9 The Hand of the King

Stepping back, Jorah quickly wielded his broadsword into a blocking position. Steel clashed on steel, his arms straining to move the heavy weapon to block the swift slashes from his opponent…

The slight prick on his neck ended the sparring as quickly as it began. A smirk formed on his face. "Yield." Pride flashed on his face. "First time you've beaten me."

Daenerys, Khaleesi of the Dothraki and Princess Targaryen, beamed exhaustively. "It won't be the only time, Ser Jorah."

Bent over, catching his breath, Jorah glanced over at his secret ward. The girl was panting hard as well, silver hair sticking to her brow. In the several weeks since Ned Stark bound him to her by the iron northern vow, the former lord had seen Daenerys grow from a shy young girl into a vibrant, confident lady. One he was growing to view as a daughter of his. The Khal was enraptured by his exotic wife - at least to an extent - all but the most arrogant of his khalasar seamlessly following their Khaleesi's orders. She fit into that role faster than Jorah had expected. Some in the Khal's inner circle would grumble, but only Viserys truly challenged Daenerys on her authority. A good thumping by her guards and Jorah himself while Dany watched without emotion quickly taught him a message to not challenge her publically. And now, she was steadily becoming a master swordsman - or woman rather. He wiped a sheen of sweat off his forehead. "You're getting better by the day, Khaleesi."

Her breaths were still labored. "I still can't beat a warrior in a fight."

"You're getting there. Just need to perfect your agility. Fighting a massive knight, the proper maneuvers can get around him and hit him in vulnerable places with ease." He eyed the Yi Ti sword - Jorah had never seen anything like it. The gently curved blade, steel the same color as her hair, it suited her and her fighting style. "Most great swords have names. Have you thought of one for yours?"

Pursing her lips, Dany seemed lost in thought. "Old Valyria had a class of elite warriors, that used cunning and agility to defeat stronger enemies - like me." She glanced at the sword fondly, running a finger along the smooth steel. "I'm inclined to call my sword by the name of those warriors. Saracen."

"Saracen. I think that is a fitting name."

Smiling at him, Daenerys had just sheathed her sword when a hand drifted to cup her belly - midriff exposed in the Dothraki style. Her face was pale. "Khaleesi?" Jorah asked, concerned. It was expected that she would tire from their sessions. The determined young woman made it a standing order that Jorah not go easy on her, but this was different.

Opening her mouth to respond, Dany's eyes widened. Instead, she rushed over to a clump of tall grass and spewed the contents of her stomach into the dull green flora. Hunched over, she noticed Jorah's hand resting comfortingly on her back - in a paternal manner. An overwhelming feeling of embarrassment clouded over Dany. "That… please forgive me for that, Ser Jorah."

"No need for apologies," Jorah said with a soft chuckle. "It happens to the best of us."

"I…" The world faded to black as Dany's eyes rolled into her head. The last thing she felt were two strong arms keeping her from falling.

"KHALEESI!"

With a heave, Alliser Thorne shoved another boy - Grenn, if his aged mind remembered correctly - forward. "What are you waiting for! Get on with it!" The previous lad barely even tried to spar with the young Tarly boy, the one who Aemon always found in the Castle Black library. Not a warrior he was, but based on how each of the other trainees that Thorne threw at him looked at Jon Snow, he had a benefactor. "Attack him!"

Grenn seemed to whisper something to Samwell, who barely struck his chest with the wooden sparring sword. The lad went down immediately. "Yield! Yield!" Wrinkled lips curved into a smile.

Face contorted in anger, Thorne shoved Samwell aside and advanced on Jon Snow. "You think that was funny?" Earning Aemon's respect, Jon said nothing and stood his ground with a smirk. 'Just like his father.'

"Enough, Alliser," the old Maester called out. "I'm sure you have more pressing duties as Deputy Commander."

Scowling at his nominal superior, Thorne dressed down the other recruits and stormed off. Sparing one last look at Jon Snow, Aemon didn't notice the younger man step beside him. "There's a lot that resembles him in the lad, isn't there?"

Sighing, Aemon Targaryen sheared away from the railing and headed back indoors. He tightened the loose robe on his wrinkled frame. "Yes, and much that resembles her, from what I have heard of the She-Wolf." The old Maester may have been near blindness, but he swore he could have seen the slight tears that clouded Benjen Stark's eyes. "The lad's birthright is wasted here at the wall." Closing the door, the two were safe from prying eyes and listening ears. With the Lannister at Castle Black for at least another week, one had to be extra cautious. "It is he who is the rightful heir."

"Don't you think I know that?" Benjen shot back. "That she wouldn't want her only child condemned to the chains of our vows. I don't even think the boy wants them anymore himself, simply that he doesn't have a choice."

Reminded of that fact, Aemon's tired eyes glazed over. "The princess…" he trailed off wistfully. "Love is the death of duty, Benjen. We saw that with my great nephew, but, there is derived a strength from it that cannot be measured by human minds." A gnarled hand reached for a pitcher of wine.

Benjen took the offered cup that Aemon poured for him. "At this point, the safest place for him is here. And the safest place for her is on the Great Grass Sea." He chuckled darkly. "My brother says a storm is coming, and either of them will be tempting targets for the vipers and opportunistic swine. Wildlings and barbarians pale in comparison."

"And if what that deserter said is true?" Toothless gums smacked together, eyes narrowing at Benjen. "If the Others truly have risen?"

Grey eyes rolled. "I highly doubt that."

Aemon leveled a finger at Benjen. "Remember, Lead Ranger, complacency and closed mindedness have toppled stronger and smarter men than you or I." Legs wobbling, he finally allowed himself the luxury of sitting down. "I still don't know why Ned Stark entrusts me with Jon Snow's name day gift from his father." He gazed at the stone wall in a specific spot, hiding a secret alcove where the precious bundles rested. "He stored them in Winterfell for sixteen years, didn't he?"

"If the storm does come," Benjen replied. "And our families play as large a part as we both feel they will, this is the only place they will truly be secure from the wrong hands."

Nodding, the Maester glanced out the window. Tired eyes settled on Jon. He wrapped a friendly hand around Samwell Tarly's shoulder, helping him with his swordsmanship. "You speak true. Pardon me for being selfish, but it feels wonderful not to be alone again."

SIX MONTHS LATER

"It isn't like Robert to call a meeting of the Small Council so early," Eddard Stark, Hand of the King remarked to his companion, both meandering down the winding halls of the Red Keep.

Renly Baratheon nodded, delicate features contorted in a pensive frown. "Something must have spooked him. News about someone or something that he would pay particular attention to." The youngest Baratheon sibling laughed. "I can count on one finger the matters that would fit on that list not involving jousting, drinking, feasting, or whoring."

"Quite so." Ned considered Robert an old friend - one of the reasons he accepted the position as Hand of the King - and accepted as true even the unsavory aspects of his personality. All of the peace and prosperity of the last decade had been Jon Arryn's work. Robert was too busy immersed in his vices to make an actual attempt to rule.

In the corner of his eye, Jon spotted a thatch of gold hair next to the Master of Coin. "What is Joffrey doing with Lord Baelish?" he asked Renly in a low whisper.

The youngest Baratheon clicked his tongue. "They've been rather chummy in the last few weeks, Littlefinger often talking to the boy about this and that regarding the kingdom." At that moment both of the two turned, eyes falling on Ned and Renly. Littlefinger managed to put on a warm smile, while Joffrey viewed them with barely disguised derision. "I have no idea why, mind you. No one but his mother can stand that boy."

"His mother and Sansa," Ned added. It was not a match that he wanted, seeing the boy in action over the past months. How Sansa could still care for him after what happened with her wolf… Walking into the Small Council chamber, Ned put it aside for another day.

Robert's anger clouded the room from the moment Ned entered. Not angry - he was livid, face nearly purple from rage. Varys, the plump Master of Whisperers, stood off in a corner trying to make himself unnoticed. "Your grace?" Littlefinger finally asked, having entered last from his discussion with the Crown Prince.

A wood-fitted scroll found itself chucked at the Master of Coin's head, only an agility normally reserved for a younger man allowing him to dodge it. "Fucking Seven Hells! She's pregnant!" Before the four assembled could draw the wrong conclusions, Robert continued. "The Targaryen bitch is pregnant!"

Ned's blood turned to ice. Jorah had informed him of this development barely after he arrived in King's Landing, and he hoped to keep this from Robert. A furtive glance was directed at Varys - apparently Ned wasn't the only person to have spies in the Dothraki camp. "Ned!" The King's bellow caught his attention. "Did that Mormont cunt tip you off to this?"

"No, your grace. He hasn't said a word, though I can't be sure if he's even alive." The lie rolled oddly seamlessly off his tongue.

Letting out a hiss, Robert threw a cup at the wall. Wine sloshed on the stone floor. "Now, the horse lord will have no reason not to cross the Narrow Sea!"

"Brother," Renly said. "I highly doubt the Dothraki…"

"Shut it, Renly. If I wanted a faggot's advice I would ask for it!" Face reddening, Renly nevertheless shut up. "I must nip this in the bud now. The bitch must die!"

The ice in Ned's veins only increased in concentration. "Robert, to kill a mere child? A young woman with child herself? That isn't the man you are." It actually was, but this had to be stopped at all costs.

The King wasn't hearing any of it. "You listen to me, Ned! If you do not accept my order, then you pack up and get out of this city!" Tempted to do just that, Ned nevertheless clamped his lips together.

"You cannot let this occur," Ned demanded of Varys as the two walked together near the Hand's office. The meeting had concluded ten minutes before, an enraged Robert formally condemning Daenerys Targaryen to death.

"The birds are ready to fly, Lord Stark," the fat eunuch stated, voice flat and not giving away anything. It was always what unsettled Ned about Varys - his total lack of emotion, though that was an asset in King's Landing rather than a detriment. "It would be unusual to change such orders so suddenly. Especially if it is a deviation from what the King so desires."

Running a hand through his hair, Ned's brain worked on overtime. Robert had been driven close to madness by the Targaryens before, and there was no doubt in the northerner's mind that the King intended to fulfill his vow to wipe every single one of them off the face of the earth. 'I have to protect her, at all costs.' His honor commanded it, both to Lyanna and to Jon. But how could he go about it?

"The duty of the hand is to carry out policy in the King's best interests, is it not Master Varys?" Ned finally replied. "Even if it means protecting the King from his own initial instincts."

Still nothing escaped of Varys' true thoughts. "That is the traditional role of the Hand, yes."

'What I have to arrange is something that will both protect Daenerys in the long run and be framed as in Robert's best interests.' A ghost of a smile formed on Ned's face. "From what I know of the Dothraki, they would never follow a woman." At least not an ordinary woman. "Take away the Khal, and child or not they will descend into infighting between pretenders that have no desire to honor the agreement between Drogo and Viserys Targaryen."

A twinkle shone in Varys' eye, a first from what Ned had seen. "And so if we kill the Khal, all threats to His Majesty vanish without having to stoop to killing a hapless girl and her unborn child." The flat expression formed once again. "I shall say, Lord Stark. You are far more cunning than most give you credit for."

"And what do most say?" Ned grinned.

"They say you are routine and predictable, always in pursuit of a lofty ideal rather than the smartest course."

"That is true, to an extent." Honor brought victory, even if the victory was long term. Such is what his father taught him, and Ned passed it on to all his children. "Please see to it that my orders are carried out… in the name of the King."

Varys bowed. "Of course, Lord Hand."

Shutting the latch to his office, a sigh left Ned Stark's lips. "The gods have mercy on me," he breathed. He couldn't fathom how Jon Arryn could have lasted even one year among this pit of vipers. Cersei was more a jackal than a lion, Pycelle more a cutthroat than a maester, Renly a friend but overwhelmingly self-serving, and Petyr Baelish… Had it not been for Catelyn's assurance that he could be trusted, Littlefinger perturbed him the most. The man was a snake, rich thanks to lax morals and oily to the core.

And now he was grafting himself to Prince Joffrey. That worried Ned, but on seeing the letter resting on his desk that apprehension started to fade. Picking it up, he opened it and began scanning the scrawl.

Lord Stark,

Yes, the information you informed me of is greatly worrying. Something is brewing, what I cannot be sure of. Jon Arryn would never inquire into Robert's bastards if it wasn't of importance.

I never trusted my sister-in-law as much as I could throw her, and I know that she is ultimately behind this. There is no other explanation that makes any sense.

I will head to King's Landing with all haste.

Regards,

Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone

Removing a strand of gold from her neck, Daenerys felt a soft thump from inside her belly. Unable to stop the smile spreading on her face, she placed her hand gingerly on the rounded bump - only for a second thump to strike her palm. A pleasured sigh left her lips.

"Calm down little one," she cooed, rubbing her eight month baby bump with unadulterated adoration. Inside her stomach was a little boy or girl. 'My little boy or girl.' A tiny human half her, and half his/her father. 'Father.' A mix of pure happiness and grief crossed her mind at the thought of her child's father. "Hush my sweet," she couldn't help but say in her native Valyrian - the one phrase she could remember her mother say to her. "Issa loves you, and I know daddy would love you just as much." Tears came to her eyes. "I love him just as much. I wish we could be a family." Dany closed her lids tightly. She would not give up hope.

Her child simply kicked against her hand yet again, as if indicating his or her assent.

Luckily, her sad thoughts were broken by one of her handmaidens. "I have something for you, Khaleesi." Resting on a tray carried in both hands was some kind of concoction. "Straight from the best healers in Vaes Dothrak." Countering the common narrative of all the Dothraki being vicious savages, the central city of the horde had a vibrant commercial scene to it. Plenty of merchants and travelers pawning their wares on the returning warriors.

Taking the metal goblet from the tray, Dany sniffed it - only to recoil. Her nose wrinkled. It smelled pungent and awful. "What in gods name is that?"

"Boiled herb tonic, Khaleesi, courtesy of Ser Jorah." Her handmaiden swooned over the dashing Westerosi knight. "To give strength to the Stallion that Mounts the World." By the tone of her voice, she believed exactly what Drogo called the child in her womb.

Rolling her eyes at Ser Jorah's devotion and overprotectiveness - Dany secretly found it quite endearing, not ever having a real father figure in her life - she figured that there were worse things that she could do. Her stomach flipped at thinking back to when she ate the whole stallion heart raw. The Dothraki way to ensure a healthy baby, it took all of her steel not to hurl it all up and gift Drogo with a terrible omen. Instead, she finished it and gave him a positive one. Upon proclaiming a son named Rhaego dwelled inside her, he looked the part of a proud father who had sired a great warrior.

Gulping down the hellish concoction, Dany never really thought of her child by that name. She was not sure on the sex, and she did not want Drogo to be his or her father. It was not as if she hated him, far from it. The once brutish and aloof Khal had an endearing loyalty that made him hard to like upon truly knowing him. But Daenerys' heart belonged to another - one she likely would never see again.

Desperate for something to distract her from thoughts of him, her gaze fell upon the three eggs resting in their sand-filled box. A place of pure honor. Reaching down, she picked up one that was pure black, red lines marring the intricate scales. Illyrio was right, they were the pinnacle of beauty. A symbol of her people - a relic from her family's past. 'The creatures Aegon and his sister-wives flew from these shores to conquer the whole of Westeros.' What Dany wouldn't give to see them fly through the clear skies once more.

Without thinking, she placed the ossified egg right on the brazier. It was not out of any plan but pure instinct. She wanted to see the egg in the heat. As her handmaiden prepared her clothes for the evening, Dany heard something - movement? It intrigued her, hands pressing against the scorching egg and feeling a flutter. Almost like her own child…

"Khaleesi!" At once Dany pulled her hands away, shocked by the scream of her handmaiden. "What were you thinking, you'll get bur…" Grabbing her hands, the other woman quickly inspected them to find… no injury. No burns, not even redness. Just Dany's distinctive pale skin. The baby kicked his or her approval at the revelation.

'A dragon does not burn.'

All of a sudden her brother stormed into the tent, dragging a whimpering Doreah by her hair. "You!... Send this Whore!" he snarled, indignant and enraged. With a shove, Doreah was thrown to the floor in tears. "To give me commands! ME! The rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms."

"Forgive me Khaleesi," the whimpering girl cried.

Glancing down with a comforting look, Dany would have knelt down had it not been for the enormous bump containing her child. "Hush, dear. It's alright." The smile morphed into a hard scowl as she looked at her brother. "Does it pleasure you, brother, to abuse a hapless woman?"

Viserys was taken aback at his sister's pure coldness and steel - even in their dealings before, she had never challenged him directly unless Jorah Mormont was there to back him up. The surprise quickly changed to anger. He'd show her not to wake the Dragon. "How many times do I have to tell you, sister…" Viserys hissed, approaching her. "You do not command me!"

"There was no command," she responded evenly. "All I did was invite you to a feast tonight in honor of your unborn niece or nephew."

"Do you think I care about some half-breed Dothraki chattel?" he replied incredulously. "And what use is a feast in this shithole?" Rage building, he began to toss jewelry and goblets to the floor. "This place smells of manure and piss!"

When one hit her in the torso, Dany started to fear for her baby. "Stop it, stop it now!"

Her words only angered him further. "I'm not here to dance with the horsefuckers. I am here for one purpose, to get an army to take back my Kingdom!" Viserys' mouth hovered inches from her face, flecks of spit flying out. "Everything else is expendable, including you and your half-breed!

Protectiveness rising up - an innate maternal instinct that boiled like dragonfire within her - a clenched fist slammed into Viserys' jaw. Being innately far weaker, given her short and slender frame not having skill in hand to hand combat, it didn't cause him to fall. "Do not," she ground out through clenched teeth. "Do not speak of my child in that way."

Any sense of rationality left her brother, his eyes blazing. "YOU DARE STRIKE ME!" A vicious backhand sent her to the floor, Viserys climbing on top of her as best he could, given the bump. "You have woken the dragon." Dany struggled as best she could as her handmaiden's watched in horror. "You are a horselord's slut and your spawn is a filthy halfbreed. I should kill it now, keep the bloodline pure!"

Fingers curling around a chain of gold coins, Dany branded it as a mace and flogged her brother's face, catching him in the side of his cheek and forcing him off her. Scrambling to her feet with an agility normally lacking in a pregnant woman, she reached for Saracen an unsheathed it from it's scabbard. Cursing vilely, the rage turned to pure terror as Viserys found Valyrian steel pressed against the skin of his neck. He looked at Dany as if he never saw her before… the meek girl he had been able to dominate was gone now. In her place was pure dragonfire.

"If you dare," she breathed out as evenly as she could. "Even try to harm my child, I will kill you." There was nothing in her voice that caused the threat to be anything but real. "I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, descendent of Old Valyria and the great Aegon the Conqueror. You will never raise a hand to me again."

Inwardly, Dany took a perverse pleasure at watching her brother squirm.

It was this scene that Jorah burst in on, joined by her Dothraki bodyguard. In his harried state, he barely noticed. "Khaleesi, come quickly," he breathed out.

Dany's blood turned cold. "What happened?" This could not be good at all.

"The Khal… he's been poisoned."

Violet eyes widening, Dany tossed Saracen aside and began to rush to the tent flap - only to cry out in sudden pain. Jorah watched as a gush of wetness trickled down her trousers. "The baby…" she said weakly.

Jorah and her handmaidens were quickly on her. "Fetch the midwife! Quickly." Dany didn't hear much else, slowly drifting into unconsciousness.