15.Queen Rhaella was his Mother

? Jaime Lannister, outside the walls of Harrenhal

They had twenty-one thousand men from the Westerlands and five thousand more from the Riverlands. The Riverlords’ loyalty was shaky at best, but all of them had given hostages now tightly secured in Casterly Rock, so they had no choice but to send men to fight this Aegon Targaryen.

A poor host, but this was everything Tommen could muster.

He would have three thousand more, but someone had killed every single soul in the Twins. Now, the position of Lord of the Crossing was ripe for the taking, and every single Frey with men to his name was rushing there in a bid to become the Chief Weasel. Usually, the next Weasel Lord would be decided by House Lannister… but they had greater woes to deal with.

Jaime always knew that the dastardly weasels were more trouble than they were worth, and it seemed the Gods had finally cast them down for their foul deeds. But couldn’t they have done it a bit later?

Would such a fate come down upon him and his house? Jaime would have scoffed before, but now… now he had seen the eerie ruins of King’s Landing that reeked of wrongness. Magic was not gone, like the maesters had taught him, no. Neither were the gods uncaring.

But no matter how he wished otherwise, Jaime couldn’t change the past, so he kept trudging forward.

The pretender had camped two miles south of their position. He had over forty thousand men—ten thousand from the Golden Company, accompanied by a dozen elephants. Fifteen thousand spears were from Dorne, and another five squeezed out from the Stormlands and ten from the Crownlands. Aegon had chosen to go north towards the Trident instead of the gold road to the Westerlands. Now, Jaime was forced to intercept him, lest the Riverlands fall without a fight.

A decisive battle here would be folly. The defeat at Robb Stark’s hands taught Jaime a lesson he would never forget. It taught him to think twice before moving and never to underestimate his foe.

He intended to make Aegon bleed hard for every Keep in the Riverlands. It should have been an easy fight, a swift victory with their alliance of Highgarden. But that alliance was gone too, burned away in the ruins of King’s Landing.

And for the first time since Jaime took the field, he was grossly outnumbered.

It didn’t matter. Jaime would fight. It was his duty and the only thing he was good at besides. And there was no other choice; Tommen was his son, and defeat would spell his doom. Even if the boy was a son that Jaime could never call such, a son he could never raise, he still came from his loins.

Now, only one path was left before him. A decisive battle was too great a risk. No, Jaime would grind Aegon Targaryen’s forces down little by little, and shatter his morale and fighting spirit one battle at a time. In this, Jaime had to succeed. He needed to succeed. Otherwise, only death awaited his kin. Tywin Lannister’s cruelty still haunted them—House Martell had not forgotten Elia’s demise. There would be no mercy in defeat for House Lannister, not at the hands of this Aegon or the Dornish.

The pretender had asked for a parley. So Jaime, Ser Addam Marbrand, Lord Jonos Bracken, and an escort of a dozen knights rode out to meet them in the field between the two armies.

Across them, three men with a small party of heavily-armoured guards came. A black banner with the red three-headed dragon fluttered in the winds above, not looking as majestic as Jaime remembered. The other two men beside the silver-haired rider wore surcoats depicting the white and red griffin of House Connington and the red sun of House Martell.

Jon Connington was easy to recognise with his rusty mane, but he had grown old. White was creeping into his beard; he had the look of a tired old man who dreamed of rest, and his face had become craggy and sour with age.

Jaime looked at the pretender, struggling to remember Rhaegar’s face; time had washed the details away from his mind. But Aegon had the right colouring: Valyrian silver-gold hair, purple eyes, high cheekbones, and a sharp jaw. With Jon Connington and House Martell in support, few would doubt his claim.

The two groups stopped a dozen yards away, measuring each other warily.

“I do wonder if you’re truly Rhaegar’s boy,” Jaime said, breaking the silence. “Why didn’t the eunuch swap your sister, too? Was she not important enough?”

Nearly twenty but still a boy, Jaime decided when Aegon predictably bristled at the taunt, but Connington placed a gloved hand on the boy’s shoulder and nudged his steed forward. A golden hand-shaped pin proudly graced the griffin lord’s surcoat.

“Tywin’s follies are not so easily foreseen,” Jon Connington spat. “If only the white cloak in the Red Keep had done his duty and protected the royal family.”

The words angered Jaime. Too many vows, and he was torn apart in the middle. The fools did not know. They probably did not care, either. Why would Jaime care?

“Protect from whom?” He laughed joylessly. “There’s no beast crueller than the dragon. I was standing guard with Ser Jonothor Darry outside the Queen’s chambers when Aerys visited his sister-wife. I can still hear her wails and pained cries at night. I asked Darry then, ‘Why not protect the Queen?’ He said—”

“Enough of this drivel, Kingslayer,” Connington ground out, his bitter face souring further.

“Well, you asked for a parley. Here we are.”

“We’re here to offer you terms,” he said bluntly. “Tommen Waters will forswear the crown and join the Night’s Watch. You, Kingslayer, will be given the choice between the Black and the block for your crimes, and Cersei Lannister will join the Silent Sisters. The Crown’s debt to House Lannister will be forgiven, and the coffers of Casterly Rock will cover the Iron Throne’s remaining debts. Casterly Rock will go to whichever Lannister is next in line, and the lords from the Westerlands and the Riverlands will bend the knee and swear fealty to Aegon VI of House Targaryen.”

Jaime laughed.

“You find this amusing, Kingslayer?” Aegon’s scowl deepened. “These are generous terms for an oathbreaker like you.”

“Truly magnanimous,” Jaime tutted mockingly. “But few would trust the word of a Targaryen now, especially after your mad grandsire. Suppose I lay down my arms and surrender. I doubt that Tommen and I would ever reach the Night’s Watch alive, and Cersei would have an accident and slip somewhere, breaking her neck, or that you’d spare any other Lannister. And how are you so certain of your victory, boy? Tomorrow, you might be a head shorter. Even if we lose here, Casterly Rock has never been conquered.”

“So was Storm’s End, but now we hold it.”

Jaime ignored the silver-haired boy, for he had taken a measure of the pretender. No, the real question was the men behind him. After twenty years, Connington had gained a measure of caution, and his face gave nothing, even if his eyes were filled with hatred, so Jaime focused on the old knight with House Martell’s heraldry. He was swarthy like all Dornishmen, and age had long turned his hair grey, yet his black eyes were as sharp as daggers.

“I have a question for you, Ser…?”

“Ser Manfrey Martell. Ask away, Lannister.”

“What happened to my niece, Myrcella?” He hadn’t seen his daughter since he went to war. When he returned to the city, she had already been shipped to Dorne by Tyrion.

“We sent her back to King’s Landing to visit her bastard brother as the queen regent demanded, of course,” the man said, but the smile on his wrinkled face was mocking.

Jaime pushed down his rising temper. “Myrcella never arrived in the Red Keep.”

“A great tragedy, to be sure.” Manfrey Martell sighed, face sincere. “But I have no reason to lie to you, kingslayer, not when the truth is so delightful. It was a mistake, but Nymeria Sand left her in King’s Landing shortly before the green fires started. Alas, that was the last we saw of her. Princesses dying has always been a tragic thing…”

The words were like a punch in the gut; they mocked him again.

“We’ll see each other tomorrow, then. A Lannister always pays his debts.” Jaime bowed, wheeled his steed away and rode back to his camp, trying to ignore the pit forming in his belly.

King’s Landing’s destruction had been his fault; Jaime felt it in his bones. He could have had the hidden caches of wildfire found and removed, but had never bothered…

Had he killed his daughter with his complacency? Dornishmen were lying curs, but… what if it were true?

Shaking himself from his stupor, Jaime pushed it to the back of his mind. It was just another disappointment, another notch on his belt of failures. But it didn’t matter; he had a battle to fight tomorrow.

? Daenerys Targaryen, Lys

The Summer Sea stretched before her endlessly. The glittering expanse of turquoise waves was liberating in a way that washed away all her woes, and Daenerys couldn’t get enough of the view. Yet as pleasing to the eye as everything was, she felt stifled, in a small cage of wood amidst the waves. The ship felt smaller by the day, and even flying with Drogon didn’t dispel that feeling.

The beauty of the sea was not without peril, either. As they sailed around the Ruins of the Freehold, a fierce storm scattered part of her fleet, and they were delayed over a sennight until they managed to group back together.

That storm had cost her seven ships and over five hundred Unsullied and many sailors. No matter how much Daenerys circled in the sky above with Drogon, there was no trace of them, forcing her to give up once the supplies started running dangerously low.

Her advisors had all urged against docking in Volantis.

“We’re already not on good terms, and finding succour there is unlikely, Your Grace,” Tyrion had said. “They’ll be happy enough to let you pass, but anything further is unlikely.”

“The First Daughter can be taken, but our forces will be spent and only the Gods know how many years this campaign might last, Your Grace.”

Daenerys listened.

Her fleet had bypassed he black walls of Volantis and sailed down the coast, making brief stops to get fresh water and supplies at lesser ports—Tolos, Lyria, places too small to refuse the Mother of Dragons and her fleet. But when they reached the Disputed Lands, no harbour was large enough to resupply, forcing them to turn their sails to Lys.

“The Lyseni Conclave has agreed to provision us,” said Tyrion Lannister, draining his wineskin with one hand while holding a dispatch in the other. “Food, water, garments, all at their own expense, even. Most generous.”

“Too generous,” Daenerys murmured, watching the harbour from the prow of Queen Rhaella, her flagship. “I think they wish me gone swiftly.”

Selmy cleared his throat, leaning over to his cane. “They fear you, Your Grace. The Unsullied outnumber their city guard more than twofold, even without speaking of dragons and Ironmen. And they have heard tales—the fall of Yunkai, Astapor, and Mereen, cities you attacked with no prior enmity.”

She had just wanted to free the slaves, and was chained by that misplaced mercy even now.

Sighing, Daenerys strode down to the ship’s railing. The sunny docks were bustling, and many of the folk here were in her likeness—the Valyrian silver-gold hair and purple eyes were seen more often than not. Most of the rest were fair-haired with pale eyes, all beautiful to fault. Her brother had once told her Lys bred its people for pleasure, and now she saw the truth of it.

The beachside was dotted with fruit trees, palms, and well-kept shrubberies arranged in circles and triangles

Lys was even more beautiful than she remembered from childhood, when Viserys dragged her from one city to another in fear of the Usurper’s assassins. But Robert Baratheon and her brother were dead, and no daggers were coming in the dark for Daenerys.

Her gaze settled on the pale walls of the city, carved with scenes of lovemaking that would have made her blush a few years ago. Even now, there was a tinge of heat creeping up her cheeks.

Something deep inside her stirred. Daenerys wanted the city. It would be easy to take it; only the word had to be said, and the Unsullied and the Ironborn would fall upon Lys like locusts, filling it with the stench of death and despair.

Making it ugly.

Conquering a city was easy, but ruling it was not—a bitter lesson she had learned all too intimately.

This was not her home; these were not her people, even if she looked like them. Still, she wanted to stroll down through the bustle like she had long ago, when she was just Drogo’s wife. Daenerys wanted to sift through the vendors and all of their wares, unburdened by her crown. At least for a day, she wanted to be carefree again—no, even an hour or two would be enough.

“The Targaryens weren’t the only dragonlords to survive the Doom.” Tyrion’s raspy voice shook her from her thoughts. The Imp had climbed up a barrel nearby and continued sucking on his flask of wine like a babe on his mother’s teat.

“Oh?”

“Aurion of Qohor declared himself Emperor of Valyria after the Doom. Rode south with his dragon and a great host to reclaim the Freehold. Neither he nor his army were ever seen again.”

“A cautionary tale, no doubt.”

“Oh, it gets better.” The dwarf grinned, lips stained red. “Four other dragonlords survived. They were presiding over Lys and Tyrosh, so the stories go. All of them had been cruel, no better than tyrants, so the moment the Freehold was lost in the Doom, their own servants poisoned them and their dragons.”

The thought chilled her. “You think they would poison me?”

“I think,” Tyrion said, “that venturing into the city is unwise. Even the old laws of hospitality mean little these days, and trust is lost. Each magister you might meet here will know how you swindled the Unsullied from the Good Masters of Astapor and turned them against them, and would fear they would be next.”

Was her desire for a stroll so obvious?

She reluctantly turned to Ser Barristan. “What say you, Lord Hand?”

“Lord Tyrion is cautious but not wrong, Your Grace.” The old knight inclined his head. “Even the streets of the city are not safe unless we let the Unsullied clean up and guard the way—a feat I doubt the Magisters of Lys would allow, no matter how gracious. It would be prudent to keep your wine testers at hand, just in case.”

Daenerys watched Lys a while longer, her eyes roaming over the pale towers and the bustling streets. The crowd in the dock was a painting of colours, pretty and striking, even with the slaves. Nearby, her dragons wheeled and dove into the sea for fish, scattering seabirds. The city was ripe for the taking.

But it was not her home. These were not her people.

All she had wanted was to help the poor and downtrodden and then return to where she belonged—Westeros. Daenerys had been naive back then, but now she knew you could only do one, not both. It had all been folly, for chains of iron were easily broken, unlike the shackles in the mind.

What irony. She was more powerful than ever, a queen with dragons and an army and a fleet, but why did she feel so… stifled?

She sent Missandei ashore with a hundred Unsullied to fetch silks, lace, and fruit for her personal needs. Then she retired to the upper deck of Queen Rhaella to sit on the cushioned throne and think. The great dromond had once belonged to a Volantene admiral, but Asha Greyjoy had taken it in battle and gifted it to her. Its decks were broad, the cabins clean and cosy, and the captain’s quarters were fit for a queen.

Her thoughts turned to Daario, left in Meereen to keep the peace. He had begged to come with her. Begged sweetly, with lips and hands, but she had said no. Daario was not fit to rule, not the stuff of kings, even worse than Hizdahr. It still hurt to leave him behind, but it was a dull pain, as if she had lost a fancy trinket. Perhaps, Daario had always been merely a trinket, no better than a toy that made her feel good.

As the day began to dwindle and the shadows grew long, Ser Barristan brought up an unlikely visitor.

“I’ve heard of you, Varys the Spider.” Daenerys eyed the infamous eunuch from her seat. Grey Worm and a dozen Unsullied had surrounded him, spears in hand and ready to skewer the plump man. “What brings you here?”

“I have come to offer my service, Your Grace,” the Spider said, bowing low.

Plump and seemingly harmless, with a tanned skin, in his robes of purple silk, he would fit as a merchant and magister everywhere in Essos if not for his powdered face. His eyes were a dark purple, and perhaps a drop of dragon blood ran hot through his veins.

“Many say the same,” Daenerys replied. “Why should I accept the likes of you?”

“You need a spymaster of your own, Your Grace, and it’s what I do best. Besides, I have served your father faithfully before.”

Daenerys scoffed. “And then the Usurper, and the Imp’s bastard nephews after him.”

Varys nodded humbly. “That might be true, but my loyalty has always been to House of the Dragon.”

A dubious statement, but not one she could challenge easily. Worse, he offered something Daenerys sorely lacked—knowledge, a peek into the affairs of her home. But could he be trusted?

“Lord Tyrion shared a most interesting tale with me. A hidden prince swapped away with a tanner’s son to be raised in the shadows, none the wiser, while the Usurper’s gaze was pointed at my brother and me.” Daenerys raised her hand, and Grey Worm’s spear was on Varys’s neck, ready to plunge into the soft flesh. “Why are you here, Spider, instead of serving your Aegon, my supposed nephew?”

Was this the mummer’s dragon? Did it matter in the end? It could be Quaithe’s fevered ramblings. Could Daenerys trust the words of some masked witch hiding her face?

“He has a spymaster of his own and no need of my services.” Varys clasped his powdered hands, his voice soft and agreeable. “I hope to serve Your Grace like I served your Royal Father.”

Silence fell onto the deck as Daenerys looked at the eunuch; he looked as harmless as a child and as servile as a slave.

He was plotting something, no doubt.

But then again, everyone else was. They all had one reason or another for serving her. Asha wanted her help taking back her family home. Barristan wanted to regain his honour, and the Imp wanted revenge. His words rang true—Daenerys was blind to the happenings in Westeros, just as were all of her aides.

And going in blindly was dangerous, quite possibly fatal, as Daenerys had found out the hard way. Could she afford to decline?

“Very well,” Daenerys said, easing herself back on her pillows. “Prove yourself useful, spymaster. Tell me of the affairs of the royal court and King’s Landing, and I will take you in.”

With a sign, Grey Worm withdrew his spear from the Spider’s throat.

“There’s a word of a great inferno of green flame engulfing the entirety of the Conqueror’s City,” the plump eunuch said, falling on one knee. “You would hear of it soon enough, for it is the talk of every big port in the Narrow Sea. Queen Cersei and her son had been forced to flee…”

Daenerys could not stop smiling. Her foes were all divided, and the path forward had never looked easier.

“You ought to be cautious, Your Grace,” Selmy warned after Varys had sworn himself to her services. “The Spider has served many masters, and only the gods know where his true loyalties lie. The eunuch was one of those who agreed to your assassination when Robert Baratheon commanded it.”

“Yet you also fixed your seal upon the Usurper’s order despite your disagreement and served Joffrey Waters,” Daenerys reminded, making the old knight bow his head in shame. “Fret not. I do not trust Varys, just like I did not trust you or the Imp until you proved yourself. I have my Unsullied watching him, and should he show himself treacherous, he will meet a traitor’s fate.”

“Your Grace has grown wise,” Barristan said, his words bringing a fierce satisfaction in her breast.

“What do you think of the eunuch’s words?”

The old knight grimaced and stiffly sat on one of the wooden benches. “If his tale is true, Tommen would struggle without Highgarden. Without the Iron Throne and King’s Landing, any claims to crowns would be far harder to press.”

“But if the Conqueror’s City lies in ruin,” Daenerys said, “then what claim shall I press? What throne shall I sit upon, if the Iron Throne is lost?”

“The dragons are all the claim you’d ever need, Your Grace. The Iron Throne can be reforged and cities rebuilt.” Selmy leaned on his stick. “Your father wished to move the royal seat up the Blackwater Rush in his youth. He envisioned a great white city made entirely out of marble.”

The words finally made Daenerys stir from her seat. It was not often that her father was spoken of with anything but caution or warning. “Truly? What happened?”

“He made new plans,” Ser Barristain said wryly. “No less ambitious in scope. Before the madness, before Duskendale, Aerys was a bright and driven young man who wanted to become the greatest king the Realm had ever known. He dared dream big and leave a legacy that would last a thousand years—”

Daenerys listened with rapt attention as Barristan slowly recalled the beginning of her father’s rule.

She had asked the Imp and Ser Barristan of her father before. But what she had heard had been brief and rarely pleasant. It was a sad tale of paranoia, grief, and pain, until he truly grew into that cursed name. Aerys the Mad.

Were his cruelty and suspicion justified? The Imp and her Hand seemed to think so, even if they did not speak it directly. Daenerys, however, was not sure; she would see for herself soon enough.

Yet it was relieving to hear that there had been more to her sire than madness and cruelty.

Daenerys would succeed where her father had failed, she decided. The words felt right in her mind. Destiny was on her side, for she was the Mother of Dragons. She had done the impossible, succeeded in the unthinkable.

2nd Day of the 6th Moon, 303 AC

Jon Stark

Any signs of Bolton’s presence in Winterfell were removed in a day. But the castle felt empty, hollow. The laughter of children was gone from the hallways, and familiar faces were absent from the yard and the Great Hall. Now, the staff was scarcely a quarter of what it had been in his childhood, and it all felt foreign to him. Worse, the new servants all looked half-frightened, as if scared that he would lash out like a rabid beast.

Any illusion of safety had been shattered, first by Theon the Turncloak and his Ironmen, and then by Ramsay and the Boltons.

It was as if they did not believe in House Stark’s protection, that the king’s peace would last.

This was not a problem solved easily or by words, but one Jon had to tackle regardless.

Sansa took to the duties of the Lady of Winterfell like a fish to water and was already doing what she could to replenish the staff, but even with her impressive speed and skill, it took time.

Jon sat alone in his father’s solar—now his solar—eyes closed, feeling the pulse of the magic in the air. Like the Wall, Winterfell was brimming with magic, but it had a hint of warmth the icy structure lacked. It was a nexus of power, a blessed land for sorcery, and was mighty useful for someone like Jon.

Then, he opened his eyes, taking a stock of the room. A direwolf banner was hung on the walls, along with an old tapestry between bookshelves filled with scrolls and books. His Lord Father’s desk, a large table for private meetings or family dinners, and six ornate chairs were all his now. He sat in the lord’s chair, a high-backed thing of ironwood padded with cotton that Eddard Stark had once occupied. No, not the lord’s chair. It was the king’s chair now.

Jon felt no different, even though they all called him “Your Grace” now. He had no crown, sceptre, or other royal symbols to signify his newfound status. Not that he cared about such trifles, even if he knew he would be forced to deal with them sooner or later.

Grudgingly, Jon found himself accepting his fate. As a king, he would bow down to no one, and everyone would answer to him. Not that he would bow or kneel to anyone even without the title, but royalty was the power recognised in this world.

It was a burden he did not like, but Jon had taken it upon his shoulders anyway. It would strengthen House Stark. The North would be unified, which would, in return, lend to his power and the authority of the Starks, and his sister would be far safer this way.

Most importantly, Jon got to command people within reason, lending him the authority recognised by tradition.

A bastard’s word was easily denied, but a king’s command was harder to ignore.

Any of his goals would be far easier to achieve with the whole North behind his back. It did help that he had shed the veil of bastardry. Doubtlessly, some would still whisper, but far away from his ears, for slandering royalty was a crime. The shadow would always linger, but with Robb’s final words, he would forever be a Stark.

Jon Stark didn’t sound as good as Jon Snow, but he still liked the sound of it.

In hindsight, even if Robb Stark’s will had never arrived, he would see a title crowning him sooner or later. Jon carried the Stark look, was Eddard Stark’s son in all the ways that mattered, was raised in Winterfell, and had proven himself in battle. Being a dragonrider certainly wouldn’t hurt, either.

Kingship could be declined, but not without consequences. No one else could take the mantle. The North would not follow a queen lacking training-at-arms, especially with a proven older brother in the picture, regardless of his perceived bastardy. Even if he supported Sansa’s claim, she would have to rely on him to rule anyway, weakening any authority she could gather.

If it was his power that propped up Winterfell, why not rule it himself?

Rule… Jon could rule. It was a wish of his, long ago, as a young summer child who did not know better. But then he grew up and realised it would mean the death of all of his brothers and possibly his sisters. And here he stood, now the Lord of Winterfell and a king without brothers.

Alas, even the crown was not without its burdens.

The royal duties would demand his attention, taking time he could have spent sparring, fiddling with magic, or exploring the magical secrets Winterfell held.

It was all well and good, aside from a small glaring problem. Jon was not the son of Eddard Stark, not by blood.

He felt like half a cheater, a fraud, for he knew his sire was Rhaegar Targaryen. How that had come to be remained a mystery, and Jon was unsure he wanted to know. The shoddy goblin runes showed a wreath of conflicting things, implying his parents had tried to form some sort of marriage of dubious nature.

The Silver Prince had somehow attempted to marry Lyanna Stark despite being wedded to Elia Martell, who had given him two children. Of course, annulling his first marriage was entirely possible, but it was not an affair that could be kept quiet—it would easily require the High Septon, the Grand Maester, and the King to be involved for such a deed to be binding.

The whole realm would have known if Rhaegar had done something like that.

Laws aside, the closer Jon looked at the details, the more appalled he was.

Somehow, a prince had attempted to take a fourteen-year-old maiden as a second wife. Perhaps she had been fifteen then, as if that made it much better. Was Lyanna forced into the madness at sword point? Why were Lyanna’s guardsmen slain when Rhaegar spirited her away? Could even a young maiden resist the prince’s men, experienced warriors clad in steel? Did she have a choice? Was his mother perhaps a sheltered maiden deceived by the flowery promises of the older and more experienced crown prince?

And why, in the Seven Bloody Hells, did they want to name him Visenya?

Who had been imbecilic enough to think he could only be born as a girl?

No matter how Jon spun the whole thing in his mind, it looked ugly and infuriatingly insulting. His painfully young mother was either foolish, young, lied to, or outright kidnapped and raped. Or perhaps a mixture of all.

No one could tell him what had happened unless Jon suddenly managed to summon the Resurrection Stone. It was not that he hadn’t tried—it simply didn’t work, and none of the Hallows answered his call.

Perhaps… the last survivor of the Tower of Joy could tell him. Howland Reed, the Lord of Greywater Watch. He had already been summoned to Winterfell to pay homage, and soon enough, Jon would know.

If Howland Reed and Eddard Stark had even arrived when his mother was still alive, that was…

No. Jon decided that he did not want to know. Understanding would not bring him peace, and knowledge would be final, tearing away any possible excuses he might be willing to conjure in his mind.

“Ignorance is bliss, I choose to partake in,” he mused aloud. If there was no benefit to knowing, why seek the truth out?

In the end, the Targaryen name meant nothing to Jon. Rhaegar might have sired him, but he was never a father. Judging by the Silver Prince’s children and their grisly end, he would have been a poor parent. Eddard Stark was his father in every way that mattered.

While adoption was not practised here, Jon had another world full of memories to look back on and knew that the Lord of Winterfell had practically adopted him. His uncle had taught Jon everything he did to his heir and raised him behind the protection of Winterfell’s walls. The veil of bastardry was a sore thing for a young child who did not know better, but it only made him toughen up in the end.

Even Daemon Blackfyre had not been raised alongside his trueborn brother or trained like an heir would be.

If Jon had not been raised in Winterfell with Robb, would the Young Wolf even acknowledge or trust him with his testament? Would the wounded, worn-down Sansa think of some bastard brother raised away from her sight, hidden in obscurity and just a distant name in the end?

The name Targaryen meant nothing to him now. When he was young, the tales of the dragonlords impressed the wide-eyed boy, but experience and time had their way of removing the veil of naivety from your eyes. The tale of House Targaryen was a tale of arrogance, blind pride, and madness.

And he did not want anything to do with it.

Jon was the Stark of Winterfell now and cared little about King’s Landing or the South.

Of course, as much as he pretended ignorance about his parentage, it did not make it go away. The purple eyes and the dragons were damning, and some might reach the conclusion Barbrey Dustin did. The honourable word of Eddard Stark still shielded him from the grave for now. But for how long would those lies hold?

Sansa certainly wanted answers after the revelation, but he had managed to delay. It was not a talk to be had while tired.

Shaking his head, Jon stood up reluctantly, taking the treasury’s key from the drawer. He had taken the king’s mantle, and now the king’s duties awaited. First came the matter of coin—it was time to inspect the state of the royal coffers and see how rich Winterfell was after years of war and a sacking. Anything a king did would cost coin, and he had to familiarise himself with House Stark’s incomes and expenditures.

On his way down to the treasury, he heard hushed voices around a corner.

“…King Jon’s mother was the old Queen, I tell you!” It was the insistent voice of a serving woman.

“Which Queen?” asked a second woman, older, with a deeper voice. “We’ve had more queens than harvests these years.”

“Queen Rhaella, of course,” said the first. “I saw her with Lord Stark after the tourney at Harrenhal, twenty years past. They shared a look, and later met in secret—I swear on the heart tree. She bore King Jon on Dragonstone and sent him away to save him from her mad husband’s wrath. That’s why he rides a dragon, mark me word.”

Jon paused mid-step, and it took every ounce of his will to not erupt in laughter. Gods, what a tale.

Rhaella Targaryen and Eddard Stark? Utter nonsense. The two of them had probably never met, and a queen could never hide a pregnancy and a birth.

“Sounds about right,” the older maid murmured with wonder. “No wonder His Grace has dragons! Did you see His Grace and his sister? They look almost the same as…”

Jon turned away, softly treading towards the treasury room. No good would come of confronting gossip. Perhaps it would be better to let it spread instead. Even this gossip came from Eddard Stark’s stubborn silence on the topic—nobody knew who Jon’s mother was. Not even Jon was supposed to know.

Perhaps he had been worried for nothing. Barbrey Dustin had seen it not out of sharpness of wit, but out of pure spite for Eddard Stark.

If Jon remained silent as his uncle had, nobody could know of his lineage for certain either.

Two men in grey cloaks and dark brigandines stood guard by the treasury’s entrance, a heavy ironwood door bound with thick bands of bronze.

“Should we fetch a lantern, Your Grace?”

“There’s no need,” he declined.

They stepped aside at his nod, and Jon slipped inside.

Once the door closed, he conjured balls of fire, lighting up the inside, revealing a chamber he had never seen before. It was a vaulted hall, enough to seat a hundred people. But there were no benches or tables here, just oaken chests and shelves lining the walls. He walked to a chest, lifted a lid and had to squint at the sight of gold.

Then he lifted a second, a third, and the apprehension in his mind quickly melted away.

The treasury had not been as empty as he had feared.

Dozens of chests were filled to the brim with gold and silver, some in coin, some in bars. Sapphires, rubies, topazes, and even amethyst could be seen here and there. The rafters were weighted with mammoth ivory, a choice cut of weirwood branches, and other rare items. House Stark would not lack for gold anytime soon.

Jon turned on his heel. Counting everything would take forever without magic, so he made way for his solar and sent for Wolkan. There was no need to count when he could look through the records and ledgers that should have recorded all of it.

Back in the solar, he sorted through the ledgers Roose Bolton had left behind—Ramsay had not touched a thing. Bran and Robb had not left anything either, just Eddard Stark. Their handwriting couldn’t have been any more different—the Leech Lord’s letters were cold and careful, while Lord Stark’s were softer, scattered, but just as decisive.

“The old man is here,” the guard announced through the door.

“Let him in.”

Wolkan looked better now, probably because the fear in his eyes had greatly lessened. But it was still there.

“You called for me, Your Grace?”

“Aye, Maester Wolkan,” Jon said, gesturing for him to sit. “Are you familiar with the state of Winterfell’s coffers?”

The measter blinked at him, uncomfortably shifting on the guest chair. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Dispense with the courtesies in private. Tell me about the treasury.”

“Last count placed Winterfell’s holdings at eight hundred and seventy thousand golden dragons,” Wolkan said. “A third in silver. The last counting came after the battle with Stannis, and the gold is mostly untouched.”

“Mostly?”

“A hundred thousand was spent restoring the castle after Lord Bolton took Warden’s rights. Another twenty were given as rewards to his retainers and sworn swords. But the rest… is Stark wealth, Your Grace. Ramsay took it when he sacked Winterfell and brought it back when his father returned to rule here.”

“How did House Stark amass so much?” Jon asked, brow furrowed. “The North is vast, but not even half as fertile or welcoming as the Reach is for farming, and the winters are bitter, long, and costly. We have no gold mines, and little trade beyond furs and timber.”

“Quite, Your Grace. But Winterfell is old, and its lords have proved wise and prudent. Every lord since the Dance of the Dragons kept the coffers full, adding more each generation. Decades of peace, long summers, and shrewd stewards, it all added up.”

Jon nodded. “I want to see every ledger. I’ll review them myself.”

“Of course, Your Grace. I shall see to it at once.”

Wolkan bowed and scuttled off with surprising speed for a man of his years. He was still scared, Jon could tell.

The old maester wasn’t lying, but it would not hurt to verify. Trust had to be nurtured, but never blindly.

The lord’s wife—or the king’s wife in his case was responsible for going over the spending, but he had no wife. And Sansa, who had taken the role of Lady of Winterfell, was not good at sums and numbers, so that duty fell on his shoulders until Wolkan proved himself trustworthy or a loyal steward could be appointed.

Jon was never one to do things halfway. Since he had taken the royal mantle, he would do his duty, and he would excel at it. But that was easier said than done. If only all the king’s problems could be cut in twain with a sword or burned away with magical flame.

What made for a good king?

Some might say that it was mercy, others, justice, or even fairness. A king had to bring prosperity and peace. But a king was a ruler first and foremost, and to have justice, mercy, or anything else, one first had to have strength and unity.

The dreaded talk with Sansa was fast approaching, and there was only so much he could delay. He had recognised her affection for what it was. A part of him, probably the insidious dragonblood, didn’t mind bedding his sister. There were even fewer qualms about doing the same with a cousin, for Sansa was a sister only in name.

Another bigger part, however, rebelled at the thought. It was not proper, and they had grown together. He could marry his ‘sister’ as a Stark, but it would attract too much resistance, too much disgruntlement from anyone pious. Marrying a cousin was simpler, but it came with a different set of problems, like revealing his parentage.

And he had no tangible proof of it, not without magic.

It raised a different conundrum—how long could he hide his magic?

Of course, Jon would never reveal everything, but he knew he couldn’t hide it forever, at least not from everyone. His bannermen and subjects didn’t need to know, but it was a matter of trust with his kin.

Would Sansa accept him for who he was, or would she revile him like his cousin and aunt from his previous life? It was a vexing woe, but Jon knew better than to let it fester.

The Blackfish

All doubts Brynden Tully might have once held of Jon Stark vanished in the battle. The young king had proven himself a master with a sword, quick to listen to wise advice, and sharp and decisive, even more so than his brother and father.

The purging of Winterfell of all things Bolton had taken a day and a night, making him feel old and tired. He was old and tired. Brynden had walked every hall and chamber, spoken with every servant, down to the very scullery maids and the stableboys. It soon became clear that very few were loyal to the Flayed Man, if any at all.

Who would have thought that terror and torture inspired no lasting loyalty?

Still, he dismissed most of those brought here from the Dreadfort.

After a brief meal, King Jon summoned the highborn and commanders to the Great Hall. Sansa Stark sat to the king’s right quietly, though her eyes seldom strayed from her brother. There was something strange in her gaze, something unreadable, but the Blackfish paid it no heed.

Brynden had served under six kings now. He remembered the uneasy reign of Aegon the Unlikely, and the pale, coughing Jaehaerys who followed. The bright-eyed Aerys had been a promising king at first, but he had always held that spark of restless madness. Time only made it blossom, and after the Defiance of Duskendale, the insanity had grown into a raging inferno. Robert was meant to fight, not rule, and it ruined him and the realm, and Robb…

His grandnephew had been too young, too green in the matters of the heart, and the folly of youth had cost him everything.

Kingship was a heavy thing that could break even the greatest of warriors and twist the sharpest of minds.

Yet, now, Jon Stark looked more regal than the other five just by wearing a simple grey doublet and the dark cloak his grandniece had made. He carried himself with confidence, yet lacked the arrogance of most great lords and kings. There was no empty bluster, no posturing, nor any empty chatter, just quiet intensity.

Perhaps, he did not need any of that. They had all fought yesterday, and they had all seen Jon fighting like a man possessed on the battlefield, a storm of steel and fury that cut through almost everything in its path. And then, there were the dragons, controlled in ways that shouldn’t have been possible!

It was easy to see Robert Baratheon in the young king before him, but far more solemn and unburned by any vices. Even now, he kept that black sword that had killed so many by his side, never letting it out of reach. Yet there was more to kingship than swinging a sword, Brynden knew.

Peace was far harder to win than war, Hoster had loved saying, and he was not wrong.

The meeting finally began, as the king motioned for the former smuggler to speak.

“Seven hundred men lie dead, Your Grace. One giant as well. Twice that number wounded.” The smuggler turned lord swallowed, his voice hoarse. “We lost Torghen Flint, Blind Doss, Howd the Wanderer, and both Harle brothers.”

“And the enemy?”

“Thirty-seven hundred slain. Twenty-five hundred taken captive—most have bent the knee and sworn never to raise arms against House Stark again. Ramsay Snow’s head was found beneath a pile of corpses. Cregan and Arthor Karstark died with him, along with the Ryswell brothers. Hother Umber, Lord Harwood Stout, Lady Dustin, and Ser Roose Ryswell are in the dungeons awaiting your judgement.”

“Return the bones of the noblemen to their keeps,” Jon decided. “Prepare Torghen Flint’s remains with full honours, and arrange an escort to Breakstone Hill. Burn the rest.”

“What of the wildlings?” asked Davos.

“They all burn their dead. Give them a separate pyre. Lord Wull, I want you to sift through the Bolton men-at-arms and find the traitors who turned cloak against my royal brother at the Red Wedding and those who took part in the sacking of Winterfell.”

“I’ll see it done, King Stark!” Hugo Wull patted his bulging belly with a bloodthirsty smile. “What shall I do with those wretches once rounded up?”

“I’ll take the heads of the traitors myself,” Jon Stark declared coldly.

That drew nods from the northern lords. The man who passes the sentence swings the sword. Old customs had power here, and the more the young king followed them, the more respect and prestige he would garner.

“What of the rest?” Wull asked, voice reluctant. “As few as they are, some Bolton men did no treason.”

“The others can leave after swearing a vow not to bear arms against House Stark and taking a brand.”

“Brand ’em like cattle?” The Wull’s stormy brows were scrunched up.

The king smiled, but it was a cold, joyless thing, much like the North itself.

“Sear the Flayed Man’s cross onto their right palms so they don’t forget my mercy nor their folly. If any such man is caught breaking the King’s Laws, his life is forfeit. Lord Liddle, what happened to my brother’s remains?”

“Your Grace…” Morgan Liddle’s face grew grim. “The fucking bastard fed Prince Rickon’s body to his hounds, and even his bones cannot be found…”

Sansa gasped in horror. Blackfish saw red for a moment, and the faces around him were twisted by anger or disgust. Ramsay Snow had delivered another cruel insult from the afterlife. The king did not rage; he did not scream or curse.

His face was an icy mask, and just for a moment, something dark flashed in those purple eyes, something fathomless that looked like it could burn the entire world down. Just for a heartbeat, it was hard to breathe, as if the air itself had grown solid.

“I want all the dogs put down and burnt to ashes.” The voice was so cold it made Brynden shudder. “Retrieve Ramsay Snow’s head and put it on a spike at the gates of Winterfell. The Bolton kennelmaster will be impaled on a stake outside the gates for all to see. Make sure he doesn’t expire quickly.”

Brynden couldn’t help but grimace—slow impalement was the punishment for treason in Norvos. It was a slow, painful death, a terrible way to go. But none could begrudge the king a brother’s vengeance.

“It shall be done.” Lord Mazin bowed, face stony.

“Lady Mormont, take three hundred men and get a surrender out of the Dreadfort. A raven of the demise of House Bolton has been sent to the castle, informing the castellan to demand his obeisance.”

“What if he tries to hold it, Your Grace?” Maege asked. “We cannot storm or siege the Dreadfort with three hundred men.”

“Bloodfyre will fly with you. If the castellan proves stubborn despite my offer of mercy, I’ll bathe the defenders on the walls in dragonfire and burn the gates open.”

Maege nodded, doubtlessly thinking how a dragon could help her cow a castle into obedience. No one questioned it. The dragons had ended the battle last evening with no rider, seemingly following the plans with uncanny accuracy, even though the Blackfish suspected that the king would have somehow grasped a win even without them.

This strange control of dragons that even the Targaryens had never displayed aside, there was more to the king than met the eye.

Jon Stark, dragonlord and King in the North. ‘Who is your mother?’ Brynden wondered, though he had a suspicion.

A Lyseni courtesan, perhaps, with silver curls and soft hands. Or perhaps some golden-haired dragonseed from House Velaryon or the crownlands had charmed Eddard Stark’s heart for a night with a sweet smile and purple eyes.

Two decades ago, Catelyn had been a beauty few could rival, young and pretty enough to stand beside Ashara Dayne and Cersei Lannister. Yet Brynden preferred to think that dalliance had happened before the wedding, that Jon Stark had been the fruit of a night of passion on the march. It would certainly fit Eddard Stark’s honourable character.

“…Three hundred men-at-arms at the Moat?” The King’s voice broke Brynden from his musings.

The She-Bear nodded. “Aye. The scattered survivors from the Red Wedding who found refuge with the crannogmen.”

“Jorelle Mormont will ride down the kingsroad two hundred more and all the stonemasons she can find to the Moat. Enlist any volunteers from the survivors and send the remaining ones home. The last three towers of Moat Cailin might hold, but I want repairs to start immediately.”

“And the gold for it, Your Grace?” asked Jorelle, cautiously.

“Winterfell has the coin. The Moat is too important to be neglected, and I want it restored enough to hold any enemy.” Jon reached into his cloak and placed a black shard on the table. “What we need is obsidian.”

The lords leaned forward.

“Dragonglass?” said Galbart Glover. He snapped the shard in his callused hands. “Brittle stuff.”

“Brittle, yes, but sharper than any razor, and deadly to certain foes.” The king’s face turned grim. “Beyond the Wall, darkness gathers once more. Foul things, fel things that had been slumbering in the ice that never melts have awoken.”

The gathered men shuffled uneasily.

“You can’t mean—”

“Yes. As much as I wish it were otherwise, I can’t close my eyes. I can’t close my eyes when I’ve seen the White Walkers myself. I can’t forget their cold, blue eyes that held no warmth, only death, nor their swords of ice that were as sharp and as durable as dragonsteel.”

“This…” Many of them shared a grimace, laced with a tinge of reluctance and disbelief. But they did not scoff in dismissal, and neither did Brynden. By today, they all knew of that foul, rattling chest.

“It’s true,” the Onion Knight said, growing pale. “I saw them too, in Hardhome. I saw how the dead men rose to walk again, their eyes shining blue. So did many of the wildlings.”

The king continued, voice firm, “Our ancestors defeated that enemy during the Long Night, but did not destroy them. No, my lords. As much as I wish otherwise, the Others were only pushed back. Why else would the Builder build the Wall, and build it so high?”

The silence was deafening. Magic was here, very much alive and not just a cautionary tale for children. They had seen it with their eyes. They had seen the dragonfire yesterday and how it heralded the coming of a new era. An era of magic, sorcery, and powers that even the maesters could no longer explain.

If dragons were here, why not Others? Why not wights and their great ice spiders?

There was no despair, though. The men looked to their king, and saw him calm, composed, and in turn grew calm themselves.

“What must we do?” Maege asked hoarsely.

Jon held up the broken shard. “This is one of the few things that can destroy the White Walkers. The Cold Ones don’t burn, unlike the dead thralls. I only allowed the wildlings to pass south of the Wall to deny the enemy more bodies.”

“This dragonglass can be found all over the higher hills, King Stark,” Morgan Liddle said, face solemn. “I can send word for the clansmen to gather it.”

“We also have plenty of it around my lands,” Chieftain Cregan Norrey added, tugging on his tangled brown beard.

“Aye, send word, my lords. We’ll need as much as we can gather and then some.” The king rubbed his brow. “The Ironmen still hold Torrhen’s Square. After the trials and the executions, I shall ride southwest with Larence Snow, two hundred heavy horsemen and Winter to lift the siege. I want seven hundred men to serve as Winterfell’s garrison at all times, and the rest of the army can be disbanded.”

The purple drake, Stomstrider, remained unmentioned, and Brynden wagered it would probably stay here, protecting Winterfell.

Lord Glovered cleared his throat. “What shall be done with the wildlings, Your Grace?”

“They’ll go back to the Gift,” Jon Stark said flatly.

“Yet I heard a few speaking about settling around Winterfell.”

Brynden snorted softly. Of course they did. The Gift was the coldest and most barren corner of the realm, slightly less forgiving than the frozen lands beyond the Wall. Savage the wildlings were, but not foolish.

“Fret not.” Jon Stark closed his eyes for a moment, but his face hardened. “The wildlings will answer to me. Those who wish to stay will bend their knees and keep the king’s laws and the king’s peace.”

The words were said with iron in his voice, and the lords and chieftains were satisfied that their king would not favour the wildlings. At least not openly.

Brynden leaned forward then. “What of the South, Your Grace?”

Jon Stark’s eyes settled on him, unreadable. “What of it?”

“Robb Stark was crowned the king of the North and the Trident. His kingdom stretched from the Gift to the gold road, and you are his heir now.”

“Aye,” the king said with a shrug. “But I see none of the Riverlords here, to pay me homage or fight for me. They bent their knee to Tommen, and Tommen is welcome to them. Let Aegon and Tommen tear each other to pieces over iron chairs and old claims. My mother was no Tully. I have no claim to the Riverlands, nor any desire for them. A Stark belongs to the North.”

A low murmur of approval stirred, grunts, nods, a thudding fist upon a wooden table. Even Lady Mormont and Lord Glover, who had brought King Robb’s will, gave a fierce nod of agreement. They had lost too much in the fighting in the Riverlands and had nothing to show for it but grief. Even Sansa Stark, seated to the king’s right, looked at her brother with pride. Yet the look Brynden gave her was tinged with sorrow.

She has never walked the banks of the Tumblestone and the Red Fork or swum in their waters. Never stood beneath the red weirwood in Riverrun’s godswood or walked through the castle’s halls. What ties could she have to the Riverlands, save the blood in her veins?

Brynden looked away, heart heavy.

And yet, the king’s words were final. He knew what that meant. With dragons at his command and Moat Cailing manned and repaired, the North was impregnable. The lords who had turned their cloaks or defied House Stark were now either prisoners or corpses.

Brynden Tully could see the wisdom in strengthening your realm first—something the Young Wolf had failed at and was doomed for. Jon Stark had been a king for merely a day now, and much demanded his attention in the North to look to the south. Winter was coming, as the Starks loved to say, and by the looks of it, it would be long and fierce, and winter was no time for wars in the south.

The meeting was adjourned then, but as the chieftains and lords stood up, the King waved him over. “Ser Brynden, a word.”

“How may I serve, Your Grace?” The Blackfish bowed warily.

“Ser Brynden Tully, I name you the royal master-at-arms and Castellan of Winterfell in my absence.” Jon Stark’s words were imposing, like those of a commander directing the battlefield. “Will you accept this post?”

The Blackfish was stunned—it was a great honour and a show of trust. But… he had not earned it. He had merely fought for his family and honour, as he always had. After a few heartbeats of mulling, he realised there was more to it; Jon Stark was offering him a purpose, a path away from the Riverlands, and the opportunity to serve close to his grandniece.

Riverrun was lost, and Edmure was chained to a Frey wife, and there was little left for Brynden in the south. Gods be good, he should have fought for his nephew, but he had surrendered his own castle, his own people, for his Frey wife and child. He had made his choice, no matter how poor, and Brynden would not begrudge him for it. But he would not blindly follow him to his doom again.

With some struggle, the Blackfish went on his knee and laid his blade before the King’s feet. “I accept, Your Grace. I pledge you my sword, my counsel, and my life should you require it. I swear this by the Old Gods and the New.”

Jon Stark stepped forward and laid a hand upon his shoulder.

“And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, mead, and meat at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonour. I swear by the Old Gods and the New. Rise, Ser Brynden.”