IX.

The days following Jon's coronation ran together for the time-travelling Starks. Rhaella was officially stepping down now that there was a new Targaryen on the throne but continued to help Jon and Rickard in building Jon's small council. Sansa participated, using the skills and knowledge she gained by watching Cersei and Littlefinger – utilizing it all to help Jon's reign.

As much as Jon disliked him, Pycelle remained on the Small Council as their Grandmaester; at least the majority of those around him knew how to handle him and his loyalties. However, Sansa knew that Jon wanted him replaced.

Barristan Selmy was the Lord Commander of a diminished Kingsguard, with only Lewyn Martell and Jaime Lannister – although Jaime had still not officially given Jon his vows. When Sansa prompted Jon about this, all he had said was, "I have plans for him, and I need a contingency of him not being in the Kingsguard if I need to deal with Tywin." Sansa, therefore, changed her plans accordingly.

Varys thought he was still the Master of Whisperers, but Arya was shadowing the man and ensuring he wasn't continuing his plans with Illyrio Mopatis; apparently, one whisper from Arya to the man about his friend in Pentos and an aside from Jon about Varys' youth and a certain wizard was enough to shake the Spider's confidence. However, Jon kept Arya as his personal Whisperer, and with her abilities, Arya was more than capable of ensuring that nothing untoward came Jon's way.

Two surprises that remained from Aerys' Small Council were his Hand and the Master of Ships. Rossart had taken on some of the Hand duties for Aerys, but also because the previous Targaryen king had imprisoned Qarlton Chelsted. The man had overheard Aerys' and Rossart's plans for wildfire in King's Landing and protested – had Rickard not shown up when he did to challenge Aerys, Chelsted would've been on the pyre soon enough. The man was shaken from his experiences and his stay in the dungeons, but seemed desirable to help Jon – if not, twitchy whenever the young King looked his way.

The other surprise was the Master of Ships. In their other life, Sansa was sure the Velaryon family wasn't as connected to the crown – either under Robert Baratheon or Joffrey or even Cersei – so Sansa hadn't quite figured out what happened to Lucerys Velaryon. He probably died during the Rebellion, likely trying to smuggle Rhaella out of Dragonstone; whatever happened, the man seemed curious enough about Jon to participate and seemed to respect Rhaella's decisions, so he remained on the Council – for now.

The Master of Laws was also required, the seat being vacant. Jon wanted some just and level- headed, but also someone with the ability to conduct mental gymnastics and was culturally sensitive to the various kingdoms and their individual hang-ups (trying to explain a law that was suitable for Dorne and the Riverlands without managing to insult the Vale wasn't as easy as people thought). Jon was leaning on having a Northman take the role – potentially Jeor Mormont – so that he had representation from almost all the kingdoms on the Council. If not him, Jon Arryn was a good choice. They had time, so it wasn't urgent.

They were missing a Master of Coins, but it seemed that Jon had some idea about that; in the meantime, Sansa was unofficially the Master of Coins, sharing the role with Rickard Stark. Rhaella had a seat at the table to help with the transition of power, and Jon welcomed Elia when she wished it (which was rare to never).

Jon was also considering adding more seats, such as Trade, Military, and, given his dubious religious upbringing, a seat for the High Septon, but he felt that might be contentious and problematic – as problematic as Cersei's previously stupid decision to reinstate the Faith Militant. Again, a shelved idea, but one to bring up for debate later.

As it was, Jon and his Small Council were diligently working through the Aerys administrations' previous laws and Iron Bank statements, looking for any issues or items that required clarification and Jon's new stamp of approval going forward. He wanted to make changes to King's Landing – particularly, the gods-awful stench from the poor sewage system – and was going to need a ridiculous amount of money to make those infrastructure changes to a city that only grew haphazardly outward instead of cleverly.

"What is the process involved for repelling laws?" asked Jon tiredly, hanging his head and holding it tightly, digging his fingers around his curls. He exhaled heavily, thinking of the legacy Aerys left in his more grotesque laws of burning people for the tiniest infractions.

"Short answer: you proclaim it," Chelsted replied, his cheek's nervous tick going as he looked at Jon and then away quickly. "Long answer: you propose the amendment, the Small Council debates its validity, we vote; if the vote passes, then it's changed. If the vote doesn't pass, then we debate some more until there is a consensus, which... could actually take a long time. Or the amendment is shelved."

Jon let his head fall to the table and groaned. "Would it be terrible if I just wanted all of Aerys' laws repelled?"

Rickard cleared his throat. "Not all of his laws were terrible, Jon." He paused, remembering himself. "Erm. Your Grace."

Grandmaester Pycelle nodded. "In his early days, he was a fair ruler. At least, for a few years."

"Duskendale, Summerhall, they changed him," added Barristan, a quiet authority given how he had been there for most of it.

Jon rolled back until he was sitting properly again. "Aye. Perhaps we should categorize the laws instead and then break them down? I know I want all trials and executions put on hold until we can properly review the charges."

"An excellent and just idea, Your Grace," agreed Velaryon, nodding sagely. His purple eyes were similar to the Targaryen heritage he shared but less purple and more blue; even his hair was more blond than white, and those differences were enough that Jon didn't flinch any time he looked at the Master of Ships.

"Right," sighed Jon, looking at the stack Pycelle and his grandfather had between them. "Let's get started—"

A knock on the Small Council chamber doors had Jon pause, jerking his head around to face the door as a servant poked their head in.

"Pardon Your Grace," the young man said, "But Prince Oberyn has arrived, and he has brought a – a man that he wishes you to meet before he goes to his sister."

A welcome distraction! I'll take it! thought Jon eagerly. He sat straight in his chair and looked around the Small Council, catching everyone's eyes. "My pardons, my Lords, sister," he finished, glancing at Sansa, "But I wished to speak to Prince Oberyn as soon as he arrived from Dorne. Shall we reconvene tomorrow?"

Velaryon, Chelsted, Pycelle, and Varys all agreed easily enough; his grandfather was happy to wander off to find Brandon and Ned, and by extension, Lyanna; neither Rhaella nor Elia had joined him that day (lucky them, considering the Small Council's agenda for the day) and Arya was off in King's Landing being Arya-the-Faceless-Wonder.

Barristan remained in the room, and the servant ushered in Oberyn and his guest with Lewyn Martell behind him. When Ser Lewyn went to leave, Jon waved his hand and instructed, "Come join us, Ser – I'm certain you haven't seen your nephew in some time, and you can both visit Elia once we've had our introductions."

Surprise, and pleasure, flashed across Lewyn's face – shared by Oberyn himself, briefly – and he nodded. Although he remained standing, Jon gestured to Oberyn to take a seat. The other man did so, and the same servant who spoke earlier rushed in with bread and salt, as well as a carafe of wine.

Jon presented the plate – a look of further surprise on Oberyn's face – and offered, "Wine, Prince Oberyn? As for guest rights – I realize that as a King, I have no need to do this, but I was raised in the North and it is considered an important step in greeting your guests. I won't deviate from that."

Something flashed in Oberyn's dark eyes, so like Elia's, but he nodded, took the bread and salt offer, and then leaned back in his seat with the casual confidence of a man ready to spring up at a moment's notice even as he swirled the dark Dornish red wine around in his goblet.

The man with him ate off the same plate, looking at Jon curiously as he waited for an introduction. "My sister is well?" asked Oberyn abruptly.

"Aye, as far as I know for today," answered Jon. "Probably has Ser Jaime as a babysitter for Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon."

Oberyn's eyes narrowed. "They are no longer royalty."

"They certainly are in Dorne's eyes, and I am not one to change that," retorted Jon quickly. I see

how this is going – you're trying to push me to see when I snap.

"But they are hostages," spat Oberyn.

Jon shook his head. "Not at all. Elia and I discussed her return to Dorne extensively, and both decided her having a full escort home would make her feel safer."

Oberyn stared incomprehensibly at Jon, before slowly turning to face Lewyn, who nodded, once.

Oberyn turned back to Jon, blinking. "She's – the children – they're not...?"

Jon leaned forward in his seat, across the table toward Oberyn, and said, gently, "I'm not that kind of man, Prince Oberyn. Princess Elia has been a wonderful, kind friend who has helped me understand the royal court. While I would love for her to remain to help me, I know the pain of being separated from my sister."

He glanced at Sansa, sitting near him, quietly observing. She caught his eyes, flashing him a tight, but affectionate smile. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch her, ensure that she was there and safe. Oberyn's sharp eyes did not miss the interaction.

"I would much rather Princess Elia be happy than helpful. And that means Dorne for her," finished Jon firmly when he faced Oberyn again.

The Dornish prince exhaled loudly, sitting back in his seat as he stared at Jon. "I do not understand you," he muttered, "But I think that I like you."

"Erm. Thank you?" Jon wondered how long that was going to last before Elia told him he was also summoned to King's Landing to meet Sansa and potentially marry her for an alliance. Jon deliberately did not look at Sansa this time.

Oberyn turned to the man he brought with him. "Your Grace, may I present Maester Marwyn, from the Citadel? He expressed interest in joining me and perhaps speaking to Your Grace. We've all heard... tales..." He finished with a rather expressive eyebrow wriggle and lecherous grin.

Jon grimaced. "Oh, Gods, please tell me you don't mean the one with the harem of women from the Summer Isles. Brandon was far too invested in these stories he's spun."

Intrigued, Oberyn went, "Oh? No, that is a new one."

"Fuck – no," panicked Jon, eyes wide, "I didn't mean to – it doesn't exist – I swear –"

Sansa sighed, loudly, as if disappointed in him, and Barristan chuckled. "I think you dug yourself that one, Your Grace."

Jon groaned loudly.

"The Prince meant surviving the fire, Your Grace," interrupted Marwyn quietly, despite having the voice of a bullfrog: loud, deep, and rough. "At the Citadel, I studied the higher magics – I've always been fascinated by them."

"Oh," replied Jon. "Well, aye. I'd prefer to erm... not become an object of study... I'm sure you understand...?"

Marwyn suppressed a grin by pursing his lips together. "I had not wished to imply that, Your Grace. I merely hope to speak to you about the experience for my own records. The Targaryen family has access to some rather strange magical sets: Dragonriders, predominantly, but Daenys the Dreamer had prophetic visions, and there were a few contested and partial records that survived Valyria that they had some fire immunity, especially for those working with dragons."

"It's really nothing special," sighed Jon. "It honestly feels like a warm tickling when it happens and didn't happen most of my life until... circumstances changed."

"Oh?"

Jon paused, wondering if admitting he died and was resurrected was something that he wanted people to know. Perhaps not yet.

"Another time," he said instead with a smile. "You are welcome to King's Landing, Maester Marwyn. We will find you somewhere to stay and you are welcome to the Royal Library, as well as pestering Grandmaester Pycelle."

Lewyn coughed into his hand to hide a laugh.

"Sansa?" asked Jon, facing her.

She quirked a red eyebrow. "Yes, Your Grace?"

"Could you please kindly show Maester Marwyn to a room and then Prince Oberyn and Ser Lewyn to Princess Elia?"

Sending Jon a look that very specifically said I know what you're doing, brother, Sansa refrained from speaking and stood from her seat at the table with the most perfect curtsey. "Of course, Your Grace."

The two men stood and joined Lewyn and Sansa, who led them from the room and already engaging the men in conversation. At the door, Oberyn turned back to Jon, gave a tiny, mocking bow of his head, and then glanced at Sansa with a slightly appreciative grin.

Jon wanted to groan – or grind his teeth together, he wasn't sure – but waited until he could not hear their voices before turning to Barristan. "Do you think he knows?"

Ser Barristan Selmy peered at Jon curiously. "Who knows what, Your Grace?" Jon made a sharp gesture at the door. "Prince Oberyn. About Sansa."

Barristan looked between the empty doorway and then back to Jon, a wry look on his face. "Undoubtedly, Your Grace."

He gave in to the urge to groan. Ruling was hard.

Jon emulated what he knew from his father in his ruling of King's Landing. Ned would often have a lord or lady, or household member, sit with him at the high table so that he could better understand his people or their issues. It was effective and it made people feel important and heard – it was also a reason why Ned Stark had managed the large expanse of the North as well as he had during his lifetime.

For an entire continent, Jon had to balance far more people. Without a queen, there was no queen's court; his own king's court was limited to family at the moment, and his kingsguard, which didn't help the lords and ladies feel included. This was the first step in fixing that, as king.

Midday meals were affairs for Jon's court, taking place in a long, sun-soaked room with shuttered doors thrown wide open to let in a warm breeze, driving out of the stuffiness of the throne room. As such, despite Jon sitting at a high table overlooking those feasting, others were moving from seat to seat, or standing by a buffet table, or lounging in chairs in the sun on a balcony patio. Everything was finger foods and light fare, with extras going first to the servants and staff of the castle and then anything remaining to be given out by the Septons to Flea Bottom – something both he and Sansa, with Elia and Rhaella's strong support, had suggested.

For his first guest to join him at his table, Jon invited Marwyn. Oberyn remained with Elia, Lewyn, and his niece and nephew in their rooms; Arya had disappeared into the bowels of King's Landing, as she often did, and his Stark family members were scattered throughout the room with Sansa at Lyanna's elbow, deftly steering the conversation around her supposed 'kidnapping.'

"Your Grace," greeted Marwyn with a low dip of his chin.

"Maester Marwyn," replied Jon, just as evenly. He perused the offerings laid out before him and settled on a devilled egg.

At his side, Ghost silently whined, paws batting at his thigh as he licked his chops and his red eyes darted between Jon's hand and the plates on the table. Jon laughed, "Oh, alright," and plucked a few deli meats from the table and dropped them into Ghost's waiting mouth.

"Extraordinary," breathed Marwyn. The man did not eat but had a goblet with him and sipped it as he stared at Ghost.

"That he is," said Jon fondly, reaching down to ruffle the fur between Ghost's ears. The direwolf panted happily, tongue lolling out.

"Well, yes, he is," agreed Marwyn, "but I also meant your connection. He is mute, is he not?" Jon glanced at the maester. "He is."

"So, he cannot whine, or bark, to communicate?"

Jon nodded.

"Like I said: extraordinary," repeated Marwyn, blinking at Ghost, who tilted his head as he peered back at the human. "To know what he needs or wants without verbal cues..."

"His body language helps," offered Jon carefully. He did agree to answer Marwyn's questions, but he didn't want to give too much away.

"Is it different with the other wolves?" asked Marwyn, kneeling carefully before Ghost and tentatively reaching out to pet and move the giant puppy. Ghost allowed it, sitting patiently, although his red eyes kept flicking back to Jon and his hand, waiting for food.

"Other wolves?"

He looked up at Jon. "The Lady Sansa and Lady Arya, as well as your Stark cousins."

Carefully, Jon said, "The bond between wolf and human is unique to each. What Ghost and I do is different to my sister's or my cousin's – but I would not go asking them to see their wolves."

Marwyn nodded. "I understand, Your Grace."

"What made you study magic, Marwyn?" asked Jon instead, hoping to change the subject.

"I have travelled far and wide, Your Grace, and the mysterious has always called to me," the man explained happily, finally standing and taking a sip of his drink. "The unexplained, trying to be made explainable; the unknown, being brought into the light. I merely wish to know it all and have others share in such knowledge."

Jon made a noise of interest.

"Many others at the Citadel think I am a heretic, though," sighed Marwyn. "Because of your interest in magic?" asked Jon.

The maester nodded. "They think it impure, and a folly to show interest in. It is not science to them – quantifiable."

"Magic is just another form of science, one we don't understand yet," said Jon with a shrug. "Just because we don't know what it is, doesn't mean it doesn't exist or isn't valid."

Marwyn's face lit up. "Quite true!"

Jon reached for another devilled egg, taking a tiny bite of it as Marwyn finally looked over the buffet, choosing a few meat tarts for himself. As he was selecting them, he continued to speak.

"In fact, I was close to giving up on magic and following my brothers," admitted the man absently. "Oh? What changed?" Jon reached for a meat tart himself.

"Well, a few moons ago, the glass candles at the Citadel lit up," explained Marwyn.

Jon froze, eyes darting over to the man. "A few moons ago?"

Marwyn hummed. "Yes, about six? The night of the harvest moon."

The meat tart dropped from Jon's hand to the floor, eagerly snatched up by Ghost.

Six moons. The harvest moon. That's when we – at Winterfell – Jon's eyes dropped and saw that Ghost had eaten his lunch and was now staring at his hand. His tongue emerged and licked at his teeth.

Jon blinked. "Damnit, Ghost!"

They were walking the gardens, arm in arm, their uncle ahead of them with Rhaenys running around him in circles. Elia kept a keen eye on the children, aware that barely a year previous, King's Landing had been a prison for her. At his side, Obara, sullen-eyed and ten, trailed silently behind her father and aunt while seven-year-old Nymeria kept darting forward, to point something out to her great-uncle, and then bounding back to her father, slipping her hand in his.

"I am glad you are here, brother dear," murmured Elia, her grip tightening just so on his arm.

He covered her hand with his for a moment. "I am glad you are all safe. Doran will be pleased to hear, too."

"Now, yes," agreed Elia, eyes darting off to a grassy patch, where Sansa had spread a blanket, her sister Arya lying on her back. Sansa's direwolf pup was playfully growling and tugging at a toy, yanking the slim woman forward while Arya's was belly-up beside her mistress, tongue hanging out as she sunned herself.

Sansa's laugh rang across the gardens, drawing Oberyn's eyes.

Elia glanced at him again and said, "You know, Lady Sansa and I have much in common." "You? Oh?"

"She was held hostage, once," admitted Elia, brows furrowed as they strolled along the gravel path, around the grassy patch. "Yet, unlike myself, she did not have a kind king come to right past wrongs."

Oberyn's own thick brows furrowed as he stared at Sansa. Then, he pointedly looked away. "I know what you're doing."

"I?" teased Elia.

Oberyn glared at his older sister. "I am in no need of a—"

Obara shrieked, causing all adults to immediately turn toward her. Oberyn's heart was in his throat as he saw his daughter kneeling in the grass, her arms around Lady Sansa's direwolf, while it licked her from chin to forehead.

"Wolfie!" shrieked Rhaenys, abandoning Lewyn, running toward the direwolf. Not wanting to be left out, Nymeria dashed forward as well.

Oberyn and Elia drew up beside Lewyn, who sighed in mock exasperation. "I've been abandoned. I am unloved. I am forgotten."

"I think we all have," muttered Oberyn, eyeing the wolf as it transferred its slobby attention to Rhaenys and then Nymeria, drenching his daughters and niece in dog drool. His nose already crinkled, thinking of the smell. "Is that safe?"

"It's fine," answered Lady Sansa instead of Lewyn, who bowed at her approach. "Lady won't hurt them."

"Lady?" echoed Oberyn, stepping forward. Elia's hand fell from his arm. "You've named that fearsome beast 'Lady'?!"

Sansa scowled. "Lady's a wonderful companion, and terribly good with children. She wouldn't even bare a single fang at them! She's played 'horsey' numerous times with Princess Rhaenys without any issue. You should be thanking me for having Lady be your niece's babysitter and playmate. The Keep can get lonely, you know!"

"I think the king also thanks Lady," muttered Lewyn, behind Oberyn, causing Elia to hastily cough away her snickers, thinking how often Jon had been roped into playing with Rhaenys in those early days when Rhaella was still pulling most of the strings to ensure Jon's rule over her two sons'. Oberyn, however, did not turn to demand what that meant, instead glowering at the redhead.

"That is a wolf, my lady—"

"Direwolf, my Prince, surely you're not blind—"

"—and its teeth are already longer than my fingers—"

"—then it's best you keep your paws from her mouth—"

"—and yet you deem your beast safe around my daughters when one bite could snap their necks—" "Lady would never!" Sansa finished with a gasp of horror. "She's a gentle pup!"

Sansa punctuated her end argument by throwing a hand toward her direwolf, forcing both her and Oberyn to turn and look at her wolf, lying on her belly with her head in Rhaenys' lap, with the

princess combing out her fur with her uncoordinated fingers; Nymeria was gleefully making a daisy chain crown for the wolf, and Obara brought armfuls of plucked flowers to girl to make another crown.

"I—" All wind left Oberyn. He instead cleared his throat and pulled at his Martell orange tunic, clenching his jaw. "Well. Anyway."

He paused and then glanced at Sansa from the corner of his eyes, noticing the two enticing spots of colour on her fair skin and the angry purse to her lips. "Your Lady will not harm them, truly?"

Her blue eyes were as icy as her voice when she glanced at him. "Truly."

"Nym on the other hand," teased the dark-haired sister that looked eerily like Lyanna Stark as she strode up the four, yawning from her nap, "Now, she'll bite and enjoy it."

His Nymeria jerked her head up and asked, "Me?"

"No sweetling," grinned Arya, catlike eyes looking from the young girl to the grass. "But if your name is 'Nymeria', things are going to become confusing quickly."

"Why?" asked Oberyn, drawing the word out suspiciously and narrowing his eyes. "Nymeria!" called the younger sister to the king, accompanying the call with a sharp whistle.

On the grass, the remaining wolf rolled from its back to its belly and perked up, ears straight before loping quickly toward the adults and passing by the three girls and Lady with shrieks of laughter from them. The wolf came to a stop next to Arya's thigh, barely having to look up at her given Arya's diminutive size. She was panting happily, and her long, fluffy tail was wagging back and forth, kicking up dirt.

The girls had wandered over with Lady behind them, huffing in displeasure at no longer being pampered.

"Nymeria," began Arya, although who knew which she was actually addressing initially, "Meet Nymeria."

Oberyn's youngest daughter's mouth dropped open, and her eyes went round as she looked between Arya and her direwolf. Nymeria the direwolf gave a tiny yip, and Nymeria the girl's eyes lit up.

"You named her after a Rhoynish princess?" gasped Nymeria in pleasure, glancing only once at her father for permission to run her hand down Nymeria's soft fur. The direwolf panted happily and Lady grumbled at her sister's side, although a sharp glance from Sansa stopped any further noises.

"And warrior," added Arya pleasantly, rocking on her heels a bit.

"That was the part that appealed to Arya," said Sansa wryly to Elia, Oberyn, and Lewyn. "She saw something of herself or who she wanted to be in Princess Nymeria."

Without further prompting, Arya withdrew a dagger and began a series of spins and flicks that looked impressive, but Sansa knew from Arya's rants and ramblings were easy. Nymeria and Obara's eyes went wide (or, wider, for Nymeria), and both girls gasped in pleasure when Arya finished with a flourish and a bow.

"Teach me teach me teach me!" babbled Nymeria, wandering closer to Arya once she stopped the

dagger games.

Arya glanced at Oberyn. "If your father allows it."

Oberyn peered at the smaller woman and dipped his chin. "I would never stop my daughters from learning."

"And me, too?" asked Obara, piping up suddenly.

"If you'd like," responded Arya with a grin. "My father allowed me to learn the Braavosi water dance. I can teach it to you, too, while you're here."

"Do you use daggers or water dance, Lady Sansa?" there was something challenging in Oberyn's voice when he asked.

Sansa shook her head. "No... I have a... history, we shall call it, with knives, so I do not particularly like them."

Arya chortled. "San's weapons aren't steel, but just as dangerous."

Sansa fluttered her eyelashes toward her sister in thanks, a coy smile on her lips while Oberyn looked between the two sisters curiously.

"So, you do not mind girls learning to fight?" continued Oberyn.

"No...?" Sansa pursed her lips and tilted her head as she looked between Oberyn, his sister, and uncle. "Women learning to defend themselves is important."

Elia nodded empathically.

Oberyn's eyes narrowed. "All women, my Lady? Or just bastards?"

"'Ryn!" gasped Elia, a hand coming out to clutch at his arm. "You're being rude to the king's sister!"

"I thought they were cousins," replied Oberyn mildly, his dark eyes still on Sansa.

"Same difference," shrugged Arya, turning away and bringing Obara, Nymeria, and Rhaenys with her, her direwolf Nymeria trotting behind as they moved toward the grass and away from

people.

Sansa stared at Oberyn. "Are you trying to pick a fight with me, Prince Oberyn?" "No..." he let the word drawl, trying to look innocent.

"Mmhmm," she replied, narrowing her eyes on him. Sansa then wrenched her gaze from the tall Prince to his sister and uncle, giving them a curtsey. "I have other duties to attend to, Princess, Ser. My apologies, but I must take my leave now."

"Goodbye, Lady Sansa," murmured Elia with a tiny wriggle of her fingers; Lewyn bowed.

The three adults watched as she and Lady returned to the Red Keep, her skirts swishing about her legs. Once she was out of hearing range, Elia turned to Oberyn and smacked him, hard, on his arm.

"Ow, Lia!"

"Oh, shut it, you," hissed Elia. "You know what you were doing!" Oberyn reached up to rub at the spot, glowering. "I was just—"

"You were just baiting her! 'Ryn!" Elia practically wailed his name. "Just be nice, will you? She's not your enemy."

"You want me to marry her," protested Oberyn with a scowl. "I believe that makes her my enemy." Elia sighed and Lewyn chuckled. "You should give Lady Sansa a chance, nephew."

Oberyn snorted. "The day it snows in Dorne, I'll give her a chance."

"Just... try, 'Ryn," pleaded Elia. "Honestly, we're very alike and you like me?"

"You're my sister, of course, I like you—"

"Sansa is sweet and kind," continued Elia, talking over him. "And she... she understands me and what happened to me here when Aerys was king. Not many people do." She cast her eyes down and both Oberyn and Lewyn crowded closer in concern.

Oberyn finally sighed, shoulders falling. "I'll... I will try, Lia. But only try."

"Oh, Oberyn!" pleased, Elia threw her arms around his shoulders and hugged him, leaving Oberyn

standing there, a forlorn expression on his face.

A few weeks later, on a very nondescript day, Marwyn accosted Jon.

Well – he didn't so much accost as cough to announce his presence after requesting a formal meeting and met Jon on his way to the throne room to hear petitions that morning. But, in retrospect of what happened, Jon would forever state that the maester had accosted him, godsdamnit, and he was sticking to that story.

Marwyn began, after his cough, with: "Erm, your grace? Do you have a moment in which I can bother you for your time?"

Jon shared a look with Lewyn and Barristan, who were with him. Both were equally confused – Marwyn had remained out of the way since that one lunch they had, respecting Jon's request about not turning him into a specimen for the man to study and had even taken the time to get to know Ghost without being pushy – so having the man come up for a request was strange.

Stranger still, first thing in the morning... Hesitantly, Jon hedged, "Aye..."

Marwyn's shoulders fell in relief, and he sighed, eyes partially closed. Jon felt dread begin to creep up his spine and a sour taste grow in his mouth.

"I need you to come to the Godswood," said Marwyn, apologetically. Jon stared, and Marwyn prompted, in a quiet voice, "please. Your Grace - I would not ask if this were not important."

Jon's teeth ground together, and for a moment, he was transported to another place and time and found himself absently wondering when did I turn into Stannis Baratheon? But then Marwyn interrupted his thoughts, one last time.

"There's something I think you need to see..." The man gulped and added, "And you might wish to ask for your sisters to join us."

Jon stared a bit longer and then gave a long-suffering sigh. He turned to Lewyn, who caught what Jon was non-verbally asking and gave a tiny bow before taking off down the corridor.

"Lead the way, Marwyn," muttered Jon, with Barristan falling into step just at his elbow, so close that he could feel the man's cloak snap at his calf when they turned a corner.

Sansa appeared with Elia, Oberyn, and Jaime trailing behind; Arya was leaning, arms crossed, against a column by an overhanging roof that led to the gardens, and beyond that, the Godswood in King's Landing.

"What's this you needed us for?" asked Arya, pitching her voice to carry to the group as they converged and merged. "Ser Lewyn was saying something about Marwyn and the Godswood."

"He says it's urgent," muttered Jon when he approached his little sister.

Arya's grey eyes skipped to the maester, who nodded, and beckoned the group to follow him.

With a long-suffering sigh, Jon followed first, with Barristan and Lewyn taking up point behind him. As they walked, following first a gravel path and then moving to grass, he could hear the comments from those walking behind and their thoughts.

"Isn't the Godswoods where you Northerners pray?" asked Oberyn, walking with Sansa's hand delicately placed on his arm. The two still seemed uncomfortable around one another, but they were talking and sometimes even seeking one another out; Arya had informed Jon that she was teaching Oberyn's daughters and Rhaenys to throw daggers, which meant Oberyn had more time to spend to get to know Sansa, and Elia and Lewyn (along with an unimpressed Jaime) conspired to keep him from the brothels and busy waiting on his sister's demands, which often coincided with things Sansa also needed or where she would just happen to be. Jon never knew matchmaking was such a brilliant skill for Arya and Elia to possess, but he was grateful they had yet to turn their attention on him. Poor Sansa.

"It's like our version of a Sept, yes," answered Sansa.

"Then why would we need to see it so urgently?"

"I'm not certain–"

Arya interrupted Sansa's explanation. "It's not like it's a true Godswood, anyway." "What makes something a true Godswood, Lady Arya?" asked Elia, curiously.

"A weirwood tree, for one," answered Sansa for her sister. "With a face carved in it, by the Children of the Forest."

"But they don't exist anymore if they ever did," countered Jaime with a mildly arrogant tone. Arya and Sansa shared a look.

The group entered the Godswood, a manicured garden with bright flowers, bees buzzing as they flitted from one to another; trimmed bushes, and even a few stone benches placed around the large square of land. However, Marwyn led them from the garden, closer to the back where things became a bit more overgrown.

"What's back there usually?" muttered Barristan to Lewyn, who frowned.

"I don't think I've ever been that far back in the gardens," the other man replied, glancing at Elia. "Did Queen Rhaella or even Rhaegar ever mention this...?"

Elia shook her head, frowning.

"It's this way, please," urged Marwyn, glancing back. "I know – but please. I swear to the Father that this is important."

Jon followed first, a stomp to his boots, although he was careful and delicate in holding back branches and plucking offending leaves from Arya when they pushed past a tall hedge, stepping into a dark clearing smelling of rotten leaves. All sound muted immediately as they stepped across the hedge barrier, and Sansa gasped.

Under his breath, Barristan swore. "By the Gods...!"

"The Old Gods," corrected Arya breathlessly, eyes wide, staring up at the fully grown weirwood tree.

But Jon was staring hard not just at the tree, but at the grotesque face, elongated and stretched with a mouth in an open scream as the red sap dribbled down its closed eyes and from the mouth like drool.

"This... this wasn't here—" sputtered Elia, eyes darting all over the strange space. "The garden was – but I was sure – there was no tree—"

"It is magic!" proclaimed Marwyn, eyes feverishly bright as he turned back to the large group that followed, spreading his arms wide. "Magic is returning to Westeros!"

Everyone stared at the man in silence.

Then, a loud caw interrupted them, and they all looked up at the branches between pointy red leaves at the raven perched just above the group, its beady eyes focused on Jon, Arya, and Sansa.

"Fuck," said Jon, clenching his jaw.

"Ugh," added Arya, wrinkling her nose. "Him."

Sansa didn't speak but tightened her grip on Oberyn's arm, causing him to glance at her in concern.

"Caw!" the raven croaked, again.

"No," replied Jon, fiercely. "And fuck you, too, while we're at it, Rivers!"

Affronted, the raven ruffled its feather and gave an annoyed croak.

"Oh, you don't get to take the moral high ground!" snapped back Jon, pointing a finger at the bird. When the raven made a shrill noise, Jon let loose a barrage of insults.

Concerned, Elia slid over to Sansa and murmured, "Sansa, dear, is the king... alright? Does he often shout abuses at birds?"

"Only that one," replied Sansa grimly.

Arya, not helping the situation, was snickering, and badly hiding it behind her hands. Realizing she

would get no help from her, Sansa called, "Jon, you're certainly not helping yourself in establishing that you don't have the Targaryen madness."

Jon spun, hair dishevelled and eyes wide. "But San – it's him!" "I know, Jon, but—"

"But it's fucking Rivers! After what he did to Bran—"

"Bran's not here anymore, Jon—"

"Because he's dead!"

The words Jon shouted echoed in the following silence. Jon and Sansa were staring at one another, and Arya's snickers had abruptly stopped at the cry. Feeling like they were intruding – albeit confusingly – Elia, Oberyn, Marwyn and the kingsguard tried to slip back to give the siblings some privacy but they were all still uncomfortable voyeurs to the scene.

Jon's chest heaved and he shot a final, loathful glare at the raven, who puffed its chest up in response. "And as far as I'm concerned, he killed him."

"Bran would say he taught him to fly," argued Sansa gently. "And without him – both of them," she stressed, seeing Jon's mouth open to argue more, "we wouldn't be here. We wouldn't have the opportunity to help people."

"I don't like it either, Jon," added Arya quietly, stepping forward. "But it's... it's done now. Holding onto this won't help us move forward."

"I hate him," declared Jon, although there was something broken in his voice. "I hate him – I hate him and what he did – to – to Bran, and what he failed to do when he hid away north of the wall—"

"I know, Jon," Sansa shushed him, stepping a bit closer until the siblings were all within reaching range, and Sansa and Arya were pulled toward Jon in a tight hug as his shoulders heaved and he tried his best to keep his emotions contained.

The raven hopped from its branch to another, lower one on the weirwood tree, getting a better view to see the three Stark siblings. It meant hopping closer to Marwyn, who frowned up at it.

"I don't know who you are," the man said to the raven, who heard him and cocked its head in such a way that its beady eyes focused on the maester, "but you just angered a Targaryen and our king. If you can understand – which I think you can – then you should know what that means."

The raven gave a low gurgle, drawing back from looking at Marwyn to peer at the Starks. Then, after a minute, it flapped its wing and flew up and out of the overgrown Godswood.

TBC...