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Chapter 28: Haul Away the Anchors- Jon XVI; Serana III; Margaery II; Samwell Tarly I

Summary:

Jon and Enzo find an interesting memory from the Targaryens of the past. Serana comes face to face with the Red Woman. Margaery struggles to find her footing.

Notes:

Sooo... How has everyone been?

Look, all I can say is sorry for the wait. This chapter was actually finished back in February but I ended up needing to rewrite it because I decided to cut the start of what would have been a three-chapter murder mystery arc set on Dragonstone (I blame you for the idea, Glass Onion). To be completely honest, the past eight months have been bad for me on just about every level: mental, physical, financial, and emotional. I got to experience the joys of a couple of hospital visits, and some friends of mine turned out not to be the people I thought they were Frankly, writing this story takes a lot of mental energy and I just didn't have it. Most of what I DID have went to trying to get my sewing business up and running. Something that is more important now than ever because the bakery I work out is going to be closing at the end of the month. But, who knows, maybe unemployment means I'll have more time to write. Woohoo!

Yeah...

But, pushing all that depressing mess aside, I'd like to give a very special thank you to Black Victor Cachat! He's a great friend (and a great writer) and these chapters really wouldn't get done without him. You're the best!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Jon XVI

The eeriness of his uncle's words lingered in the air until they were dispelled by a loud knock on the door, so sudden that it had both men jumping in their seats. 

"Jonny?" Enzo's voice called from the other side of the door. "Are you in there? I found something you might want to see."

Jon met his uncle's gray eyes. "I can send him away if you want. Enzo will understand, even if he grumbles a bit."

Uncle Ned was silent for a moment but shook his head. "No, talk to your... friend. I need to make sure Sansa and Arya are ready to leave when the time comes. Arya has been more interested in her sword training than packing, and Sansa... She doesn't show motivation to do much of anything right now. Hopefully, I can use the trip to think of something that will spark a change within her."

"Good luck with that," Jon mumbled under his breath. When he caught the pensive look in his uncle's eyes. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Perhaps learning a skill, something a little outside her... typical area of comfort, would be good for her?"

"Are you suggesting Sansa learn how to use a sword too?"

"Oh, gods no." Jon shuttered at the thought. "I'm not sure she'll ever have the mentality for such a thing. But hawking, sailing, healing, horsemanship, or even archery might be good. Obviously, most of those can't be taught on a ship but still..."

"It's worth consideration," Uncle Ned said, standing up to take his leave. "We'll speak again. Have a good day."

"You as well, Unc—" BANG! BANG! BANG! "By the gods! I'm coming, Enzo! Calm down!"

Jon threw the door open in the most exaggerated fashion he could, making sure to glare up at his friend when it opened. 

"Ah, good. You are still alive," Enzo said blandly. Looking over to Uncle Ned, he nodded. "Lord of Winter, I hope preparations for your journey go well."

"They do. Thank you for your concern."

"I will admit to being sad to see little Arya go, I find her quite endearing."

"Well, hopefully, you will get a chance to see her again before all of... this is over."

Jon hid a smirk behind his hand as the two men exchanged stilted, tight conversation. Somewhere along the seemingly endless boat ride, Enzo and Uncle Ned had come to an agreement: they may never like each other, but they would trust one another to do what was needed. For now, at least. 

When his uncle finally left, and the door was shut, Enzo turned to Jon. "What were you talking about?"

"Plans for the future," Jon said. Riffling through his chest, he pulled out a bottle of Enzo's favorite wine and tossed it to him. Certain conversations were better with alcohol. "My uncle has much he wants to accomplish when he gets back to Winterfell, mostly with his family."

Enzo made a face. "Dealing with that unpleasant wife of his is one task I am glad that I do not have to deal with."

"Don't be rude, that is my siblings' mother," Jon scolded, trying not to smirk. Amusement fell away when he added, "We also talked about who would take the throne if... when Cersei is removed."

"I'm sure you did," Enzo said, the lines in his face growing even more severe. He pointed a finger in Jon's face. "You are not allowed to be guilted into taking the crown, you hear? Or else I'll shave y—"

"Yes, you'll shave my head."

"Good."

Jon cocked his head to the side. "You know, that threat loses its potency since none of you have ever followed through."

"Sleep with one eye open," his friend replied. "And I am being serious. Do not let anyone guilt you into taking on more than you wish."

"Don't worry. You're the only one I allow to guilt trip me."

"As it should be," Enzo nodded again. The man dropped down to an empty seat, reaching over to scoop up Ebony in one of his massive hands before plopping the little dragon down in his lap. "I, for one, am excited to be back in a desert. It may not be my homeland, but I miss the sun and the sand."

There was a pang of guilt in Jon's heart at his friend's words. He was not foolish or delusionally self-important enough to believe Enzo's life revolved around him. The Ebony Warrior did as he pleased; he stuck around Jon because he wanted to, and painful as it was to imagine, certainly there would come a day when Enzo chose to leave to walk Tamriel alone once again. And it wasn't like Enzo didn't make the occasional trip back to Hammerfell to visit his family. As a matter of fact, the man had plans to return for his nephew, Inzo's wedding, upcoming wedding; Jon was even planning on accompanying him. 

An event that, if Jon remembered right, would be happening before the year's end.

'I intend for this conflict to be over in time for that wedding,' Jon promised himself. 'I will not make Enzo put me over his loved ones.'

"That being said, I am not looking forward to another boat ride," Enzo continued. "I am a desert dweller at heart, traveling by water does not come naturally to me, and I have done it far too much these past few months for my liking."

"Well, this won't be a long trip. Maybe a week at the most," Jon said. He rubbed the back of his neck. "To be truthful, I wish it was longer. It would give me more time to rehearse what I am going to say to the Martells when we get there. If they are even willing to listen to me, that is."

Enzo's face grew grave once more. "Whatever happens, do not let them place the blame for the death of their kin on your shoulders, Jon."

"Isn't it natural though? Rhaegar chose my mother, and all of Westeros bled for it. Elia and her children died and yet here I am, alive and in their home. You can hardly blame them for carrying some resentment towards me."

"Of course, I could," Enzo replied seriously. "Anger I understand, yours and theirs, yet I will not let them place the blame on you. You were not even born yet. You did not shed that blood. Hells, from what I have heard, to completely lay the blame at the feet of your parents is itself an oversimplification of the matter. Your grandfather was a horrible man; war was inevitable."

This was true. The list of Aerys Targaryen's sins was long and bloody, far longer than his list of allies. Even if Rhaegar and Lyanna had never met, even if Rickard and Brandon Stark had never been executed, and even if Aerys hadn't demanded the heads of Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon from Jon Arryn, something else would have likely brought the realm to war. 

'Or the Mad King's heart could have given out in the middle of the night without any conflict at all,' the pessimistic voice in Jon's head argued. He looked up at his friend and shrugged. "I suppose we'll never know. What's done is done and the living are left dealing with the consequence of the dead's actions."

His face softening, Enzo scratched Ebony under the chin, the little dragon cooing as it bumped and nuzzled against the man's fingers. "Even if the responsibility should not be yours, I do admire your desire to set things right personally." He took a swallow of his wine. "I also understand wanting to know more about your family through the Martells."

"I only know Elia from the stories of her death and her one letter to my mother. Well, that and..." Jon trailed off, forcing the horrible things he saw in his dreams away. "She deserves more than that. Elia Martell was more than a victim, and more than just my father's wife. I want to understand more about her as a person, my half-siblings as well. Granted, Aegon was just a babe, and they don't do much but Rhaenys? She was three years old. She must have had a favorite color, a favorite dessert, a favorite game! She was a person and I want to remember her as such, even if we never got to meet."

'If such a thing is possible, I would like something to talk to them all about in the afterlife.'

"I hope you get that, Jonny, I truly do," Enzo said before sighing and forcing himself up onto his feet, catching Ebony before the dragon could fall. "Yet, for now, there is something I want to show you."

"I found this while exploring the beaches," Enzo explained, holding his lantern up to illuminate the darkness. 

They were some distance from the castle now, only that was no real surprise to Jon. On top of a natural curiosity, Enzo took his job seriously, and whenever they went someplace new would always prowl around the whole area to secure it. Not that the Last Dragonborn could call him paranoid, not after one too many times sneaking into places from a spot the inhabitants had managed to overlook.

The light caught on the smooth, strange stone of the cave, causing it to glisten like stars in the night sky. "The entire shoreline was dotted by caverns, crevices, and caves, but this was the first one I found that went any deeper than a few meters. Jon squinted through the gloom, putting a hand against the cave wall as he followed his friend in deeper. Sliding it along the wall, he let out a small hiss as his finger caught on a razor-sharp bit of rock. 

"Something wrong?" Enzo called over his shoulder. 

"No," Jon replied. "Something just caught my attention."

He pulled the dagger from his belt and used the pommel to knock the rock shard free. Catching it before it could hit the ground, Jon couldn't help but marvel at how sharp it was. He didn't even squeeze down on the stone, and yet a thin, white line appeared across the pads of his callous fingers. 

Jon beckoned his friend back over, passing him the shard. "Check this out," he said. "It almost looks like the ebony from back in Skyrim."

The coloring fit, as did the natural gloss and hardness. From the way it broke after just a single blow, it did seem to be more brittle, and even the texture was more similar to glass than stone or ebony. 

"Obsidian," Enzo said, handing it back. "Makes sense, this is a volcanic island, and obsidian is created when the lava extruded from a volcano cools rapidly. There are probably wagons full of it in these caves."

Obsidian. Jon had read the name many times in his studies, and heard it often enough beyond that. 

"Dragonglass, that's what the smallfolk call it here in Westeros," he said. "We didn't have much of it up in the North, but Maester Luwin once showed Theon, Robb, and I some arrowheads made of it. I also know it's occasionally used to make weapons and jewelry."

Enzo nodded. "The same is true of Hammerfell, though craftsmen also use it to create mirrors and medical knives. Now, come along, there is more I want to show you."

Jon nodded silently, wrapping the shard up in a handkerchief before tucking it into his pocket. It was a little too small to create a useful weapon out of, but perhaps he could make it into a pendant or something similar. Would be a nice little way to keep busy on the trip. 

He followed Enzo in deeper, fighting back a chuckle as his friend grumbled and swore under his breath as struggled to navigate the low ceilings and narrow tunnels. 

After a decent amount of walking, the cave opened up once more —except that Jon could not see any more of it. It was so dark now, that even with the lantern light, Jon could barely see Enzo, even though the man was close enough that Jon could hear his breathing. The air was thick with a musty aroma, still with a tinge of sea salt, and warmer than anywhere else on the island. The ground under his feet was still soft and uneven as it had been at the mouth of the cave, though occasionally dotted with thicker clumps of dirt and stone. 

'It reminds me of the crypts back in Winterfell,' Jon thought, carefully running fingertips against the wall so he didn't lose orientation as he waited for his eyes to adjust. Had his eyesight already not been sharper than most, being in this cave would have been very much being at the bottom of the sea. Once more, his fingers caught on something. This time though, it was a curved divot in the hard surface of the cave walls. Frowning, Jon traced his finger over the odd shape. 

'A circle? That's not natural.'

"Jonny? Are you with me?" Enzo asked into the darkness.

"I'm here," Jon said, exploring the rest of the wall in rapidly increasing interest, finding more and more grooves in the walls. "Are you finally going to tell me what we're here for? I'm getting a little tired of playing follow the leader."

Enzo snorted and replied in a sing-song voice, "Not so much fun when you're doing the following, is it?"

Jon rolled his eyes. "C'mon..."

His friend chuckled and, without another word, blew out the lantern, truly plunging them into darkness. The lack of even a little night seemed to amplify the sounds around them; the dripping of water droplets from the stalactites up above, the soft clicks and buzzes of different, cave-dwelling insects, and the faint whistling of air moving around them. Even the smell and feel of the damp air felt thicker. 

It only lasted for a moment though, as Enzo muttered a quick Magelight spell under his breath and summoned a dozen or so orbs of bright, magical light that floated up into the cave, filling it with gentle light. 

"Have you ever seen symbols like this?" Enzo asked, pointing up at cave walls where dozens of strange circles and spirals had been craved, looking white against the dark stone. 

Jon could only shake his head silently as he tilted his head back, trying to take in everything at once. Some were smaller than Jon's palm, while others were taller than Enzo. Most were circular in nature, but others depicted crude images of men, fire, dragons and other beasts, volcanos, and what had to be dragons' eggs sitting in nests of flames. Jon glanced down at the symbol under his hand, getting a good look at it for the first time. It was indeed a circle, though with a straight, diagonal line down the center of it. Rubbing his finger into the groove, the white coloration smeared off against Jon's fingertips. 

"Chalk paint," he said, holding up his hand for Enzo to see. "From what I've read, this can last for centuries. For all I know, Aegon the Conqueror himself could have made these."

Enzo let out a thoughtful hum. "Your ancestors were odd people, Jonny. Very odd indeed."

Jon opened his mouth to respond, only to fall silent when an unexpected gust of wind prickled his skin. 

'This isn't the end of the cave, it's just a large carven. There is more to it,' Jon realized. Licking the pad of his tongue, he followed the breeze to a narrow opening in the cave wall that was half hidden by rock and dirt. As he crouched by it, Jon stared into the darkness, the glow of the Magelight only cutting a few feet into this new passageway, and wondered where it might lead. 

'How far do you go,' he wondered, shivering when another breeze hit him in the face -damp and foul as the breath of some massive, horrid creature. 

"Those caves must go on for miles," Jon said to Enzo as they stumbled back onto the beach. Three times they had nearly gotten lost making their way back. "I think they intersect under the entire island."

A glance at the sun showed they had not missed the planned meeting between the various lords.

"Like a beehive. Or a cheese wheel," Enzo replied. "I wonder if these caves ever served a strategic purpose to your ancestors? They could be an excellent place to hide from invaders if you knew what you were doing. On the other hand, I imagine it would be easy to get lost, especially for young children."

"You're correct."

Turning to the source of those words, Jon smiled at the tiny, scarred form of Shireen Baratheon approaching. It was one of the few times he'd ever seen the little girl without Davos Seaworth; seeing her alone —aside from the two guards that were shadowing her— had the strange effect of making her seem both larger and smaller than ever before. The skirts of her dark dress caught in the wind, blowing around her legs. Shireen's hair, however, still remained neatly up in a braided crown. 

'First time I've seen Shireen with her hair up, usually she is trying to hide her face,' he thought with a touch of pride. 

"All my life, I was told to never go near the caves. Everyone told me I could get lost or fall down an unexpected hole, or get stuck in a cave-in, or get attacked by bats, or a hundred other things," Shireen explained. "Not that they really needed to scare me like that, of course. I've always been afraid of the dark. And, in my nightmares, dragons were lurking in them who wanted to eat me."

"I suppose that is natural, living in a place with such history," Enzo said kindly, to which Jon hummed in agreement.

Shireen flashed them a quick, genuine smile—a small act that did wonders for her appearance. "My father wouldn't approve, but circumstances are rather... unique so, please, feel free to explore the caves however much you'd like."

"Are you sure?" Jon asked, cocking an eyebrow. He, his friends, and everyone else may have technically been guests as opposed to prisoners or hostages, yet letting members of other houses roam free during times of conflict was still highly unusual. Under different circumstances, Jon wouldn't trust such an invitation. Even if it wasn't given out of malice or with underhanded plans, everyone tended to want something. 

Of course, they had already been doing so without asking for permission first. But it seemed polite to pretend.

"What do I care for a bunch of rocks?" Shireen replied with a shrug. "As long as you don't start mining my island out from under me, do what you will with them."

"Are you aware of what else is in there?" Enzo asked, jabbing a thumb back over his shoulder. 

Shireen shook her head. "Like I said, I was never allowed near the caves, and as far as I know, they were never a priority of my father's either. There might be notes on them in the old Targaryen records, but those have long since been locked away. I've never seen them, but our Maester might know more about their content."

Enzo let out a low hum, yet said nothing more; Jon decided to follow his friend's lead for now. If for no other reason than no one needed any other mysteries on their plates. 

"May I walk with you a bit, Lady Baratheon?" Jon asked, nodding his head down the beach. 

The girl froze at the question... but only for a moment before nodding with a polite smile. "Of course. It would be nice to talk privately."

Jon felt Enzo's eyes on the back of his head. He turned to address the man, keeping his voice light and friendly. 

"Enzo, would you mind going to check on—" he scrambled for a moment to find a reasonable excuse "—the state of rations that will be used for the upcoming legs of our trips."

The giant man cocked an eyebrow ever-so-slightly, but huffed in amusement. "As you wish. I wanted to make sure they were giving us enough dried fruit. Only packing enough for scurvy, and then stuffing everyone with too much jerky to make us all salty and stern."

Jon grinned. "And fruit makes people happy?"

"Of course, you should try eating more of it."

And, with that, Enzo disappeared to go play his own games with the world at large. 

'He is probably serious about the fruit situation though,' Jon thought, briefly amusing himself with the mental image of Enzo threatening or bribing some hapless kitchen aid for a bag of dried peaches before turning back to Shireen. "Shall we?"

The two ambled slowly back up the beach, neither in any great hurry. Her bodyguards followed at a distance calculated to ensure they would not overhear anything, while still able to react if Jon did anything unbecoming. After a span of tense if pleasant enough silence, Jon cleared his throat. 

"I wanted to thank you, Lady Baratheon, for opening your home to my family, friends, and I, along with everyone else. I can only imagine this will create problems for you in the future, if it hasn't already."

"The Dragonstone food stores have taken a hit, it is true, but to do anything else would make me a greedy leech," Shireen replied. "You and your friends helped me and mine. It was proper that I return the favor by offering you all sanctuary, temporary as it may be."

Shireen bit her lip before continuing. "I can only hope it continues to be safe for me. It will won't be long before the Qu—Cersei Lannister responds to our escape. And I know there is a good chance that response will show up at my doorstep."

"You could leave the island. There are several places you could withdraw to, including my own home, until things have... calmed down," Jon offered.

Shireen stopped and shook her head. "Thank you, but no. I've never felt comfortable on Dragonstone —it never wanted my family here, and my father and I never wanted to be here— but it is my home nonetheless. More importantly, it is my responsibility. I was not anyone's choice to be my father's heir, yet I rule now all the same. And I will do so to the best of my ability, both for the smallfolk living on this island, and for my honor as a Baratheon. Cersei has already taken so much from my family, she won't take my inheritance too. When she comes, I intend to be ready."

Her tiny face was set with grim determination, a far cry from the timid little girl Jon had first met in King's Landing. 

He smiled. "You should be proud."

"...Huh?"

"Nothing," Jon shook his head. They started walking once more. "Do you have any thoughts on the trade routes we'll be finalizing tonight, Lady Baratheon?"

"You don't have to call me that, you know? Not after... everything."

"It is only appropriate to refer to you by your proper title," Jon said. 

He considered explaining that he didn't want to risk his tongue slipping in front of others. In the past week, Shireen had needed to scratch and fight for all the respect she'd been given by the other Houses—something that wasn't likely to change anytime soon. If Jon got in the habit of referring to her too casually, then others might take it as an invitation to do the same. 

"Unfortunately, my instruction in that area has been lacking," Shireen admitted. "I am relying on Ser Davos to inform me on the best water routes."

'I really should learn more about Ser Davos,' Jon thought, making a mental note to poke around for information. "I'm sure you have a leg up on me. I left Westeros before ever getting the chance to leave the North, and my childhood lessons about the rest of the kingdom have long since been forgotten. I've been catching up since, but it remains very basic."

"I'd say that sounds tragic, yet we both know how your first journey south ended up," the little lady said. 

Jon laughed, loud and genuine. The sound was strange to his own ears, and, judging by the alarmed look Shireen gave him, it sounded strange to those around him. 

The next time Enzo suggested that coming back to Westeros had been a mistake, Jon wouldn't argue with him.

"Quite true," he chuckled. "King's Landing would have preferred I never crossed its gates. I shudder to think of the horrors that will be released if I ever try to return."

That made Shireen's face fall. "Never returning will be awfully hard if you are to be king."

Now it was Jon's turn to frown. "Then it is a good thing there is no crown in my future, at least not here. I have not lived in Westeros in many years; before that, I only lived in one part of it. For all intents and purposes, I am a foreigner. Even if I desired the throne, what makes me fit to rule people I barely know?"

"Plenty of unfit men have sat upon the throne."

"True enough, and most of them have been from my father's family," Jon said. "Maegor the Cruel, Aegon the Unworthy, Mad King Aerys... With the damage my grandfather did to Westeros, and yes my father as well, I am unsure if anyone would ever be able to truly accept me. And I'd rather not spend a lifetime where everyone around me is waiting with bated breath and drawn swords to see if I'll turn mad."

He sighed. "And besides, I am already in line for another throne. It hasn't been made official, yet I know Elisif —Uh, Queen Elisif that is— well enough to know what she plans. I can't say I'm looking forward to such responsibilities, and I'm still hoping she'll remarry, but at least I'd find more trust in Westeros than I would here."

He really, really did not like thinking about it, but he was not blind to it either. Elisif's faith in him aside, he was aware there were various political reasons to support such a decision. And it isn't as if Jon could sit by and let Erikur become Elisif's heir!

Shireen blinked, the teenager's attempt at a political mask faltering. "Is that… allowed in Skyrim? To pick your heirs?"

Jon nodded. "Aye, under the right circumstances. You are aware of how a Great Council can be convened to select the next king if no immediate or obvious heirs are available, yes?"

When Shireen nodded, Jon continued. "It's a somewhat similar concept. High Queen Elisif inherited the position after the death of her husband, the former High King. They had no children, so tradition dictates that she pick a member of her court as her heir."

That was a highly simplified explanation, but Jon very much doubted this was the time or place for a comprehensive lecture about Skyrim's laws and traditions regarding inheritance. 

"That's … interesting," Shireen said like she wasn't sure Jon wasn't telling her the truth, her 'Lady's mask' faltering for a moment before she composed herself. After a moment, she shook herself back to the present and frowned. "Well, it hardly matters. You could be the most unworthy man in the world, and there are those who would still prefer you to me ."

"Again, true enough." Jon cocked an eyebrow at Shireen. "Do you want to rule? There is much you could do with the throne."

"And there's much more I'd be forced to do," the girl replied. "Is it truly so surprising that I don't want it? You just said that you didn't."

"Aye, but as I said, I have other reasons. Responsibilities I don't want for a people and land I don't truly know, histories I'd rather not have to bear, throwing away the life I've built for myself, and the friends and family I made doing so, and more."

"But—"

Jon cut her off. "Ultimately, to rule or not is my choice, and I say no to Westeros."

Shireen seemed to ponder his words for a long while, the path of footprints growing ever longer behind them. "Eventually, someone will have to end up on the Iron Throne. So long as it isn't Cersei, I don't particularly care who. I don't want it, and neither do you, but I don't think that will matter in the end. And I'm not as free to sail away as you can."

Jon hummed in agreement. "When has anyone cared about what we want?"

That was the sad truth of life —especially when it came to the children of noble houses where duty ruled over all else. Happiness was preferable, not the priority. 

'As Arya has always struggled with. Uncle Ned wouldn't ever knowingly send her into a miserable situation, yet he also could never completely let her control her own life. The way he raised me growing up aside, it just isn't possible in Westeros.' 

And that, Serana had mentioned, was the reason she'd be better off in Skyrim with them. Jon was inclined to agree. 

Cautiously, aware he may be overstepping here, Jon said, "Whatever happens, be sure you keep your options open. And don't be afraid to keep an escape plan available. Just in case." 

The Lady Baratheon shot him a sharp look, yet did not comment on his words. 

They lapsed into silence once more as they neared the lowest entrance gate of the castle. Among the dark grays of the landscape, a spot of vibrant red caught Jon's eye. The sight of Melisandre staring down at them, the red silk of her robes catching the sea breeze, was enough to have Jon slow in his step. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Shireen noticing the woman too. Her small body grew tense as she drew in a sharp breath. Jon considered asking her what she knew about Melisandre, only to bite his tongue when she started to approach. If the woman had ill intentions, he did not want to put Shireen in the path of her ire. 

Besides, any questions Jon would have asked would have been stopped dead in their tracks as Melisandre began approaching, her gait smooth and effortless even in the face of uneven, rocky terrain and strong wind. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw Shireen step ever-so-slightly closer to him, her small fists clenching the fabric of her skirts. 

"Lady Baratheon, it is good to see you out and about. Fresh air and activity are an excellent remedy for a heavy heart," the woman greeted, even as her eyes immediately fixed on Jon. 

"That they are. Yet time for leisure is short and I must return to my duties," Shireen said, her voice tight and hurried. "You'll forgive me for my sudden departure."

Shireen shot Jon a quick 'I'm sorry,' glance before turning on her heel and heading back through the castle gates, leaving Jon alone with Melisandre.

'Fuck,' he mentally groaned. 

"Ser Whitewolf, I see you've been exploring Dragonstone. I hope you find it as captivating as I do," the woman said. She took a seat on a nearby boulder, tucking the loose silk of her robes under her long legs. "It is a place of magic, you know?"

"So I've heard," Jon replied. He kept his face blank and his voice even, determined to give away nothing.

And yet, Jon had felt magic in the air since arriving on the island. It was different from back in Skyrim, or even up in Winterfell. If he had to put a description to it, Jon would say the magic here felt... angry. Angry and resentful for being ignored for so long. When he focused on it, Jon felt old power sleeping restlessly somewhere deep inside the island. It reminded him of his dreams of the Winterfell Crypts.

'Something here wants to be found.'

"The Targaryen dragonlords used magic to shape the castle of Dragonstone when they first arrived. Such actions leave marks, marks that run deep and leave scars. Scars of magic and pain and want," Melisandre continued. She raised her hand to him, "Here, sit with me."

"I prefer to stand."

Melisandre hummed, looking more amused than offended. "Very well. The late Lord Baratheon, may he be at rest now, once told me that the dragons are done and gone from the world. That the Targaryens tried to bring them back half a dozen times. And made fools, or corpses, of themselves because of it. Yes, Stannis Baratheon had many fine qualities, yet his ability to think in the abstract, or understand what lies beyond the world we see were not among them."

She paused then, as if expecting Jon to say something. He did not. 

"Lord Baratheon was wrong. Dragons have returned, Ser Whitewolf. You know that better than anyone. And they were always going to. That is simply the cycle of things." Burning red eyes, somehow colder than Serana's, stared up at him. "Dragonstone is not happy to have been separated from its dragonlords. They were meant to exist together. And it is looking forward to a reunion. They may not be the only ones."

"You speak of such things with much certainty, my lady," Jon said, earning him a smile. 

"My Lord shows me much through the fires, and those fires burn more brightly here in Dragonstone than elsewhere in the Kingdom." Melisandre glanced in the direction of the island's volcano as if pondering it. "That is why I'll be staying here for now. It is where I can do the most good."

Good. 

The phrasing struck Jon as odd, almost amusing. He didn't think she was lying; no, in the brief time since he'd become aware of the Red Woman, Jon had come to see Melisandre as someone who fully believed what came out of her mouth. That didn't mean she wasn't manipulative though. 

'Zealous... Nothing good can ever come from them.'

"Good for the Lady Baratheon, I'm sure," he said, curious about how the woman would respond. 

"Of course. What is good for the world of men will be good for the young Lady Baratheon as well. I know she is nervous about the position she now holds, and I only hope she sees the advantage of having me by her side." Melisandre shifted again, her movements smooth and deliberate. The silk of her robe pulling tight over her shapely legs, as she ran her fingers along a low neckline. "Perhaps that is something you could learn as well."

.

.

.

'Well, I've seen more unsubtle attempts at seduction,' Jon thought, raising an eyebrow. The two whores in his room a few days ago for one. "I assure you that I have everyone I need by my side."

It didn't need to be said that Melisandre wasn't among them, not when they were still dancing around the woman's attempts at manipulation, and what she clearly believed was happening with the world around them. 

"Oh, I look forward to seeing how you will perform in the upcoming trials, Jon Whitewolf," Melisandre laughed. "I can only imagine R'hllor and others find you very interesting"

Jon bit the inside of his cheek. For too long he'd been pulled around and made to do the bidding of many so-called gods and Daedric Princes, and he was sick of it!

"I've said this before and I'll say it again, Lady Melisandre, my life is my own. Your god has no place in it so there is no need for you to play messenger," he growled. 

And, with that, Jon turned on his heel and marched toward the castle. He needed to cool himself down before the upcoming meeting. 

The entire way, he felt Melisandre's red eyes fixed on the back of his skull. It felt like she was trying to read his mind. 

Serana III

'Well, that went terribly,' Serana mentally growled as she stomped through the corridors of Dragonstone. 

If Jon were here, he'd surely note how different this was from her usual light, careful step, but he'd been forced to stay back to speak with his uncle and the heads of the Tyrell family. Serana had been getting so heated she made the tough decision to remove herself from the situation, lest she end up slapping (or biting) the next noble to say something irritating. It felt like everyone was more interested in bickering with others and coming out on top at the end of this fiasco, the veneer of thankful politeness they all took on while on the ship and after just arriving on Dragonstone having worn off. 

Trade routes had been decided at least between the different factions of the Kingdom. As had further plans to cage in Cersei's forces from King's Landing, both to suffocate her from incoming supplies, and cut her off any aid she might receive from the greater Lannister family. Ser Barristan, with his many years of experience and understanding of wars in Westeros, offered to stay behind on Dragonstone. From there, he could advise and plan how to best organize their forces, should things come to outright war. It helped, Serana, that everyone seemed to hold Barristan in high regard, and seemed to believe he would honor the responsibility that he'd been given. Or, at least, that he'd be good at it. 

Yet, as Serana replayed the evening in her mind, those were the only good things to come out of the night. 

Arguments had consumed all discussion. Arguments about heirs, who deserved more repayment for what the Lannisters' had taken and who they had killed, what they considered the 'best' course of actions, and, worst of all, who should rule after they got rid of that bitch Cersei. Mother had watched it all with distance bemusement, leaning over to whisper that it was like watching a flock of chicks squawk over grain. But centuries locked in the Soul Cairn gave Mother plenty of practice when it came to being patient. Serana, however, had slept away those centuries, and was more than ready to put her —or, preferably, someone else's— head through a wall to escape the frustration.

Her cut of beef at supper hadn't even been properly bloody!

And it wasn't just Serana who was growing tired of the squabbling humans either! Jon had admitted to her that he hated, "being made to perform like a dancing bear," after others started demanding proof of his magical abilities. He smiled while making the comment, like it was some jab, but Serana knew Jon well enough to see the discomfort and anger stirring behind his dark eyes. 

To say nothing of how they ignored him when he said he had no desire to rule Westeros. 

'They want to steal Jon away from me,' Serana thought, fear spiking in her still heart. 'They want his blood, be it for the magic they've never seen, or to rule this horrid kingdom. Well, I won't stand for it. I won't let them.'

She pushed through another of the castle's heavy, ornate wooden doors as she headed toward Jon's temporary apartment.

"I've seen you before."

The sudden voice startled Serana, which was an oddity in and of itself. With her hearing and sense of smell, few were able to surprise her. She whirled around, hand going to her hidden dagger. It had been a long time since some had been able to sneak up on her. Enhanced senses had their benefits, after all. 

The beautiful woman peering out from the shadows was not what Serana was expecting. She flinched back when she saw the woman's red eyes, not expecting to see one of her kin in this land. But then Serana smelt the air and relaxed, though only slightly. Rather than the typical smell of iron, cold, and salt that came from Serana's fellow vampires, this woman smelled like ash under a layer of exotic perfumes. 

Ash and blood. 

There were few things Serana was more familiar with than the smell of human blood. 

Her eyes narrowed. "Of course you have. I've been staying on this island for some time now. More specifically, I've been staying with—"

"Jon. You've been staying with Jon. Yes, I am well aware," the woman said. She took a step forward, coming close enough that Serana could feel the magical aura that covered her like a thick, obscuring fog. "But that is the only place I've seen you. It troubles me."

Serana stayed silent, pressing her lips together as she refused to take the bait. Whatever this woman was trying to say, she'd have to come out and say it frankly.

"...You're hidden in my visions," the woman said after an excruciatingly long moment of silence. "You and the woman you claim is your mother."

'Claim?' 

The woman took another step forward, nearly completely closing the distance between herself and Serana. 

"When I look in my flames, where you both should be is obscured. No matter how many times I look, I can see nothing. And that shouldn't be possible. The Lord of Light cast his gaze upon all souls that draw breath and give the heat of life. As far as I can see, the only reason one would be hidden is if they weren't..." Red eyes, so similar to Serana's own, narrowed. "...alive."

.

.

.

"Who are you?" Serana demanded. "What do you want?"

The corners of the woman's mouth quirked upward, obviously pleased to have finally provoked an emotional reaction out of Serana. She drew herself up and said, "I am Melisandre, a Red Priestess of R'hllor."

She said it like it should have meant something to Serana. It didn't.

"And?"

The little smirk fell away, but Melisandre quickly continued. "And... I want you and your mother to leave Westeros immediately. Go back to wherever you came from, and do not return. I do not know what you are, but you are a distraction and threat to Jon. Jon, who is far too important to—"

Throughout it all, even though her tone and posture were unthreatening, Melisandre projected an intimidating presence to cow her into compliance.

Serana snorted, cutting off the other woman's rant. "Listen, Melisandre, I'm sure you think your god gives you the right to tell others what to do, so I'm going to take some time to educate you."

This time it was Serana who stepped forward, coming close enough that she could count the individual lashes that framed Melisandre's eyes. The woman was startled by her sudden movement but did an admiral job of hiding it. Serana looked forward to making that mask crack. 

"Whatever claim or need you think you have on Jon's life, mine is stronger. Whatever magic you think you have, mine is stronger. And," Serana grinned viciously, making sure her teeth could be seen, "whatever breed of monster you think I am, I'm worse."

There it was. The widening eyes and the facial twitch that Serana was looking for. Her smile grew as she pulled back slightly to take a moment to study the ruby necklace around the woman's neck. The magical energy that radiated from it was unmistakable. 

"Also, I can't help but wonder what would happen if I rip this—" Serana brazenly tapped the necklace's stone, causing Melisandre to full-on flinch. "—right off your neck, what would happen? Something tells me you have your own secrets aplenty. Keep that in mind."

With a final vicious smirk, Serana stepped back and turned to walk away, confident she had won. Yet, before she could get too far away, Melisandre spoke up again. 

"A war against the dead is coming. I see it in my fires and in my dreams, and I know I'm not the only one."

The eerie words were enough to make Serana hesitate, pausing in her step and glancing over her shoulder. "What danger can the dead be? They are gone and buried."

Red eyes stared at her somberly. "We both know that isn't always the case. The dead can be a very real threat indeed. And, though you, Jon, and the young Lady Baratheon may try to resist my words, I am here to provide aid. I suggest you take it before it is too late."

.

.

.

"Jon and I have dealt with many threats before, I'm confident we can handle one more," Serana said, turning away once more. "Good night."

Then she walked away, refusing to look back.

"I hate to say it, but I'm worried about what we've gotten ourselves into," the vampiress admitted as she paced the length of Jon's borrowed bedroom. "That woman in red... there is something wrong, something false about her."

"You noticed that too? Jon asked. "I think it's some sort of glamor magic focus on that amulet of hers. Ironically, it's probably not dissimilar to what we gave Myra."

That made sense. Illusionary magic could be draining for mages to maintain. Most found enchantment a more stable solution for long-term use. 

"She was saying some odd things," Serana admitted. "Things about the world… and about you."

Jon winced, discomfort in sharp contrast to his lazy sprawl across his bed. "Don't I know it! On top of all that talk of visions in the fire, dead things, and other nonsense, I could do without the flirting."

That stopped Serana in her tracks. "Flirting? And why didn't I hear about this earlier?"

"Because I'd rather you not eat someone right under the nose of our hosts and the other noble guests," Jon said easily. Before adding with a mock grumble, "I endure enough glaring and gawking as is."

"I'm not that bad," Serana insisted, dropping down onto the bed next to Jon with a huff. Some of the irritation within Serana dissipated when Jon smiled sweetly up at her. Unfortunately, worry took its place. "Do you... Do you think she is right? That there is some sort of army of undead out there? Does Westeros have vampires or, I don't know, draugar?"

Jon let out a low hum, thinking. "Melisandre is a zealot... but that doesn't mean she's wrong. As for the undead? No vampires or draugar as far as I know. I never even heard of a vampire until I arrived in Skyrim. Old Nan did tell stories of wights, dead who walk through the snow of the far North. Those are supposedly just stories though."

'All stories have a grain of truth in them,' Serana thought, biting at her lower lip. 

"Then again... How many stories have I heard that ended up being true?" Jon wondered, putting a voice to her own thoughts. "I think we should ask around, while we also keep an eye on her. Even as we keep an eye on the problem in front of us."

"The Cuckoo Queen."

Another wince. "I... Serana, I'm sorry for getting you invol—"

Serana put a finger to Jon's mouth, cutting him off. "Not another word. I'm here because I want to be, same with Enzo and even my mother. And, no matter what happens, that won't change. We'll get through this together, I know it. So don't go doubting me now."

"...Wouldn't dream of it," Jon said, a grin spreading on his face. 

He shifted so he was laying on his side, smiling at Serana with her favorite easy warmth. Jon's hand came up to cup Serana's face, his calloused fingertips tracing her jaw. His touch was, as always with her, gentle and questioning, seeking permission that his actions were alright with her. Permission Serana always gave with a smile. 

Serana tasted tart wine on Jon's mouth when their lips met, his stubble delightfully rough against her skin. She couldn't describe how much she liked kissing Jon. While it wasn't like Serana had much experience in the art, the few pecks she managed with other boys as a girl had always been hurried things —frantically spurred on by the excitement of the moment and fear of being caught. But kissing Jon? It was so different. It didn't matter if the kisses were hot, passionate, and rough, or sweet, soft, and chase, they always seemed to last forever in Serana's mind. More than that, Jon kissed her like kissing Serana was the only thing in the world that mattered to him. Like she was the only thing in the world that mattered to him. 

It was… intimate. Intimate in a way that Serana never thought she'd be comfortable with. Even with Jon, it hadn't come easily at first. But as time passed, and they learned each other better, Serana found herself growing more and more comfortable. Things weren't perfect. Jon still couldn't touch much skin without her panicking. It was a start though, and that was something. 

When Jon finally pulled back, Serana nipped playfully at his bottom lip. She wound a hand into his mess of dark curls and tried to pull him for another kiss. Who knew when they'd get to savor some peace and alone time like this again? Serana didn't want to miss a moment of it. 

"Wait... Wait!" Jon said, voice breathless in just the right way. "Before we get too... distracted, I have a question for you."

 Serana sat up, looking down at the man she wished she could fully make her lover. Impatience boiled just under her skin. "What could possibly be more important than—" she tugged at his hair "—this?"

"Will you marry me?"

.

.

.

"What?" If Serana's heart still beat, it would be racing now. "You can't be serious!"

Jon just looked up at her with those stupidly gentle eyes of his. "I know it's sudden but I've given it so much thought and... And I don't want it to be anyone else. If I am ever to marry, I want it to be to you. We've known each other for years, and I've loved you for most of them—no matter how much I've tried to ignore it. You understand me in ways that I don't even understand myself, I trust you with pieces of myself that I wouldn't dream of giving anyone else. And, well, everyone here already thinks we're going to get married, so why not make that story real?" 

He reached up to cover her hand with his own, only for Serana to flinch away against her will as the old scar on her leg began to ache. Seeing the pained look in Jon's eyes, Serana swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth and forced out the best explanation she could. 

"Jon, marriage is... not something I associate with happiness. And being around you makes me so happy," she said. "And I don't like temples. I know Mara has nothing to do with Mo—" the name caught in her throat, filling her mouth with a vile, bitter taste "—with the Daedric Princes, but I'm not sure I'll ever be able to separate them in my mind. And, besides, why would you want me as a wife? I can't cook, I'll likely outlive you, and even if I could overcome this fear of intimacy that infests my mind, I couldn't give you children! So why chose me?"

"Because I love you, Serana," Jon said simply. "And I don't care about anything else. We don't have to get married in a temple. Who cares if some priest sees it as legitimate? No one will argue if I call you my wife, and you call me your husband. And if you never feel comfortable with me bedding you, then we can have a chaste marriage. There are plenty of orphans in Skyrim. When the time comes that we feel ready for children, we can adopt some of them. You can give me all the reasons in the world as to why I shouldn't want you as a wife, but that won't change that I do, Serana. All I want is to stay with you for as long as life allows. So, I'll as once more, will you marry me?"

.

.

.

"I'll think about it," Serana eventually said, thoughts still racing through her mind and heart. Not wanting to talk about this anymore, she summoned a moment of courage and swung one leg over Jon's waist to settle herself on his hips. He grinned up at her, showing no sign of disappointment at her nonanswer, settling his hands on her hips and wagging his eyebrows in an exaggerated fashion that got her to chuckle. "We've got more important things to worry about right now."

The remainder of the conflict brewing outside the safety and comfort of Jon's borrowed room caused the amusement to fade from Jon's face. 

"So... give me an answer when we get back to Skyrim," he said slowly. "Once we're safe and can go back to our real lives, give me an answer." 

"...That's fair," she nodded. If nothing else, it would give Serana time to think of the answer that would hurt him the least. "I promise that I'll give you my answer when we're back in Skyrim."

The grin returned. "Then I have a whole new incentive to get this mess figured out, don't I?"

Serana let herself laugh, laugh like they didn't have to separate so soon. Like she didn't have the weight of protecting Jon's family on her shoulders. Arya... If something happened to her, Jon would never forgive her —not that Serana would forgive herself either. Myrcella too! Had Serana been faster or smarter or... or so many things, she could have saved Tommen. But she wasn't, and that sweet little boy was dead. The least Serana could do was make sure Myrcella survived the coming storm. And then there was Sansa and Ned Stark. It would be a little difficult for Serana to claim she particularly cared for either, but for Jon's sake, she'd protect them all —no matter how unrealistic that desire was. 

Leaning down, she whispered against Jon's lips, "Just stay safe while you do. Let's both survive this and go home. Together."

Then she kissed Jon, and let herself feel whole as the world around them faded away.

Margaery II

Margaery hated mornings now. Whereas mornings used to mean lounging in bed, curled up in soft sheets until the maids came with tea and a light breakfast. They'd dress her and brush her hair, prepping Margaery for another day as the Rose of Highgarden. 

Not anymore. 

Now, waking up meant staring up at the gray stone ceiling of her family's borrowed apartment in Dragonstone. Margaery would close her eyes... eye to block out the pale gray light seeping through windows, and pretend to be asleep for just a little longer. After all, the world couldn't bother you when you're asleep. But then the itching would start, and Margaery would be forced to pull herself out of bed. She'd clean her hands in the time-cooled water of a wash basin, pick up the bottle of ointment Lady Volkihar had given her, and walk to the mirror.

Then she'd see it. 

The scar. Long and red and ugly, overtaking Margaery's face with its awfulness and she hated it. Much like she hated mornings, Margaery had come to hate mirrors. Because they meant looking at herself. And having to rub that sour-smelling ointment onto her face meant feeling the pain of her touch against tender skin. It meant accepting that her life was likely over now. 

'Grandmother always said that my beauty was my armor,' she thought, forcing herself not to twitch as she started applying the ointment. Ignoring the pain, Margaery pressed down as much as she dared, hoping that massaging the ointment would help it work faster. 'That it was so mesmerizing that it'll make people ignore my thorns. Thorns that I could use to wrap around my husband's neck and claim the control I needed.'

Margaery stared at her ruined face in the mirror. 'Father will have to find a blind man for me to charm now. No one wants a rose with destroyed petals, and they throw out the ones that start to rot.'

That was the funny thing about beauty, wasn't it? People could value so much, yet easily discard something that brought them such joy only the day before. 

'Perhaps that's why women are so often compared to flowers? We're both plucked from our homes, shown off, and then discarded when we're no longer pleasing to the eye,' Margaery wondered with a scoff. 

Was that why Cersei did it?

'She was already the Queen Regent, what more power could she have wanted?' The ointment on her skin glistened in the pale light, the effects of the thick slatter setting in. 'Did she want more? Did she feel killing everyone and taking hostages would be the best way to protect herself, and her hold on the throne? Or was this her way of being free? If she killed everyone who could be a threat to her power, then Cersei could rule and do as she pleased. At least, until Joffrey was old enough to rule in his own name.'

Margaery didn't imagine Cersei would handle such a change well. Did she love power so much that she'd be willing to kill her own child to hold onto it for just a little longer? 

'Was this what Cersei spent her youth training for?' Margaery took her hair in her hands, starting a simple braid to contain her brunette tresses. The maid assigned to her household would arrive soon to help her dress and do her hair; after she helped Grandmother and Mother, of course. 'To use her marriage and self to bring glory and prosperity to her House?'

No… That couldn't be the case, not with how Cersei killed her own father. Kinslaying was an action that was nearly inconceivable to Margaery. Morality aside, Lord Tywin Lannister was many things according to Grandmother, and a highly effective head of the house was one of them. With him gone, there would surely be a scramble for power and direction within the Lannister house. 

Well, regardless if it was the case for Cersei, Margaery had been brought up to put the good of her family above all. From the moment it became clear that Mother could not safely bear any more children after Loras, Grandmother had fully taken the reins of Margaery's instruction. In her own words, if they only had one daughter to marry off, then they had to make sure Margaery could get the most out of the union. 

For more than ten years, the Queen of Thrones had dedicated the better part of her waking hours to ensuring Margaery would be the perfect wife. She knew how to lead and organize a household staff with the perfect combination of compassion and strength. In addition to singing, painting, and needlework (all the normal 'womanly' skills), Margaery could do sums faster than any of her brothers —a skill that was absolutely necessary for managing the household budget and keeping spending under control. Margaery had forced herself to learn as much as she could about as many topics as possible, so she could adapt and converse with as many people as possible. And, in the abstract, Grandmother had instructed Margaery in the art of controlling her husband, on how to use a combination of sweetness and firmness, of indulgence and denial, and of cooperation and sabotage to keep things running smoothly. By the Seven, Grandmother had even mentioned hiring a whore the night before Margaery's wedding to explain both the best ways to keep her husband satisfied and the best positions to conceive. 

"You always go to the experts when you need answers, my dear," the old woman had said when Margaery had blushed. "Knowing what to do is also the best way to keep things painless. You can trust me on that!"

There were certain things Margaery never wanted to think about. And that was one of them. 

Privately, Grandmother had told her it would have been better if Loras had been a girl. Two sons were ideal —an heir and a spare— but a third could create complications, while daughters could be used for alliances, especially for a rich House like the Tyrells. Sometimes Margaery wished this too. That way all of the pressure wouldn't have been on her.

Her entire life, Margaery had been prepared to do anything necessary for the glory and prosperity of House Tyrell. And Margaery always thought she'd been able to do it gladly. She loved her family, and they loved her. She wanted them to be safe and happy. And that was still true! 

But now? Now Margaery was going to do something for herself. She would help to protect her family and get revenge all at once. 

Studying her ruined face in the mirror, Margaery forced herself to smile. 'I wonder if Cersei felt justified in her actions too? I can't wait to see the look on her pretty face when everything comes crumbling down around her feet.'

No sooner had the Tyrell family's assigned maid arrived and finished helping Margaery prepare for the day, was there a knock on the door. The maid went to open it, leaving Margaery to adjust her eye patch, trying to get it into the most comfortable position possible. As if such a thing could do anything to hide the mess that was her face.

"Lady Margaery, Ser Whitewolf is here to speak with you," the maid said, poking her head through the door a moment later. "Are you available, or should I send him away?"

There was undoubtedly a good deal of confusion over how Jon should be addressed. Referring to him as Snow seemed insulting and inappropriate, given everything that had become known. At the same time, no one wanted to refer to him by his Targaryen name either. Even when going by his chosen name, Whitewolf, no one was quite sure to refer to him as Ser or Lord. Jon himself seemed to have little preference aside from being called Whitewolf as opposed to Snow.

"Please, show him in," Margaery said, smoothing the soft, dyed green wool of her skirt. Usually, this dress would be far too plain for the Rose of Highgarden. But all of her clothes had been left back in King's Landing in the rush to escape. And, if nothing else, the wool was much warmer and more suited to the damp cold climate of Dragonstone. Regardless, even if it was not her typical style. Margaery would show grace and gratefulness for the closet she had graciously been loaned. 

The maid vanished, replaced a moment later by the slender, dark-haired form of Jon Whitewolf. He was handsome, Margaery had thought since meeting him. Not her normal type of man —tall and muscular with blinding white smiles, and effortless, confident charm— but she liked his hair with its curls and braids, and his intense, dark eyes, and his pretty mouth. And, even now she liked that he did not stare at either her chest, or the scar on her face.

"Lady Margaery, I hope the morning is treating you well," he said. Jon took the appropriate courtesy of leaving the door wide open, and taking a seat on the opposite side of the room from her. While it was often considered inappropriate for an unmarried and unrelated man and woman to be in a room together, but this way at least no one could accuse them of getting up to anything unseemly. "How are you feeling?"

Margaery hesitated before answering. She liked Jon, he seemed to be a decent man and he had helped her family several times at this point without ever once asking for anything in return. But that didn't mean she completely trusted him. And not trusting him meant she refused to show weakness.

"Oh, I'm on my feet again," she replied with false ease. "I suppose that is the best I can ask for these days."

"And your family? I was hoping to speak with your father about the letter we spoke of, but the maid told me he, your mother, and grandmother had stepped out. Nothing serious, I hope."

Margaery knew they'd gone to the infirmary with hopes of pulling Loras away from the still-comatose Renly, if only long enough to eat, wash, and take a walk outside. 

Another hesitation. "... My family is fine, thank you for your concern. Grandmother is grouchy about having to sleep somewhere other than her own bed. But, then again, Grandmother is always grouchy, and did so in King's Landing as well, so I suppose not much has changed. As for my father, he had to step out to take care of some business. Rest assured, I am more than capable of assisting you, however."

Jon gave a nod of acknowledgement before a silence lapsed over the pair. Now, silence could be useful. It could make people uncomfortable and more likely to blurt out something they did not intend to. Unfortunately, at the moment, it was Margaery who was feeling uncomfortable. While she still doubted Jon had any ill intentions with his questioning, she still didn't like the idea of him leading the conversation. 

Time for her to take charge. "Enough about me. I'm far from the only one who's had a rough go of it recently. How are you doing, Jon?"

The young man sighed. "To be frank with you, Lady Margaery, this was not how I hoped my return to Westeros would go. I only wished to see my family again for a brief time, to reconnect with them if I could, and find closure if I could not. Instead, I've been here longer than expected, and it looks like there's going to be a war."

Margaery's eyebrow raised, surprised by the honesty. Grandmother had always drilled it into her that honesty was a precious, dangerous thing, to be shared with scarce few people. For Jon to give it so openly was an oddity. 

"I've been through a war before, and it was hellish. Not something I ever wish to experience again, let alone force others to live through," Jon continued. "That being said, we can hardly stand by and let Cersei rampage and twist the Realm as she sees fit. We must do what we must do, even if that means things are going to get a lot worse before they get better."

"If it gets better at all." 

The words slipped out without Margaery meaning for them to. Jon responded with a dry, pained-sounding chuckle. 

"If there is one thing I've learned, it's that the dawn always comes. No matter how dark the night gets."

"Does that matter to the people who aren't able to see the sunrise?" Margaery asked.

"...No, I suppose it doesn't," Jon said, looking at her eyepatch for the first time. "Still, that doesn't mean we should sit by and do nothing."

"Hmmm."

The silence came again, broken only by the maid coming in to pour tea. When Jon glanced out the window that overlooked the Dragonstone docks, a thought occurred to Margaery. One that was, perhaps, inappropriate to ask. Yet the curiosity gnawed away inside her, demanding to be acknowledged.

"Jon, may I ask you a question?"

Her words pulled his attention away from the window and back to her, a small nod signaling for her to go ahead. 

"Why don't you just leave?" she asked. "You have the means and ability to do so. You're even sending others in your care back to that land you now call home. So why not go with them? You clearly don't want to be in Westeros long term, and after being away for so long, I can hardly even call this Cersei your problem. You have no stakes here, no land to call your own."

Jon's eyes narrowed. "Could you abandon your family in times of peril, Lady Margaery?"

"No. Never," Margaery said immediately, not giving it a second thought. She and her family belonged together. A single flower would wither and die, but a thornbush could be strong, dangerous, and beautiful. 

"Then you have your answer," Jon replied. "The majority of my father's family is dead, that is true. And those who aren't dead have been scattered. I can't even be sure there is a place for Targaryens in Westeros anymore. Or if there even should be. But I still have my mother's family, the Starks, for all we've spent time apart, for all the arguments we've had, I love them. And love is a responsibility. A responsibility to protect and stand by someone when things get difficult. I suppose I feel that responsibility more than most people. Because of my... special circumstances, I have a greater ability to help those I love and those who are helpless. So I have a greater responsibility to do so."

He gave Margaery a small grin. "Don't go telling Enzo that, he already thinks I have a complex."

"So you are staying here in Westeros?"

"For now," Jon said. "There are people I love back in Skyrim too. I have responsibilities to them as well, more than I have here. It's hard being gone. I miss the little things like my animals and the bread I always get from my favorite baker in Whiterun, but I also worry about things that could go wrong without me being there to help. That sounds smug and self-important, I know. Skyrim existed long before I ever stepped foot on its land, and it'll exist long after I'm gone. But they were good to me when they didn't have to be, and for that, I'll always feel in debt to them. I'll always try and protect and serve them. No matter how hard it will be to leave the Starks again, my place is in Skyrim. Maybe it always was."

His answer, with all its implications, had a dozen more questions popping into her head. Margaery bit her tongue to keep front spouting them. As valuable as the answers may be, throwing them all at Jon at once could cause him to clam up.

'No. For now, it is best to stay in Jon's good graces, and hope I can tease them out later. If nothing else, I may be able to use his connections to evacuate my family from Westeros if the worst is to happen.' Margaery stood and came to Jon's side, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. She could feel the solid muscle of Jon's shoulder under the leather of his jerkin. "Well, I'm glad we have you. Even if it is only temporarily."

Jon patted her hand. "Thank you for that. But I feel I've already taken up a good deal of your morning. So, on to business. I was told the letter from your brother had arrived. Is that correct? With everyone setting sail again soon, I would like to have it packed away."

"Yes, it is. Willas used our fastest raven to get it here. Give me one moment to grab it for you."

It had been curious that it had not been delivered to him sooner, only now Margaery realized it was done to provide a pretext for Jon to stop by their quarters. Quietly she berated herself for being so distracted as to not put it together sooner. 

She left the room to riffle through the papers on her Grandmother's desk to find it. "Ah-ha!"

Presenting Jon with the letter —the red wax of Willas' personal seel standing out boldly against the parchment— Margaery said, "Here you are. I can't say for certain what Willas wrote, but this should contain a formal introduction from my brother to Prince Doran and Prince Oberyn. If I had to guess, the rest will be a plea for them to hear you out, and a warning that war is coming, and we will need their aid. If all goes well, then this letter should get you past the gates of Sunspear. After that though, charming the Martells will be up to you."

"It's a good thing I have practice in charming nobility then," Jon replied. There was an amused half-smile on his lips as he said this, as if he was laughing at his own jap. "Can you tell me what caused the current bad blood between Houses Martell and Tyrell is all about? I know there is some unpleasant history, of course; that isn't uncommon between noble families. Yet I'm unclear on much of the present-day tension. Only that it involved a jousting competition. I don't know the specifics."

Margaery scoffed, taking a seat once again. "It's almost amusing really. Some years ago my eldest brother, Willas, went up against Prince Oberyn in a jousting match when he was a squire. You must understand that Willas has always been a milder sort, keen and more interested in intellectual pursuits than martial ones. Something Grandmother has always said is desirable in an heir. Yet Father wanted him to be seen as a warrior as well. Believing that, otherwise, people would think that the future leader of our house was weak. So he pushed Willis to be a squire, and then pushed him to enter the joust before he was ready."

She sighed, thinking back on that day. Margaery had been too young to remember it properly, but she could recall the chaos and worry that filled the air when Willas had been brought back to them on a stretcher. 

"Willas would have struggled against any grown opponent, and Prince Oberyn is renowned as both a warrior and a jouster. So he won of course, with a solid blow right to my brother's breastplate that knocked him straight from his horse. Nothing untowards, and he should've been fine. Unfortunately, Willas's foot caught in his stirrup as he fell, and he pulled his horse on top of him. It was a complete accident of course. Everyone knows the dangers of competing in a joust. That didn't stop my father from blaming Prince Oberyn for his eldest son being made a cripple, however. For what it's worth, the Prince felt guilty too. He immediately hopped off his own horse to try and help Willis, and even sent his own personal master to my family to aid in Willas' treatment."

"That was kind of him," Jon said. " I've heard such... mixed things about Prince Oberyn. I'm still trying to gauge what he is like as a person, I'd like to know what to expect when we meet in person."

' Grandmother always stressed the importance of knowing who you're surrounded by, friend or foe ,' Margaery thought, nodding mostly to herself. "It's strange... With all the grudges off in the world, it is strange that none exists between my brother and the prince. While the incident did nothing to help the historical enmity between our Houses, Willas bares Oberyn no ill will. If anything, I'd say he's secretly grateful. With knighthood now out of the question, Willas has been free to pursue his scholarly studies. And, as I mentioned, the two maintain regular correspondence, mostly about horses and wine. I think they even have a cyvasse game going purely through letters."

"More of that should go around," Jon said. "Grudges and revenge are a fire that rarely burns just their intended target."

'Now, that was intentional,' Margaery thought, her hand twitching to her face. "And you have much experience with both?"

"Of course," Jon replied. "The entire reason I traveled to King's Landing was to kill the man who butchered my stepmother and siblings. That doesn't mean I don't acknowledge the danger of both."

"I feel like you are trying to say something pointed, Ser Whitewolf," Margaery said, unable to stop the spiking irritation out of her voice.

Jon's face remained calm, even as the tone of their conversation shifted. "I'm trying to say exactly what I'm saying. I know you want revenge on Cersei for what she did to your family and you in particular. And that's fine, I'm not going to try to talk you out of it or claim it is undeserved. Because you have every right to it. I just want to warn you to be careful with your anger."

"And you're saying that as a man talking to a woman? Is that why you're saying this to me instead of my father?"

"No," Jon shook his head. "I'm saying it to the person in your family who was most directly hurt by Cersei's action. You, more so than the rest of your family, deserve retribution to the wrongs done to you. And I'm saying that as someone who's spent a long time getting my own anger under control. And, even then, it was only after it caused me to hurt people I cared about."

"You're saying you don't get angry anymore? You who traveled a continent to commit murder?"

"I'm saying that I take great care to keep it, and all my other worse impulses, locked up tight," Jon said, tapping the side of his head. "So go ahead and pursue your revenge. Just remember to think about what else could burn in the process."

That... made sense. Grandmother had often spoken about waiting until the time was right to make a play. She warned Margaery that there were times when she would have to push away her own hurt and anger to fulfill a greater goal. And, more than anything, Grandmother always warned against being your own worst enemy. 

"Grandmother believes that Prince Doran is waiting to get his own revenge," Margaery said, voice still tight as she tried to regain her composure. "She says that a quiet, still snake is the most dangerous of them all. Because you never can see when they're about to strike. I can't tell you much about the man, even Father has only met him a handful of times, but I think you should be wary of him. For the passionate people of Dorne, a quiet ruler that few know about and who accepted the murder of his sister should have an unsteady reign. Instead, it has remained calm and prosperous. Even if he doesn't end up being our enemy, he may want to use you for his own goals."

Jon nodded slowly. "I'm used to that. Is there anything else you know about the family?"

"Not as much as I'd like," Margaery replied, hoping her words would come off as more innocuous than they actually were, hiding the true depth of her family's sources. "Most of what I know comes second-hand from Willis. I know the heir is Princess Arianne. You may not recall from being abroad, that Dorne is the only Kingdom where women inherit equally to the men. From what I hear, she is lovely and keen to be involved in courtly matters. For a while, there were even talks that she and Willis would wed. Nothing came of these, however, and despite all the suitors Prince Doran entertains for his daughter's hand, no solid plans have ever been made.. Once again, I can't speak much of her character, so be wary. 

Maegaery paused, running through the Martell family tree in her head. "Then there are her two younger brothers: Quentyn and Trystane. I know even less of them, beyond that Quentyn is near manhood and has been a squire, and the other is a child."

She leaned back in her armchair and took a sipping of too-cool tea. "Then there are Prince Oberyn's bastard daughters: the Sand Snakes. There are eight in total and all are the absolute apple of their father's eye. In most families, they would have little power, except this is Dorne, and they are very much in their father and uncle's favor. Thus you should remain wary of the influence they hold in court and over the people. To hear Willis tell it, he has yet to receive a single letter from the prince in all the years they've corresponded that doesn't in some way involve describing at least one of his girl's accomplishments. Detailing their cunning and the ways they tear down their enemies. And some of those accomplishments are of the martial or political variety, so—"

"Be wary," Jon finished with a sigh, as if only now realizing the viper pit he'd volunteered to wade into. He bit his lip before hesitantly speaking up again. "Princess Elia... What do you know of her?"

Margaery shrugged. "The same tragic tales as everyone else. Why?"

"I... found something of hers that I need to return, as well as things I'd like to know more about her. Who she was as a person, not as a figure from those tragic tales. Her brothers might not want to tell me, and I understand that. But if that's the case, I'm hoping I can get those answers elsewhere."

'What could that be?' Margaery wondered. She scanned the young man, small as the possibility that Jon would have it on his person was. 

Clearing his throat, Jon rolled to his feet before bending into a small bow. "Thank you for your time and assistance, Lady Margaery. I'll stop taking up your time now. Please, have a good day."

He turned to leave, only for Margaery to call out for him. She couldn't let him leave without asking at least one more question.

"Your... magic. Where does it come from?" she asked. ' Could you teach me? Could you teach the rest of us? '

Jon paused for a moment, considering the question. "That is a complicated question. Some of it comes from me, some of it comes from the world around me, and some were given to me by forces beyond our control."

"It must be amazing to wield that sort of power."

"It can be," Jon nodded. "I can use them to do amazing things. Or awful ones, depending on who you ask. Still, they're good to have. I wouldn't have made it this far without them, and they certainly make it easier to protect what I care about."

That said a lot, without saying much at all. And Margaery doubted she'd get much more out of Jon today. Certainly, it was more than he had given when her father and others had pestered him for demonstrations during the strategy meetings.

"Very well, thank you for answering," she said, giving a brief curtsy. "Have a nice day, Jon. Your company was quite enjoyable."

With another brief grin, the young man was gone, leaving Margaery alone with her thoughts. Her thoughts and her scarred face.