice.

"Usually, even like this, the Crow would have revived in a few hours," Bran was musing, "If he is used as a sacrifice, though, he wouldn't be able to come back. In any form."

"... Okay?"

"Are you sure you want to do this, Jon? Though he is no exemplary guardian of men, he is the eyes and ears that had seen the world die and reborn, has influenced empires's rise and fall, and has been the keeper of ancient memories and knowledge since the times Gods had walked the earth."

Valerion didn't pause in his smearing of Crow's blood onto the ice:

"Are you saying that I should give up on my sister-wife and allow the Crow to live because 'it would be a waste'?
"

Bran winced:

"Well, when you phrase it that way..."

Valerion turned and gave him a severe glare then:

"Has he been of any use in any wars against the Gods? This one and the one down South? Has any of his extensive knowledge been used to protect the realm of men? Or has he only accumulated those - along with his useless selfish little life - and sat on his high ground staring owlishly down as the Gods toyed with us?"

Bran grimaced again:

"Alright then. Let us get to work."

The Kingsguard touched the ice with his right hand and held the weirwood branch on the Crow's body with his left. Closing his eyes, Bran mumbled something under his breath, and almost immediately, there was a light shooting straight up from their position toward the sky, tearing it asunder and fostering mild panic from the ground below. In the back of his mind, Valerion could feel Sonagon twisted restlessly on his perch on the Greenguard, while Ghost curled around Shadow (Adara's warging partner) and his other pups protectively, his eyes staring at the light through the window with a healthy dose of distrust. The light was so bright, that it could even be seen by Phantom, Jon's shadowcat patrolling on the top of the Shadow Tower.

The light emitted heat, not cold, and Valerion was anxious to find that the part of the Wall Bran was touching had started melting. No, not just melting. It was twisting and shaping strangely as it roiled madly, shooting out like whips and swallowing up the headless corpse of Bloodraven propped just beside it. (It could turn versatile? Ugh, he learned much more than he wished to know.) Valerion was quick in his judgement and threw the head he was holding into the ragged fray of melted ice. Just that, and the ice solidified once more, the light was out in a whoosh, not leaving behind even a trail of smoke, as if it had never existed in the first place.

One beat of silence, then two, then three, and Valerion was quite certain he was drilling a hole into the Wall already, with how angered he was at the shamelessness of taking without giving back the Old Gods just did. It was supposed to be an exchange! He also had to try very hard not to whirl around and throw irrational accusations to his cousin's face. What was this farce?

Then he heard a sound (a sigh? a gasp?) and Adara got spat out into the cold, hard ground without so much as a warning. Valerion didn't realize that he had pushed Bran out of the way and slid over just in time to catch her soft and half-frozen body in his arms. Her eyes were still closed, her body was cold and motionless, as if a human-sized doll had been given back to him. His heart was hammering inside his ribcages as he lowered his head to her chest, only slowing down when he heard the sound of faint breathing. Valerion covered Adara with his fur cloak, staggering to his feet, his sister in his arms, and barking out breathless orders for the men to fetch a maester.

He was only aware of the tears in his eyes after he had deposited her into the bed inside the makeshift chamber they gave him. His vision blurred and danced. Valerion didn't care that their children were there, gasping and asking questions noisily. He didn't care that maesters and soldiers were at the door and were only waiting for his approval to cross the threshold. Valerion Targaryen took his sister's fingers (which were getting warmer and warmer even then) into his rough palms, held them up to his forehead, and wept.

Chapter 17: DAEMON III

Chapter Text

Daemon would have liked to believe that he was better than he had been in his last life. He would have liked to believe that he had outgrown his capriciousness, his brutishness, and his uncontrollable fury every time he was faced with overwhelming grief. He would have liked to believe that he was no longer that person. He was loved now, secure, and trusted. He should not have been the same person he had been during the Dance of the Dragons. He shouldn’t, but he was. He still lashed out unfairly and cruelly towards anyone and everyone. He still raged and thrashed pointlessly within the confines of his mind. He still wished to burn the world down, if only his loved ones would return amidst the ashes of its destruction.

Daemon had tried to suppress his irrational anger (not very successfully) all throughout the days he and Aegarax had investigated the eastern Red Waste and Asshai. The lava and the fire had subsided considerably, compared to the unbelievable force that had been rampaging across the land before Aenar had stopped them. They hadn't been that encumbered by the torrents of flame as high as the sky, any deterrence from the ebbing sea of flame having become muffled and lackluster. Despite that, some part of the lava was still bubbling around the same height as a grown man, and got even higher the closer Daemon got to the eastern edge of the continent. He could not find anything left of Asshai, the City of the Winged Men, or any of the other settlements east of the Plains of Jogos Nhai. The entire Bleeding Sea had been swallowed up, and even the Hidden Sea wasn't on the face of the map anymore. The Grey Waste had gone under, resembling a boiling pot of both lava and seawater sloshing messily together.

Curiously enough, Yi Ti and Leng were relatively unharmed, and Daemon was tempted to sack them immediately to round up any leftover shadowbinders. He was quite certain they were hiding over there. However, Aegarax was skittish and vehemently refused to cross the border of Yi Ti even though there were no explicit threats in the sky or on the ground. No amount of cajoling, threatening, and soothing could persuade him to do so. In the end, the Heir to the Iron Throne had to admit temporary defeat and retreat back to Aenar's river to regroup and send ravens to consult his father.

He arrived back at camp just in time to welcome Maegor, his news of their mother, and the updates on the siege of Volantis. The Free Cities were shameless enough to try and take back the city in Aunt Dany's absence. Daemon had cracked a nasty smile (finally, they had given him a reason to resort to violence), saddled Aegarax, and got ready to raze the western side of Essos to the ground. So far, the garrison of Unsullied that the Queen had left behind had been enough to hold them back from entering the city, but his dragon raining fire down on their own cities would surely teach them a better and more lasting lesson. He was in the mood for burning things, anyway. Maegor had blocked his way ("Father said 'no'. That's not for you."). His little brother (the Cruel - imagined that) stayed steadfast, even after Daemon had threatened him with bodily harm. Maegor had only stared at him with dispassionate eyes, teeth pulling back from his scarred mouth, uttering one short word: "Try."

Just that, and Daemon deflated.

Maegor was right, and Daemon hated that he was. Anyone would burn the army of the Free Cities down, and it just went to show how well his father knew him. It was annoying, but impressive, too, that the King would realize almost immediately how Daemon would be both productive and needlessly destructive in his grief. He wouldn't be suited to any missions that required moderation at the moment, and so Valerion had left instructions for Maegor to take responsibility for that part and for Daemon to toil with dry work that wouldn't allow him to do too much damage to others and himself. What he needed to do was to look for ways into Yi Ti and Leng, to track down Quaithe, and to find the original altar of the Grand Rite. His brother would join him once he had finished cleaning up the mess in Volantis.

As for Aunt Daenerys... The Queen wasn't in any state to do anything worthwhile. Personally, Daemon felt that she was relying a bit too much on them, letting herself be swallowed up so thoroughly by grief. What if they had been true children? Her persistence in staying beside Aenar's river till there was news from the North on how to reverse the progress was selfish and wasteful. She should have done something more useful, like them, because it wasn't as if Aenar was going anywhere, or as if her staying with him would make a difference in the process to revive him (if that was indeed within the realm of possibility). But the boys left her be. Each person had a different way of battling with grief. Who were they to tell her how to feel or what to do, when she looked like a demented corpse most days as it was?

A few days later, a raven came with the news of their mother's revival - or something close enough. The Wall stayed intact, the Queen of Westeros had lost her dragon, and she was bedridden - would be for a good long while, according to the Maesters - but that was enough. Both Daemon and Daenerys took a deep breath of relief and readied themselves to receive Ser Bran Stark as he flew together with his youngest cousin to Essos. The letter was clear on the necessity of a sacrifice for the ceremony though, and Valerion's hasty letters implied heavily that Quaithe or the initiators of the Grand Rite should be prime candidates for such.

For the first time in weeks Daenerys Targaryen looked up, and Daemon could see the light in her eyes. She folded the letter, confirming clearly that she would be responsible for securing weirwood branches for the ceremony, so Daemon and Maegor (who had returned after a decisive and resounding obliteration of the Free Cities' army) should make sure they work out the ways to Yi Ti and Leng so that Ser Bran could arrive with every preparation in place. The two princes had given each other a glance, eyebrow raised, and nodded their acceptance with slight smiles on their lips.

"I think we are going about this the wrong way." Daemon said, snapping his belt and cloak on, checking his weapons, and putting them onto their holsters, "Let's just say that Yi Ti and Leng had a barrier to bar Valyrian dragons, that is what I gather from all the books I could get my hands on. Wouldn't it mean that your Temeraire could enter with ease?"

"Likely. I will work on Yi Ti, but I would still prefer you try to attack Leng from the South."

Daemon quirked a brow at his brother, who was busy buckling his own daggers onto his belt:

"Not confident that you can take both?"

"Actually," Maegor looked up at him, his horrible wounds made the smile on his face beatific in a grotesque way, "Are you confident that you would be able to sit still and twirl your thumbs while I do all the work?"

That made a healthy dose of sense, and Daemon straightened up:

"... You are right. Alright, I will take care of Leng. You take care of Yi Ti, brother."

"The barrier might have been erected to repel Valyrian dragonlords of old, so even their sea borders might be blocked. Do you have any plans yet?"

An idea floated in the back of his mind, and Daemon could feel Aegarax grumbling disbelievingly at the thought, expressing silently but very clearly how he felt about such a torturous plan. He didn't even bother soothing his dragon, just twisted his lips into a smirk and winked at Maegor (news of his mother had bolstered his mood considerably):

"You'll see."

Just before they wrapped it up and mounted their dragons on their own, Maegor suddenly stopped and signaled for Daemon to do the same:

"One more question. When was the last time that the dragons of Leng and Yi Ti were seen in the sky?"

That gave Daemon pause.

"You worry that they will ambush us with their dragons?"

His brother nodded grimly, snapping his fingers unthinkingly near the pommel of his sword. Daemon's head whirled at the implication.

"There has only been news of our dragons gracing the sky once more..." And everyone knew that the dragons of Leng and Yi Ti had gone extinct even before the Valyrian dragons had.

"That still doesn't mean that ours are the only ones."

No, it just meant that any other dragons that had returned to the world had been hidden much better than theirs. Daemon closed his eyes and gave a sigh long enough that his entire chest felt squeezed in.

"... Put that into consideration. We are to proceed with caution."

Maegor nodded resolutely, acting as if he was used to listening to orders. (He was not, he was just tempered enough to understand when they had to put their personal belligerence aside.)

Aunt Daenerys was waiting outside of the tent, looking nervous as she reached out her arms hesitantly toward them. The boys shared another glance, heaved twin sighs, and gave her a goodbye hug before mounting their dragons. Each of them only brought their Kingsguards (Torwyn for Daemon and Ser Loras for Maegor) and two others in their warbands. This was, after all, a mission hanging on speed and discretion.

(That also meant that if incidents were to occur, they barely had enough people to collect their corpses. Neither of them was stupid enough to mention the fact, though. Not in front of their fragile aunt, at least.)

Aenar’s pup rushed over (on his tiny legs) to give each Prince a lick on the back of their hand. Even Maegor allowed it; he must have been missing his own direwolf pup left behind at Castle Black.

Daemon felt like his lungs would burst. Maybe they would, and he would have the honor of being the first Targaryen who died from self-imposed combustion. That would be a novelty. He had considered jumping into Aegarax’s skin to escape the discomfort, but rethought the idea since it was likely that he would return to a dead human body afterward. In the back of his mind, Aegarax was snorting, both at Daemon’s terrible state and his own. The Prince was once more thankful for his Stark blood, because he was quite certain this mad plan wouldn’t have worked at all if he wasn't lodged inside the Cannibal’s brain and forcefully steering him toward it.

Don’t complain. He thought. Shouldn’t you be used to this? This was your favorite technique to snoop around Dragonstone and attack other dragons, no? Since when are you so delicate?

If he could, Aegarax would have growled back in great belligerence, but their current state made it impossible for him to do so. Daemon was pleased. He disliked having to fight with his dragon, even though the Cannibal had always made it exceptionally difficult not to do so.

They were alone, for once. Daemon had decided that he could believe in Torwynd and his warband for a lot of things, but not this. It wasn't a loyalty issue, no, but it was certainly a safety issue. He would allow them to infiltrate their own route, as the barrier seemed to hinder only dragons and those on their backs at that particular moment. If Aegarax had been a more docile and better-behaved bonded, Daemon himself would have chosen that route for himself, as well. As it stood, though, he had to sacrifice his personal safety to ensure that his petulant dragon did his job properly.

How long had they been doing this?

Daemon's lungs and organs really did feel like they would explode at any given moment, and he was thankful he had been cautious enough to tie his arms and legs to Aegarax's back, which was the only reason he hadn't fallen off and drifted headfirst into oblivion. He struggled inside Aegarax’s mind, probing at his dragon to be quicker. Aegarax's lungs might have been able to endure this, but Daemon's were not, and if the dragon didn’t pick up the pace, the beast risked arriving with the corpse of his bonded and an opinionated presence permanently fighting to steal his own body. (Daemon expected that he would feel quite sad if he had to battle his own bonded to possess his body, but if his true shell was dead, he would rather stay with his family in the body of a scaled beast than accept the existence of ashes and dirt.)

Just when Daemon thought that Aegarax would not make it in time, and would let him die just out of childish spite, the dragon resurfaced into the mouth of a cave. He gasped in relief and tried to take as much air into his deprived lungs as possible. This was a cave that the Cannibal (with Daemon inside him) had found after days of painstakingly scouring the coast from miles under the sea. The barrier barred the sky from the South as well, so Daemon had had no choice but to make use of the Cannibal's nasty ability to stay deep under the sea for hours (which had previously made historians doubt his Valyrian descent). It had been a pain looking for a location empty of human settlements. It had been even more of a pain to find the elusive entrance to the underground cities.

During those moons when Maegor was having field days terrorizing the Free Cities army, Daemon had done his research and read about the ruined subterranean cities on the island of Leng, and a plan had begun to be formulated inside his mind. It was not a brilliant plan, aye, due to numerous reasons: How could he be sure that there were underwater entrances to the underground cities? What if they encountered the so-called Old Ones, who had been known for their ruthlessness and deep-seated hatred toward outsiders? The entrance that connected the underground and aboveground cities had been blocked several centuries ago, to a point that even the monsters dwelling within could not break free. What kind of confidence made him believe that the Cannibal could break it? Furthermore, theoretical matters aside, was Daemon built for so much time underwater while Aegarax got them to the underwater entrance? Questions upon questions upon questions.

Still, this was his duty, his mission, and Daemon couldn't think of a better way to enter Leng and smoke out Quaithe - if she was there. He could try to enter the country by himself, without his dragon, but any trip on foot would warrant months to reach anywhere, at the earliest, and he wasn't so delusional as to believe himself invincible enough to apprehend the shadowbinder(s) with his own hands. So aye, Daemon decided to risk it. Aenar and Uncle Bran were waiting for him to do this, after all.

The underground city was, for lack of a better word, enormous. Unlike his expectation of tight spaces, small hallways, and cave-like structures, everything was huge and elaborate enough for even dragons of Aegarax's size to swaddle in with ease. They had been keeping to the edge from the rough navigation Daemon decided on, but they did catch a glimpse of a great hall through the cracks of the stones, and the sight was jarring in its majestic opulence. The space was dark, though, a bit dank, and most definitely a bit dead. Even after hours of adventuring, they hadn't encountered anyone or anything, even with Aegarax's thundering steps. (Dragons didn't understand the concept of discretion, and the Cannibal was prone to swipe his tail upward so that Daemon fell flat on his face whenever he dared to suggest or command such a thing).

The size of the city creeped Daemon out a bit, as it spoke volumes to the size of the creatures that roamed these halls. So he was frankly relieved that they hadn't been unlucky enough to encounter any such things. Had they deserted this place, after the measly humans dared to seal the entrance toward their world? Did that mean that they had moved elsewhere, or had they just been dead due to one plague or another? Or... - and here Daemon had to stop and look nervously around every time the thought struck him (and it did so quite often) - they had entered a deep slumber and were hanging down like bats from the ceilings or holing down like wyrms in the cracks of rocks, and would spring awake any second now to pounce on the audacious intruders. They took extra care to not touch anything nor step anywhere that looked even a tiny bit suspicious. Well, they tried, at least, because, again, dragons.

It took them several hours to reach their destination (Daemon hadn't been able to find any map of the underground ruins during his research, opting to blindly follow his instincts and hope for the best - well, said instincts had never failed him so far), and they still hadn't seen head or tail of any creatures hiding (if any) inside the place. The darkness was icky, of course, but Aegarax's fire was warm and bright enough to dispel any disconcertment, and Daemon was fearless enough to brace through without even a stutter of breath (or he would like to believe so). They found a large entrance at the end of a huge hall, a gigantic boulder blocking its path and the distant (very distant - could only be heard by a dragon straining his ear) sound of wind howling outside. In fact, it was more accurate to describe it as 'a mountain' torn sideways rather than something as simple as 'a boulder'. It was that humongous. Aegarax stopped, a bit angry that something had the audacity to block his way (even if that something had the size of a mountain; such a quarrelsome beast). Daemon hissed back at him inside their shared mind and asked him to stay still.

He did, and Daemon crawled backward from his position on the dragon's head to his back, and started unpacking the heavy barrels of gunpowder that Maegor had procured for them from one of the Free Cities (it seemed that some smugglers in Yi Ti were crazy enough to trade that). It was only in moments like these that the feeling of fondness and appreciation toward his warband started surging up in Daemon's mind. He had spent the last thirteen years of his life never having to do much heavy lifting, and the exertion was distressingly unfamiliar. Daemon tried, nevertheless, and heaved each of them on his shoulder, throwing them at the boulder, before returning to pick up another one. Five barrels of gunpowder and two barrels of oil later (some of them crashed and the contents spilled out all over the place), the area around the boulder stank so badly that Aegarax yelped disgustedly and kept trying to jerk away from them. Only after Daemon had considered the amount to be enough, did he allow Aegarax to backtrack while he poured the two other barrels of oil on the ground till they reached a safe distance away from the blocked entrance. His sums weren't the best (that was more of Aemon's forte), but rough calculation did show that they were far enough away, and there was also a huge wall of stone three times as thick as the Red's Keep wall separating them from any exciting actions about to take place.

Finally, Daemon settled comfortably once more on Aegarax's head. He had half a mind to procrastinate, because plans of these kinds rarely ended as cleanly as they hoped to do, and the worries were making him a bit hesitant. Still, they were underground now, and in just a few hours, the air would sour and they would struggle to breathe. Humans had never been built for life below the ground for a long period of time, after all. So Daemon huffed a quiet sigh, before giving the command to his dragon: "Dracarys."

Aegarax reared back and breathed a long jet of fire down the hall they just retreated from, only stopping once the oil had caught fire and the flame spread like wildfire to the huge boulder by the entrance. Both of them ducked down and hid behind their wall, laying perfectly still and trying to calm down their racing hearts (aye, even the Cannibal had one).

The explosion was, as expected, tremendous. It felt like not only had the blockage of the entrance been blown up, but also the ceiling was rumbling and falling down on their head. Aegarax huffed and turned so that Daemon slipped down from his back to his underbelly. In just a few moments, the prince became something akin to an egg being hidden protectively under his dragon's bulk and enormous wings. That was touching. The Cannibal had never struck him as a sweet and protective kind, and was more like a selfish and possessive git.

After several minutes of deafening noises and crashing blasts, Daemon finally took his hands away from his ears, but Aegarax still hadn't shifted to allow him any glimpse of their surroundings. Distantly, he could hear the alarmed sounds of humans much clearer than before. Though Daemon was sure those people were too far to approach them any time soon, the terror in their timber was horrible enough that the noises reached him regardless. He squirmed, pushing at Aegarax's belly for the beast to let him out, but the dragon did not budge. In fact, it might have been Daemon, but the Cannibal seemed to tense up even more.

Before the prince could express his displeasure, his eyes were caught on something. That something was creepy enough that any displeasure or impatience was blown clear from his mind. The ground beneath them, which had been hard, uneven, and unmoving, suddenly twitched. It was a minor movement, Aegarax must not have felt it. Heck, Daemon could barely feel it himself. But when he looked down on his crossed legs, he realized that the ground was golden. Still rugged and hard, yes, but golden, and monstrously huge. (Half-of-Aegarax's-belly kind of huge). It hadn't glowed before now, which was why neither of them had noticed. It was difficult to determine the full shape from his position, but still... It looked strange. Daemon narrowed his eyes. Was that...? Was that an iris? Was he sitting on an eye?

He was half frozen from disbelief, and when he stared in terror at the gigantic golden eye below him, the iris shifted and that thing stared back.

Daemon could not help it. He yelped, swore, and latched on to Aegarax's belly, screaming inside his mind for him to move move move!

His dragon didn't need to be told twice. The Cannibal sprang up, flinging his body away so fast his head almost hit the ceiling. He coiled tight, though, and veered sideways just in time when something on the ceiling opened its eyes and the golden irises moved owlishly at their movements. Aegarax’s hackles rose on end, and he threw his entire body down the hall, desperately trying to reach the newly cleared entrance where dust and smoke covered the air. All around them, gigantic golden eyes were rapidly opening, staring them down and twisting unnaturally as the rock surface around the eyes rippled and shattered away from their immobile state. All this time, Daemon and Aegarax had been surrounded by those creatures. They hadn’t hidden beneath the cracks of the ground and the walls. They were the ground and the walls.

The world spun, and it took all Daemon had to hold on to his dragon’s belly, his limbs aching as they draped around the scaly surface. Any moment now, and he would likely fall to his death, or something equally horrific, judging from the terrible appearance of the unknown creatures (or was it a creature?) around them. The two of them flung themselves out into the open air just in time for Daemon’s fingers to slip. He gritted his teeth as his left side swung wildly. Daemon jabbed at Aegarax’s mind, making the dragon grimace and hiss back inaudibly. In a second, their thoughts aligned, and the Cannibal rotated downward, his huge body surprisingly fast and agile; at the same time, Daemon dropped his grips and let himself free fall, slamming right into the barely-righted back of his dragon. He probably broke a few ribs, but nothing his youth and basic healing could not fix.

As they gained more height, Daemon had finally recovered himself enough to stare down at the spectacle below. (He still hadn’t been well enough to climb up on Aegarax’s head, so his field of vision was severely limited.) It was indeed a spectacle. The thing that squeezed out of the small entrance was truly one monstrous beast, terrifying in both size and presence. Its skin resembled the rock surface at first, before rippling violently and turning into thick fur dark as night. Then there were its eyes. It must have possessed at least a thousand eyes, all golden, glowing, and freakish in their spiraling irises. It also had many, many maws, all snapping joyously and dripping saliva as torrential as small waterfalls all across its grotesque body. Only after the entire bulk (which was big, much bigger than even Aegarax, who had enough survival instincts to veer far, far away across the sky) had extracted itself from the cavernous entrance of the underground cities, could they pick out its head with the two shining goat horns as large as Gaelithox’s wingspans, and a flat face that resembled an enraged human’s more than any beast’s. Hidden beneath its long black mane were four large paws with stripes like those of tigers - the strange eastern animal that Daemon had only ever seen in books. Beneath its bulk, dozens of monsters that were tiny copies of the creature growled and poured out into the sunlight. The description was ‘tiny’ only in comparison with the giant thing. In fact, each of those tiny copies was the size of a horse, and it took them no time to wet their maws with the blood of the screaming Lengi people trampling on each other on the street.

Horror hadn’t even settled when other strange-looking beasts started making their way into the upper world. Their sizes were not as impressive as the first goat monster, nor were their numbers as overwhelming, but their presence induced no less amount of terror and damage. They were as large and compact as grown dragons, perhaps not Aegarax’s size, but definitely as large as Syrax had been. Two of them looked like tigers, though one had feathered wings and the other had teeth as big and as curved as a mammoth's tusks. The biggest of the three took on a form similar to a giant naked man with no head, six limbs, and four wings; its skin dripping wet oil that never dropped onto the ground. It moved like the giants Daemon had grown up with, but even the prince knew for certain that this was no mere giant.

They ignored Aegarax and its rider, acting as if they didn’t exist at all. In fact, they single-mindedly laid into the people of Leng, exuding deep-seated hatred and vengeful spirits. When Daemon saw with his own eyes the fleshes they swallowed, the blood they spilled, and the roaring carnage they brought in their wake, even the Rogue Prince in him blanched. What had he unleashed upon the world?

Before regret could take root, though, the winged tiger took flight in one smooth movement, twisting its form and flying toward the sky-high castle a great distance away. Only then was Daemon reminded of his main purpose. He gritted his teeth and steered Aegarax to follow the monster almost immediately.

Daemon had never met Stannis Baratheon before, yet for some unholy reasons, he recognized him at first glance. Was it the blue eyes? Was it the hulking bulk that seemed unnaturally drawn and listless? Was it the harshness of the jaws, the stubbornness that was draped over him like a second skin, even when he had no right to flaunt such? (Well, Daemon would have paid to see the look on Borros Baratheon's face when he witnessed his direct descendant whoring himself to a foreign sovereign). The man was half-naked, covered only by a bedsheet, and looked so drained that Daemon had no doubt that he and the Empress of Leng had been responsible for at least a part of that shadow army. The Empress was a bit older than Valerion Targaryen, at least in looks, though she had an exotic beauty that made Daemon's skin crawl. She was also weeping into her open palms, even though the winged tiger's head was severed crudely beneath her feet, and her hands were wet with the blood of the beast before she let the dao sword clatter to the floor. She hadn't even allowed her guards to come in, and her whor* - Stannis Baratheon - had only sat on the bed, looking on blankly as the Empress did everything by herself. She hadn't looked up when Aegarax crashed into her tower, snapping his monstrous head into the hole that the winged tiger had made and letting Daemon slip down onto the ground.

"What have you done?" Her accent was thick and raw. When the Empress whipped her head up to glare at Daemon, her face was streaked with tears but held a creepy expression of half crying and half laughing. She looked crazed and bloodthirsty, enough so that even Aegarax snarled under his breath warningly at Daemon to be careful, and the prince himself had to refrain from backing away.

Daemon was never one to cower, though.

"So you can help the Temple of Light to unleash hell upon the rest of the world, but I cannot release the Old Ones to take their revenge on your homeland?" Technically, he hadn't done it on purpose, but the result was advantageous enough for him that there was no loss in claiming credits.

"Nasty boy," the woman stood up, her dress scandalous yet regal (no surprise there since he did barge in on her chamber, following the winged tiger), though her form was tiny, both in height and in body frame. She might even be smaller than Gael. Her black hair cascaded down to the back of her knees, silky even when a part of it was obviously dried over with blood. "So sure that the Four Perils will not cross the borders and terrorize the rest of your world?"

He noticed that the dao sword was once again in her grip as she rose from the bed. Then she spat something in her own Lengii tongue, and Daemon didn't need to be fluent to understand the feelings behind it. She switched back in one breath, though, and hissed venomously:

"Old Ones, hah? There are eight. Must you awaken these four instead of the other ones?"

It wasn't as if Daemon had purposefully released the monster, so the Empress was overestimating him a bit, believing that he even had the luxury of picking and choosing which to wake and which to leave. It was flattering, really, but he had to pass on that particular war crime. Daemon brandished his own steel and got into a defensive stance.

The Empress smirked, her porcelain face ethereal even with all the twisted eeriness shrouding it. She raised her own blade and sprang at the prince without an ounce of hesitation.

And so they danced.

It took some time, because Daemon needed to gauge the true strength of the lady and to get used to her craftiness. He had fought against female warriors before, of course, but no child of Westeros had the same elusive fighting style as the Empress of Leng. She was like a wraith in human form, and Daemon would have appreciated such a worthy foe, if not for the fact that he was short on time and she was in the way. Stannis Baratheon - or his shell - had stayed still and unseeing on the bed all the while, listless and cold, like a dead body on a string.

"Where is Quaithe?" Daemon gritted out through clenched teeth, holding his sword like a walking stick and trying to hide how affected he actually was from all the fighting. The prince had a few wounds, and a few cracked ribs, but all in all, he was whole enough. He had declined Father's offer of Blackfyre, citing that his Valyrian blade worked just fine, and the King should keep it as a gift for Daemon's fourteenth birthday.

The Empress was kneeling on the floor, half of her face cut open, her left leg somewhere near the door, and her arms crippled. Her face twisted into a smile as she said:

"What makes you think I know?"

Daemon swallowed the urge to spit in her face, as his wound ached and burned. Instead, he only jabbed back:

"With Stannis Baratheon in your bed?"

She looked genuinely surprised that Daemon recognized the man. She didn't know that he had had the pleasure of treating with at least three of the man's ancestors. The blood of the stags - treacherous as it was - was strong. The Empress fell on her back, rolling herself into a tight ball and humming like a maniac:

"Dunno. Gone, gone, gone. Gone with the wind. Gone after witnessing our success with creating her army of shadows."

"Our?"

"Myself, of course, with several male shadowbinders she had brought with her. And when they all got drained in time, she gave me pitiful Stannis. Stannis, with barely any fire left in him, and only enough for me to use him and maintain the final layer of power over the army. The army died, and he died with them." She giggled, even as her life force seemed to be draining out, "Pitiful, pitiful Stannis Baratheon. He was their favorite, you know? Melisandre's and Quaithe's. He reminded Melisandre of her dog, and Quaithe of a time gone by - of a homeland she had left behind."

Daemon decided that it was safe for him to show a tiny bit of weakness, and accepted Aegarax's help by laying his weight on the dragon's proffered head. He continued the conversation:

"So... you and the male shadowbinders are responsible for the shadow army, while the Grand Rite was initiated by Quaithe and the Emperor of Yi Ti? Is that it?"

The Empress did not reply, only rolling over and giving him a wink. He did not feel flattered, though interestingly enough, he did not feel disgusted, either. Daemon ignored her crazy antics, and asked again:

"Why haven't you allowed the guards to barge in to help?"

She snorted then:

"Whose fault is that? The Law is clear: The matters of the Four Perils and the Four Celestials take precedence over everything else. Empresses - Gods or no, are to hold their own while the Imperial Guards are being mobilized to... hm... welcome the Divines."

"Not even one of them can be spared for your protection?" That notion was a bit difficult for him to believe.

"... A squadron of them wouldn't be as much help to me as myself. Why would I let them swarm my personal spaces with their useless hides?"

Which translated to: any warriors of note would have already departed for the underground city and the Old Ones' attack: That, Daemon could understand. He too despised useless fodders hanging about.

Daemon cleared his throat and asked:

"Why?" Why would an Empress of a land so far apart from the world find so much hatred within her heart to join hands with the zealous Temple of Light and Asshai by the Shadow?

The Empress raised an eyebrow at him, even in her position with her back on the floor and her blood marring the marbled surface:

"Why not? The world will get destroyed either way, isn't it the duty of the monarch to secure the best possible position for their empires?"

Something was not adding up. Daemon furrowed his brows and started shifting through every hint, every answer, and everything that he had encountered once he had set foot into this palace. As realization dawned on him, the prince smiled, teeth pulled back and eyes crinkled.

"Lies. You are a shadowbinder first, then you won the War for Succession and became the Empress. You are doing this because you are more shadowbinder than monarch, and the blind loyalty of the Lengii people toward their God-Empress has allowed you to do as you please."

A beat of silence settled on them before the Empress turned her face toward the ceilings and giggled:

"Give the boy a prize! How astute. I'm jealous of your parents. It must have been a joy siring such interesting children."

Daemon humored her with a cheeky smile of his own:

"And who exactly am I talking to now? The shadowbinder? The God-Empress? Or the winged tiger that had slipped under her skin?"

Just that, and the smile was smothered on the woman's face. The unnatural edge remained, but the fake insanity was wiped clear from her every move. When she spoke, her voice was rattling, as if several voices were overlapping with each other to deliver the message:

"Too astute. Moderation is good, but anything coming in overabundance is poised to spill. Haven't your parents ever taught you that, youngun?"

Daemon had to let slip a rueful smile.

"Well, thanks for the high regards, but my family isn't the philosophical sort."

The Empress sat up gingerly, her neck twisting into a strange angle, as her wounds started to close. She caught his eyes with her golden ones (newly golden - Daemon was pretty certain they had been black before) and smiled.

"Unafraid, aren't you? What did they feed you children in the West? To foster such... fascinating personality?"

Daemon smiled.

"Are you something worthy of fear?"

The Empress's eyes flashed, and her teeth snapped almost dangerously.

"Careful. Or you might meet the true Empress’s fate."

Aegarax twisted his head further into the chamber, growling low and menacingly under his breath. He hadn't seemed to care all that much when Daemon was fighting the woman using weapons. Still, the dragon drew a line at magical creatures threatening his bonded with unnatural power. The Empress's teeth pulled back, but she didn't look ready to attack. She must have realized that Daemon had his reasons to not be afraid. In order to steal the prince's body, she would be fighting one to two - and one of these two wasn't so easily trifled with, even to an ancient creature such as her.

In the end, the woman huffed annoyedly and waved her hand dismissively:

"Fine. Leave, then. We are not so ungrateful as to harm someone who frees us from our thousand-year imprisonment." She turned away from him to pick up another outer robe, confident enough to present her back to him. "Turn a blind eye to whatever happens here, and we promise we will not set foot outside the border of Leng and Yi Ti."

Now that Daemon thought about it. The Empress losing to him and divulging information so willingly was probably because she wished him to leave as soon as he had what he needed. Daemon closed his eyes. He needed a lot of things, she had just been able to deduce one of them.

"Are you Old Ones on the same side as the Lord of Light?"

The Empress snorted a laugh - short and incredulous.

"We don't mingle with foreign deities, mortal. We don't mingle with anything foreign."

Her pointed look cued Daemon in clear enough that she was referring to himself and Aegarax, and they should really pack up and go away before her patience ran thin. He wanted to leave, too, but not before the last few questions.

"So you decide to live on in this body? To rule over Leng for a lifetime uncontested? What will happen after that body is dead and shriveled? A human's lifespan is only a few dozen years."

She swatted the drooling body of Stannis, making it fall lifelessly onto the mattress, and chuckled.

"Curious little thing, aren't you? Well, not so. Did they not call her 'God-Empress'? Let me humor them with a ruler living a few hundred years before I take over her successor. Humans' bodies are fragile, so even with my magic, it will only be able to stay pristine for a few centuries, at best."

Daemon was not done, though.

"And when you get bored enough, you can always return to your true form and take flight?"

She was sitting down on the bed now, a dark eyebrow quirked up almost teasingly.

"...No? Once we have decided to take over a human's body, we will have to go through humans' bodies till our souls give out."

Daemon feigned disbelief.

"Your kind can die?"

She seemed amused at his reactions, stretching her teeth into an animalistic smile:

"Not in the same way you humans do, nor the way that thing-" And here she jerked her head disgustedly toward Aegarax, who snarled right back at the disrespect, "-does. Even if our souls shrivel and die, another Qiong Qi will be reborn in the city beneath the ground. It would still be us, just without the memories of the predecessor."

"... Fascinating. Is it the same as all the other Old Ones?"

She shrugged, uncaring that she might be disclosing important secrets.

"The Eight of us - us Four and the other ones, are ideas more than any true existence. Ideas live on - while the flesh and even the soul can not."

Daemon breathed a long sigh, half relieved and half resigned.

"So you cannot be sacrificed for any magical ceremony?"

The Empress cackled so loud that he had to wince.

"I knew it! Greedy boy, you even thought of cutting off mine own head to be a sacrifice for whatever heathen ceremony you have!"

Just as fast as the laugh had started, it stopped, and before either Daemon or Aegarax could catch the movement, the Empress was already right in front of them, eyes turning into golden slits and claws (why did Eastern women wear their nails so long?) poised at Daemon's eyes. The Cannibals roared, but before he could twist his head over to snap the woman's head off, her other hand had already gone clear into Daemon's chest cavity. It was a strange sensation. There wasn't any external hole in his body, but the unwelcome presence of her appendage still appeared within his body. What kind of magic was this? He barely had time to contemplate it, though, as pain bloomed inside his chest, and there was a slimy feeling of something squeezing his heart with taunting fingers. Daemon stood still, very still, while his head throbbed dazedly at the spasms.

For one strange instance, Daemon could feel himself disassociate from reality. He could feel and hear everything all at once, and sensations almost seemed to arrive through a thin film of haziness. Distantly, the voice of the Empress was no longer rattling, but clear and bell-like, the same way it had been before Daemon called her out on it. She tutted at Aegarax in High Valyrian.

"No, no, beastly. One wrong move and I might accidentally squeeze my hand. What will become of your dragonlord, then?"

Aegarax stilled, Daemon was pretty certain he had never been so still in his life, and a part of him was touched by the gesture. He didn't have much time to be sentimental, though, as the Empress's face got so close to his that their foreheads and noses were touching each other. Even now, she did not smell like a beast or a monster. She smelt sweet, and if Daemon had been a few years older, his body would have reacted. He should thank the Fourteen Flames, then, for letting him meet this thing before he became a man grown; it had effectively saved his dignity. The woman smiled, her breath cool and her golden eyes crinkled.

"You should have left when you had the chance. Why do humans always get so greedy?"

He didn't answer, didn't even have the chance to, as her fingernails raked along the inside of his ribcage. She wasn't expecting any response, apparently.

"In answer to your impudent curiosity, boy, I lied."

She was smiling as she moved her head back to look at Daemon's entire face, her hand squeezing inside his chest warningly.

"Can you guess which part?" She squeezed harder, and Daemon felt his body seize with shock, "Answer!"

"... You lied about letting me go. You would have orchestrated other things even if I hadn't overstepped. You are confident that the Old One with all those eyes can devour my Aegarax so that you can neutralize me, in the end."

The Empress gave him another wink, before saying:

"Just one? You flattered me so."

Daemon blinked, feeling his teeth ache from all the gritting. He endured, though. This much was nothing compared to what Aenar had gone through. He sniffed a bit when he realized that the woman was still waiting for his response (Was she expecting him to wail or beg? Who did she think he was?). Then, he opened his mouth to prompt her to come closer. When her ears were right by his lips, he whispered, a smile breaking out in spite of himself:

"You lied about not being able to re-enter your tiger body anymore."

A crunching sound interrupted them, and the Empress whirled around to see Aegarax's head pouncing on the 'dead' tiger body on the floor behind them, his jaws snapping smoothly over the upper half of the 'corpse'. It took half a second, the Cannibal didn't bother chewing before he swallowed the ball of fur and flesh. Before her roar of anger could be unleashed, Daemon's sword (clammy with the sweats of his previous anxiety) had already severed her wrist from her arm. At once, the pressure on his heart eased, the Empress's severed hand disappeared into thin air, and the prince's blade pierced straight through her chin, the tip speared out from the top of her head. As her golden eyes rolled to the back of her head and her limbs slackened, Daemon held the prone body as it fell down.

He looked to the chamber door, which had just been opened, letting in a small, terrified girl with black hair matted with sweat and large dark eyes that greatly resembled the unconscious Empress. Daemon asked, his voice rougher than he thought it would be.

"Was that enough? You said that a blow to the head with that liquid on my sword would render the tiger senseless for three days. Is it the same when he is inside this human's body?"

The girl looked around eight or ten, at most, seemingly no more composed than when she had thrown rocks at Aegarax's head and begged for Daemon's help. Back then, he had been flying above the lower structure of the palace, a few minutes away from arriving at the grand tower with a hole that the winged tiger had made, and she was bundled up on the back of a horse, escorted by three Lengii horsem*n armed to the teeth. When Aegarax and Daemon swooped low, if only to see the face of the person daring to throw rocks at them, she had dismounted and bowed low, begging for their help to ensure that the line of succession wouldn't be marred by a belligerent Old Ones. She had shared a few secrets, had lent him a small bottle of holy water, and had promised to stay inside the tower awaiting his success, instead of running away and hiding from the Old Ones. Technically, she had begged him to kill the tiger and save her mother. She just hadn’t known that her mother was now the tiger, and Daemon wondered if he would need to brace himself in front of an onslaught from a grieving little girl.

It seemed that the worry was unfounded, and the girl was smarter and more rational than he thought. As she entered the devastated chamber, she only needed a few short moments to compose herself. At first, she stared owlishly at the corpse of the Empress, tears rolling down her cheeks, and her hands trembling slightly. The little girl wiped her tears away with the back of her hand and straightened up resolutely. She took in a deep breath, before curtsying in that strange Eastern way. She also sprouted a long, complicated speech in Lengii, which Daemon was pretty certain had been an expression of gratitude.

Before he could reply, though, Aegarax looked up from his claws, which he had taken to lick after finishing his meal (the rest of the winged tiger's body), and snorted warningly at something outside the window on the other side of the chamber. Heat blasted at his face, and Daemon followed his dragon's gaze to see a gigantic red bird made of flame and golden crowns. He tensed again - another Old One?

The girl held up an arm when both the boy and the dragon seemed ready to attack. She pivoted on her feet, and once more curtsied at the giant bird. They stared at each other for a good long while in silence, the iris of the beast was bigger than her entire form. In the end, the little girl lowered her head in deference, before turning back and - presumably - translating what had been imparted:

"The Lady Phoenix extended her gratitude for your assistance in freeing her and her kin. To repay you, she and the other Six will allow you to take the body of the late Empress - with Lord Qiong Qi inside - away. She assures that this body and the soul inside it are equivalent, and that it is exactly what you are looking for. Lord Qiong Qi deserved a little punishment for overreaching himself anyway."

She took a gulping breath after the long sentences, before resuming in an apologetic tone.

"She... also warned you to never return. Neither you nor any of your kind are welcome in Leng and Yi Ti. There was a reason why the barrier was erected in the first place. It is barring you from entering as much as barring the Old Ones from branching out. It's for our good, but it's for yours, too. Some magics should never mingle." She blinked, "And none of the Eight will ever forgive the Lengii and Yi Tish for allowing the magic of the Light God to take root in their absence."

The phoenix growled, and the little girl turned scarlet:

"I wasn't supposed to tell you that."

"Is it true that she could come back even after being sacrificed?" asked Daemon after a small pause.

"No. If the people of Leng and Yi Ti wished for unrest enough, a new Qiong Qi might be born, but that one will be a separate creature from the old one, a separate soul and memory, too."

"Is there any ounce of truth to the words that had come out of her mouth?"

The girl shrugged.

"Such was the nature of Qiong Qi. There was little he hated more than truths and reasons. He couldn't help it."

Daemon knew when he outstayed his welcome, and he needed to bring the unconscious body back to Aenar's River as soon as possible, as well. So he clambered up to tie the late Empress to the saddle, the girl hesitated for a moment before assisting him from the ground. When he didn't notice, the phoenix had soared away, and only the senseless Stannis, the young girl, Aegarax, and himself were in the chamber. Daemon scowled at the Baratheon, before picking up his crossbow and freeing him from his misery. Neither Stannis nor the girl flinched at the sound of an arrow tearing into flesh and the sound of a body dropping bonelessly onto the bed. He didn’t need to say anything for the girl to promise almost matter-of-factly.

“We will take care of the body. Don’t worry.”

Before kicking off into the night, he bid farewell with a diplomatic smile.

"...Well, dragons aside, can I expect better trade and economic relations between Leng and Westeros in the future?"

Her small face scrunched up a tiny bit.

"I cannot promise anything, it will depend a lot on what the Old Ones will think."

Daemon shrugged.

"At least I tried."

Then Aegarax extricated himself from the hole in the Empress’s chamber. The two of them returned to the sky, leaving behind the lands of beasts and monsters.

Ser Bran Stark was scandalized when Daemon brought back a half-naked, beaten-up God-Empress of Leng; and Maegor brought back Shiera Seastar with none of her limbs and no tongue in a sack - basically a crazed human with only a head and marginally operating torso. ("Civilized! You two are supposed to be civilized, my princes!" - "... We are. We just aren't strong enough to bring them back whole." - "Yeah. Shouldn't you pity us instead?")

In the end, the knight had only stared at the sky beseechingly, before heaving a sigh long enough that it almost made the two princes feel bad. Queen Daenerys hadn't cared all that much about the sacrifice, having only asked after the boys' health and questioning them about their adventures. She had just returned from the Free Cities; having spent a lot of time organizing her army to march back and forcing several concessions out of the Magisters in the aftermath of their resounding loss. She looked tired, and her eyes still glazed over every time they strayed in the direction of Aenar's frozen body, but she seemed awake enough, and much more determined as she inspected the two women brought back by her grandnephews.

The four of them were the only ones there, all warbands and nannies had marched back alongside the Queen’s army. Something was best kept private. They sat around and talked while Uncle Bran stirred his giant pot. Since Aenar had turned into a river, it would be better if the sacrifice was delivered in a liquid form. So the knight had procured a gigantic pot, ground the weirwood branches delivered to him by both Naerys - who had to return now to help father clean up - and Aunt Daenerys, mixed it with the small dose of weirwood paste he still kept from Valerion's visit with the Children of the Forest. Once it was boiled properly, they would throw both sacrifices in and wait a few hours for their flesh and bones to melt. Then, they would empty the contents of the pot into the middle of Aenar's river. Those were the steps, at least, Ser Bran did say that they had to be ready for any surprise that might spring up in the middle of it. Aegarax, Drogon, and Temeraire took turns guarding their two sacrifices while the family convened around the campfire.

Daemon went first. He was careful in keeping his story sweet and succinct. (It had been sweet, really, compared to what had happened at the Wall after he left, or what had most likely happened to Maegor in Yi Ti - judging from the wound on his shoulder and the way Temeraire tensed up at every sound and movement.) Still, everyone seemed very distressed after hearing it, and Aunt Dany looked as if she would reach out to check on him once more, if not for Daemon's warning glare leveling at her. He was entirely too old for any such coddlings. Ser Bran had that interested look in his eyes, and the Prince was sure that the adventurer inside him would have loved to open the God-Empress up (a figure of speech) and do thorough research on her to find out the secrets of the Old Ones. Still, even the crazed scholar inside the sorcerer knew the order of things. Aenar came first, and anything else should just be side thoughts. Maegor didn't have as many reactions as the two adults. He had only mused quietly:

"So you are the one who let them out."

That perked Daemon up:

"Why? Have they gone to Yi Ti, too?"

"Aye. One giant black tortoise, one Celestial dragon with large green stripes, and one headless, obese piece of meat with six limbs and four wings."

"Well, the one who sealed them up was a God-Emperor, after all," said Daemon, slurping his soup. "I trust that the trip went well? What's with the wound?"

As they had expected, Celestial dragons were sacred to both Leng and Yi Ti. In fact, it could not really be determined whether Temeraire had been descended from dragons of Leng or of Yi Ti, since the two countries were so close that they used to exchange Celestial eggs as imperial gifts to strengthen their bonds every few decades. Before the eggs refused to hatch (some five hundred years ago, two centuries earlier than the Valyrians’ eggs), Celestials had been companions of both God-Emperors and God-Empresses, growing up alongside them and providing protection to the Imperial family against the Old Ones, and against external threats once the Old Ones had been buried underneath the ground.

As a result, not only had Maegor entered the Yi Tish border with ease, but the reception given to him had been enthusiastic. Peasants kneeled down below him all the way from the border to the capital city of Yin. Even nobles and the God-Emperor showed a healthy amount of deference, and welcomed him with politeness and great fanfare. The current God Emperor - Bu Gai - was well into his middle years, and had even jovially offered to adopt Maegor into his family, as long as Temeraire could still be registered on the family tree of the imperial household. His face entirely had changed, though, when the prince had ignored his offer (and that was character development right there; Daemon could not imagine the old Maegor staying his hand from spilling blood after such a blatant insult to his Valyrian bloodline), and had requested the presence of all his sons and daughters for him to inspect. That had been a reasonable move. Judging from Quaithe's preferences, it had been more likely that she would be hidden among the daughters and in-laws of the Emperor than any of his concubines. The Yi Tishes were even more misogynistic than Westeros, so Maegor had great doubts that the Emperor would have elevated her to any position of great power in front of that dramatic court.

His reasoning had been fine, but he had underestimated the speed with which the Yi Tishes could change their colors. One moment, they had been all sitting around him, sending greasy smiles and ingratiating gestures. The next moment, swords had been brandished and their faces had become masks of murderous intents. That had been when he had gained that flesh wound, as he had dodged from a blow to the heart and had drawn his own blades to…

And here Ser Bran Stark decided to interrupt Maegor:

“I beg your pardon, my prince, but please tell me that you did not kill him.” He raised a placating hand when Aunt Dany made to reprimand him, “It is of no matter if you murder the whole of his court, they must have deserved it. But please, please tell me that you did not kill the God-Emperor with your own hands.” He looked so beseeching that Daemon felt pity welling up a bit.

Maegor must have felt something similar enough because he said patiently:

“Alright, I did not kill him.”

The smile was only breaking out halfway across their uncle’s face when Maegor finished the rest of his point:

“Temeraire did.”

It was almost hilarious to see the ease with which the smile slipped off Ser Bran Stark's face. Daemon cut in to save him from saying something that could cross Maegor's line. The boy was much better now than during his sulking period years ago, but he had never been very forgiving and easygoing in the first place.

"That was the correct decision, Uncle. Maegor cutting off his head would be a declaration of war from a foreign prince. However, Temeraire eating him whole would be the judgment of the higher power. Didn’t you hear Maegor saying how they groveled at his mere presence?"

That gave his brother the hint to continue to defend himself - though judging from Maegor's face, he might be feeling distasteful for ever having to defend himself against anyone.

"... Aye, the nobles were hysterical, but the peasants crowding the street to catch glances of Temeraire had been ecstatic. They cheered very loudly, and called it 'divine punishment'."

"Must have been a pretty hated God-Emperor," Daemon commented offhandedly, "I'm pleased to hear that. So the smallfolk are the same everywhere, always baying for blood, with little care for whose."

Maegor shrugged.

"Aye, the Celestial and the turtle helped."

It seemed that the reception of Maegor's heavy hand with the Emperor and his Imperial court had been mixed - even with the zealous worship of Temeraire. Just when the prince had been debating the next step, Temeraire swirled his head up at the arrival of another Celestial dragon - bigger than him, though not by a lot, a gigantic turtle, and a strange headless creature with four wings and six limbs. If possible, the peasant went into even more of a frenzy, groveling and worshiping and breaking down into tears. The fourth imperial prince had been chosen to convey their thoughts, and the Crown Prince and the rest of the princes had looked murderous at the decision. It didn't take any time for Maegor to realize that the choice hadn't just been to be the translator of the Divine, but also the choice of monarch replacing the God-Emperor that had just been chewed up by Temeraire.

The Divine - through the lips of the fourth prince, had declared Maegor and Temeraire absolved of any slights - perceived or true, and that they were to be considered members of the imperial family, with standings only second to the new God-Emperor. They had also decreed that the shadowbinder must be escorted to them at once, both for the Divine to punish them for the crime of spreading false gods' scriptures in their land and for Temeraire and Maegor to bring the leftover back for whatever sacrificial ceremony they deemed fit.

Bran Stark breathed a sigh of relief when he heard that Maegor wasn't the one who had mutilated Quaithe. Daemon decided to jab his elbow at his brother when he mumbled something akin to 'not for lack of trying'. He wanted to let their fainthearted uncle have his moment. Just like before, though, any relief quickly evaporated as Maegor continued his tale.

Maegor hadn't gotten the chance to touch Quaithe before bringing her here, but he was allowed the chance to tear her partner - the Crown Prince - into pieces. The Old Ones led him toward the household of the Crown Prince, letting him see firsthand how the Grand Rite had been started, before helping him destroy the thing to the root. The entire palace of the Crown Prince had been rendered to dust, after all, with the joined Divine Wind of both Temeraire and that black-green Celestial.

"What kind of difference in treatment is this?" This time, it was Daemon being outraged, "I am the one who freed them, and they gave me one measly boon, before treating me like I had the pox. Let me take an educated guess, they even told you to return to Yi Ti any time you wished in the future, right?"

Maegor only looked amused, nodding and smirking a bit.

"They are prejudiced towards outsiders, don't you already know that? I'm only an exception because Temeraire is family, and I am his partner. That Celestial Dragon calling himself an Old One is Temeraire's father. My boy's egg was from the fourth or fifth clutch he had."

They would have continued to bicker, if not for the bubbling sound coming out of the giant pot. Bran Stark stood up and gestured for them to help him carry the sacrifices over. It wasn't much work, really, one was sleeping like the dead, and the other was mute and lacking all its limbs. Even so, Quaithe twisted her torso as violently as she could manage, trying to get away from Maegor's grip. Aunt Dany even had to look away. In the end, both sacrifices were thrown into the boiling pot with unceremonious 'splosh' sounds.

There really was magic mixed into the liquid inside the pot, since both of their flesh got melted off almost in minutes, leaving behind clattered ribs and bones, and the heady smell of cooked meat. Everyone knew what kind of meat had just been cooked, though, so no one was in any mood to return to their meal. Queen Daenerys's face turned gray and she looked halfway through vomiting, but she endured it by clenching her teeth tight and balling her hands into fists. She paused when she felt everyone's eyes on her and scowled a tiny bit as she gestured for Ser Bran to focus on his own task.

A few moments later, they pushed the pot so that its contents fell into the water. Aunt Dany intended to wade to where Aenar's corpse was, but the Kingsguard advised her against it. They didn't really know what the water would do during the transition period, and he didn't really fancy saving a prince only for the queen to turn into a colorful ostrich in the process. It came as no surprise that Daenerys was most offended by the idea, mumbling disgustedly about how she would definitely have turned into a more impressive animal than a huge bird that cannot fly. ("...An elephant, then?" - "Finish saving my boy, then we will talk. Where do you find that baseless confidence, I wonder?" - "Threatening to feed me to your dragon again, Your Grace? It is getting old of late.")

The two adults finished their bickering at the same moment the pot was emptied. Uncle Bran pushed everyone a few steps behind him, and they all stared unblinkingly at the water, waiting with bated breath. Whatever they had expected, what ensued was several times less ceremonious. There was no light, no sparkling magic, and no change in the air. The water turned a darker shade of silver - the same as the color of the sap - and the color spread quickly to the entire stream, dimming its glow and turning it murky in a way. Then, there was a crack, and the four of them held on to each other as the vibration traveled across the earth, only to subside abruptly and unceremoniously. They were still keeping still and holding their breaths, the dragons peeling their eyes open to stare interestedly at the river.

One second of absolute silence, two, three, ten, then they heard a gasp, and no one could hold anyone back as all three of them (and Ser Bran stumbling just steps behind) threw themselves into the river in their quest to reach Aenar. Daemon didn't even care that he might turn into an ostrich. He just needed to... He just needed to make sure, that was all. Knowing that it might work was entirely different than actually seeing Aenar open his eyes again, smile stupidly again, and make a giant moron of himself again.

They crowded around him, and they made him squint in discomfort at the sudden appearance of three concerned faces (Aunt Dany was even crying) blocking his sight from the sky. And still, in true Aenar's fashion, he gave a confused and throaty laugh:

"Aw, come on. I missed you, too."

(They probably broke a few of his ribs - and a few of theirs - during their awkward squeezing of each other, but none of them seemed to care all that much.)

Chapter 18: INTERLUDE: THE GREAT WAR & ITS AFTERMATH

Chapter Text

311 AC was a year of great turmoil. The newly reinstated Targaryen reign entered its second decade. The Great War of Gods and Monsters that the royal family had so painstakingly prepared for years had finally broken out in full-swing. The War had been fought, and the War had been won. Trade had been re-established - with a whole lot of different terms - with both the Free Cities and the distant Empires of Yi Ti and Leng. By the end of it, the Faith announced its renewal of the Faith Militants, with the support of the King and many Lords Paramount, to the shock of the rest of the Kingdom.

And yet, 311 AC and 312 AC were also deemed the ‘murky years’. There were a lot of obscurities within the documentation of many events and occurrences. Some mythical accounts of said events were put forth, evaluated, and refused. Several retellings contrasted with each other, and the main characters of said occurrences had not confirmed the truth, and most of them were of too high a standing or too eccentric of temperament for scholars to dare probe too far.

And so, the chronicles composed for history books and for the general public were only a list of succinct facts that might or might not have any relation to each other, or to the change in any grand scheme of things.

It was a fact that men won the Great War up North. It was a resounding victory, too, as the participating army would like to gush about in taverns. In all known history of the Seven Kingdoms, there had never been a larger army that had been mobilized, that had been so united and so successful in its war efforts without breaking into squabbling skirmishes. Not before the War, not during the battles, and not even after the victory. Was it a testament to King Valerion’s leadership? Or was it a blatant proof of the grave danger their enemies posed? Or, was it just luck that Men had finally gotten on the good side of the Gods for once? Probably all three - that was the conclusion historians came to. Humans lived in an extraordinary time, and so the specialness that people had to offer also shone tenfold.

It was a fact that the Wall had been broken at one point, and that it had been mended within a day, before most people had been able to realize it. The ‘how’ and the ‘who’ of the restoration of the Wall was a point of contention amongst witnesses and Maesters alike. Most people present at Eastwatch-by-the-sea affirmed that it was the Queen and her dragon. Some people claimed that it was the distant magic of the Great Sorcerer Ser Bran Stark all the way from the Shadow Tower. Some suggested that it was the King when he speared through the Night’s King with his Valyrian sword. The chronological order of things was out of joint, but none of the aforementioned heroes had deemed fit to take credit for the deed, so historians could only record speculations.

It was a fact that the Night’s King turned into shattered ice blocks under the blade of King Valerion Targaryen. The accounts of how long their fight had been going on were not very clear, though. The explanation for the sudden retreat of the army of the dead was murky, too. Witnesses just confirmed that their King was fighting bravely, and then, out of nowhere, wights fell over dead, and the Night’s King led his remaining Other to retreat from the Wall, only for the White Walker to fall dead on his feet and for the Night’s King to be destroyed by King Valerion Targaryen.

It was a fact that Prince Maegor emerged from the Wall with more scars than his small face would be able to accommodate. It was another fact that the Queen returned to King’s Landing short of a dragon, a temper, and a voice. She was healthy after the recovery period, but the loss of her dragon made her even colder, quieter, and more distant. Her family showered her with care and love, and she tried to reciprocate, in her own way. Still, the involuntary detachment remained, and she fully retired from high society, opting to leave all decision-making and social maneuvering to the First Princess. At one point, only family members could seek an audience with her. No one dared to question her condition though, and whispers of negative undertones were squashed under the dainty feet of Princess Gael, who survived the War with her confidence bolstered and her sharpness honed into fine blades.

It was a fact that important people died during that year, both in the War and outside of it. The War saw the demise of Lady Brienne of Tarth, Ser Jaime Lannister, Ser Dorren Umber (the third son of Lord Greatjon Umber), and Ser Allister Thorne, amongst a few notable others. Of the Westerlands, the entire line of Banefort was wiped out, House Doggett lost two sons, and Josmyn Peckledon was found amongst the dead of the Shadow Tower. The Riverlands emerged with nearly no named deaths, though Lord Karyl Vance and his daughter Emphyria had been publicly censured, and the girl was sent to become a Septa at the end of the war. There were a few other names that come up as dead, but none important enough to warrant a longer description within the tomes of the maesters. In hindsight, that casualty list was much shorter than what one would have expected from a war of that magnitude, so even scholars and maesters had to give credit to the dragons and the royal household for a job incredibly well done.

Still, there were a few lords who passed away on their deathbeds during that year. First, it was Brynden Tully, who had only passed his sixty-eighth name days, but had been suffering from an old wound sustained during the War of the Five Kings. He had held on well, enduring the pain for more than a decade before succumbing to death. It was because of said wound that the Tully's representative on the Wall was a skittish ten-year-old heir - Benedict Tully, whose military prowess was barely of note, but was brave enough to take a flesh wound in his effort to protect Prince Aemon Targaryen. Then, a few months later, news came of the passing of Lord Mace Tyrell, who died from a bad bladder. ("Didn't he just eat too much?" - "Aye, and often enough, that can result in a bunch of different illnesses, he was just lucky his mother was around to scold him properly from any excess." - "So... without her, he ate himself to death?" - "Effectively, yes."). His son Willas took over smoothly and without much drama, and the Tyrells organized a modest ceremony in deference to the sacrifices of the soldiers during the Great War.

In the last few days of the year, there was a national funeral and weeks of mourning as Maester Aemon Targaryen passed away peacefully on his bed. He had lived to his one-hundred-and-thirteenth years (an impossible age - according to some). He had been able to fly on dragons (once or twice, with an entourage of caretakers and great-grandkids worrying for his heart all the while), protect his blood in his own way, see prophecies come alive, and close his eyes while being surrounded by generations of family members. He had lived a long life, a tumultuous life, a fulfilling life. When tears were shed and cries were heard on the streets and all across the Crownland, rarely any of them were theatrics. With the passing of the last Targaryen of the second century, once again it felt like another chapter of the House of the Dragon had reached its final page. With the end of the War and the death of Maester Aemon, there was great anticipation rising for a new era of dragonlords, of warg lords up North, and of an Empire burgeoning in the East bearing the flag of Westerosi dragonlords.

It was a fact that they won the Great War in the East. As the Khalasar would like to boast to anyone with half an ear to listen, they had pulverized the ash army after weeks of epic battles. A sudden earthquake had been recorded, and the whole continent of Essos had been torn asunder by a strange, glorious river with silvery water that turned torrential and as heavy as lead the moment anyone wished to cross. The entire Eastern side of the continent had turned into a wasteland whose soil sizzled with the waves of lava mixed precariously with seawater. On that side of the river, only Leng and Yi Ti were reported to have survived, and only because they had a physical wall as high as the sky and the waves of lava were much lower in aptitude within that vicinity.

It was a fact that the Prince of Dragonstone and the Prince of Harrenhal had flown East in the middle of the battles on the Wall, resulting in the remarkable victory in the Red Waste, and the halt of the unnatural sea of flame encroaching on the human's realm. It was another fact that all four dragons in the Eastern Front of the Great War had disappeared together at one point, and a few months after the War ended, Blackwater Bay welcomed the ships carrying the delegations from both Leng and Yi Ti. King's Landing was hectic, the headcount had just been finished, funerals of note had been attended, and people were rushing to and fro trying to resume their ordinary lives, and yet, the presence of the ambassadors from the forever-elusive empires was still historic enough to snare the attention of everyone within Westeros, be they highborn or lowborn. It astonished people further when the Ambassador of Leng bowed her head respectfully towards Prince Daemon first before curtsying in front of the King. Some lords were probably on the verge of hyperventilating when the delegate of Yi Ti prostrated in front of Prince Maegor and his dragon. People started realizing that the princes had been enterprising during their time in the East, re-establishing trade and relations with the two elusive empires. Their conditions were a pain, true, for all Westerosi ships could only be disembarked on the soil of Yi Ti, and all goods coming to and from Leng would have to go through Yi Ti. However, compared to previous years, when no contact could be made with the Empire of Leng, and any relations with Yi Ti were feeble at best, this was already a vast improvement.

It was a fact that Prince Aenar survived the Great War but returned without his dragon by his side. No one knew what had become of the second largest dragon in the world: no funeral was held (similarly to the Queen's beast), and no explanation was given. There were speculations, of course, each more outlandish than the last. The King commanded Grand Maester Tarly to compose a detailed chronicle of the Great War, with accounts taken from all royal family members. However, the record was stored privately inside the royal vault - and had been established to be a well-kept secret that only the Targaryens and the Starks could be privy to. King Valerion Targaryen didn't go out of his way to hide the information, forbid gossip, or control the rumor mills, but he didn't have the time to sit down for the maesters to probe him for a more comprehensive memoir. The Queen, the princes, and the princesses were, of course, off-limit. Queen Daenerys, too, had turned and given the scholars such a scorching glare after the impudent requests that even the representatives of the Citadel knew to back off.

That wasn't to say that people didn't talk regardless, or regale each other with the tales of their own imagination. The Targaryens had lost two dragons, and suddenly, the Wall that had been broken was mended, and the continent of Essos had been broken into two, divided by a river that had appeared out of nowhere? Aye, the speculation was far-fetched, and the historians had refused to put such theories into writing, fearing the implications of what that could bring. They were living in the Realm of Men. They had had to endure so much just to accept the existence of the beasts and monsters walking amongst them (why, Gods ought to be much higher up, after all), to fully register that Giants existed, direwolves roamed the land, the dead could rise, and a sea of flame was no longer whispers before bed to scare children. And yet, now, they were also asked to believe that dragons could mend the Wall? That they could turn into rivers that shattered continents? What would that say of House Targaryens? They were godly enough when they were only riding gigantic lizards and raising giant wolves. If their beasts could perform magic of such precision and magnitude as well... The sensibilities of the Seven couldn't allow them to comprehend such a thing, and so they did not.

(Mayhaps, just mayhaps, that was the reason why the King had refused to make official statements and accounts of the War. He might have deemed it an impossible task to impart the knowledge without neverending objections and questions from the Faith. He had never seemed the type to have enough patience for futile debates.)

The Faith seemed to have found the perfect timing to once more sink their claws into the meat of the political landscape. The Targaryens had just lost two dragons (there were whispers of left-behind eggs from the two Ice Dragons, but no one had seen the head or tail of any such things). Their Queen was not at her full strength, there were even rumors of estrangement between the royal couple. Their other Queen had sequestered the Third Prince away in the far South, making clear that the boy would not get out of her sight anytime soon, and their visits to Westeros dwindled, with markedly less frequency than before the Great War. The reactions of the delegations from Yi Ti and Leng meant that the second prince had a fighting chance of his own, and that the possibility of driving a wedge between the first two princes wasn’t non-existent. In a way, House Targaryen was exposing more weaknesses than they had in all ten years since the re-establishment of their dynasty. So the Faith plotted and announced the restoration of the Faith Militant, and prepared joyously for the Prince of Harrenhal to fall within their comforting grasp.

That had proven to be their undoing, though, as the next thirteen years became the worst era of their long existence. The very foundation of the Faith would be questioned, and men of the cloth would rue the day they had decided to accept Maegor Targaryen into their midst.

With the loss of Lady Brienne during the Great War, the White Book once more noted down a new list of Kingsguards during the reign of King Valerion Targaryen:

Arthur Dayne - Lord Commander

Bran Stark

Loras Tyrell

Alyn Blackwood

Lyra Mormont

Torwynd Tormundsson

Podrick Payne

There weren't any changes in the Small Council, though nastier people did count their breaths while waiting for Lord Howland Reed to either die or retire, and the nastiest people were said to even erect private altars inside their houses to wish for Tyrion Lannister's timely demise. Neither of those people got their wishes answered, even though Lord Tyrion did contract a mild case of chest congestion every now and then after the birth of his twins.

311 AC also officially introduced the lists of companions to the Princes and Princesses of the blood. The Heir to the Iron Throne started being accompanied everywhere by Harald Thenn (the Heir of Karhold), Alaric Stark (the second son of Winterfell), and Monfryd Dondarrion (the Lord of Blackhaven). The Prince of Harrenhal entered the Faith with both Egan Stark (the Heir of Winterfell) and Roland Arryn (the Lord of the Eyrie) by his side. The Prince of Summerhall departed for Meereen with his cousin Joramun Giantsbane (Lady Sansa's oldest son and the Heir of Dreadfort) and Daegon Greyjoy (the Heir of the Iron Islands). The Prince of Hellgate Hall found playmates in Vorian Dayne (the Heir of Starfall) and Benedict Tully (the Lord of Riverrun). Each princesses were allowed three ladies-in-waiting. The Princess of Dragonstone chose her cousin Lyarra Stark, Lady Elinor Tully (the younger sister of Lord Benedict), and Lady Argella Baratheon (the Heir of Storm's End). The Princess of Hellgate Hall's entourage included Lady Valena Dayne, Lady Melesa Lannister (twin sister to Cedric Lannister - the Heir of Casterly Rock), and Lady Olene Tyrell.

After all the mourning and reorganizing of both official posts and unofficial resources, the people of Westeros finally dared to let out a long, relieved breath. Ignoring the intricate undercurrent of politics and religions, the smallfolk and more simple-minded highborns started looking forward to a brighter and safer future. As with all the end of wars and funerals, people indulged themselves in celebrations.

"Why?"

"Good morning to you, too, dear aunt. You might want to be more specific. I'm afraid I am a bit too swamped to catch on with only that much information."

"Don't be coy, Valerion. Why am I receiving this kind of information from Aenar? I love my boy, of course, but this is a matter for adults to solve! Why didn't you or Daenys come to me with this?"

"Be reasonable, Daenerys. Daenys is ill, as you know. And I... well, are you pretending to ignore these stacks of paperwork in front of my face? We will have to converse with me not being able to even turn my head up to look you in the eye. Is that what you want?"

"Fine, then. Let us do away with all the pomps and ceremonies. But even then, what makes you think it is a good idea to withhold information from the masses?"

"... So you decide to talk while I'm signing paperwork anyway. Fine. The masses only need to know what's good for them. In the end, it must be either a Stark or a Targaryen to stop the Long Night and the Doom thousands of years later, anyway."

"I thought you wanted to learn from our mistakes? The only reason we struggled so, we almost lost our loved ones so, was because we went into it effectively blind! How can you be sure that the private account of Maester Tarly can withstand the passing of time, the rise and fall of dynasties, and the occasional genocides that men are wont to initiate?"

"Lower your voice, please. And even if we published it to every single corner of Westeros, of the world, it wouldn't survive the passing of time and all those hogwashes you worried about, either. I have no time to defend ourselves and the sacred things we have sacrificed for the world in front of the skepticism and stupidity of the Faith. The people will believe what they want to believe anyway, despite almost everything we push down their throats. They always do."


"But...!"

"What is it that got you so angered, dear aunt? Articulate it, please, because I do not understand your displeasure, I really don't."

"But this means that you are taking away the credits due to Aenar! And Daenys! Everyone should know who, how, and why they are still breathing and living and celebrating! They should grovel at Aenar's and Daenys's feet for what they have sacrificed for them! Not loitering in the corners of the Keep and whispering... whispering vile things about their betters!"

"What vile things?"

"I do not wish to repeat it. I had their tongues pulled out. But I cannot pull it all, I will have to leave soon, and even Gael could not scour the entire Keep and keep track of every single person on the street!"

"What vile things?"

"... If you must know, they said that Daenys is cursed, sickly, and might be dead soon. That's why she never appears in public anymore. They also said that my boy is...defective and damned, that he is no true Targaryen, and that's why he can never hold on to any dragons. Then they talked of how you and Daenys are avoiding each other, that something happened in the War and you two are at odds now, that even if she won't die from whatever it is she has contracted during the battles, you and she will separate soon, that..."

"...That it is high time for the Red Keep to prepare for the possibility of a new mistress? Let me guess, your name was thrown around at one point, too?"

"So you have heard of it before?"

"No, but there are only so many things that could rattle your cage so badly."

"This - this estrangement, or whatever it is you two are having, it has to stop."

"It is not up to me, you know that."

"So she is being unreasonable. She is grieving, she is unwell, she indulges in her sadness, and lets go of everything. But all of that isn't the problem. The problem is that you are allowing her to fall into the dark pit without pulling her out!"

"First, thank you for your concern, aunt, but it really isn't something so dramatic. Dara - Daenys isn't a dramatic person. We are still talking, we are not estranged. She only needs time - time to grieve alone, it's true, and I'm giving her that time. Second, no offense, but I would have thought you knew better than to probe into others' marriages."

"... I have never thought you to be cruel."

"You were cruel first. I wish to be reasonable, but I don't like people poking at Dara's and my relationship. Marriage is a story between two people, after all."

"..."

"Were they so expressive when they implied that you are poised to steal your niece's seat? You are exceptionally difficult today."

"The seat is one thing. It's unacceptable enough that they thought me to be a power-grasping fool. They even spread lies about... ugh..."

" -about your supposed secret feelings toward me, no? The court loves that kind of baseless, star-crossed, melodramatic romance, after all."

"..."

"You don't have to look at me like that, auntie. I’m not comfortable with the idea, either, but showing such blatant disgust is too much, isn’t it? And by the bye, we have to give credit where credit is due. As far as sowing discord go, the execution of this instance happens to be the finest I have seen in a very long while."

"You are right, that is what they are doing, no? It's not the problem of whether they love or hate Daenys, either. That's just an excuse... To what end? What do they want, anyway?"

"Oh, that's easy. They will make sure you hear of it, first. They want to put the idea into your head. If you have ever harbored such feelings or ambitions, it will make you lose sleep. It will make your relationship with Dara... very strange, or better yet, soured. Then, they will whisper about it so that I or my children can hear. They want us to get furious, lose our composure, and cement their fear of the mercurialness of Targaryens. Those words will make us mistrust you, and by extension, the son and brother requested away by you. Words will travel to Daenys, too, and how do you think she will feel hearing such a thing, in the state she is in?"

"...Best scenario for them, Daenys will die from heartache, paving the way for either myself or one of their daughters to the seat of the Queen. You are still young yet. If Daenys pulled through, nothing big would happen right now but the seed of discord has already been sown. In the years to come, the princes will grow up, and with so much power behind each of them, separate power, too... Depending on their relationship during these formative years, we might have another Dance of the Dragons on our hands."

"Elaborate, isn't it? I'm astounded they still have that much vigour and brazenness."

"Is it my fault for taking Aenar away?"

"Not really. It balances things out well enough. Daemon has the righteousness behind him, Storm's End, two-thirds of the North, including the wildlings, as well as his... charity cases. Maegor will have the Faith backing him, or at least something akin to it, the Reach, the Vale, and one-third of the North. Aemond will have Dorne and the Riverlands. So Aenar will have you, and that's how he can stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his brothers."

"Are you pitting the children against each other?"

"I am describing to you who is throwing their lot in with whom. My children are honorable and loving. They are not kind, but they do have soft spots when it comes to family. I trust that they would never be swayed by treasonous plots. Still, we need to be aware that our allies have bets of their own."

"What should we do?"

"I'm busy, as you can see. So please, Auntie, summon Daemon and Gael, and let them know about the vile things you heard. Discuss with them, if you want. If not, just leave it to them. Daemon is at the cusp of his adulthood, this will be an excellent exercise for him."

"Alright."

"... Do you still have something to say, Aunt Daenerys? Your eyes boring holes into the top of my head is making it difficult for me to concentrate."

"I still think that we should publish the truth of the War for the world to know. It's for the best."

"Whose best?"

"Ours. You have to see, Valerion. Even as selfish and terrible as they are, they will still have enough decency to appreciate Daenys's and Aenar's sacrifice. Spin it the right way, and they will love those two and will feel indebted to them, to us all."

"And yet their love is fickle. They might feel that love and that appreciation for now, even for one generation, two - if we are very lucky. Then what? How long do you think it will take for those fickle creatures to feel entitled about it?"

"Entitled?"

"Let me rephrase it this way: If they know that we are capable of this, do you think they can help themselves from feeling resentment the next time another war breaks out, and we refuse to give them the easy victory of killing ourselves for a Wall, a river, a whirlwind that can stop thousands from clashing and dying? Will they still adore us then, when we refuse to sacrifice ourselves for their sakes?"

"They wouldn't dare!"

"Oh, they very well would. You know they would. I only want to lessen the chance of them asking impossible things of us and our children, and lessen the chance of us being blamed unfairly just because we happened to be born with more blessings than them. Call me selfish, aunt, but my family's safety and happiness are worth several times more than theirs."

"I see. Do the children know about this reasonings of yours?"

"Likely. None of them have asked anything when I gave the order, after all."

"..."

"Yes, Aunt Daenerys?"

"Sometimes, I wonder. If I had been born inside Westeros, growing up beside you and Daenys, would I have turned out as shrewd and attuned as you are?"

"Really? The question should be whether you would even deign to lay eyes on us properly if you grew up under the shade of the court. Grandmother Rhaella didn't seem the type to have been too forgiving of bastards, especially bastards whose birth tore the Kingdom apart. You might even have vied for Father's hand, and then our positions would be embarrassing."

“You are trueborn.”

“We are, but many people still refuse to see it as such.”

"No use in dwelling on what-ifs. You might just be right."

"I am always right. In matters like these, at least."