Chapter Text
EPILOGUE TWO
Sansa (XXVI)
Winterfell
"Mother."
Sansa looked up. For an instant, she swore she heard that sweet word in her son's sturdy voice, but when she looked up she found him unperturbed, lying by the hearth with his nursemaid as he stacked blocks of wood. She had imagined it.
Almost seven years since his birth and all he would utter were whimpers and grunts. While other children of his age were already deep into their studies, Sansa's child seemed trapped inside his own mind.
"Odeth," Sansa called to the nursemaid, "Please keep insisting on the reading."
The skittish young maid nodded without ever looking up, a usual gesture expected from everyone around her. Odeth tried to remove the objects that were stealing her little prince's attention but he began to whimper. Sansa sighed and looked away.
Some said he was dim-witted, but Sansa knew well that her son was not the same type as those like Hodor. Hodor had been better than a beast, understanding enough to suffer the wills of others...her Eddard was a special boy.
This appreciation that Sansa could draw from as a mother was not perceived by her subjects. But, of course, any insult leveled against her child reached her ears through informers — her subjects were well warned of the consequences of slandering their future king.
Overwhelmed by boredom, Sansa abandoned the reading of her exchequer book and opted for a walk.
Her failing health seldom allowed her to take longer walks than fifteen minutes or beyond her own keep. It had been long moons since she had been able to set foot on the battlements and get a better look at the houses built of log and undressed stone of Winter town and its muddy streets. And as her mobility declined, Sansa relied more and more on Lady Guthrie.
Guthrie came into her life to show her a path she knew was there open to her but which she had not resolved to walk; grasped for the first time a power that while it would never give her everything she wanted, was enough to make her feel safe and in control.
Despite that initial misstep that led her to associate with that treacherous dastard, her now Hand and only confidante provided Sansa with the only option against the constant attacks of her enemies.
A necessary evil.
Albeit Sansa's spirits withered with each sacrifice of a child, Guthrie's offerings had proven to please and appease the Old Gods. The first to suffer, and the greatest example of the measures she took to demonstrate the breadth of her authority as Queen —and how far she would go to protect her prince—, was her own husband and father of her child. And she did so with a composure of judgment at which her fortitude in enduring the indignities of her defeats had already hinted.
Harry never forgave Sansa for what she did to his bastard son, and he wound up losing his mind when his other natural-born children he bore in his time in the North met the same fate. He succumbed to long bouts of fever, in such a way that he was no longer a nuisance to Sansa. For that, she had also been grateful to Guthrie.
She had learned that fear as a tool was a privilege and a necessity. And while she would not yet be at peace until her son escaped from the mental prison to which he had been condemned, in her mind she pondered a greater sacrifice that would grant him his freedom.
The opposition made manifest by her Lords did nothing to dent her conviction. She ordered the despatch of a body of trustworthy men, throughout all the land of her Queendom to enforce her law and extract from all men an oath of loyalty to her, and to her the son's claim. And no matter how loud their protests, nothing was worse, in Sansa's estimation, than surrendering to the savage and illegitimate reign of a bastard seed of the Targaryen Prince.
When Sansa returned to her chambers, Lady Guthrie was lying on the floor next to Eddard. She spoke to the child in a language she did not know, the tongue of the old gods. It was the only language Eddard seemed to respond to.
"It is of utmost importance that the future King returns to his ancestral roots," Guthrie had declared.
Sansa sometimes wondered if it was the witch's influence that hindered her young son. She preferred not to delve into that supposition.
She sat in a chair facing the fireplace, slowly with a weary sigh.
"How have your dealings with the peasant been going?" Sansa inquired, "Will they send their daughters?"
Or else they will have to hand them over, Sansa estimated to herself.
As Queen, she had offered them a fair deal for her daughters' work in the production of linen: girls and ladies would sit in the dark room, and make the thread, for hours, spinning and weaving. Their parents would be rewarded with a small sum from the exchequer, and the girls would have all their needs taken care of in Winterfell. It was one of her most ambitious plans and one that Sansa was proud of. However, there was always an impediment in her way: rumors spread around her kingdom that she and Guthrie practiced human sacrifice.
"The good men of the North understand that they must sacrifice a part of themselves to return our land to what it was thousands of years ago. Before the dragons came," Guthrie replied. "I'm afraid it will take more than flax to do that, red queen."
Sansa tried to hide a shudder and looked down. There was another underlying proposition brought by Guthrie. To employ those same women in other...less honorable services. The thought turned her stomach, but then Sansa reminded herself of the atrocities she had already willingly incurred in. Small deeds that had turned into great acts of deception. From acquiescing to the will of Petyr Baelish, hiding the true nature of the death of her aunt Lysa, creating chaos and dealing with the consequences later. It came to a point where walking on the edge of a cliff no longer made her dizzy.
"It shall be done my way," Sansa stated in a voice that betrayed a break in her own confidence. Sooner rather than later her Hand's questionable advice could start sounding sensible if things became more difficult for her reign.
Staring at her son, her prince, Sansa's determination steeled that anything would be worth it as long as it was to protect him.
Tyrion (XXIII)
King's Landing
The Princess sat at the head of the long table, a dignified expression on her face as she listened intently to what the council had to say, a matter related to the recent shipments, and the perilous epic of the sailors. It had been over three years since she had taken sit at the capital, Princess Arianne Martell had come to the city poised to impose her will no matter what, and it had been her shrewdness to help them out of a rebellion at the gates. The common folk loved her. The lords respected her. Tyrion owed her. She was wielder of the King's real power, protector of the Realm as she had been named, and most importantly, bearer of the royal seal with which she could dispose and oppose as she wished.
How long could her good fortune last? Tyrion often wondered.
"You know this King Freya, do you, Lord Tyrion?" Arianne asked him.
Tyrion winced, recalling his time in Essos under the yoke of the mad king.
"We cannot trust him," he answered.
"In that case, we shall redouble our defenses and be ready for an offensive if necessary," the princess stated.
"That would be unwis—"
Arianne threw him a piercing look. "If we cannot safely sail our cargo to the other side of the sea we cannot charge for our goods and we do not eat," she snapped as if Tyrion was privy to the whole concept.
"I understand the basics of commerce, your Grace. But I think that attacking or provoking King Freya would send the wrong message," he explained. "That we are his enemies. And he's not a man of many enemies."
A grave pause.
"What about the Dragon Queen? Last reports claim the same: she's not to be found anywhere," another member of the small council commented. "That's why Freya is advancing in Essos. What could be keeping her away from the cause she's endeavored in for so many years?"
It was another question Tyrion often asked himself. The princess mostly dismissed any mention of her.
Daenerys Targaryen was somewhere in the world, and Tyrion knew as well as he knew he would never be a knight or have his family returned to him, that sooner or later they would meet again face to face.
***
On the way to the King's chambers, he stopped by a collapsed corridor that had never been rebuilt. The ceiling had an opening almost the size of the dragon that destroyed the keep, through which sunlight entered in the morning and moonlight seeped in at night. Tyrion then walked on until he reached the galleries before the King's chambers where a guard was always stationed. This time it was led by Ser Podrick Payne. Once just the young squire, he was now a man made by war. He had survived horrible things in his life and yet he remained loyal.
"Anything that might be worth notice, Ser Payne?" Tyrion consulted as he approached.
"No different than every day," Podrick replied. "But today the Princess visited him again."
Tyrion drew in an angry breath, his gaze darkening. He had once believed that the monstrosity Bran had become would keep petty interests away, but there was no stopping those who were determined. Bran's power was an undisputed one and everyone in the Realm knew it. Tyrion believed that had Bran been just the broken boy they once believed him to be, he would long ago have been deposed. Whatever resided in him — or with him — was as influential as it was frightening.
Tyrion nodded and moved on until he entered the King's chambers.
The Citadel, and therefore the faith, soon became aware of the King's condition. Informants were sent to the capital to report back in detail. The shabby geezers who were sent thought the best way to raise the King from his rest was by means of holy oil and altars that they erected in the room as if it were a bloody sept. If Tyrion had to claim something doubtlessly untrue and empty, that would be the Faith.
A faint veil fell on the bed where the King was lying, his heavy breathing rasping with a faint shriek. Every time Tyrion visited him he seemed to become more of a tree and less of a man.
Tyrion cleared his throat and said, "Your Grace..."
All these years he had tried in vain to make at least Bran serve as an advantage to put an end to Arianne's rule. He rested a hand on the roots that had sprouted around him, but did not return to share with him whatever it was he had shown him that time. Tyrion believed it was a sign.
"Your Grace, please, I need a sign..." Tyrion pleaded. "You guided me once. But you turned on me, and now I am—" powerless, wretched, he thought but didn't say it, his mouth twitching as frustration impeded him. "I know what you showed me! I know!" he claimed, fist thrusting the surface...a fire field and a crimson-blood sky stained with smoke and ash, a firestorm. He saw a black shadow flying and spreading its wings over an entire city. "It's coming. The dragons are coming..."
Jorian (I)
Thump. Thump. Thump. It was the incessant drumming that fanned the inevitable conflict. His sister Missella had returned from her little trip to the mountains with something much bigger than a game. A son of the Beafour clan had assaulted her and she fought back and killed him. Jorian and his twin sister knew of the old custom of stealing among the Free Folk, but in the clans under their parents' rule, it had been forbidden. Not so long ago, those who opposed change were exiled to more distant lands.
However, some wanderers lingered still.
Missella had killed a man for the first time, Jorian couldn't believe it. And while a part of him felt strongly protective of her for what had happened, another petty part of him was jealous that she was going to claim that experience first. Not that Jorian was enthusiastic about killing a living man; in fact, he was terrified of it, even if he would never admit to it. It was the knowledge that sooner or later he would have to do it. His father was a living legend among the Northmen, his mother the Dragon Queen. And everyone made a point of reminding him that this was a legacy he would necessarily carry with him, every time.
Jorian pressed a hand as he breathed in the smell of smoke and burning wood. Next to him was Sigurd who patted his arm to encourage him as they made their way through the crowds thronging the center of town. Beafour "the crooked mouth" came to demand justice for his nephew. His tribe made up of nearly two thousand warrior men was no people to regard for less.
His father, Tormund, Jarl, among other members of his assembly, gathered on one side of the open field, engaging in a close conversation while on the other side, the affronted visitor in question and his fierce warriors stood, shooting threatening stares to their side.
"What if we go to war? Our.first. fucking.war!" Sigurd almost shouted directly into his ear.
Jorian pushed him away in annoyance.
"It would be fucking time," Jorian replied, although he was not fascinated with the idea.
Jorian's parents always avoided any talk of it, and if they necessarily or casually drifted into it, a piercing look from his mother was enough to avert the subject at all.
What were they afraid of? Jorian always wondered. Enemies abounded outside the defenses and walls they had surrounding them and this event only proved the truth of it, but no, it was always an insufficient response.
There was something else they feared.
On several occasions he had tried to snatch more information about his parents' past lives before they were born from a sloshed Tormund, but of course, he only ended up getting caught up in muddled anecdotes of the wars against his father's estranged kin, the Queen in the North, or the kings of the east who wanted to hunt down his mother.
It seemed as if their minds altogether were subjected to chains that impeded them. Jorian was tired of half-truths, he was ready to face the full answer of who his parents were.
"People of the Free Folk," roared Beafour, drawing everyone's attention to him. He had stood in the middle, his arms outstretched to address them. "A great injustice has taken place today, again carried out by the man who claims to rule over you. And I ask myself by what right? The Free Folk do not recognize or call for kings. And yet here he is." The crooked mouth pointed out at his father. "Your brood killed a true son of mine."
Tormund stepped up, "I've known you since we were kids sucking on our mothers' tender tits, Beafour! The boy tried to steal Jon's daughter and she fought him back to his early grave. Give up this folly for your own sake. Take your men home and stay away from ours!"
"How sad is to see a once indomitable man denied his own strength and freedom and kneel to a southron!" Beafour spat back. "My nephew's blood was shed on your land and I demand just compensation."
"Just compensation? But I see no harm done," her father finally spoke, "Your kinsman invaded my land and tried to rape my daughter. And she won her own freedom on the same terms he tried to take it from her. So I offer you this: make peace with your dead and leave before dawn, and I will pursue no further consequences for the attempt on my daughter's life and honor."
"No son of Beafour will see his blood spilled by those who claim to own our land and take away our ways and customs!" came the angry voice of one of his men.
Jorian looked around at the onlookers. All of them seething with the same indignation, albeit from a different cause: the Beafour sons wanted revenge, the people of Wolves Den, retaliation.
Ameron (I)
His eyes stung with tears after a long time staring at the yellowing pages of his book. Ameron felt drowsy but he couldn't close his eyes without imagining something really terrible happening to Mama and Papa. Not even his favorite book in the entire known world, "The Black Prince", brought him any calm. All he could do was snuggle closer to his dragon egg, wishing with all his heart that it would hatch and a dragon will be born out of it, and that the ancient glory of House Targaryen will be restored and his family will be forever safe. That's all he wanted and prayed for every night. Ever since he'd been a babe still crawling around the egg it's been placed on his reach.
Ameron put aside his book, climbed off the bed, and walked slowly to his sister Missella's bedchambers. From the doorway, he could hear her crying and wondered if he was disturbing her. He put his hand on the doorknob anyway and pressed it open.
"Ella?" he called out.
His sister sat on the bed, hair the same as his but longer on her bruised face. They shared black hair like their father while Jorian, Dalya, and the baby had their mother's coloring. It was silly but that's why he always thought Ella was the closest to him.
"Are you crying, sister?" he asked her. He had wanted to also ask her about her feeling pain but didn't know what to do if she said she was aching. He would resort to the aid of Kalla, or any other of their maids. Mama was not at home.
Luckily Missella just nodded her head and invited him to her side, lifting the bedding to make room for him. Ameron closed the door behind him, and ran to climb into his sister's bed and snuggle with her. Jorian would mock him endlessly, but before when both of them were younger, Ameron would also drag his wool blanket behind him and spend the night in his bedchamber, especially on stormy nights.
"Would you tell me a story?" Ella spoke. She had her arm folded under her head, her violet eyes like their mother's shining as they watched at an unknown point.
Ameron loved stories and knew a lot of them, but he wondered why would Missella want to hear one. Then he remembered when their mother tell them tales and that he had read a book once that said they were good for relaxing and slipping into sleep. So he began to tell her about the dragons that lived in the fourteen flames before the first Valyrian rider.
Jon (LIX)
Fear was a very strange feeling. Jon didn't fear death, but he did fear what would become of his family if he were to perish in a fight. He also dreaded the notion of them getting maimed in any way. Just thinking about his daughter getting hurt cleaved him in half, and he wanted to ravage the confines of Earth to make the world pay for it. But his daughter proved herself a tough one, and she's done the right thing to defend herself and prevent a man from stealing her against her will.
The practice among the Free Folk had always seemed out of bounds to Jon, even back in the day when he'd first met them and Ygritte had claimed he'd stolen her. Using force to bed a woman had only one word in his world: rape. And it was a crime for which many men were sent to the Wall, where so many of them ended up replicating such behavior in defenseless women as the ones who lived nearby the Wall. He thought of Dany, his wife, being sold to her first husband, the Khal. She admitted no custom or design that dictated a woman should be taken by a man just because of a whim.
The fact that their daughter was assaulted and forced to defend herself — killed them both inside.
There was, however, a small respite — his judgment was not clouded by the desire to engage in lethal action against the man standing before him, crying out claiming to his kin to be a victim, and Jon thought he had to let it be. Fortunately, it resulted to him, that like all petty warlords, he was not content with just words.
"My people was wronged and I will not leave here empty-handed," Beafour challenged.
"Better to retire empty-handed and with your life," Jon replied. His hand was already resting on the white wolf pommel of Longclaw.
Beafour glared at him.
"Is that a threat, Jon Snow?"
Jon shrugged. "I'm drawing up terms."
The mood shifted from hostility and uncertainty to rekindled joy. There and as far south as you can imagine, the people put up with a good show.
"I accept," said Beafour, eyes alight, "And when I have your head, I'll take your sons' heads too and then...your wife and daughters' cunts."
Daenerys (LXV)
Dany fiddled with her rings under the thick cloak as she listened to the bustle in the distance, gazing at the same skyline she'd contemplated this morning. A spear-wife came just recently to report the duel between Jon and Beafour.
"We'll take you and the children to Salladhor Saan if anything goes wrong," she told her, to which Dany only nodded. She didn't doubt Jon. And she did not fear Beafour or his quarrelsome tribesmen.
She was raging. The attack on Missella was another reminder of the fact that she could not protect her as well as if she had Drogon by her side. If only the eggs had hatched and new dragons had been born to bond with her children.
Her hands reached up and touched the gold bracelet that so long ago the red priestess had given her and her children, only Jorian and Missella then. For years she had suspected that these prevented the eggs from hatching.
She no longer felt like being confined to the Keep and decided to go to where the fighting was taking place.
Dany went to Salladhor Saan herself.
***
"Shouldn't you be fretted for your man's life?" Captain Salladhor turned around to ask her, as she climbed the forecastle of the Valyrian.
"He has my favor. He can fare well," Dany answered. "I was expecting the happenstance of news for me? Hasn't Lyrissos sent word for me?"
"You have built a beautiful life here, little Dany."
Dany huffed out in frustration. His reticence was telltale of his belief that she was in the best case turning a cold shoulder on all of it when it was the opposite.
"My husband can be a King, leader, and father but I am impeded?" she blurted out.
Captain Salladhor shook his head.
"It doesn't get any easier for Jon Snow. It's blatantly obvious."
"I trust him," Dany ascertained hardly, "and I presume that he also holds the same faith in me. Now let's stop this absurd back-and-forth and answer my questions, Captain."
Salladhor accepted that it was a futile argument.
"Your orders have been carried out with precise attention, your Grace. Hopefully, they'll suit your family's needs. As for the Lord of Volantis, he is no more adept at sharing the state of affairs than I am at insisting."
"So Lyrissos has kept quiet? And the ruling council?"
"Nothing that my eyes can see or my ears hear, from the shores of Essos. I fear."
Dany breathed out with a small apprehension clutching her chest.
"When we are in Braavos the first thing I will entrust to you as my loyal confidant is to get me information on Freya's affairs, outside the spheres of Lyrissos or the ruling council."
"Don't you trust them anymore?"
"There's no trust where communication fails. Call me a fool, Captain, but I do hold the small hope that my stay in Braavos will be deliberately longer than in previous times."
Sounds of cheers and crying out loud announced a definitive resolution to the conflict with the men in duel. Dany's expression grew dark.
"I wish you good fortune, dear Queen..."
***
Agonizing cries quickened her pulse as Dany rounded the crowd in the courtyard where Jon's duel was taking place. Glances of all kinds turned to her as she pull through them, finally reaching the center. Dany's eyes widened, but she made no sound. Jon was covered in dirt and blood, his face barely recognizable under all that muck. The disfigured expression on his face made him even more of a stranger to her at that moment, as he subjected his opponent to a method of torture that even she found too merciless to practice herself with her own hands. Tormund and Jarl held the man by each arm, Dany suspected otherwise impossible, all the while Jon sliced open his back, simply pulling his lungs out.
Dany caught sight of Jorian and her heart skipped a beat.
***
"You may go," Dany said through gritted teeth to one of the young maids when she stared too long at her husband in the tub she ordered prepared for him after the fight was over.
Sounds of celebration and feasting could still be heard in the distance. The Free Folk's commitment to revelry was unquestionable, she thought. Dany was reminded of the Dothraki's inexhaustible taste for blood.
She knelt at the side of the tub and rubbed Jon's outstretched arms and back with a cloth, removing the thick, dried blood that pooled on his skin. It was less than an instant before he stopped her hand forcefully.
His eyes were locked on her.
"I want you in here..." he said hoarsely.
"You're covered in another man's blood and filth," she replied, "It'll be a long time before I let you touch me again."
She dropped the cloth into the tub with a splash and stood up.
"I defended our daughter's honor," Jon said imposingly as she turned around.
"Defended honor? You cut a man to pieces!" shouted Dany at him.
"It didn't seem to be cause for stress when you were burning people alive."
Dany turned away in fury.
"Dany..."
She rushed to his side.
"Jorian saw you Jon!"
"I've been seen executing people before."
"Not like this!" Dany ran a hand over her face, brushing away misaligned strands of hair. She looked back at her husband with a puzzled expression. "No matter how much time passes, the Free Folk are not our culture. Our children are princes and princesses in their own right and—"
Jon sank deeper into the tub, withdrawing his face. This was not the first time this question had troubled them. In fact, over the years it had deepened. Dany longed for a life that was not, as he had put it in words in one of their many altercations on the matter.
"I love my life with you and with our people, but I will never be so blind to believe that this is our life, Jon. It isn't. It never will be," Dany asserted, but she knew he had long since given up any attempt to confront her on this.
Dany's expression darkened.
She stood up and began to undress. She heard the sound of the water behind her as he shifted in it.
Instead of getting into the tub with him, Dany rounded it and took a place on one of the seats along the wall. Dany spread her legs apart, at the same time as he moved and made an attempt to reach one of them.
"No," she warned him, pulling away when his hand reached for her foot.
Jon glared at her.
Her hands began and slow exploration of her exposed skin, "I'm sure there is enough willpower in you to restrain yourself," she told him. He cursed and proffered low words which were reserved for her ears alone, but she did not yield, even when behind her eyes she had only thoughts of him.
"And if you start touching yourself, it will be the only pleasure you will know for the rest of your days."
"Daenerys," he growled lowly.
Dany stopped listening to him, speeding up the movement of her hand between her most intimate parts. She began to writhe and whimper. She closed her eyes tightly, replaying in her mind images of blood and fire, of his hands and arms bathed in his opponent's blood as this one died in agony. It didn't take long to reach as high as she could with her touch alone, herself feeling the frustration and the need for something more. For him.
She blinked slowly back to herself and her surroundings. Jon was still in the tub watching her in quiet contemplation. She had never done such a thing before and wondered if she had gone too far. She searched for traces of pain or betrayal on his face but all she found was unchanging solemnity. His eyes though, they were lost in shadows.
Dany knew that only venom could spill from his next words.
"Mayhaps next time I should ask the lovely maid to stay."
A quick wit return would have sufficed but she didn't have it in herself. Instead, she leaped up to him and rewarded his insult with an unhinged reaction. Amid tears of unbridled emotion and threats against his life, she tried to oppose him with her own strength, which he easily withheld. The water in the tub was tepid, half of it spilled out. Jon lifted them both off it and dragged them to bed. There he began to quell her verbal battle with kisses that wiped away the tears on her face, all the while continuing to subdue her incompetent strike.
Dany caught a half whimper as she felt him hard and slippery against her skin, it didn't take long before she started thrusting upward in need and blind wanton. He smiled between kisses and nibbles on her neck as she spread her legs further apart to shield his weight.
She had exhausted her strength to fight.
Jon draped one of her legs over his torso, rubbing his now rock-solid cock over her folds in a teasing fashion; she whimpered a command to urge him. He entered her slowly and then all of a sudden. Dany let out a short cry and all air escaped her lungs.
"What do you want from me, Daenerys? The Seven Kingdoms? I'll give you the Seven Kingdoms," he declared amidst a pained gasp. One of her hands sought a grip on his biceps, his sharp, forceful thrusts pushing her to the edge of the bed. Jon snatched her other hand away as she brazenly tried to reach up to their union. "You've had your turn, sweetling," he told her.
Jon continued to whip his hips against hers, bottoming out only to pull out completely and thrust again.
She began to feel the sting of pain and the burning sensation of her release. Jon grabbed her face and turned her around to capture her lips in a kiss as his cock throbbed and swelled inside her. Her toes wriggled and burned as she felt the first onslaught of pleasure. She drove her face away to let out a high-pitched moan as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, grunting deeply as he rocked his hips forward a couple of times before he let all he had to give inside her.
"Gods, Dany," he barely spoke between gasps, "I'll give it all to you. All you have to do is ask."
You've given me plenty and more. She would tell him that but not now. She couldn't really talk at all. Daenerys didn't mean to imply that she wanted more of him or more of the beautiful life they'd built.
She slid her hands up his back and cradled his face to look at him, her legs enclosing him still inside her. Her eyes bored into his lovingly.
Jon (LX)
Jon walked along the quayside with Tormund and Jarl, discussing matters concerning the management of the Wolves Den, Hardhome and the eastern Northern realm while in Braavos. Jon thought that no major problems would arise after Beafour's men withdrew, but in any eventuality, they were prepared to face a threat. Jarl took his leave with a simple nod, in other circumstances he might have accompanied them but his wife Val and daughter Kalea were not fond of the idea of returning to Braavos and Jon understood that.
Tormund gave him one of his mighty, bruising hugs and struck him with a slap on the back.
"No more children, Snow," he joked, though he sounded dead serious.
Jon boarded the Valyrian with a last longing look at Wolves Den.
***
Jon went up to the quarter-deck after his routinary walkaround the Valyrian. He found Dalya leaning on the railing, her satchel slung across her.
"Se dārys iksis letagon naejot zȳhon soi," she said, speaking to her dragon egg as if this were another being. The king is trapped beneath hard soil, he quickly caught it. And although he himself could not speak the language as well as his family could, Jon understood more than perfectly.
Dalya turned her face to look at him, frowning in the glare of the sun. Jon as always was impressed by her resemblance she shared with Dany. He came over and gave her a hug, to which she giggled.
"Father, do you think they will ever hatch?" she asked in reference to the eggs. "Ameron read in a book that ancient dragon lords placed eggs in their babies' cradles. But Zae's egg didn't hatch either."
Jon sighed heavily.
"I don't know, my love. I don't know."
***
Dany sighed and furrowed her brow after a long time eyeing the board without determining where the next piece should be moved. Zae was on her lap, shaken by the almost unconscious movement of her leg. His violet eyes were fixed on Jon, looking with utter amusement at the funny faces he made to have the baby burst into audible laughter. All the while he sucked and nibbled passionately on his fingers.
"You could call it off, mother. I don't think you can go any further than that," Jorian bragged.
He was beside him, his arms resting on the table where they were playing cyvasse. They clearly had an advantage over the opposing team made up of Dany and the girls. Advantage granted by Ameron's endowments mostly.
Winning was winning, Jon thought.
Across the table, Missella rolled her eyes while Dalya was more effusive in her response, "Shut up, you little vermin."
"Dalya," Dany chided through a smug grin. "Pride is dangerous, son," she said as she swung her dragon and kicked a key piece off the board. Something they clearly hadn't seen coming. "It makes you fly so high that you forget you don't have wings."
Jorian watched, dumbfounded. Jon raised the corner of his mouth and winked at Dany.
"Mama, that was too risky!" Ameron interrupted, moving another piece that left Dany's Dragon totally exposed. In the next move, they would lose it.
Dany sighed in frustration and conceded the move to Dalya.
"Don't be so sure, little brother," said her silver-haired daughter. She finished rearming the board in such a way that it left them in the same position from the beginning.
They were on their tenth day in the Valyrian, and although everything was still fascinatingly new to the children, amazement slowly faded to let boredom set in.
Matters of ruling still required their attention but they would not hesitate to set it all aside in order to tend to their very boisterous, time-consuming children; moments they had both learned to cherish in spite of the recurrent arguments they engaged in every time the children's different personalities collided.
Jon loved them with all his being but sometimes he just wishes that they were allowed a moment or two for themselves. They hadn't enjoyed each other's company since they'd sailed from Wolves Den.
Dalya won the game for the girls and their sudden shouts of celebration sent Zae into a burst of tears that forced Dany to get up and leave for the deck to soothe him.
Jon commanded the children to tide things up before he followed her.
"It's nothing, it's nothing. You are safe," she was singing to the hiccuping babe. In Valyrian of course. When Zae's eyes raised to see Jon approaching extend his both little and plump arms in his direction.
Dany turned around and passed the babe to him.
***
Braavos
"It's the Titan of Braavos!" Ameron announced thunderously, pointing ahead at the immense structure. The Valyrian slowly entered the city's ports.
His wife beamed tenderly at their son and ran a hand through his untidy dark hair.
"Did you know, Mother, that it took three generations of sculptors and stonemasons just to carve the legs?"
"I hadn't heard," she replied.
"Do you think it will roar when we get there?" enthused Dalya.
"Usually it would, but not with this amount of movement. He'll do it at dusk though and you'll be able to hear him all the way from the inland," pipped in Captain Salladhor Saan, stationed a distance behind the family.
Jon looked to the older children, who so many years ago had left this city for their permanent home in North Westeros. In the Lands Beyond the Wall. He watched them closely for signs of any disturbance that might indicate a bad memory, but both Ella and Jorian maintained gripped faces.
His eyes fixed on Dany again. Zaegar in her arms was restless but she kept her gaze set on the horizon. If he knew her well — which he did — she was just as uneasy as himself at the prospect of Jorian and Ella remembering something from the last time they were in the city.
Missella (II)
Missella smiled gently at the sailors who helped her down the ramp as her eyes scanned the sight of the cities. Glimpses of childhood memories flashed through her mind, of endless walks along the harbor, Jorian running ahead of them as she sang obliviously to her Mama's shouting. The cloth and garment stall. The long walk home to the fields.
And then...her head ached from just trying to remember. There was a small house in the field, with a red door. Father found them there when they were children, one night when they were attacked. Of the details of their parent's separation, they knew little more than nothing, but it was certain that he was not around in those early years.
Speaking of him, he came up behind her and put his arm around her. She instinctively leaned on.
"We never talk about it, do we?" Missella dared to say, looking at him, "About what happened here all those years ago..."
The little ones, Dalya, Ameron, and baby Zae were too little. They would never understand that there was a time when there was only the three of them: Mama, Jorian, and her.
Her father's face fell.
"We...can try to talk about it," he answered, visibly disquieted. She didn't want to make him feel like this.
"It's fine," Missella quickly reassured him. "Just odd. To be back."
Missella was grateful that after the incident she was not coddled by her parents nor harassed into talking about it. It was the last thing she wanted and this journey put enough distance from it all to help her forget the images that replayed over and over again in her memory. One thing that made her uneasy was the face that appeared in her dreams with big, predatory eyes and a satisfied smile.
The face of an assassin.
Missella wrapped her fingers around the gold bracelet on her wrist, nervously fidgeting with it.
They halted to a stop. Her father gave her a half-smile and followed her back to the front where her mother was talking to Captain Salladhor. When she looked that way at Missella she was someone else: the queen.
And while that duality was familiar to her and her siblings, it never ceased to fascinate Missella how simple it came to her and how far she felt from it all. She was not surprised when her parents called all of them to let them know that their mother would be leaving separately and that they would continue on to the way to the manor without her company.
"It's a council matter. An old friend I have to visit," she explained with a sorry face. "But I will be there tomorrow. I want you to behave yourselves and do everything your father tells you to do. Alright?"
Everyone except Jorian threw themselves at her into an embrace.
"I want to go with you, Mother," Jorian asked.
Even Missella blinked in surprise. It was an unspoken agreement that Essossi affairs were out of discussion.
Their mother looked dismayed. She walked two steps to cradle his face, Jorian was already taller than her.
"Not today, sweetling," she replied.
Jorian frowned in annoyance but didn't do one of his sneers. The nursemaids urged them on and Missella took one last look at her parents, who were parting in their own intimate embrace, saying something to each other in whispers that, like many things, only they could know.
***
None of them could conceal their amazement at the first sight of the manse. Even their father watched open-mouthed as the magnificent structure loomed in front of them, growing in splendor as the carriage drew closer. The landscape struck her familiar, and for a moment Missella thought of asking Jorian if he felt the same way. She looked up at her brother, whose countenance was eerily withdrawn.
"Se dārys iksis letagon naejot zȳhon soi; zȳhon tindon issi nektogon ilagon; se zȳhon ondos nektogon; se quba henujagon."
The king is trapped beneath hard soil, his roots are cast down the weeds cut out by the hand. Missella frowned at Dalya's words as she continued to speak to her egg.
"Why do you always have to be such a freak?" Jorian asked in his typical sneering tone.
"She's casting riddles, you imbecile," Missella retorted.
"Both of you, watch your mouth," their father chastised them. He too had an expression on his face in response to Dalya's words. The carriage felt too small between all of them and the maids taking care of a restless Zaegar.
"I have an idea," said Ameron, opening one of the chests they were carrying. The chest with the dragon eggs, she quickly realized. Ameron passed the egg to Zaegar, who took it as if he were being handed a wooden horse.
"It's too heavy," Missella reached out to hold it in place as the babe circled his arm around the egg.
The carriage passed through the main gate with a great horseshoe archway leading to a steep ramp upwards. The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen was carved on the archway outside. At the end of the passageway, they were led into a wide open space that looked like some sort of enclosed courtyard.
One thing she did not remember was how humid the weather Braavos could be and she found herself in a poor state when they got out of the carriage, blowing herself out with her hand as beads of sweat formed on the sides of her forehead.
"Take this, love," her father said as he handed her a hair tie.
The family was left at the gates of an ornate pavilion, supported by slender columns forming three bays of different sizes. She looked in awe at the covered wooden dome ceiling inside it. Its structure reminded Missella of a honeycomb. Four main halls surround the courtyard, along with some upper-floor rooms.
She glanced at her family and saw that they were equally stunned.
"I take the best room!" shouted Dalya skipping down the steps and entering the first hall without hesitation. Ameron followed right on her heels. She and Jorian looked at each other for a second and shot off running after them.
Daenerys (LXVI)
Daenerys took a deep breath and crossed through the doors into the chambers of the Council. All the attendees rose to their feet when they saw her. She rounded the large table and stood at the head with a serious look on her face. She passed a careful glance over them, familiar and unfamiliar faces, studying their expressions. Lyrissos was at her side.
"Sure it's a surprise to see me back. Hopefully, it is a pleasant one," she began, "I have been briefed on the last few years' events, and while you have managed to maintain peace and order in Braavos and Volantis, Freya is still a threat to be reckoned with. Shall we begin?"
The Council agreed and a day of long negotiations and reports began. No one could provide her with exact information about Freya's intentions or what his plans were now but a strange feeling spread through her body when one of the members drew her attention to an abnormal increase in the slave routes.
"The long absence of her Grace in recent years has sent a regrettable message: that her cause is no longer that of the freedmen," said one of them.
Dany swallowed thickly. "I gave clear indications to ensure that the practice would be severely punished and discouraged throughout our territory."
"Easier said than done, I'm sorry to put it that way, Your Grace. Our retaliatory measures have been a further motive for them to seek shelter in the slave trade..."
Her mouth twitched.
"Then it's time to send a palliative message." She inspected their expression and searched for something that might give away something — some of them whose expressions grew sour at her words. "Lord Lyrissos. I want a full list of names."
"Name-s, y-our highness?" one of the council members questioned, stuttering.
Daenerys leaned back in her seat and crossed her legs, her eyes locked on Lyrissos' earnestly.
"My message will need to be widely disseminated," she said.
***
Lyrissos was on his back looking out of a window toward the Narrow Sea. Daenerys approached him with her hands folded in front of her and a wistful look on the horizon.
"You've never been to Westeros?" asked Dany.
"A long time ago," he replied. He let a moment pass and spoke again. "I don't know whether to be concerned or hurt that you decided not to let me know of your return."
"I'm not usually a good conversation starter, my Lord. You have kept me too long in blunt silence. Shouldn't I be the one who is hurt or worried?"
He turned and confronted her, "You still lick the wounds of your past betrayals but I have done nothing but serve you, Daenerys. Your cause is as much mine as I have been able to defend it, with only my wits and certain tricks."
Dany drew in a sharp breath, scowling. His words drew meaning from her past and from old wounds that still hurt. She thought of her husband and how it had been easy not to doubt his loyalty but yet a part of her, a very hidden and distant one, sometimes resented that he could be father, king, and leader while she was relegated and conditioned.
"I want that list of names. You know what I mean," Dany reiterated.
Dalya (II)
After taking supper with a man who claimed to hold a title to something important, Papa and the others moved to another large hall with a chimney to await Mama's return. It was well after the hour of the wolf when their hopes of seeing her that night were dwindling away.
Dalya then had an idea.
Although the eggs never showed signs of hatching, Mother encouraged them to keep them close to the fire because that was what she had once done. When Dalya removed her egg from its resting place on the charcoal, she felt the stone shell was warm.
"Have you given your eggs names?"
Her father in a chair reading a book raised a curious eyebrow.
"Persiraz, like the first dragon lord to ever exist," Jorian answered, leaning near the fireplace and watching his cream and golden egg. "That name would be his name if one day he would cease to be just a lifeless, sterile rock..."
"What should I call my dragon, father?" Ameron knelt down in front of the coals. His egg reflected an orange glow as if winking.
"You may name it whatever you want to, lad," he responded.
"Hmmm," he pondered it, brushing the pads of his finger over the small scales of his egg. "Hadex was the name of a god of Old Valyria, who was entrusted with the care of a great hourglass that was never to stop moving. If its sand ever stopped running, the time of mankind would stop and everything would become a realm of ice!"
"Hadez is a great name, Ame," Missella smiled. "I'm going to call my she-dragon Icewings."
"And how are you sure it'll be a she-dragon?" Papa asked her.
Missella shrugged her shoulders. "We'd assume it's going to be a male dragon until it proves female. Why not the other way around?"
Jon raised an eyebrow at Dalya, "What about your dragon, love? What's its name?"
Dalya rested her hands on the warm shell of her egg and smiled. "Leaf."
"What about Zae's egg. Should we name it?" Ameron went for the last lonely dragon egg that belonged to Zae, of a fiery crimson color.
Papa shook his head.
"If you all had a chance to name your dragons, your little brother will also be given the same opportunity."
"And what about you Papa? Why don't you have an egg?" Ameron didn't let him finish before asking this question.
Dalya shifted to look at her father, equally intrigued by the question.
"I once had a dragon..." he explained, "Sadly it is no more and I don't think I could ever ride one again."
"What was its name, Papa?" Dalya asked him.
He sighed, with a sad expression. "Rhaegal."
Jon (LXI)
He woke up when it was still dark and since then he had remained with his eyes fixed on the canopy, listening to Zae's steady breathing in the cot they had set up in their rooms. He stayed that way until the shadows dissipated and light filtered through the curtains.
The conversation with his children last night still was present in his head, and while they entertained themselves with thoughts of future dragons, Jon kept thinking in Rhaegal. Sometimes those memories had a sad connotation, but mostly of longing for what might have been.
Before Zae's birth, Dany had believed that the fifth dragon's egg belonged to him, but Jon refused to believe it so, not because, as she initially thought, he rejected his bloodline. Jon believed that the feeling that was there when Rhaegal was alive must be the same or just as powerful, but it was not. Perhaps that was the reason why there was no record of a rider claiming more than one dragon in their lifetime.
Jon scowled at the stirring that stared within him before it had grown into a real tremble that shook things in the room. Zaegar started moving within his cot.
Jon got out of bed and went to the window, looking up at the clear early morning sky, and a shadow covering the rising sun.
Drogon.
***
The sun crept over the horizon, leaving a trail of gold and copper on the clouds. Jon had to admit the North rarely offered such dazzling sights ever. Amidst all that beauty, his body still screamed for the cold.
A damp wind barely whispered past him, as he and the children huddled on the terraces overlooking the eastern fields. They arrived in time to see their mother landing in the meadow.
"Is that Drogon? He's huge!" Ameron appreciated, climbing over the railing. Jon leaned out and held him by the collar of his night shift.
"Can we get closer to him? Father?" Jorian consulted, his face lit up.
Jon really had no idea but suspected it would be an implausible prospect.
"PAPA!" Dalya shouted, causing Jon to startle.
"What?"
Dalya threw her dragon egg to the ground and this cracked open. Jon thought it was an accident but then his daughter knelt down in front of the broken pieces. The other children and Jon stood watching in stunned stillness as the carcass began to shake and a small jade-colored creature crawled whimpering out of it.
"It's my dragon! It's Leaf!"
Jon stared dumbfounded at the little creature no bigger than a wolf cub, that craned its neck and shrieked loudly in protest.
"The other eggs..." Ella said lowly, she looked up and ran inside. "THEY ALL ARE CRACKING!" she shouted.
Jon's heart beat mightily within his chest and he looked to his children and back to Dany and Drogon. Could it be magic? he wondered. He looked down at Dalya who was fascinated with her newborn hatchling.
"How did you know?" Jon asked his youngest daughter.
She raised her eyes sparkling with excitement. "They were warm to the touch, Papa."
Missella, Ameron, and Jorian returned with their dragon eggs and put them on the ground just like Dalya a few moments earlier. It could be seen the cracks on its surfaces. It took a few minutes before the other hatchlings pecked their way out, each of them with the color of the carcass they'd just left.
"This is madness!" Jorian exclaimed.
Indeed, though Jon, raking a hand through his untidy hair.
***
The hatchlings did not stay with them for long, as soon Drogon called them, they flapped their weak little wings in response and flew away. The children tried to stop them but Dany raised her hand and stopped them, instructing them to stay away.
"Where will they go?"
Jon didn't know what to say to that, but his children's excited countenance turned serious and grey.
"If they're Drogon's offspring, they'll have to stick together for survival," Jon posited.
Yet it was unconvincing and little encouragement for them.
"So we won't be able to be with them?"
Ameron's anguished face broke his heart. After a couple of hours, Drogon and the new dragons flew off into the distance. It was then that Dany returned home, her expression rueful.
"I know it's not what you would have wanted, but they're better off at Drogon's side as long as they learn how to look after themselves..." she tried to explain.
"And what about our training? Dragons are supposed to be close with their riders!" Jorian protested.
Missella also added in a soft voice, "And when they come back...will we still be here? Will we be able to...remove the bracelets?"
Jon lowered his gaze. He turned around and looked into the faces of his children. How great was the sorrow in his heart.
"All in good time, I—"
Jorian had turned on his heels and left the terraces.
Ameron tearfully went to hug his mother and hide his face in her belly, while Ella and Dalya stood there, sad faces.
***
Dany's arms circled his waist, her chin rested on his shoulder. Jon drew her hands into his.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked softly. If Jon had to be honest he would say he had already forgotten, but that would only incite infinite teasing about his brooding habits.
After spending the day in silent conviviality, the children retired for the night, shuffling their feet and in no mood to engage in any of the activities their mother had proposed. Ameron at least took her by the hand and dragged her up for a bedtime story.
Jon seized the moment to escape into the company of the night and his thoughts. Eventually, Dany caught up with him.
Jon kissed the back of one of her hands and replied, "I'm happy the eggs hatched."
"I'm happy too," she replied. "I am also happy, very happy. And not only because of the new hatchlings," she confessed. Her eyes took on several shades at the same time, aquamarine encircled in gold. Jon turned around and they faced each other. "I love you. And I love every aspect of our life. Our children. Our people. I want nothing more."
Jon stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers.
"I still owe you Seven Kingdoms," he said, perhaps the more sincere he had ever been with her. "It is what I once promised you, and I will not let my words go unfulfilled."
Daenerys smiled but it was not one of contentment but out of deep affection, "I have everything I want here and that's enough—"
"I love you more than I've ever loved anyone before, you know that, don't you?" he cut her off.
She beamed softly and nodded.
"And our children too, even when all I wish it's that they would just be fucking quiet sometimes." He and Dany chuckled. "Seeing them today with their hearts broken...it destroyed me Dany."
Each of their children was a treasured gift from whatever god or gods above them, one he not always felt worthy of, in light of the mistake he had made that almost deprived him of it all. To think of the fact that they wouldn't be here if their mistake hadn't been righted by those gods...Jon couldn't bear it. The reason they were affected by it all, the bracelets and the locked magic...was because he had once made a choice that determined things to be this way. And now Jon knew he would go to any lengths to make it right.
He pulled his wife closer to him and rested their foreheads together.
"Our children are princes and princesses. Blood of the dragon. They are going to have their dragons and I will take Seven Kingdoms back for them. I swear this to you, Dany." He looked deeply into her eye. "They are yet to see the storm that will come after the smoke," he promised.
Bran (XIII)
King's Landing
Se dārys iksis letagon naejot zȳhon soi;
zȳhon tindon issi nektogon ilagon;
se zȳhon ondos nektogon;
se quba henujagon.
Brynden Rivers was sitting under the tree, as he was every time Bran saw him, and he was singing this song. A song of ancient Valyria, so far back in time that if he tried to search the recesses of his memory he might be lost in the shadows of the past.
Oh but in the present he also heard the song being sung again.
Bran heard only her voice, unable to see beyond the thick creamy mass that formed in front of his eyes. But he could, however, imagine her, draping the hem of her crimson gown as she pace the king's chamber, singing. An apparition rather than reality. Perhaps a memory of his own that manifested itself only in front of him.
In any case, he could no longer distinguish between himself and the memory that inhabited him.
He was one and he was all.
"Sir se ōrbar tēmbi se se jelmāzma māzigon," she continued to sing. Indeed, he thought, now the smoke clears and the storm approaches.
TBC