81 A Girl is No One

Mentally cursing, Jon felt his fingers slip once again. 'Couldn't they put straps in the front,' he thought, beginning his third try to fasten his leather armor - Ollie usually helped him, but he had given the boy a day off. And the Emperor suffered great frustration for it.

Such frustration began to leave him as two slender arms wrapped around his waist. "Having trouble, my Emperor?" came a soft voice, kiss placed between his shoulder blades.

"No." Jon kept fumbling with his ties. "I can do it myself."

He heard a chuckle against his skin, Dany's swelling breasts scraping along his back as she leaned up to nip at the back of his neck. "Even Emperors can have their wives help them." Her voice was swollen with love. "Let me."

Sighing, Jon made his way back to the bed alongside his wife. He grumbled a bit sitting down, but inwardly appreciated her caring. "I thought you were asleep," he said as she began to work at his laces.

"I was," Dany giggled. "Your child decided to dance on my bladder."

"My child?" Jon's eyebrow rose. "Why is it when he or she thump happily on your belly when either of us places our hand there it is your child, while when they bother you it is mine?"

She leaned in, nipping his neck again. "Because I am the Empress… and I command it." Daenerys smirked just as she finished the last tie. "There, all done. I should be your squire."

Turning with a growl, Jon grabbed Dany's tight hips and pulled her flush against him - their foreheads touching, lips hovering over each other. Eyes locked. "You can't be my squire."

Dany was close to panting, how rapidly the mood had changed. "And… why is that, Jon?"

"Because it wouldn't be appropriate for a ruler to be fucking his squire all damn day."

Gasping, Dany closed the distance and crashed her lips against his. The kiss was not subtle - hungry and sloppy. Two dragons displaying their white-hot passion for each other, hands blazing their way across unburnt skin wherever it rested…

Only for Jon to pull away. "Nooo…" Dany whined - in tones the Empress only reserved for her Emperor.

"I'm sorry, my love." Jon's expression clearly left no doubt that he would want this to continue to its natural conclusion. "I cannot be late to the muster at Harrenhall."

"Couldn't I come with you?" Dany smiled sultrily. "Or perhaps you could stay here with your needy wife?"

"You are a temptress, Daenerys Stormborn." He leaned down to kiss her again - but it was only a peck. "But this is absolutely necessary, and you have that… thing with my sisters."

'Oh that.' "I believe it's called a 'shower,' Jon. Just a family gettogether to prepare things for the baby." She patted her eight-month tummy, their child nestled within. "I'm sure Sansa will want to sew things and Arya will be bored out of her mind."

Jon laughed. "I'm glad I'll be missing it then." He found a pillow thrown at him. "Hey!"

A glower was sent his way. "Don't wake the dragon, Jon Targaryen."

Furrowing her brows, Sansa watched as her sister continued working at her plate long after the servants had cleared hers away. "Gods, Daenerys, you can't still be hungry?"

"She's growing the next prince or princess inside her," Margaery laughed as Dany glared at her husband's Hand. "Cut her some slack, Sansa dear."

"Even I got that." Arya smacked her sister's shoulder lightly, harkening back to their childhood. Rubbing it with her hand, Sansa chuckled, realizing the sense of deja vu and appreciating it.

The 'shower' had been in full swing for hours, the various ladies of court showing their appreciation and loyalty for the Targaryen dynasty and their Emperor And Empress through the newest child in her womb. Even Tyene Martell, finally healed from her various injuries and broken limbs from the trial by combat, paid her respects with several lavish gifts. Palace cooks - led by the new head chef Hot Pie - brought platters of beef stew, braised lamb, honey-roasted pork, saffron rice, whole roasted tomatoes, the freshest of fruits, sweet wine from the Reach, and candied dates imported from Yunkai.

Now, the party drew down to simply the five ladies of the Imperial family. Dany was still immersed in a plate of pork. "These young ones will soon understand what it's like to carry a child, dear sister," she said, sharing a grin with Margaery.

"Not anytime soon," Arya huffed. "I love Gendry and want to give him heirs, but now is not the right time."

"Not from lack of trying," Margaery remarked, drawing a glare from the wild wolf. "The walls are thinner than you'd think."

"Shut up!" Arya crossed her arms. "Besides, I am not the loudest here." A not so discreet tilt of the head directed the attention to Sansa.

Sansa flushed a bright red once it dawned on her. "Stay away from my chambers, you little sneak!"

"So the rumors are true." Dany regarded her sister with a new eye. "Tyrion once bragged drunk of how he set Pod up with three whores - and they refused to take his money. You're quite lucky, Sansa." The flush grew an even brighter crimson, but not without a small smile. The Empress laughed jovially before a pang hit her stomach. "Oooh. Gentle, little one."

Margaery's brow rose. "Problem?"

"No, just a little dragonwolf who should stop moving around so much." She patted her belly. "Probably my fault. I… haven't been sleeping so well."

"His majesty keeping you up at night?" Meera chided - other than a disgusted look from Arya, there was silence. Especially from Daenerys.

Her silence was not lost on her sisters. Sansa shared a look with Margaery, who cast a worried glance to Meera, who raised an eyebrow at Arya - who rolled her eyes. "Daenerys, what the fuck is going on?" Now it was the other Starks that rolled their eyes.

Dany couldn't help the guarded expression. "What do you mean?"

Glaring at her blunt sister - though the hope Arya would ever change was futile - Sansa reached out and placed a hand on Dany's. "Something is troubling you, Daenerys. You can tell us."

"We won't judge," Meera added.

Even Arya softened in her own way. "Seriously, the pack sticks together. Let us help."

Sighing, Dany looked away. "It's nothing really… I've been having these dreams."

"We all have dreams, sister," Margaery replied. "They don't usually affect us that much."

"Mine do. My dreams largely come true." She closed her eyes. "When I was in labor with the twins, I was unconscious for the most of it. During that time I dreamt. Saw Joffrey at King's Landing. Saw the Wall… saw Jon, and the Army of the Dead…" Violet eyes opened, staring at her sisters. "They all came true, and now…" The thought of it made her shudder. "I see the Night King."

Darkness seemed to descend on the five women. Only Margaery and Meera had seen him as Daenerys did, but there was no doubt as to what he represented. No northerner had ever truly forgotten the long night of old - ever dismissed it as mere legend. "What was that fucker doing?" Arya hissed.

"That's just it… he… was just there. Every dream, I would feel Jon behind me. Feel him kissing and cuddling me, but when I turned it would be the Night King."

"Ugh, disgusting." Sansa wrinkled her nose. "I mean, he's my brother and I don't think of him that way, but there is no earthly way to connect someone as handsome as him with the Night King of all people."

Meera frowned. "Bran told me that the first Targaryen was in Westeros at the time of the Long Night." Dany's eyes widened a little bit at that. "He had… visions in the cave of the three-eyed raven. He was tight lipped about most of it, but that's what I gleamed. Perhaps the Night King had some sort of connection with him in the past - which is why he is connected to you, a pureblood Targaryen on both sides."

The thought chilled Daenerys more than the dreams had already done. "I loathe to think how it would come to pass…" She put her head in her hands. "My dreams come true though… to lose Jon to that monster…" Tears began to well in her eyes.

Fighting to keep the sadness at bay, Dany felt several sets of arms wrap around her. Margaery, Sansa, Meera… hells, even dour Arya held her in a comforting embrace. 'The Pack protects its own.' Warmth returning to her, she allowed herself to feel the familial comfort. One that she had lacked throughout her childhood but that Jon - her love - had given her. "Thank you," she whispered.

"You're our sister, damn it." Arya pulled out, thumping her chest. "Who else can you get comfort from?" The Stark patted her sister's stomach, the little dragonwolf giving a kick for her aunt. "Still, you have to tell Jon about this."

Pursing her lips, Dany rubbed her swelling abdomen, wanting to feel the movements of her child within her. The latest dragon in their pack. "I don't want him to worry." She hated feeling so weak, so powerless. 'It makes you human,' a voice within her said, frankly. Her humanity was what kept madness at bay.

"He's your husband," Sansa said. "You need to lean on him, to not go through this alone. It's not fair to the pack."

The baby was doing Dornish fighting styles within her… uncomfortable as it was, the little dragonwolf kept Dany grounded. Reminding her that she wasn't alone. "I know, Sansa. I know."

"Milady." Five sets of eyes turned to find a young servant, looking quite intimidated at the most powerful women in Westeros.

It took a moment before they realized she was talking to Arya. "Yeah? What is it?"

"Lord Stark wishes you and the Lady Reed to meet with him in his chambers?"

"Lord Stark is at Harrenhal with His Majesty," Arya replied gruffly, causing the servant to cringe.

Meera stood. "I think he's referring to Bran, Arya." She smiled at the servant. "Thank you, dear." The girl allowed herself a small smile, bowed, and scurried off.

Sansa then stood. "I should be going as well. Podrick is expecting me."

"We all know what that means." Eager to shift from the depressing topic, Daenerys wiped away the last of her tears and grinned at her sister. "Shall we expect another wedding soon? Or another wolf pup?"

The Hand flushed red. "If you weren't carrying my niece or nephew I'd smack you." All the ladies shared one final laugh - one that Sansa eventually joined at the end. Leaning down to give Dany a sisterly kiss, her voice grew concerned. "Talk to him," she whispered.

Dany sighed. "I will." The baby gave a sharp kick.

Normally, the past was vivid to the three-eyed raven. Every specific moment open to him in its entirety, divulging its secrets to the one who knew all there was to know… but this time was different. Things were… clouded. As if a divine force shrouded itself. Bran could only obtain glimpses.

A hushed conversation, growing in volume as a large man with the armor of a stag shouted in rage… the other smirking when the stag turned his back.

A boy of gold, lips curled in a malevolent, savage grin as his advisor relayed a plan to him.

The Iron Throne. The great monstrosity itself.

"Burn them all!"

Bran opened his eyes, gazing upon his room. It was empty, they not having returned yet. He was glad for it. Sweat covered him, heart beating from the power of the visions… something that hadn't happened to him since becoming the Three-Eyed Raven. Such confused him - and yet it didn't at the same time.

'Jon and Daenerys have vanquished nearly all their earthly foes.' What remained were those not of this realm, or those that dabbled with that which was unknown to mankind. As he did what he could, Bran could feel the power behind their opponents. Fighting his magic with their own…

As such, it was best that he have a moment to compose himself before Meera returned.

Which in a moment she did, Arya behind her, who shut the door. "Yes, Bran," she asked, looking upon her brother - not without the slightest of a shudder. "You summoned me?"

His lips curled ever so slightly up. "So is that any way you greet your brother?" he asked with a tinge of humor as Meera kissed the crown of his head.

Arya crossed her arms, his banter bittersweet. For some reason, she took offense. "Well, sometimes you don't seem like my brother." She was nothing if not blunt.

"Arya!" Meera chided.

"It's true, much as I hate it, it's true." Years of war had changed all of them: her into a faceless man, Sansa into a political animal, Jon into the fucking Heir to the Seven Kingdoms… but it was Bran that affected her the most. It was as if… he was no longer Bran Stark.

All of this was not lost on Bran. "I know," he sighed. "I sometimes wish I was a man far different, the boy I was before all of this. But it is the price of my knowledge." He offered Arya a warm smile, and at that moment he looked like the Bran of before. "I am still here, sister. Just please bare with me."

Biting her lip, Arya simply walked over and hugged him. A proper sisterly greeting. "So why did you call me here, brother?"

Saying nothing, Bran merely withdrew a bundle wedged between himself and the edge of his wheelchair. "I want you to have this."

Taking the bundle, puzzled, Arya peeled back the rags only to gasp. "Bran…" She held up the dagger, admiring the rippled steel and golden hilt. "This is Valyrian steel. Where did you get this?"

"Littlefinger, he gave it to me." A dry chuckle left him. "Believe it or not, this was the blade that nearly killed me. That nearly killed mother." All the Starks knew that night. Arya shuddered involuntarily while Meera grasped Bran's hand, running a thumb on the skin - more to soothe herself than her love, who had long since gotten over it.

"But why do you want to give it to me?"

"I have no use for it. My mind is my weapon." He tapped his head with a finger before taking Arya's. "I don't see the future, Arya. Sometimes I can barely see the past or present, but I do see… trends. Tiny snippets that flash in a split second…" Bran sighed. "You will have a part in the song of Ice and Fire. Of Jon and Dany. You must be there to protect them, Arya. Promise you will."

"I promise." Without hesitation. Her family and Gendry were all that really mattered to her.

"We are at peace now, but that peace won't last. The Great Fall is coming, bringing with it death itself. We must all play our part or we will…"

Suddenly, the crippled figure started shaking violently. Arms flailed about, eyes rolling back in his head. Arya watched with shock, while Meera ran to Bran's side. "Bran." In all his visions, he had never experienced such a reaction. "Bran!"

But he was lost...

Hands clasped together, Lord Varys strolled quietly through the hallways of the Red Keep, lost in thought. His silken robe swayed gently along the stone floor, the Master of Whisperers preferring the styles of his Essosi childhood over the more complicated garments of Westerosi nobility. After decades of serving five different monarchs or sets of monarchs, he should have been satisfied in the Realm being under the care of the two who actually deserved it. Who he felt proud to serve… but Varys wasn't.

A malevolence draped over King's Landing… over the Red Keep. Not the remnants of the Lannisters - well, only partly such. Varys heard only the whispers of his little birds. Rumors, errant glimpses of a servant or a stable hand lingering in certain places of the castle. For once in his life, Varys couldn't parse them. Lack of information for an overarching fact or narrative he had suffered, but never something so ethereal he could not make sense of it.

He turned a corner, wandering aimlessly through deserted parts of the palace of the great Kings of Westeros. Varys needed to clear his mind - search for the answer. Spoken words with Bran Stark had helped, but all they did was force him to focus on a muddled part of his past. The days before the Starks arrived, before Robert marshalled his forces to launch his rebellion. The calm before the storm of chaos that had born both his monarchs. For the life of him, Varys didn't remember much of that time, little snippets overshadowed by the literal inferno that would break out as soon as Rickard and Brandon Stark took their last breaths. 'Gods, what could it be?' It gave him a headache.

Just as he was about to turn another corner, he heard whispers. Silent, velvet sandals making not a sound as they slid across the smooth stone floors, he managed a quick peek into the other corridor. What he found caused Varys puzzlement. Littlefinger… talking to an old washerwoman in hushed tones. Why the Master of Laws was here, in the empty portion of the castle - why he bothered talking to a mere washerwoman? 'He can get whatever information he wants from his brothel.'

A second peek found Littlefinger gone, leaving the washerwoman alone. Sighing, Varys moved in to investigate. He was the Master of Whisperers, and a purveyor of misery could easily find their smallfolk allies stolen from a purveyor of happiness.

Within him, a small voice said he was being overconfident. Varys ignored it.

"Excuse me." The washerwoman jumped. It wasn't just startling, but more as if she hadn't ever expected to be snuck up on. "What did he want?"

"I do not know what you are talking about, my Lord," she replied.

"I hesitate to ask what Lord Baelish would want with you, unless…" Varys trailed off, memories tumbling into place. Of a plan to dispatch Robb Stark. Of one of Joffrey's many rantings. Of a meeting long ago within this same palace. In spite of himself, his jaw dropped like a fish… only for a sharp pain to enter his gut.

The Waif drew the dagger from the eunuch's stomach, watching his crumple to the ground not without satisfaction. Killing a man… it filled her with exhilaration - that and envy being two of the few emotions no one allowed herself to feel.

But after a moment, the satisfied smirk fell. This was also a shot across the bow. No turning back. They would have to move now or risk losing all opportunity. 'Fuck.' Determined scowl on her face not in any way that of a kindly old servant, she dashed off around the corner, leaving Varys to face his fate.

Hauling himself into a seated position - each movement just sending further stabs of pain through his system - Varys gazed up at the coffered ceiling with realization. The realization of death. 'I shall die in Empire,' he mused silently. Only before he could warn his monarchs of the evil in their midsts. The depths of such betrayal. Of the memory that was now full and vivid within his mind.

Outside, on the window ledge, a single raven was perched. Cawing at nothing in particular. Such jogged Varys' memory.

In his last conscious thought, he let out a whisper. His final words before the sweet embrace of death draped over him. "The Mad King… the Mad King…"

"Bran… Bran! Bran!" His irises came back to view as Bran blinked himself awake. Unlike before, his face was a checkerboard of emotions. As if Brandon Stark and the Three-Eyed Raven battled for dominance - terror battling with a more pensive worry. Arya's heart thumped. "What… what is happening?"

Coming back to his surroundings, Bran started to breathe rapidly. "Daenerys is in danger."

Meera's gasped. "What?!"

Arya's jaws clenched in fury. "By who?"

He gazed at his sister. "No one."

Only a moment passed before Arya's eyes widened. Without another word, she dashed off.

"He certainly looks like a Stark." Little Jon cooed as Daenerys stroked his cheek, swaying softly. "With the blood of Eddard Stark and the Queen of Thornes… any foe would rue the day they crossed the North."

Margaery laughed. "I doubt they would, considering his uncle and aunt had dragons at their disposal."

"That is true." The Empress watched as her nephew drifted off to sleep in her arms. "So it's decided that he is heir to the North?"

"Aye. Robb is the Warden of the North. To have his eldest be groomed as the heir to Highgarden would be a political slight to the other Lords. Neither of us want another Bolton situation."

Dany's eyes darkened. "Jon and I would never allow it." Fire and Blood.

The Lady of Winterfell nodded. "No doubt, but it's best not to get to that point. Our second child will take the helm of Highgarden and the Reach, while Jon here will be the next Warden of the North." She smirked, holding her head in her hand. "Starks controlling both the Empire itself and two of the most powerful Kingdoms. Grandmother is likely proud of how the Wolves of Winterfell - which she has often stated were the least political in the seven kingdoms - turned out to tame the Dragon and the Rose."

It was a rather poignant observation. "Well Jon is a dragon himself… though I guess Lyanna began the whole direwolf takeover of the Seven Kingdoms." Dany handed back the sleeping Jon Stark to his mother. "Melisandre would say it was prophecy… my brother Rhaegar thought the same. I hate to agree with such, but…"

Suddenly, Missandei burst into the guest chambers, Grey Worm and half a dozen Unsullied guards behind. He barked orders in valyrian, eyes scanning the chambers with a crazed determination. "Your Highness!" Missandei walked up to Dany, who shared a puzzled and apprehensive look with Margaery. "Are you alright?"

"Seal off the Red Keep!" Grey Worm was not taking chances. "No one leaves wings of the castle!

"Missandei, what is…?" She was cut off as baby Jon began to wail, Margaery struggling to calm him down.

"Lord Varys is dead." Dany's eyes widened. "The Crown Prince and Princess have been attacked."

"WHAT!"

"There is no time, Empress," Grey Worm stated. "We must secure you in your chambers!"

Dany shook her head violently. "No, I must get to my… ahhh." She gripped the back of a chair, bending over in pain.

Her handmaiden rushed to her. "Your Highness?"

"No…" she pleaded through gritted teeth. "It's too early… ahhhhh!" The Empress screamed as her water broke.