18

Timeline 

283 AC/4E 187: Robb Stark is born; (two months later) "Jon Snow" is born.286 AC/4E 190: Sansa Stark is born; RS-3, "JS"-3.289 AC/4E 193: Arya Stark is born; Theon Greyjoy (10) arrives at Winterfell; RS-6, "JS"-6, SS-3.290 AC/4E 194: Bran Stark is born; TG-11, RS-7, "JS"-7, SS-4, AS-1.295 AC/4E 199: Rickon Stark is born; TG-16, RS-12, "JS"-12, SS-9, AS-6, BS-5.296 AC/4E 200: Direwolves are found; TG-17, RS-13, "JS"-13, SS-10, AS-7, BS-6, RS-1.297 AC/4E 201: Robb Stark turns 14; (two months later) "Jon Snow" turns 14; (one month later) "Jon Snow" runs away from Winterfell/appears in Skyrim; TG-18, SS-11, AS-8, BS-7, RS-2.299 AC/4E 203: Jon Whitewolf sends a letter to Winterfell; TG-19, RS-16, JW-16, SS-13, AS-10, BS-9, RS-4.300 AC/4E 204: Lord Eddard Stark asks Jon to return to Winterfell; TG-20, RS-17, JW-17, SS-14, AS-11, BS-10, RS-5.302 AC/4E 206: Jon Whitewolf receives Arya's letter: TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.(two-and-a-half months later) Jon Whitewolf arrives at Winterfell: TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.(Four days later) Robb Stark turns 19: TG-22, RS-19, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.(two weeks later) Jon Whitewolf (18) leaves for KL with Enzo, Ned Stark, Sansa Stark, Arya Stark, and the royal party.(two weeks later) Jon Whitewolf (18), the Starks, and the royal party are attacked while at the Triton.(two weeks later) Jon Whitewolf (18), the Starks, and the royal party arrive at King's Landing. (three days later) the Tourney of the Hand begins.(five days later) Serena arrives at the Red Keep.

Sansa Stark I

Sun streamed through the glass of the throne room, catching on the gemstones worn by the sea of noble lords and ladies that knelt before her -that knelt below her- turning them into glowing stars. They smiled up at her as she perched on the steps of the Iron Throne, warm and pride in some eyes and bitter jealousy in others. 

They loved her; they envied her. 

Every face she'd seen at the Red Keep and every noble she'd in her entire life from the time she was little to the recent tourney was there to marvel at her, to pledge their allegiance at her feet. In the front row was her family- her Lady Mother, bursting from pride with tears glittering in the corners of her blue eyes, stood beside her beaming brothers. 

But at the foremost of the crowd stood her Lord Father, Arya, and Jon. Unlike the others who were all cloaked in glorious outfits of velvet and silk and lace and cashmere with millions of gold dragons worth of jewelry decorating their bodies, they were unadorned and dressed in worn, moth-eaten gray pauper's clothes. They frowned at her, dark eyes glowering heavily with a thousand unspoken accusations. 

'You have no right to judge me,' she thought angrily. 'I am the queen of Westeros!'

But those thoughts were cut off by a strong hand on her wrist. Sansa looked down, following the line of her scarlet-clad arm to the massive emerald ring on her hand and finally to the gleaming green eyes of her husband, King Joffrey I of Westeros. 

With his other hand, the one not holding onto her wrist, he reached up to adjust her crown of rubies, gold, and emeralds. It was so light on her head, Sansa had forgotten it was even there. Then Joffrey's hand trailed down to cup her cheek, brushing her mouth with his thumb. Pressing down, the sharp of his nail cut into her lower lip; he smiled at her, "It suits you."

Still smiling with his beautiful white teeth and his eyes never leaving hers, he tightened his grip on her wrist and pushed her backward. Sansa fell backward, rolling down the steps of the Iron Throne as her luxurious gown caught and tore on the swords of Aegon's fallen foes. She reached the floor cut up, bruised, and half-nude with a particularly large slash across her belly that ached and bled.

Sansa's crown slipped from her head and rolled off into the crowd; she stared up the smiling faces that were staring up at her with adoration just a moment ago. Now they just laughed and pointed at her misery. Tears swelled in Sansa's eyes and ran down her face; she looked at her family and sobbed when her mother turned away in shame and her brothers sneered in disgust. Then she saw Father, Arya, and Jon who continued to frown at her, only now there was excitement in their eyes. Arya caught her gaze and smiled with a mouth of sharp, wolf-like teeth. 

'You deserve this,' the smile said.

"You can't do this to me," Sansa wailed through her tears as she curled into herself, clutching her bleeding stomach that throbbed and ached. "I am Queen of the Seven Kingdoms!"

Her proclamation was met with continued laughter and jeers. 

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

Sansa blinked sleep from her eyes, looking around in confusion for the source of the loud noise. The knocking began again, causing her to sit up from the couch where she'd fallen asleep. "Come in," she called. 

The suite Father had been given had a living area that had three connecting bedrooms -one for him, one for Sansa and Arya, and the smallest one for Septa Mordane- and it was absolutely glorious with gilded furniture made from silks and satins. Father had taken it all in and deemed it 'frivolous' but Sansa rubbed the silky window curtains through her fingers for what felt like hours. 

Sansa rose to her feet, rubbing her still sore stomach, as the door to her's and Arya's bedroom swung open and Septa Mordane stood there with a young woman carrying a pitcher of steaming water in one hand with a gown draped over her other arm. 

"Lady Sansa, this young lady is here to help you prepare for supper with the king," the septa explained. "I know you will accept her aid graciously."

Grogginess still clouding her mind, Sansa blurted out, "You're not my usual maid."

Septa Mordane shot her a withering glare of disapproval and Sansa fought the urge to wince; she knew that King's Landing was where the High Septon resided and that Sansa's behavior reflected on how well Septa Mordane guided and taught the children of the Stark household. "But I thank you kindly for your help," she added quickly. 

The young woman just smiled, "I'm Lila Lannister, Lady Sansa, and Queen Cersei herself asked that I personally assist you in getting ready tonight."

A wide grin split across Sansa's face; the queen herself had been taking an interest in Sansa. This was a good thing, something Mother said she should try to earn because it meant that Queen Cersei liked her.

And if the queen liked Sansa than there was an even better chance that she could marry Prince Joffrey. 

"I'm afraid that there isn't enough time for a full bath so a quick wash will have to do," Lila explained as she poured warm water into a standing basin, adding in rose oil for scent. "If you go ahead and disrobe, we can get you cleaned up and changed."

Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa watched as Septa Mordane left the room, closing the door behind her, before nodding. She opened the door to her wardrobe and, using the door for privacy, began to slip her clothes off.

'Ugh, that time of the month already? ' she thought, taking in the red smears on her inner thighs and the crotch of her small clothes. "Could you please hand me a washcloth?"

Her first moon's blood was a cause for celebration, Mother had thrown a small, 'secret' party of all the girls and women at Winterfell who'd also flowered; it had been exciting, Sansa felt grown and mature and really to be presented to the nobility of Westeros as a woman. But as the months passed without any betrothals, her excitement about it waned as the discomfort of blood, cramps, and ruined pairs of smallclothes grew.

"Is everything alright, My Lady?" Lila asked as she passed Sansa a damp washcloth over the top of the wardrobe door. 

"I'm fine," Sansa brushed off as she cleaned herself, putting her dirty clothes into a basket to be washed later before tucking a rag into a new pair of smallclothes. She stepped out from behind the door and washed herself off in the basin while Lila politely turned away. 

"I left the slip draped over the vanity chair for you."

Sansa picked up the silky light gray fabric, savory the sensation of silk against skin, before sliding it one over her head. Her toes curled again into the woven rug on the floor as the lace trim of the slip tickled the top of her foot. 

"Excellent," Lila smiled, "now, let's get you into this dress."

The velvet gown had a full skirt and sleeves with a neckline that was a bit lower than anything Sansa had ever worn before… but that was alright because this was a woman's dress. It was mostly scarlet red but large, interconnecting rings of alternating black and gold were embroidered all down it. The silk inner-lining was a silvery gray that matched the color of the slip and bodice, though the bodice itself has swirling patterns of pearly white beads sewn in.

It fit her perfectly. 

"Her Majesty had this dress specifically made for you, Lady Sansa, and, if I may be so bold, it looks absolutely wonderful," Lila praised as she set to work pinning Sansa's hair up into a southern-style after weaving in a silver ribbon.

"Are you related to her? Queen Cersei, I mean?" she asked, taking in the woman's blonde hair and hazel-green eyes.

"I'm a Lannisport Lannister, my lady; so yes, but very distantly," Lila answered smoothly. "But when my mother, Lyla Lannister, was young she served as a cupbearer for Lord Tywin's sister, Lady Gemma, and that allowed for me to be sent here, to the Red Keep."

"Oh." Sansa couldn't imagine members of her family serving her, she could even get Arya, Bran, or Rickon to even listen to her. "I didn't realize how many Lannisters there are."

"We are a large pride of lions, my lady," the Lannister nodded. " Now, what pieces of jewelry would you like to wear tonight? Might I suggest something with onyx or sapphires? Perhaps-"

"The pieces that are on my dresser over there," Sansa pointed. "Could you please get them?"

Sansa watched through the reflection of the vanity mirror as Lila went over to where she'd left the necklace, earrings, and diadem that Jon had given her. She stroked one of the strands of the necklace, "Oh my, these are lovely. Where did you get such beautiful pieces?"

"They were gifts."

"Thoughtful ones, from someone who clearly cares for you dearly," Lila commented as she fastened the necklace at the back of Sansa's neck. 

That made the eldest Stark daughter perk up, "Aye, I hope that is the case."

"Lady Sansa, you look ravishing."

Sansa smiled brightly at her mother's old friend, Lord Baelish, as he kissed the back of her hand; she did look good, after all. The gown fell on her elegantly, not tight enough to be indecent but also bearing just enough skin to be in-line with typical southern fashion. The only downside was that the fabric was rather heavy and though she tried her hardest to move with the same effortless grace that Queen Cersei possessed, Sansa had yet to achieve it. 

So she didn't understand why Father was frowning at her.

"Where did you get that dress from?" he demanded.

"It- It was a gift," she stammered. "A gift from Queen Cersei."

Father frowned deeper, but he gave a nod. "How… generous of her."

She opened her mouth to go into detail of how the queen had also sent a member of her own family to serve as Sansa's personal maid, but she was cut off by the arrival of Jon, Arya, Lady Serena, and another woman she didn't recognize. 

"Where have you all been?" Father asked, much more gently than he had questioned her. 

Arya bounced on the balls of her feet, a broad smile painted across her face. "Just out running some errands."

She was wearing a neatly made dark blue, lambswool knit dress with a white frost pattern embroidered in the skirt and sleeves. It would be a nice enough gown if they were still up North, but it was far too plain for dining with the royal family. By the Seven, there were even bits of mud splattered on the hem!

And yet Arya had the gall to look at her and claim, "That dress clashes with your hair."

Sansa flinched back and instinctively reached up to touch her auburn tresses. She'd always thought her hair was her crowning glory, especially next to the dull brown color of her sister's, but what if she was wrong? What if her hair was hideous and garish? What if Joffrey hated it?

"Arya!" Jon chided gently, giving her a light cuff on the back of the head before turning to giver Sansa one of his small, tight smiles. "You look lovely, Sansa."

Jon and Lady Serana, who gave a brief nod of approval at her gown, made no comment about her wearing the jewelry he'd given Sansa though. She wanted to say something about them when Father cleared his throat; Sansa looked to him and followed his gaze to the unfamiliar woman who'd remained silent throughout the entire exchange. 

"Son," he said slowly, "perhaps you'd care to introduce us to…"

Jon blinked his eyes a few times and looked over at his shoulder to the woman, seemingly having forgotten she was there. "Oh, yes… I can't believe I forgot. Please, allow me to introduce Lady Valerica of House Volkihar."

"And my mother," Lady Serana added in.

"How do you do?" the woman, Lady Valerica, said cooly.

Father's eyes widened as he looked the woman over and stepped forward, extending a hand, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Lady Valerica. My apologies, I was unaware that you were in the city; if I had been then I would have gone out of my way to greet you sooner."

Lady Valerica glanced down at his hand and kept her arms folded, "I asked my daughter and her… betrothed, to keep silent about my presence. I wanted to meet with them and explore the city together privately. You are Eddard Stark, correct?"

"Aye," Father said slowly, probably confused by the woman's gruff manner. "I am the Lord of Winterfell and Jon's father. I suppose we will be kin soon."

"I suppose that is the case," Lady Valerica nodded before her cold green eyes turned to Sansa, causing a shiver to run down the girl's spine. 

If Lady Serena reminded Sansa of a porcelain doll with her flawless, pale skin and large, colorfully eerie eyes, then her mother reminded Sansa of the status down in the Stark Crypts with their cold, stony faces carved into severe, stern expressions. 

"I'm Sansa," she said, sliding into a small curtsy. 

The older woman looked Sansa over, studying her as if she was seizing up a goat or sheep for the slaughter, before simply stating, "So you are." 

Then she turned away and an awkward silence fell over the small group, only for it to be broken by Lord Baelish clearing his throat and stepping forward. "How wonderful it is to meet another member of the lovely Lady Serana's family; I am Lord Petyr Baelish, Master of-"

"I do not care, you are unimportant to me."

Everyone was saved from the continuation of excruciating interaction by the arrival of a servant. "Lords and Ladies, the royal family is ready to receive you all for supper," he announced before turning to Jon. "Lord Whitewolf, I'm sure you'll be pleased to know that the king was happy to agree to your request for another chair to be added."

"I certainly am," Jon nodded. 

They were all led into one of the Red Keep's many dining halls, this one smaller and typically reserved for more intimate meals between the royal family and those close to them. Sansa felt herself grow warm with pleasure when she was ushered to sit across from Joffrey and at the left hand of Queen Cersei. 

"Oh, sweet Dove," she said, smiling sweetly as she took in Sansa's appearance, "you look positively wondrous!"

A bright blush spread across Sansa's face. "Thank you, Your Majesty, but I really owe it all to you! It was so kind of you to have this gown made and send Lila to assist me. How can I ever repay you?"

"Think nothing of it, Child," the beautiful older woman cooed. "It was my pleasure. We ladies need to look after one another, after all."

The queen's eyes flicked down to Sansa's necklace before trailing up to the jeweled diadem on her brow. Sansa shifted nervously in her seat, the headpiece was eye-catching enough to imply importance and wealth without being so extravagant as to be arrogant or presumptuous. Still, what if she made a mistake?

Overstepping her bounds could create a massive setback in her plans to charm the royal family. The king didn't much seem to care what Sansa wore, but someone as fashionable as the queen certainly would. 

Queen Cersei raised a hand and brushed her fingertips over one of her emerald and pearl earrings. "This is a lovely set of jewels, Dove. Where did you get them?"

"They were a gift, Your Majesty," Sansa explained with a smile, nodding in the direction of her bastard brother. "Jon gave them to me early today and I knew that I had to wear them tonight so I could get your opinion."

"Truly? That was a generous gift."

Jon, who was pulling out chairs for Lady Serana and her mother, didn't even bother to look up as he chimed in, "I'm glad Sansa was able to make good use of them, otherwise they would just be gathering dust in my jewelry box."

"They're quite pretty," Lady Shireen said softly, offering up a small smile. Sansa tried her best to return it, but she didn't like looking at the girl's misshapen face. Between that and her father's untimely death, the Seven had surely been very unkind to Lord Stannis' only child.

"Any they look very nice on you, Lady Sansa," Princess Myrcella complimented, causing Sansa's smile to grow so wide it hurt. She'd been trying to bond with the princess, just like Mother had suggested, but the younger girl always seemed to be busy talking with Arya for some reason. "Where did you get the set, Ser Jon?"

"I got them from a political acquaintance in exchange for attending an event, so I do not know who made them. But if you are fond of the design then I have other pieces that are similar, Princess; you and Lady Shireen are welcome to go through them and select any that you'd like," Jon offered. 

"You mean it?" both girls questioned, surprised by the offer. 

Jon just nodded, "I brought them to either sell or to give as gifts so you'd really just be doing me a favor, keeping me from having to lug them all back to Skyrim."

Sansa frowned at the offer, reaching up to fiddle one of the necklace strands. 'I guess my gift wasn't special after all.'

"You should be careful, Jon," Lord Renly warned, an amused smirk playing on his face as he finished the last of his leek and chive soup, the first course served. "Someone could eventually take advantage of all that generosity you show."

"I'm a good judge of character," Jon replied simply as servants brought in the next course. 

"Queen Cersei planned this entire meal herself," one of the senior servants explained as plates of seasoned vegetables and meat were set down. "She specifically requested some of Casterly Rock's most signature dishes be served to honor the visiting Lord Tywin and to celebrate the safe return of her brother, Lord Tyrion, from his perilous journey to the Wall." 

Sansa thought she heard Lord Tyrion snort, but she dismissed that juvenile possibility quickly as she poked at the beefsteak with her fork, winced as it seemed to bleed onto her plate. Raw meat kept longer in the North, but people were also always careful to cook it thoroughly so as not to risk illness. 

'I guess people do things differently in the South.' 

"This is one of my favorite dishes from home," the Queen explained, cutting into her meat with practiced ease. "But I understand that it can be a little disconcerting the first time; Tradition dictates the beef has to be only just cooked and that can turn some off. I hope you don't mind, Lady Serenei."

It was strange that Queen Cersei had such a hard time remembering Lady Serana's name but, then again, she did have to remember the names of many, many noble ladies so it was understandable that she'd get confused.

All eyes were on Jon's betrothed, who, without hesitation, sliced off a large chunk of steak and popped it into her mouth. After chewing and swallowing, Lady Serana turned her painted red smile on the queen. "Oh, that tasted divine. I'll have to ask for the recipe before we leave for home."

A small laugh escaped Lady Valerica who, after enjoying a bite of her own meal, said, "As a matter of fact, my daughter, Serana, and I tend to prefer our meat on the bloody side."

Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Jon smirking into his wine. She started to ask what was so funny when Lord Tywin spoke up. 

"So you're Lady Serana's mother? I'm surprised we didn't see you last night, Lady…"

"Lady Valerica of House Volkihar, and I wanted to allow my daughter to have a private reunion with her betrothed without me hovering," the older woman replied coolly, her green eyes as hard as emeralds. "Though Serana was kind enough to inform me of all the faces I should be aware of, Lord Tywin. Speaking of that, I believe there is someone missing from the table."

"The Hand of the King, Lord Jon Arryn, is ill and unable to join us, My Lady," Father helpfully informed, looking up from his attempts to stop Arya from poking at her food.

"Really? That is disappointing," she said with a sigh.

Conversation lapsed then as everyone splintered off into different conversations as desert was severed. Queen Cersei was leaning close to hear something Joffrey was saying. Lord Baelish recounted her about his childhood spent at Riverrun with her mother, Uncle Edmure, and Aunt Lysa. Further down the table, Jon was telling Lord Renly about the different mines he owned while Lord Tywin seemed to be listening closely. Lady Shireen and Princess Myrcella were chatting with Arya about something or other with Prince Tommen chiming in every once in a while. At the far end of the table, Lady Serena was speaking with King Robert; Sansa could hear what they were talking about but Jon's betrothed was grinning and gesturing broadly, so it looked like the conversation was pleasant. That left Father to awkwardly attempt to engage an unresponsive Lady Valerica.

"I'd like to offer my condolences about the death of your husband, Lady Valerica," Lord Tywin said as plates were collected. "These past two years since his party must have been hard for you."

"Less so than you might believe," the woman replied, sipping at her dessert wine. "Harkon and I were distant for quite sometime before his death."

"Truly? Is it customary to be in mourning so long in Skyrim then?" the Warden of the West questioned, nodding towards Lady Valerica's black and gray evening gown. 

"Oh, this is my preferred style of dress," Lady Valerica explained. Then, after a moment, "Are you a widower, Lord Tywin?"

Sansa watched as the Queen and Lord Tyrion flinched while their father went stiff and silent. For a long moment, it seemed as if he wasn't going to answer the question… but eventually, he nodded, "Yes, I… lost my wife, Joanna, many years ago."

"And are you finished with your period of mourning, Lord Tywin?"

The Old Lion never replied, perhaps because the King decided it was time to announce his plans to lead a hunting trip the next day. 

"You'll be coming, of course, Ned," he declared, "and you too, Renly."

"That sounds like a grand time," Lord Renly said with what Sansa though was an unusually tight smile. 

The Queen decided then was the time to interject with, "Joffrey cannot go, he has lessons to attend."

"MOTHER-"

"The children weren't invited anyway," King Robert waved her off, "this is a man's trip. But, Jon, you'll be going as well."

Jon gave an apologetic smile, "I'm honored, Your Grace, but unfortunately there are some arrangements I need to finish making before my party and I depart for Skyrim and they must be completed soon. Responsibilities must come before pleasure, after all."

'It is incredibly rude of him to deny the king,' Sansa thought, her lips pursing at the thought, 'He should be grateful to have received such an invitation.'

"You've poisoned the boy's mind, Ned," King Robert laughed. "I bet he doesn't know how to have any fun whatsoever!"

"You'd be wrong there," Lady Serana remarked absentmindedly, causing the king to laugh even harder.

"You looked lovely tonight, Sansa."

A warm blush exploded across her face, "Thank you, Prince Joffrey; that is a wonderful compliment, especially coming from you."

The golden prince just smiled beautifully and leaned forward to give her a scandalous peck on the cheek. Sansa gasped, clamping her hands over her mouth as she watched Joffrey walk off with his mother. 

She took the silhouette of Queen Cersei… Long gleaming gold hair arranged perfectly atop of her head, all the riches in the world sewn into one gown with exquisite jewelry. She was the most beautiful woman in the world and one of the most powerful, no one could touch her.

'I can't wait to be the Queen.'

Jon XVIII

In front of Jon was a mirror.

But in the mirror was not Jon's reflection.

Instead, it was a nude young woman, smaller and only a little younger than Jon, with eyes like amethyst and burning hair, golden flames eating away at the shimmering silver strands. Her body was covered in soot and scrapes and bruises but there was not a single burn to be found. Her face looked familiar and the sight of it made him happy but Jon could not place it. He remembered it like one remembers a dream that slips out of the mind as soon as the dreamer opens their eyes. 

She reached up and touched the mirror, palm flat against the surface. Jon, his body moving of its own will, matched the action, pressing his hand against her. At first, he felt only cool glass, but that was quickly swept away but a burning sensation that rushed over his entire body. 

Not taking his hand off the mirror, Jon glanced down at his body and looked for injuries. There were none, but something had changed- the clothes he was wearing. Rather than his usual dark, rich garb was the rough spun red tunic and torn brown trousers with scuffed, oversized boots. Yet, he recognized the outfit. 

It was the one Jon had been wearing the day he slew Mirmulnir. 

The day he'd absorbed his first dragon soul.

The day he'd experienced his first shout.

The day he'd become the Last Dragonborn.

Jon looked back to the girl, who smiled a with a mouthful of sharp, reptile teeth as the thundering of thousands of horses' hooves echoed around them. He blinked and thundering ended, the girl frowning for a moment before smiling again but this time with normal, human teeth. 

Then there was movement and Jon watched in amazement as three small dragons, each only about the size of a chicken, crawled up her body, each perching on different parts of her figure. The cream and gold one at her hip, the green and bronze clinging at her ribs, and, finally, the black and red dragon sat upon her shoulder. Small rivers of blood created by the tiny beasts' sharp little claws ran down the girl's skin, mixing with the soot and dirt.

Her mouth opened and she said something in a strange language he should understand but didn't. 

"What?" he called out, wanting her to hear him. "I don't understand what you're saying!"

"Keligon ēdrure, ñuha ānogar," she repeated. "Istiti iōragon hēnkirī iā bisa vys kessa zīragon."

Then the heat was replaced by the cold and it hurt twice as much.

Nothing ever burnt the skin quite like ice. 

Jon bolted up in bed, gasping and sweat soaking through his nightshirt. His frantic eyes darted around the room, narrowing in on the slightest amount of movement illuminated by the gray early morning light coming through the window. Sweetroll chirped and shifted in his sleep, his massive body tucked into his woven basket nest. A low, deep purring let him know that Phantasm was still curled up contently on the couch. He couldn't see Ghost but his bond with the direwolf told him that his longtime companion was sleeping on the floor at the foot of the bed and the cool weight next to him reminded Jon that Serana was by his side, as always. 

Breathing finally slowing down, Jon silently swung his legs out of bed and padded over to the frost-covered bed. He dropped his forehead against this cold glass pane and slowly exhaled. 'Winter is coming,' he thought, semi-amused as his breath fogged over the window. 

Claws clicked against the stone floor and a damp nose pressed against his hand before Ghost gently bit down on his hand, giving it a slight tug.

"I'm alright, Boy," he reassured quietly, giving the direwolf's ear a rub. 

"Jon?" 

Serena sat up, one of his old nightshirts hanging loosely on her body and slipping off of one shoulder; she rubbed her eyes and blinked at him, ember orbs burning in the dim light. "Something is wrong."

It wasn't a question and Jon loved that about her, she always knew. 

"I had a dream," he croaked, "and there is something I want to show you." 

"These are beautiful," Serana breathed as she held the glossy black dragon egg up to the light of the fire. "Where did you find them?"

"Under Winterfell, if you could believe it," Jon responded, wiping the drying sweat off with a damp washcloth. "I certainly couldn't at first. They must have been down there for decades at least; the only way to get to them was through a passageway that'd been collapsed in on itself since before I was born."

"How'd they get down there?" the vampiress asked, turning the egg over in her hands and enjoying the warmth it put off. She rubbed a thumb over the rough, scaly surface and- "Ouch!"

Jon was at her side in an instant. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she waved him off before popping a thumb in her mouth. "I cut myself on the egg; it was sharper than I expected."

"I noticed that too," Jon agreed, picking up the blue and gold egg and tucking it tight against his chest. The thought that maybe the baby dragon inside could hear his heartbeat passed through his mind almost without Jon noticing and he held it tighter. "I feel bad for all those babies who had to deal with an egg in their crib."

Serana gave him an odd look, prompting Jon to continue. "The Targaryens used to put eggs in the cradle with newborn babies, some of them even hatched."

"Why? 

"No idea," he admitted. "I wish I did though, maybe it would give me a better idea on how to hatch these eggs."

"I'm sure you'll figure it out," Serana assured. "What are you going to name them? The hatchlings, I mean."

"I want to meet them first before deciding on that." Then, after a pause, "Are we going to talk about it?"

Serana went silent and set the egg down. "What do you want me to say, Jon? I believe you had a strange dream; I know you've had prophetic dreams before so what should we do about this one? Ignore it or try to figure out what it means?"

Jon sat down on the bed and sighed. "I think I have an idea who the girl is. My father had a younger brother and sister that managed to escape Robert's rage against the Targaryens by fleeing to Essos. I don't know what happened to them or if they're still alive and it is not like I can go around asking questions about them but the silver hair, the purple eyes, and the dragons? She must be a Targaryen!"

"One of the few remaining," Serana added gently. "Do you want to meet her?"

Excitement and fear turned in Jon's stomach at the suggestion. Was he ready for that?

"One day," he offered eventually. "But we have more pressing concerns at the moment, starting with murder and ending murder infidelity."

Serana laughed, "Speaking of that, why do you think the Queen has it out for me?"

Jon shrugged, "I don't think she likes many people at all but she especially doesn't seem to like it when all eyes aren't on her. Not being the most beautiful woman in the room must burn her up inside."

The vampiress blinked before a long, slow grin split across her face. "Aw, you think I'm pretty, Jon?"

'Since the moment you first fell into my arms.'

He coughed, "Well, you're certainly not ugly."

Then Jon ducked as Serana beamed a mug at his head.

Enzo, as usual, didn't knock before coming.

"Hey!" Jon shouted, half-amused as he finished tying the belt of his sky-blue tunic. "What if you'd walk in on something?"

"You do not have the guts to do anything I would care about seeing without locking the door," he retorted, setting down the serving tray of breakfast foods down on the table. 

"The door was locked!"

Enzo just hummed as Lady Valerica stepped around the giant Redguard, another tray in her hands. "Be careful, it is my daughter that you're talking about."

"I don't mind," Serana called from behind the curtain where she was getting dressed. 

"Alright," Enzo declared, setting out the plates of bacon, boiled duck eggs, and poached apples with milk and tea to drink. "Let us eat and then discuss our battle plans for the day."

So the four of them gathered around a small table to break the fast; out of the corner of his eye, Jon watched Lady Valerica pass her daughter a potion of blood under the table. He fought a wince, wondering if he should have been more attentive to Serana's needs. 

Once the meal was finished and the dirty dishes stacked high on one of the trays, Enzo wiped his mouth with a napkin and held up the oh so mysterious scrap of parchment. "So the plan is clear? I am to go investigate the names on this list?"

"Not quite," Jon shook his head. "I only want you to track down the middle three names: Edem, Sallem, and Dustun. We've already met Gendry and I'm going to check on the baby myself. You don't need to talk to them or their mothers either, just find out what they look like- hair color, eye color, that sort of thing."

"They all live in the same part of the city," Lady Valerica observed.

"Aye, the poorest part of the city," Jon nodded. "Unsavory characters probably abound there but I doubt any of them will be foolish enough to engage Enzo here."

"Your faith in me is heartwarming," he smiled.

"In the meantime, I'll do some digging into this-" Serana gestured to the 'borrowed' copy of The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms on the table, "-and see if I can narrow down who fathered the Queen's children, hopefully, they were all sired by the man or otherwise this will get complicated."

"And I shall go meet this Lord Arryn," Lady Valerica announced, holding up a round, corked glass bottle filled with a dark blue fluid. "This concoction should give him a fighting chance against the poisoning and, with any luck, he'll be so full of it that I'll be able to identify it by smell."

"There will be guards," Jon warned, "and they won't just let you waltz right in there."

"I have my ways," the ancient vampiress replied cryptically. "What will you be doing?"

"Well," he said, "I was planning on helping Serana but the Tyrell warehouse sent notice that the first shipment of foodstuffs is ready to be sent out; they need me to check it first though, to make sure it meets my qualifications. After that, I'm going to try to meet with a potential sword instructor of Arya."

"Awww," Serana cooed, reaching over to pinch his cheek. "You're such a good big brother."

"Enough," he laughed, shooing her hand away. "We've got to get this done quickly; I just got word from Adelaisa, the ship to take us back to Skyrim will be here in a week and she can't delay it any longer.

"Then we don't have much time," Enzo noted solemnly.

"I apologize for the delay, Ser Whitewolf; due to all of the events going on in the city, demand for goods has gone up and took longer than usual to get your order together," the storehouse manager explained as he led Jon to a large, painted green wagon that was piled high with crates, barrels, baskets, and sacks of foodstuffs along with small casks of light beer and jars of milk. 

"That is understandable," Jon nodded, "and, quite frankly, I was surprised you got back to me so quickly; I thought it'd take a few more days at least."

"Well, we do pride ourselves on the quality of our products and service," the manager, Donal, smiled charmingly. "Now, I just need you to inspect your order to make sure that everything meets your standards; after that, we can get it rolled out to Flea Bottom."

Jon nodded and hopped up into the bed of the wagon. Determined to make sure he (and the poor of Flea Bottom) weren't getting ripped off, Jon went everything very carefully. The inspection left him pleased; the loaves of bread were fresh and firm, the jarred vegetables well preserved, the dried fruit varied and plentiful, slabs of salted meats and smoked fish thick and hardy, and even a few small boxes of raw ingredients like flour, salt, and eggs. 

"I know you just requested beer and milk, but I took the liberty of adding in a complimentary dozen bottles of wine," Donal said, pointing a crate half-covered by a sack full of apples. 

"Oh, truly? How generous, thank you."

"Well, it is not often we get such an extensive order; it was the least I could do. I also am able to get wine at a significant discount; my mother is a Redwyne, you know?"

Jon did, in fact, know this; the man had mentioned it three times during their earlier contract negotiations. So he just gave a hum of an acknowledgment as he gave inspected a jar of milk, giving it a sniff to make sure it was still good. 

Another storehouse worker, this one a young lady with brown hair and a simple green dress, came up and whispered something to the manager. "Pardon me, Ser Whitewolf; there is something I need to attend to. I will be back in a moment."

Jon nodded, watching him and the young lady leave; when he sure they were gone, Jon whispered a detect life spell to ensure he wasn't being spied on. Once he was reasonably sure that he was alone, Jon pulled three disease healing potions out of his knapsack. Quick as he could, Jon poured some -not enough to discolor the liquid or change the taste too noticeably- into each jar of milk and cask of beer before shaking the container lightly to mix the potion into the drink.

It wasn't much, but he hoped it would help.

"I'm glad to see everything was up to your standards, Ser Whitewolf," the manager said, sliding a stack of papers across the desk to Jon. "Now, if you can just sign these we'll be finished and you can be on your way."

Jon took the offered quill and scanned over the papers, signing only once he was sure there were no hidden clauses or loopholes. "When will the shipment be sent out."

"Tomorrow morning, weather permitting," Donal replied, checking over the forms. "Well, that should be all; it was a pleasure working with you, Ser Whitewolf."

He and Jon exchanged a firm handshake but, when the young Dragonborn turned to leave, he found his exit blocked by the small, hunched figure of Olena Tyrell. 

"Whitewolf, you're joining me for luncheon," she demanded simply, tucking a gnarled, long-fingered hand into the crook of Jon's elbow and directing him into an office with a large crest of a golden rose surrounded by grape leaves painted on it. Before Jon could even think to protest, the door was locked behind him and he was staring at a meticulous spread of food, the meat still steaming.

'Well, this clearly wasn't a coincidence,' Jon though, warily eyeing the meal of seasoned, steamed fish and cabbage.

"Oh there is no reason to be nervous, Boy," the old woman said dismissively, taking a seat behind the desk and pour two cups of tea with a surprisingly steady hand for someone her age. "If I wanted to poison you, I'd be far more discrete; I'd be further away, for one. So sit and eat; would you like some stronger to drink? I have a lovely collection of wines and I was planning on pouring myself some whiskey."

"No," Jon shook his head, tentatively cutting into the fish; it smelt good at least, but Lady Tyrell's reassurances hadn't done much to calm his nerves. "I'm fine, thank you."

"You'll have to try the tea, at least; it is brewed with orange and ginger, excellent for combatting the midday slump. The Reach, and the Arbor, in particular, are famous for our fruits, you know? Our peaches can grow bigger than a man's fist and sweet as honey."

"Aye, Maester Luwin taught that when I was young," Jon said, setting down his utensils. "Lady Olenna, if you don't mind, what you want?"

"What makes you think I want anything, young man?"

"Everyone wants something."

"Except for you," the old woman said, sharp eyes boring into Jon's, "when you bought a literal fortunes' worth of foodstuff to just be handed out to the poor; now, I can understand giving money to your family but not this. It is noble, I'll admit, but nobility has its limits, I'm trying to understand yours. You claimed not to have any ulterior motive but, as you yourself said, everyone wants something. So what is it you want?"

"I want," Jon said slowly, "to help people."

The answer got him a cool, quizzical look, so Jon continued, "When I arrive in Skyrim, I had nothing… less than nothing really, I couldn't even speak the language. I did… a lot to survive, some of it Lord Stark certainly wouldn't approve of, but I was able to get lucky. Strangers were kind to me, they helped me, and, eventually, by being in the right place at the right time, I was able to make the friends I needed and do what it took in order to climb the social ranks. I have money now, more than I'll ever be able to spend, titles, and prestige; now, I worked for those, yes, but I also got because the right opportunities landed in my lap. 

Most people will never have those opportunities, so I want to pay forward that kindness that was showed to me. In Skyrim, I can do that by created jobs and paying my workers well, but I can't do that here. So buying a bit of food so the poor don't go to bed hungry and maybe have a little something in their pantries when winter comes? That is all I can do."

*

*

*

"Well," Lady Olenna said, a bright smile on her wrinkled face as she passed Jon a fruit tart, "that was a lovely speech. How does your betrothed feel about your generous side?"

"She thinks I'm too soft-hearted," Jon admitted, "but she understands."

"Lady Serana, is her name, correct? She's is beautiful but she caused quite a stir in court, arriving the way she did."

"Aye, she is," Jon nodded, "though that isn't why I fell for her."

The old woman gave him a steely glare, "Boy, if you tell me that you fell in love with due to her personality than I will vomit on you."

Jon chuckled, "Fine, I won't, even if it is true. Is that all?"

"Oh, are you that tired of your pleasant chat already, Ser Whitewolf?"

"I have much to do today, Lady Olenna," Jon said simply, standing to leave, "so unless you're willing to answer a question of my own, I have to go."

"Well, what would you like to know? I am an open book to you," the old woman said.

A smile tugged at Jon's lips as he sat back down, "I think we both know that is not true, but, in the interest of being honest, what can you tell me about Randyll Tarly?"

The way her eyebrows raised, ever so slightly, told Jon that his question surprised Lady Olenna, at least a little bit. She leaned back in her armchair and rubbed her chin, "Oh, what is there to say about a man like Randyll Tarly? One could say that he is an excellent soldier and commander, it would certainly be true. A generous person could describe him as stern, taciturn, and unyielding; all of which would be accurate. 

I, however, would describe him as a right arse. He doesn't respect me because I am old and a woman. He does not respect my grandson, Willas, because he is cripple and not a soldier. He does not respect my son, Mace, because, at the very least, he is not an entirely stupid man. As I'm sure others have told you, Randyll has a very narrow idea of what brings honor to his family, and, after the Rebellion, he won't stand for his house to be dishonored again. I don't blame him for being angry at my family, exactly, but I also would never turn my back on him for risk that he'd take a knife to it."

'That match up with what Sam told me,' Jon though. "And what of his wife?"

"Melessa Florent," the old woman said, "an utterly boring girl, meek and submissive. Still, the marriage seems to be pleasant enough for both of them, Randyll even seems to care about her. Why do you ask?"

Jon drummed his fingers about the polished wooden surface of the desk, "His son, Samwell, asked to come with me back to Skyrim; I'm happy to have him along but he is nervous about telling his father, so I volunteered. I'm want to do it in front of Lady Tarly though, it seems that Randyll will be less like to protest that way."

"Well, Randyll isn't exactly a social man; you'll have a hard time getting him to agree to a meeting." Then Lady Olenna peered at him over the rim of her tea cut with those sharp eyes of hers, "Unless, of course, you get someone to arrange it for you."

*

*

*

"And you'd be willing to do that?"

"A favor that small between friends? I'd be happy to do it," the old woman smiled, reaching over to pat Jon's hand. "That is... if you'd be willing to do a favor for me in return."

'Why do I feel like I just spent an afternoon with Clavicus Vile?' Jon though, disgruntled, as he stepped out of the carriage; still, he'd have a meeting with Lord and Lady Tyrell, one way or another. He handed payment to the driver, gave the carriage horse a pat on the neck, and headed inside the Wench's Hall.

It was a nice enough tavern, clean, dry, and well-warmed by a pair of twin fireplaces; it also seemed like the kind of establishment that wouldn't ask too many questions of their long-time guests. A serving woman with blue eyes, orange hair, and a large red birthmark across her face perked up when Jon approached the bar. 

"What can I get for you, Ser?" she asked. "We got a fresh pot of rabbit stew going if you're hungry"

"That does sound nice, but I'm actually looking for someone who I heard was staying here," Jon took a seat. "He's a Braavosi man, bald with a beak nose and probably carried a sword."

"Aye, we've had a man like that renting one of our rooms upstairs for the past month now."

"What do you make of him? Personally, I mean."

The woman shrugged, "Comes off as a bit of a braggart but he seems nice enough, keeps his hands to himself, and is always polite to us serving girls. He is staying in the room with the green door upstairs if you want to talk to him; I didn't see him leave so he might be in here."

"Thank you, I'll do that, but first- what is the most expensive bottle of wine you have?"

Moments later, Jon had one new bottle of wine to his name and was standing in front of the mysterious Braavosi swordsman's door while the red-haired server was going about her day quite a bit richer than she was this morning. He gave the green door a knock and wasn't the least bit surprised when he felt the sharp of a knife pressed into his lower back.

"I do not know who you are, Boy, so unless you want metal in your stomach, you will tell Syrio Forel why you seek him out," an accented voice hissed in his ear. 

Jon raised his hands slowly, still holding the bottle of wine. "My name is Jon Whitewolf and I'm interested in hiring you. I even brought a peace offering."

He passed the bottle over his shoulder and, after a moment, it was taken from his hand and the blade pressed into his back retreated. Confident he wasn't about to be gutted, Jon turned around to face a slightly built older man in Braavosi-style clothes. 

"This," the man said, holding up the wine bottle, "gets you one conversation. Come inside."

He unlocked the door and held it open, waving Jon into a sparsely furnished bedroom that only contained a large bed, a table with two chairs, a dresser, and mirrored vanity with a wash bastion on top. The man gestured for him to take a seat as he poured out two glasses of wine. "So, why do you seek Syrio Forel, the former First Sword of Braavos?"

Jon was fairly certain that the man was Syrio Forel (spending time with Inigo taught Jon to just go with it when someone referred to themselves in the third person) so he just shrugged. "As I said, I want to hire him."

"Syrio Forel is far too skilled to be a mere guard and besides-" the man reached over, taking Jon by the wrist -Jon forced himself to remain calm and not automatically tense up- and turning his hand so the palm was facing upwards, "-these sword callouses tell Syrio Forel that you can take care of yourself."

"I don't mean to hire him as a guard," Jon replied, pulling his hand back to his chest perhaps a little too quickly. "I want to hire him as a teacher for my little sister."

That got a look of surprise flashed across the man's face but he got that under control quickly. "Well, that does interest Syrio Forel; few think women could have any skill with a weapon -a foolish line of thought, of course- and fewer still would be willing to pay for a woman to learn to use one."

"Well, I suppose I'm different," Jon said, before chuckling into his wine at his own half-joke. "My sister, Arya… I think she could be excellent with a sword if given the proper training; I've taught her a little but I can't be the teacher she needs. I think you could be."

This gave the man paused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "There are many who'd wish to train under Syrio Forel, why should he take your sister on as a student?"

"Arya is small but fierce, young but strong; she's young but strong and when she puts her mind on something, she never lets it go. If you give her the chance, I guarantee she'll be the best student you'll ever have."

As much as he loved Arya, Jon wouldn't lie for her so he was absolutely sincere with his plea and yet it was still a surprise when the man nodded. 

"Syrio Forel has decided to take this girl on as a student," he declared.

Jon's eyes went wide, "Really? Oh, excellent! What would you like to be paid? Money is no object to me."

The man waved Jon off, "Syrio Forel needs no coin; he is doing this because of his own interest. Bring the girl to Syrio Forel's home tomorrow, the house he is renting is finally ready and Syrio Forel is leaving this establishment tonight."

"Well then," Jon said, finishing off his wine, "I suppose we have an agreement."

All in all, Jon was having a fairly good day… so it wasn't a surprise when he felt someone following him. 

'It was only a matter of time,' Jon thought, turning into a narrow, empty alleyway and resting a hand on the dagger at his hip. He closed his eyes, focusing only on the sound of his stalker's footsteps; they were quiet enough but heavy… definitely a man, but not a particularly big one. 

The footsteps quickened.

'One, two, three… NOW!'

Jon stepped to the side as the stalker lunged at him, knife glinting in the dim light of the shadow darkened alley. The man stumbled and Jon grabbed him by the bicep, swinging his attacker into the brick wall and using his other hand to grind the man's face into the stone. His attacker gave a muffled scream as his nose broke like an eggshell and he dropped the knife, Jon kicking it away. 

Spinning the man around, Jon pinned him to the wall by a forearm against the throat. "Who are you?" he hissed. "Why did you attack me?"

"Piss off, you fucking bastard," the man roared, dark eyes burning with fury and pain as blood gushed down his face. "I'm going to cut you-"

"Oh, you need to buy me supper first," Jon cut in with a nasty smirk before rearing his head back and bringing it down hard on the man's already broken nose, blood smearing sticky on his forehead like hot, red egg yoke as his attacker howled in agony. "Tell me what I want to and I'll consider not killing you so slowly."

"What's going on he- AHHHHH!"

Automatically, Jon's turned to see a slender young woman at the entrance of the alleyway, hands clasped over her mouth in horror.

"Miss, you need to go get a- ARRGH!"

Sharp pain exploded across Jon's abdomen. He looked to see the blade -how did he miss a second, hidden weapon? Foolish!-buried up to the hilt in his body. His attacker yanked it back out, blood spurting out of the wounds, and used Jon's momentary shock to shove him away. 

He took off down the alley, straight at the woman; he grabbed her by the hair and plunged the knife into her stomach over and over again as she shrieked. Jon retook control of his body, pressed a hand tight over his wound, and charged after him.

The man, seeing Jon coming, released the woman who fell to the ground, and fled towards the more crowded streets of the city. Jon watched him run and swore under his breath; loathed as he was to let the man go, caring for his victim was more important. 

Jon dropped to his knees beside the barely breathing woman, gritting his teeth against the pain and pressing his hands down on the stab wounds. She moaned in pain, tearful blue eyes turning to him.

 "I don't want to die!" she gasped. "My son, he needs me!"

"You're going to be fine, I swear," Jon comforted as he blinked away the dark spots clouding his vision; the knife must have hit something important. "Now, I want you to take a deep breath, close your eyes, and picture your son as clear as you can; hold that imagine in your mind and try to keep your breathing steady. Can you do that for me?"

The woman gave a shaky, pale-face nod and closed her eyes. Jon whispered the incantation for Healing Hands and watched as the stabs wounds nearly closed under glowing white light. He didn't completely heal them, it would invite too many questions, but they were no more than shallow cuts now. After a moment, the color returned to the woman's face and her breathing evened out.

She blinked her eyes open and started to sit up, "What… How?"

"They weren't as deep as I thought at first, you got lucky." Jon forced a smile on his face as he pulled the shawl from the woman's shoulders, wrapping it around her stomach and pulling it tight. "Now, I need you to go find a city watchman and tell him what happened. I'm going to go after him."

"But you're hurt too!" the woman cried, taking in the blood that was soaking through Jon's tunic. 

Jon shook his head as sweat ran down his brow, "It looks worse than it is; now go!"

Then he stood up and started after the attacker, one hand pressed into his stomach as he gathered up enough of his fading energy to heal himself.

"Ser Snow, if you would just-"

"No!"

"Please, you are injured and-"

"Don't touch me!" 

"By the gods, just let me-"

"Out!" Enzo bellowed, grabbing Pycelle by the scruff of his robes and throwing him out of the door to Jon's room. "Begone, elderly rodent!"

Serana sharply closed the door in the face of the elderly archmaester and locking it as Lady Valerica cut Jon's bloody tunic away, holding her breath as she stared down at his exposed stab wound. 

"It seems your assailant got you in your spleen," she observed, poking at the partially healed injury, oblivious -or, more likely, enjoying- his pain. "You are lucky, those can cause quite a bit of blood loss."

Jon raised his head up from the bed, glaring at the ancient vampiress in a way he usually wouldn't dare, "Then how come I don't feel lucky?"

He hadn't been able to catch up to his attacker unfortunately and only had just enough energy to heal the stab wound up to where he wasn't in immediate danger of bleeding to death. This left Jon to painfully limp back to the Red Keep as no carriage driver would pick him up while drenched with blood. He'd managed to slip past the guards and was planning on going back to his room, gulp down the strongest healing potion he had followed by an entire gallon of apple juice, cleaning up, and then passing out until his friends returned. But those plans were dashed when Lord Baelish spotted Jon limping through the halls and altered… well, what seemed everyone in the castle. 

This meant that he was swarmed by pretty young maids trying to clean him up, guards asking what happened to him, and even Archmaester Pycelle trying to drag him up to the infirmary for treatment. He'd manage to wave them all off, though Pycelle continued to follow him, and make it back to his quarters where Enzo, Serana, and Lady Valerica were all present to see his predicament. 

Jon was just glad that Uncle Ned was hunting with the king and Arya was attending lessons with Sansa, Myrcella, and Lady Shireen; they'd have thrown a fit. 

"Be glad you're alive to feel anything at all," Lady Valerica huffed as she poured a healing potion out onto a washcloth, pressing it right down onto Jon's injury. 

He winced, applying a health potion directly onto an injury increased the speed at which they worked but… FUCK did it hurt. It also caused nausea and headaches, so Jon expected to be laid up for the rest of the day.

And that meant that his uncle and sister would probably learn what happened, so that would be fun. 

"Yes, killed by a common street hoodlum would be a pathetic way for The Last Dragonborn to die," Enzo growled, even as he handed Jon a glass of juice after blasting it with a frost spell to chill it. "This land is messing with your head, Jon! You have been distracted ever since you first got that damned letter!"

Jon couldn't even deny that but, "It wasn't a mugging gone wrong; I don't have that kind of luck. He was targeting me specifically but to kill me, hurt me, or just scare me, I don't know."

 His head was starting to pound so he just laid back down on the bed. He opened his eyes again when Serana sat down beside him, smoothing his sweaty back from his eyes. 

"I'm glad you're not dead," she smiled.

Jon smiled back, nuzzling into her cool palm, "He too."

"Save that for when I am not in the room," Enzo snapped. "We need to figure out-"

"What's that?" Serana perked up, brow furrowed.

"What-"

"Ssshhhhhhh," Serana hissed, holding up a finger to silence them all. "Listen."

They all went quiet and, after a moment, voices from out in the hallway became clear. 

"Archmaester, come quick!" a muffled male voice called frantically. "The king has been injured!"

Robb III

"There, over that hill!"

The thunder of hooves echoed across the rocky, snow-capped coast. Robb and his men had been pursuing the group that attacked the fishing village tirelessly ever since they picked up their trail and they'd finally managed to catch up with the bastards. The bandits didn't have horses, so they would be on them soon.

It wasn't a large group, maybe fifteen men total, but Robb had seen the damage they could do first hand and didn't want a single one getting away. 

"Hurry! If they round this bend they can disappear into the- AAHHHH!

Which was why it was so concerning that there were only five men in front of them.

Robb ducked, hunching down close to his horse as arrows whizzed overhead. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the remaining bandits leap out of the treeline to rain more arrows down on Robb and his men. 

Wylis Manderly caught an arrow in his shield and roared, "Robb, Greyjoy, go after them! We'll deal with these bastards."

Then he pulled his sword and charged, followed closely by Smalljon Umber and the Karstark brother. Robb watched them good, praying the gods old and new that this wouldn't be the last time he saw any of them alive. Still, he must do his duty. Robb urged his horse forward, Theon at one side and Greywind racing ahead in front of them. 

Robb swung his new stalhrim blade -Frostfang- and decapitated one of the bandits in a clean arch. Blood sprayed everyone, some hitting Robb clean across the face; the body hit the ground, blood mixing into the snow, turning it wet and red, and the head rolled away. His stomach lurched, but he ignored it as he struck another man down. Out of the corner of his eye, Robb saw Theon slow his horse and steady an arrow, letting it fly into the back of a bandit's throat before repeating this with another. 

Finally, there was only one remaining. 

"Leave this one alive!" he commanded. "I need to question him!"

Greywind, in yet another example of how well the direwolf understood him, tackled the final bandit; he sunk his teeth deep into the man's shoulder, dragging him down to the ground and pinning him there. Robb caught up, swung himself off the horse, and put the tip of his blade under the man's chin as Theon followed, notching an arrow and fixing it on the man. 

"Who are you?" he growled. "Why did you attack that village, they had nothing of value to steal?"

The man gave a nasty smirk, "Just a bit of fun, that's all."

"You think butchering women and children is fun?" Theon hissed.

Greywind bit down harder when the man began to squirm; after a howl of pain, he turned and glared up at Theon, "Don't go preaching to me, traitor! Just because you've forgotten your roots doesn't mean I have!"

"Traitor?" Robb asked, confused. "What do you- Oh gods, you're an Ironborn?"

Oh...FUCK!

"That's right!" the man sneered. "And it is time for us to take what is ours!"

"Does my father know what you've done?" Theon demanded, hands shaking as he gripped his glass bow so tightly his knuckles were white.

"Old Balon, I doubt he knows much of anything any more; the fish will have eaten away most of his brains by now," the man laughed darkly. "You've been away too long, Traitor! The Crow's Eye, Euron Greyjoy, leads us now and he's going to return the Ironborn to the glory they deserve!"

Robb's heart was pounding in his ears, he could barely hear; all he could do was watch as Theon when white. "How? What about Asha? Where is my sister?"

Another sneer, "Well, she's not dead… but I bet she wishes she was by now."

The man tried to continue but was cut-off when an arrow impaled itself in his left eye. 

Bran II

Beneath Bran, stretched far as the eye could see, was a feast for crows and rats. 

The dead bodies of soldiers and civilians, men and women, children and the elderly, the nobles and the smallfolk alike were strewn about the burnt battlefield of Westeros, bloated and bloody. A riverbed cut through the carnage, dried up and devoid of all life. The scavengers went for soft bits first, like the eyes and tongues, but soon enough, every bit of them was available to be devoured. 

"This is horrible."

"War always is," the Three-Eyed Crow agreed from his perch next to Bran on a branch of a grand old weirwood tree with leaves stretched up to the sky and roots that grew to the center of the world, "and it is always those who have the least to do with the war that suffer the most."

"By why?" Bran cried, digging his fingers into the bark of the tree branch as he watched on horrified as a crow landed on the head of a small, pale babe impaled on a spear. "What good can all this destruction do for anyone? It's not right!"

"Things are rarely so simple as being right or wrong," the bird squawked. "Watch."

Time sped forward, the sun rising and setting a hundred times in the blink of an eye, and the bodies rotted away. The grass grew back, greener and fuller than ever, and the water returned to the river, trouts jumping merrily in the drink. The land was healthier, fuller, and better than it'd been before; the bodies of the dead feeding the growth of the plants which in turn fed the animals. 

"Do you understand?" it asked.

Bran's brow furrowed, "What are you saying, that all those deaths are worth it? That people need to die so the land can flourish?"

"I am saying," the Three-Eyed Crow replied solemnly, "that there is always a price."

"Well, I don't want to pay it!"

"That is foolish," the bird shook its head, sounding more exasperated than any bird had any right to be. "The time will come when the price needs to be paid."

Bran went to argue, only to be cut off. 

"But… if you wish to minimize the coming bloodshed, you need to learn how to SEE!"

A searing pain burned at the center of Bran's forehead, like someone was digging a molten hot knife into his mind. The agony was intense; Bran screamed and screamed and screamed until he saw through the pain. 

"Bran? Bran? Wake up, young man." 

Bran tried to squirm away from the hand that was shaking his shoulder but eventually opened his eyes, blinking up at the concerned old face of Maester Luwin. 

"Are you feeling well, Bran?" he asked gently. "It is quite late for a nap, especially among the birds."

The young direwolf glanced around the rookery, remembering where he was. "I like them," he replied, reaching over to stroke the breast feathers of a particularly large, grumpy specimen that automatically pecked at his fingers. 

"They are rather amazing creatures, incredibly intelligent," Maester Luwin agreed as one hopped up onto his shoulder where it promptly shat on his robes. "Though they're far from my favorite thing about the position!"

He waved the squawking bird away and handed Bran a thick, tightly wrapped scroll. "Here," he said, "a letter came for your mother. Would you mind taking it to her?"

Bran didn't really want to, Mother had been acting so weird recently… She wasn't very pleasant to be around. Still, he never went out of his way to be an unhelpful boy, so he nodded. "Of course."

He wound his way through the empty halls of Winterfell, his footsteps echoing through the corridors, wondering if the castle had always seemed so cold and unwelcoming. He knocked on the door to Mother's room and, after a moment, it creaked open. 

"Bran? Why aren't you in bed yet?" Mother asked, braided hair disheveled and eyes tired. 

'When did she start looking so old?' he wondered. "Bed? Supper hasn't even been served yet, Mother; it is not that late."

"Oh…" Mother sounded confused and disoriented. "What do you need then?"

"Someone sent you a letter and I-"

The scroll was ripped from his hand and the door closed in Bran's face before he could even finish what he was saying. Bran stood there, mouth open and in shock, for a long moment before huffing, throwing his arms up in exasperation, and stomping away. 

He didn't exactly have a destination in mind, maybe his bedroom or the kitchens for a treat, as he stomped through the halls. So Bran wasn't sure how far he'd gone when Lord Howland stopped with a hand on his shoulder. 

"Bran, what is the matter?" he asked. "Have your dreams been bothering you again?"

'Yes,' he thought, but still shook his head. "No, it is Mother. She's being so… aggravating!" 

"Ah, now I understand," Lord Howland nodded, a pained look on his face. "Bran, your mother is going through a very… difficult time right now. Her husband is cross with her and now he and daughters are far away, her eldest son is out of the castle and might be in danger; she's been left to plan a wedding all by her lonesome… Perhaps it would make Lady Stark feel better if you-"

Bran cut the man off with a sharp look. "I'm not comforting Mother when she is in the wrong. Father is right to be cross with her and I'm not going to pretend otherwise."

Lord Howland sighed, "You must understand, this is an incredibly complicated situation."

"No, it isn't! Jon can't control how he was born but Mother can control how she acts," Bran retorted. "And I have every right to protect Jon, he is my brother!"

"Half-brother," Sansa cut in, eager to please Mother. "He is just our bastard half-brother."

"So, why is that important?" Bran asked, annoyed by his sister's tone. Jon had only been missing for a year but she and Mother were telling him it was time to stop being sad about it.

"It is better that he is gone, Bran," she said earnestly. "I hope he is safe, of course, but he never belonged here with the rest of-"

"Shut up!" he shouted, hurling the first thing he could grab at Sansa who recoiled in shock. "Shut up! Shut up!"

"Bran, stop that this instant!" Mother scolded, grabbing his wrist. "You apologize to your sister right now!"

"No!" he howled. "Not until she takes back what she said about Jon!" 

Bran turned to Sansa who looked pleased that Mother had taken her side. In that moment, he wanted to hurt her; looking her dead in the eye, he hissed, "Just because Jon doesn't love you doesn't mean he isn't important to the rest of us."

Sansa reeled back like she'd been hit and Bran smirked, proud his remark cut so deep. 'Sansa hates the idea that someone wouldn't adore her.'

His smirk was wiped right off his face, however, when Mother slapped him across the face; not hard and it didn't actually hurt, but the action was still surprising. 

Mother grabbed him by the shoulders and leaned down close to his face, her own pale. "Bran, you will not speak to your family that way! Now, I know you might miss him, but you must understand that Jon staying in Winterfell would have been dangerous. It is better this way."

Bran stepped back, pulling himself from his mother's grip. Jon, dangerous? 

Sure, he was good with a sword -better than Robb and far better than Theon- but he also patiently let Rickon use him as a teething ring, patiently cared for raven with a broken wing until it healed, and urged Father to save the direwolf pups because he'd seen how sad the idea of them being killed made Bran. Jon was the least dangerous person he knew!

"You're wrong!" he snapped. "Jon would never hurt us!"

"Bran," Mother hissed, "bastards have a history of turning against their true-born siblings, and even if they don't, their children do! Remember learning about the Blackfyre Rebellion, about Aegon and Bittersteel?"

Bran's skills at sums weren't anything of note but he was good at history and, if he took the time to go through and tally it all out, the number of bad bastards was probably about the same as bad true-born people. 

He did, in fact. "So? Bloodraven was a bastard too and he fought for the crown! And what about Aegon the Unworthy? He was the one who made all those bastards in the first place! Maegor the Cruel too; he did all sorts of horrible stuff and he was trueborn! Orys Baratheon was supposedly the bastard brother of Aegon the Conqueror and he fought alongside him throughout the conquest!"

Mother had nothing to say to that and could only give a frustrated splutter. 

Bran was sent to bed the night of the argument without supper and was supposed to have been grounded for three weeks but Father overturned that ruling when Mother couldn't give a good enough explanation for why he was being punished. 

It was the first time Bran realized that his mother was far from perfect.

Lord Howland rubbed his forehead tiredly but smiled. "You're a good brother," he said, ruffling Bran's hair, "and a good person."

Bran flushed at the compliment, even if he couldn't help but wonder if being those things also made him a bad son. "Thank you, Lord Howland. I just wish-"

CRASH!

"What was that?" the older man asked, alarmed. He rushed down the hall, taking a sharp left as Bran followed, only now realizing that his feet had taken him to the library corridor. 

The Lord of the Neck threw the door to the library open… only to jump back when a wave of heat and smoke blasted them both in the face.

Next Chapter: As the king lays dying, he and a conflicted Jon have one final talk. Arya enjoys her first dancing lesson as Ned closes in on a dangerous secret.

Notes:

1) YOU GET A CLIFFHANGER, YOU GET A CLIFFHANGER, EVERYONE GETS CLIFFHANGERS!

But, yeah, I'm pretty happy with this chapter, both content-wise and how fast I was able to get it out. This is also the last chapter in the King's Landing Arc: Part B.

2) I've decided to open up for commissions. If anyone is interested let me know in the comments or on my Tumblr page and we can talk it over.

3) I'm hoping to do my first streaming secession on twitch on May 1st starting at 4:30 pm EST if anyone wants to check it out. I'm thinking of playing Bioshock: Infinite. UPDATE: The headset I ordered was delayed by Amazon so I won't be able to stream until the 7th.

STAY SAFE EVERYONE!