Chapter Text
Varys, as always, watches. And listens. And waits.
He had thought initially that the Stark girl and her Hound had it right; fleeing in the middle of the Battle of Blackwater Bay had been intelligent, and comparably easy. He had considered it himself for a moment. It would likely have taken the Lannisters some time to deduce what had happened to him; had he been captured? Killed? Was he simply missing? Or had the Spider finally turned traitor?
Yes, that would have been much simpler.
Varys would have left then, to seek out Ned Stark and the Targaryen girl he’s heard so many whispers about. He would have fled in the green-lit night, disappearing into the darkness with a whirl of his cloak. His many friends would have helped him cross the sea. Perhaps he could have even stopped by in the Free Cities and visited the sites of his youth.
Varys had considered staying with Tyrion Lannister in Braavos, as well, after helping him to flee King’s Landing, and would have done it, if not for the prisoners.
Well; one prisoner in particular.
Loras Tyrell had been captured during the Battle, further fracturing Renley’s old forces. the majority of the men he had led had been slaughtered on the battlefield, but a good deal of them languish in the dungeons under the Red Keep. As a valuable political prisoner, Loras had been given the same rooms Sansa Stark had once occupied. He had been treated as kindly as anyone is ever treated by Cersei Lannister.
Varys had conferred with Loras frequently.
For one shining, glittering moment, Varys had some measure of hope. He could help to free Loras, in time, and instead of crossing the sea at all he could accompany him to join Robb Stark’s forces. It would be difficult to convince the Stark king to forge an alliance with an unknown dragon queen living across the world, but Varys is confident he could do it; pity that King Robb is already married to the Tyrell girl, though. A marriage would have made things much simpler.
And that would have been a dazzling plan, truly, if Cersei Lannister hadn’t lost her mind when Loras went off-script and seduced King Tommen Baratheon.
Admittedly, it wasn’t the worst plan the Tyrell boy could have come up with; held in captivity and of course not privy to any of Varys’s own plans, he had done what he thought he could to further his family’s cause. Varys, turning the situation around in his mind, can see the motivations quite clearly; if Loras could win over Tommen’s mind and heart, or at least make him very confused about a number of issues, perhaps he could turn the tide of the war, maybe even break Tommen’s confidence in Cersei.
If Loras had consulted Varys, perhaps it would have worked.
Cersei had become suspicious of Varys after the Battle; she had come to rely far too much on Qyburn, a spurned maester whom Varys personally loathes. Qyburn had his own network of spies, not nearly as far-reaching and sophisticated as Varys’ own, but competent enough to inform Cersei of the activities of her son and his prisoner late at night.
Of all the reactions he had anticipated Cersei might have, giving legitimacy to the so-called “High Sparrow” was not one of them.
Anyone native to King’s Landing had seen or heard of the High Sparrow; a fanatical follower of the Seven, he had a few dozen followers so devout they carved the Star of the Seven on their own foreheads. Queen Cersei herself had often asked King Robert to run them out of the city; they frequently kidnapped members of the middle class and extorted their families for their sins, and riled up the smallfolk until pubs were smashed to bits and small riots broke out in alleyways. King Robert had refused, in part because his advisors had told him not to appear in opposition to the Faith, but mostly out of laziness and apathy.
Her late husband’s lack of action has clearly worked in Cersei’s favor; Loras no longer enjoys the comforts of a political prisoner, and in fact is no longer in the Red Keep at all. Instead he is being held in the dungeons under the Sept of Baelor, awaiting trial on charges of seduction, sodemy, and treason.
Varys had thought he had seen Cersei’s trick; she could have the High Sparrow execute Loras, and claim clean hands in the war. But with all his little birds have whispered about Tommen’s fury and grief, and the High Sparrow’s barbed comments to Cersei herself, he thinks he understands a tad better now.
Cersei stands as a black shadow high above the backdrop of the city; the Great Sept of Baelor rises high into the sky, shining white against the other buildings. As Queen, she should have been there hours ago, watching as the court filed in to observe the trial. Mace Tyrell himself had arrived this morning, leaving Olenna in charge of Highgarden. It is the man’s one act of bravery, Varys thinks, to arrive in an enemy city to support his son. Taking in Cersei’s sharp dress, looking more war general than Queen, it is likely also the man’s stupidest act.
“My Queen,” Varys greets.
Cersei does not turn. “Varys. Good. Do you know where my brother is this morning?”
Varys frowns; this is not the direction he was expecting her to go. “I’m afraid not, Your Grace.”
Cersei snorts indelicately. “I don’t believe you. You know everything, or claim to.”
“I had heard reports he was helping the King’s Guard with crowd control of the smallfolk, Your Grace, but I have yet to confirm those reports.”
“He is. Don’t worry; I made sure he was out of the blast zone.”
Varys frowns, dread growing in the pit of his stomach. “The blast-?”
He can feel the rumble, even from here in a high tower of the Red Keep. It starts deep within the earth and shockwaves ripple through stone all the way across the city. The blast of heat warms him even from here when the Sept of Baelor suddenly explodes outward in a storm of green wildfire.
Only through years of self-discipline does Varys not gasp or cry out.
After a moment of stunning silence, Cersei turns her head to the side where he sees half of her self-satisfied smirk. His stomach rolls with bile as the smallfolk begin screaming; an entire section of King’s Landing has caught fire in the blowback from the blast. Wildfire is notoriously difficult to control, and he can’t help but wonder; is Jaime Lannister keeping the smallfolk inside the path of destruction or from it?
“Varys, I want you to do something for me. I believe this plan was foolproof, and that no one caught wind of it, but I want you to send your little birds out for me and make sure the Faith Militant, the courtiers, and any political prisoners are now dead. I had the dungeons emptied under the guise of a mass trial; good thing, too, considering Renley Baratheon’s old forces have finally surrendered to Robb Stark in the Stormlands. This should send a nice message.”
His response is automatic. He can no longer feel the tips of his fingers or his lips; Varys knows he is in the presence of a Mad Queen, just as Aerys had been mad. It is Cersei that has carried out the order to burn them all. “Yes, Your Grace.”
He turns on his heel before she can say anything more.
The essentials for travel are always in a small bag under his bed; he takes it now and adds only a few more items before he slips quietly from his chambers and down a back stairwell. To get to the crypts beneath the Keep, and to the path which leads to the sea, he must pass the King’s chambers.
Varys arrives just in time to watch Tommen Baratheon stand still for a moment in his window, entirely calm, and then fall.
His crown rests on a pedestal; what a prize that might be, and what money it could bring in a pinch.
Instead, Varys’s eyes land on the far wall. Joffrey Baratheon had held these chambers before his brother, and hung against the stone is the sword of Ned Stark. Made of Valyrian steel, it would be useful in a financial bind at worst and will serve as an excellent gift to the Targaryen Queen’s advisor at best; a show of his newfound loyalty to a new regime.
Varys takes the sword, Ice, off the wall, and slips quietly into the shadows while the city burns behind him.
Fabric swishes around Arya’s head, a cacophony of colored silk; turquoise, pink, a hint of orange. There’s so much fabric flying it momentarily blinds her, but after being truly blind for over a year, she finds the sensation isn’t nearly as annoying as it would have been before.
The House of Black and White had abruptly pulled her from her comfortable life as Ariel, and Gendry from his fishing rig along with her. Instead, she had been placed as the personal bodyguard for the Black Pearl, the most famous courtesan in all the world. Here, for the first time, Arya has been steeped in Braavosi culture. The Black Pearl had taken on her new charge with all the gusto of an ocean storm, and had seen it fit to educate Arya as intensely as she could in the scant moon-turns they would be together. Normally, Arya would object to such colorful clothing, but here in Braavos trained swordspeople wear bright colors to signify their skill. Nobility and the wealthy wear blacks, purples, and deep blues since the dye is expensive. Most wear some arrangement of beige, being the cheapest and least likely to ruin. Arya thinks personally that wearing bright colors makes one more of a target, but custom dictates that if no weapon is visible, one is not interested in a fight and most respect that.
Most, but not the Waif.
She continues her bizarre games of attack, once every few weeks. Never when the Black Pearl is around; she is clearly not the target. Arya doesn’t understand it. To be one of the deadliest people on the planet should be enough, but for some reason the Waif continues her animosity.
Arya sighs, lost in thought, and plucks at one of the seams on the side of her tunic.
“You look much better in this than in that mess you arrived in,” Bellegere Otherys says.
The courtesan lounges on a pile of cushions more luxurious than Arya remembers even of King’s Landing. She’s dressed in swathes of sheer black fabric, tactically draped to conceal only the most intimate parts of her body. Her long dark hair cascades down to the floor, and her brown skin shimmers with some oil her girls had rubbed on. She’s the most beautiful woman Arya has ever seen, with purple eyes that refract the light.
“Thank you,” Arya says to be polite. She is still Catelyn’s daughter.
“I know you don’t believe me, but here. Come and see.”
Arya follows Bellegere obediently to a large looking glass in the corner of the room. If she hadn’t been so well-trained, she would visibly startle. No one can approach Bellegere’s otherworldly beauty, but this is perhaps the best Arya has ever looked. Her hair is loose for the first time in years, flowing down around her shoulders. She briefly contemplates cutting it off before being distracted by the new clothing; bright blue silks cling to her shoulders in strips and flow down across her narrow hips to form what is almost a proper skirt; underneath, leggings so light and airy they look almost like the bottom of a dress rather than something she could move and fight in without exposing herself. There is paint across her lips and eyelids she had grumbled about, but when she looks at it now it reminds her of Sansa and her chest aches.
“Thank you,” she says again, this time meaning it.
Bellegere smiles. “Your eyes are such a unique shade. Very few have gray eyes.”
“You’re one to talk. You’re descended from Targaryens, aren’t you?”
Bellegere’s laugh sounds like a harp, even when she’s not faking her giggles. Arya can tell the difference. “Yes, from dragon princes and island princesses and pirates. And who knows who else.”
“Dragons exist again, you know, if the reports are to be believed.”
Bellegere’s face softens; her smile saddens.
Arya bites her tongue. This isn’t nearly as familiar as most of their conversations. The Black Pearl had taken to her very quickly, treating her with kindness and offering to make her a courtesan, too. Arya had laughed until her sides ached and Gendry had raised his voice so harshly that the guards escorted him back to their new chambers. Still, Bellegere comes from a world and customs so alien to Arya that she forgets not everyone wealthy has the benefits of a great and noble House.
“Yes. They exist. Come, sit. Let me tell you something.”
Arya follows her back to the pile of cushions and only puts up a token resistance before allowing herself to fall into them. She quickly scoops up a bunch of grapes from Bellegere’s bowl. Fresh fruit has been hard to come by the last several years. Here, she eats like a queen.
“Are you going to tell me why the House of Black and White picked me to be your guard?”
“You know I have a guard every year for the Unmasking.”
“But they picked me. They never pick without a reason.”
Bellegere’s eyes flash. “I believe there is a grand plan for you. And I believe it’s tied to my family.”
“How so?”
“I tried to buy the girl, you know,” Bellegere says. “Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen. She and her brother fled from city to city, never resting, always hunted. They had an entourage of tutors and guards, though. Westerosi guards from the North. Her brother was a little beast, and as far as I was aware, true heir to the Iron Throne. A man someday, besides. I didn’t want him. But I tried everything in my power to obtain the girl. I wanted her to be safe; to be with family. She didn’t have to become a courtesan, though I’m sure she would have made an obscene fortune. She could have been anyone, and anything. But someone named Ned Stark thwarted my every effort.”
Arya’s blood runs cold. She moves without thinking, moves like water, like Ilyrio, like her father’s soft voice in the night. One moment she’s lounging carelessly, crushing a grape between her teeth and savoring the juice, and the next she has the end of a sword pressed to Bellegere Otherys’s throat.
“Oh, honestly, Arlene, you didn’t think I would figure it out? The House of Black and White should have given you a new face for this assignment. I never met a Stark, but I had descriptions of them, drawings sent to me by friends across the sea. You’re not from Essos; you’re not another Braavosi assassin in training, not entirely. You speak with courtesies only taught to high ladies. And your little friend that you banished to the libraries spends his days pouring over tomes from the North. You think I don’t have my own spies?”
Arya’s pulse flutters in her throat. “What do you want?”
“Targaryens sometimes have prophetic dreams. Did you know that?”
“So do Starks. We called it greensight. Do you know what I dream of? Blood. Death. Maybe yours, if you don’t speak carefully.”
Bellegere laughs again, a true laugh, not a fake one. “Arya Stark of Winterfell, you and I both know the House of Black and White was hired to train you. I know that it was the followers of the Lord of Light. And do you know who they say is the One Who Was Promised? My little Daenerys, who was kept from me and sold to a Dothraki warlord anyway. I know that someday soon, your paths will cross.”
“You think they did all of this to make me useful to Daenerys?”
Something changes in Bellegere’s face; a faint twitch of a muscle in the corner of her eye, something Arya sees but does not fully understand. “Not only to Daenerys.”
“Who, then?”
“I’ve only seen them together in dreams. I do not know his name.”
Jon. This woman has dreamt of Jon. Jon and Daenerys Targaryen.
Arya’s sword begins to shake in her hand. “Are they successful, in your dreams?”
“Not without you.”
Arya drops the sword, sinks down to the hard floor and uses the discomfort to ground herself.
“Many doubted the lineage of the Black Pearls until my birth, and I don’t blame them. I am the first to be born with purple eyes, and the first to have these dreams. But I am not the first to inherit these. All I ask of you, Arya Stark, is that you take these to my little Daenerys. A courtesan has no use for dragons. But a conqueror…”
And from underneath the cushions, the Black Pearl slowly removes six stone dragon eggs.
Arya cannot help it. She cries out, claps one hand over her mouth. Just one petrified egg is priceless; no one knew how Daenerys had managed to get her hands on three. They’re beautiful; bright green, gray, gold, a deep, swirling purple, red, and one the strangest shade of blue Arya has ever seen.
“I sent her the first three; sold them to someone who gifted them to her at a wedding for a mere fraction of the true cost. It was worth it. The Mother of Dragons will know when to bring these into the world. You’re the most lethal person I’ve ever met, Arya Stark. I know they will travel safely with you. And when you gift them to her, you tell her that she is not the last Targaryen. She has a family that dreamed of her, and loved and wanted her. I would do anything to aid her. She will always have an ally here in Braavos.”
“Are there more?” Arya breathes.
Bellegere winks, and this time her laugh is fake. “Of course not. How would mere courtesans know how to care for dragon eggs?”
Staring out across the angry faces, the shifting hands and weapons under thick black cloaks, Jon is suddenly very relieved to be leaving the Wall soon.
“You can’t just do whatever you want!”
“You’ve been a thorn in our side for years!”
“We gave you guest right, and you gave us fucking wildlings.”
“No one ever even found Benjen Stark. How long was that supposed to be an excuse?”
“No kingdom is meant to interfere with the Wall!”
The angry voices rise and swell, echoing off the thick ice of the Wall. Jon sighs. He knew his announcement of the plan to take the wildlings further south to take back Winterfell wouldn’t be well-received; he knew that the remnants of Stannis’s army and parts of Robb’s were rubbing every Night Watchman the wrong way. He didn’t realize the full force of the fury of a group of men this afraid of wildlings and wights. He’s trying to do the right thing; he’s trying to meet Robb at Winterfell with as large of an army as he can, to take it back and to remove the wildlings from the proximity of the Wall.
Is this not the right thing?
“And what if the Night King attacks while your forces are gone? Are we supposed to accept death?”
“The Night King is still far from here. It’s highly unlikely he would attack the Wall. Besides, if we cannot regain Winterfell, the North and the Wall don’t stand a chance. Everyone will need refuge.”
“Down with the bastard Snow!”
The cry rings out; Jon hears Samwell Tarley mutter “oh dear” before the crowd is upon them. Not even Tormund Giantsbane’s war cry and stabbing daggers can beat the crowd back. Sam jumps out of the way, crying out for Jon, but he’s buried underneath so many stinking black cloaks he chokes on furs rather than air.
One moment he’s standing on a bannister, announcing a war plan to assist the King in the North, his brother Robb, and his family’s ancestral home. The next a knife is sliding between his ribs, too quick to sting. One slams through the skin of his back; yet another shatters his collarbone.
It’s too quick and too slow. It’s agonizing and bewildering. Images flicker through his head, and he’s confused as to how he ended up here. There’s Ned Stark’s solemn gaze, Sansa’s laughter as she spins in a dance, Arya’s quick wit in his ear, his brothers’ hands on his shoulders, roughhousing. Ygritte winks at him, and Tormund claps him on the back, and Mance offers him a drink. Ghost plays in the snow.
A girl with hair the color of the snow clutches at his hands, trying to pull him out of a dream and into the light with her…
A knife plunges deep into his heart. It cannot pulse another beat.
Jon Snow, Jaehaerys Targaryen, rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms, and bastard of the North, takes one last gurgling breath, and dies.
Ghost, locked in a high tower of Castle Black, throws back his head and howls his grief.
Nymeria’s head tilts to the side, and she whines, listening carefully. She paws at the ground in distress, but whatever it is that upsets her, Bran and Rickon cannot hear.
“Quiet, wolfie,” Osha hisses from her spot flat on the ground.
“If she’s upset, we should know why,” Meera whispers, always at odds with Osha even when Osha is right.
“I said quiet!”
There’s a scuffle happening in the clearing in front of them. Beyond the trees on the other side lie cliffs that overlook the Shivering Sea, and beyond the waves, Skagos. The bitter wind whips across their faces, blinding their visions with snow.
Bran can only see with his eyes rolled back in his head, now. Through the eyes of a three-eyed raven they’ve followed across the North.
“It’s an old man and a young girl. The old man is threatening to kill a woman dressed in red.”
“We have three direwolves. Sounds like good odds,” Meera shrugs, and stands to step over Osha and into the clearing.
Rickon, ever the lover of Meera’s chaotic choices, gleefully follows.
Jojen and Bran share a long-suffering sigh before following after their wayward siblings. They leave Osha cursing the “lordly little beasts” under her breath as she rises from her hiding spot behind a particularly tenacious winter bush.
Nymeria stays in the trees, listening intently to whatever has her attention, but Shaggydog and Summer follow the group into the clearing. Indeed, on the far side, a man has built a small lean-to. A girl with stone crawling up the side of her face sits shivering inside, watching the old man choke the life out of a woman dressed in a startlingly red dress and cloak. Even her hair is red, spilling over the snow like blood.
“Should we intervene or let him kill her?” Meera asks.
Jojen shudders through a small vision. “We should intervene, but don’t harm him. We need him.”
So Bran signals to Summer, and the wolf bounds over to the grappling pair. The old man is so startled to see the direwolf, he throws himself to the side immediately, shielding the girl obviously afflicted with grayscale.
“Why bother protecting her? From the looks of that disease, she doesn’t have long,” Osha calls.
“She’s cured. Scarred, but cured,” the old man corrects, keeping his wide blue eyes on Summer.
“Why are you killing the woman?” Bran calls. His voice is more calm than he thought it should be, but after everything, perhaps this isn’t as upsetting as it should be either.
“She’s a witch. She murdered the girl’s mother; Lady Baratheon. She burned and pillaged and looted Stannis Baratheon’s army outside Winterfell. She deserves to die.”
Utter fury, the likes of which Bran has never felt before, fills him. “You mean we could have gone home? Stannis Baratheon could have taken back Winterfell and somehow this woman ruined it?”
The woman sits up, and says nothing. Her eyes are disconcerting, entirely too knowing.
“If that’s true, I’ll kill her myself,” Rickon snarls. Shaggydog growls in agreement. The woman flinches, and it’s almost satisfying.
“No one can kill her. She must go to the Wall,” Jojen says calmly. “Immediately.”
“The Wall is where we were heading. Decided to take the long way around and double back, to throw off the trail of any Boltons.”
“That’s what you thought you decided,” Jojen says cryptically. “In reality, we needed your seafaring skills.”
“My- what? How do you know me, boy?”
“We don’t know you. The raven knows you,” Bran supplies, distracted by Summer’s low, threatening snarl.
“You’re going to take us to Skagos,” Rickon orders, and the old man splutters. Behind them, the stone-faced girl leans out to peer at them with interest.
“Osha, you should escort the witch to the Wall. Tell Jon you found us, and where we’re headed.”
“I swore to protect you. I can’t leave you.”
“You can. The old man will be with us.”
“The old man has a name! I am Davos Seaworth.”
“See? Even his last name proves he’s meant to be here with us. We’ll be fine. Jon needs to know where we are.” Bran argues.
“Jon Snow is dead,” Jojen announces.
Bran rolls his eyes. “Oh, has he finally been murdered, then? You’ve only been going on about it for moon turns. You said he doesn’t stay dead for long, so forgive me for not worrying too much about that detail.”
At that, the red witch stands. “What? What did you just say? A man who doesn’t stay dead? In a vision?”
“Jon Snow. Our brother. He’s at the Wall.”
The woman glances at the dying embers of the old man’s -Davos’s- fire.
“Yes. I can see that. You’re right. I must go immediately.”
Osha reaches out, places a hand on Bran’s cheek, then Rickon’s. “The little lords are sure?”
“Very sure. Thank you, Osha.”
Osha seems as though she may protest, or even cry, but instead she just nods and straightens her shoulders.
“Right then. I’m going to tie you up, witch. You have a long, uncomfortable walk ahead of you.”
“Take Nymeria for protection.”
“Absolutely not! I couldn’t-”
“Nymeria clearly wants to head the same direction. Look at how she’s listening. She’ll go with you.” Bran reaches out, gives his sister’s wolf a quick pat, and then turns away before the tears can burn his own eyes.
Osha takes the witch and the wolf, and disappears into the thick trees.
Bran and Rickon Stark introduce themselves to Davos Seaworth and Shireen Baratheon properly, and that is how they come to set sail with their small, young party, on a very tiny stolen boat across a vast, icy sea.