Chapter Text
A Daughter’s Future, A Mother’s Pain
Sansa sat with her mother, thinking of all that had transpired in just a short time since the king’s arrival. The entire of Winterfell was blustering with preparations for a feast and the knowledge that the Lord had been asked to be the new Hand of the King. Though Ned had gave no answer, Caitlyn Stark was well aware her husband would be leaving Winterfell to enter the lion’s den in the south. If there was but something she could do to keep it from happening, she would, and still she would try too to have her husband deny all that Robert has brought to his shoulders. In the end, she knew in her bones it would all be for not.
Worse still, Lady Stark was aware of her husband’s plans for the future, aware that Robert Baratheon was destroying those well-laid plans for his own greed and heartache. Though she would have rather not seen her oldest daughter marry Theon Greyjoy, a whelp of a boy who found comfort in whores and had a foul mouth, she could not disagree with the thoughts of her Lord on the political benefits. She too had married for political profit as was a woman’s way in the world.
Yet Sansa was not the only child she worried for. Ned had long ago promised Robb’s hand to Walder Frey’s kin. It had been the promise of connections to the north and cemented their way across the Green Fork. Though Robert had promised to annual the oath with gold and titles, Walder Frey was not a man to be denied and held all grudges new and old to heart when it suited him. It may seem an acceptable trade, but Lady Stark was sure the willy old fox would throw it in their faces when the moment was right.
“She’s very beautiful, isn’t she,” Sansa spoke to her mother as Lady Stark worked on her hair. “Lady Cyra, the Queen’s niece.” Sansa stroked some of her free auburn strands that were not yet in her mother’s hands. “I’m sure Robb must think so, how lucky he is.”
Lady Stark closed her eyes, working her fingers through her daughter’s tangled waves of Tully hair. “She truly is,” her response came quiet and calm as she could.
“Do you think Joffrey will like me? With a cousin so lovely, do you think he will find me ugly?” Sansa felt worried over it, afraid she wasn’t good enough for the golden prince.
Lady Stark paused then, her hands stilling in Sansa’s hair. “Sansa…Joffrey is the second prince. Robert wishes to see you a queen.”
She froze, trembling a little. Edric Baratheon. That was the prince she had been betrothed to? “No, no I want to marry Joffrey!” Sansa tangled the hair in her hands in her distress.
“Your father hasn’t said yes yet, Sansa,” Lady Start tried to calm her daughter.
Sansa turned to look up at her mother with pleading eyes. “Please, please have father change the groom!”
Lady Stark sighed and continued to fix her daughter’s hair. She wished she could give her daughter reassurance, wished she could give her comfort in this but it was the world of men. Everything would come to pass as the King and her Lord commanded.
Queen Cersei Baratheon was livid, beyond words or ways she simply couldn’t calm herself when word of Robert’s meddling had brought her. The wretched north could keep its backwards lordlings to the forest gods they worshipped or the seven they claimed! She would not accept it, would not see it through to watch her niece be married to a Northern beast. Plans, plans in the making for years she had to ensure Cyra would be Joffrey’s bride. It was the only natural choice in her mind that the two be together, they belonged together for they were two halves of a whole, she was sure. With Cyra Joffrey was different than he was when she could not see.
She calmed his raging lion’s blood and made to think things through without acting out as the haughty prince Cersei knew her son to be. Not that the queen would have her son any other way. He was a lion after all, ferocious and powerful as he should be. With Cyra’s influence he had become more than what others thought of him and could grow into a true king.
Of course Cersei knew that Edric would be king after Robert passed, but she held no love for her husband’s youthful double. A mother should love all her children, should hold them close to her bosom and insure they received the world which was their right. However Cersei despised Robert with every fiber of her being, hating his whoring and his disloyalty.
She had tried once, tried to love him. A strapping young man he had been then, powerful and fierce like a lion could be. She had accepted him to herself and hoped love could grow between them. But he was haunted, haunted with the ghost of the only woman he would ever love and fueled with a burning hate for Dragons and all of their branches of strength. He had taken her to wife and brought her under his cloak of protection, but he would forever hold a grudge against her kin.
Now he was a fat old stag, meaty for the slaughter and tough to chew. There was nothing between them but tittles and ties and the land that holds them. Queen of seven kingdoms and still whispered about in her own castle as her husband bedded down with whores in what was supposed to be their marriage bed. She had grown accustom to his behavior and let it slid over her like water to the skin or wine against the tongue. Bitter wine, but still. She had her children, her brother…her niece.
Fingers clenched till knuckles turned white as she thought about her little kitten. Soon to be torn from all the little cub knew and held dear left to fend for herself amongst wolves and snow. Aye, the Starks and their words of Winter coming and be damned if it wasn’t for her niece. Cersei pulled a goblet of watered wine to her lips and grimaced as she drank it down, forcing with it the pain of losing a child she loved for Robert’s ghost.
She had to make the King see reason before word reached Cyra’s ears of her engagement. She had to make him understand his decision was not viable. Robb was already promised to Walder Frey’s kin and Cyra was the heir to Casterly Rock. Jamie had taken the golden cloak as to not be forced to marry, swearing himself to the Kingsguard much to their father’s frustration.
A Father’s Choice, A Son’s Duty
Jamie Lannister was never one to care of Stags or Wolves. He cared less even about mad Dragons. Sitting in Lord Eddard Stark’s study accompanied by the Lord of Winterfell, the King of the Seven Kingdoms, and two whelps who oddly could pass for cousins however demanded he start caring a little more. This meeting was held rushed and brought about many raging emotions to the surface of the Kingslayer. After all, his daughter’s future was currently in the hands of a whoremonger.
“Come off it Kingslayer,” the King grumbled, creaking the table they sat around with a meaty fist. “She is well past time to marry!”
Jamie tilted his head up ever so slightly, as if turning his nose at the men before him. In truth that was exactly what he was doing. “My daughter is the heir of Casterly Rock. Her right to hand should be that of my, her father’s choosing.” His emerald eyes slid over to the boy in question. “I have no doubt you have raised a fine and virtuous son, Lord Stark, but he isn’t whom I had planned on.”
Eddard Stark took no offense to the tone in which Jamie Lannister used, though it was filled with condescending disdain. He had already promised his oldest child’s hand away to Walder Frey and true he would rather not have that oath breaker’s blood in his line, he wouldn’t allow his distaste for Lord Frey be a reason he himself broke an oath of his own.
“I have made no agreement to these thoughts of marriage,” ‘Or otherwise duties’, Ned thought to himself. “Robb is promised to a Frey,” Ned turned to stare at Robert pointedly. “An oath I had to swear for his aid in your Rebellion.”
The King snorted. “Seven Hells, Ned, had Walder been a high lord I would have pledged my own son to one of his daughters. Be it as it may, the fucker who can field an army with his loins alone is vassal to house Tully and therefore not a prince’s equal.” Not that the Robert had room to talk of fielding armies from the bed. Plenty of little bastards ran about with his blood in their veins.
“And so here we sit, with you giving my girl to a man who is given to another all for the sake of your own.” Jamie crossed his leg over one knee as he looked at Robert.
“By all, you are a Kingsguard! Married by a mad king you should be lucky to even have a daughter to lay claim to so openly!” Robert bellowed at his brother-in-law.
“Yet have her, I do.” Jamie stiffened. “We all did what we could to survive a madman. I am thankful what I did allowed me a bit of joy after all was done.”
“What about Cyra?” Robb spoke up finally, feeling he deserved to say something in a meeting to determine his future. “You will be taking her away from her home, from her family.” He turned to look at the King whom he was named. “Would she have me, being forced to live in the lands of my forefathers away from the south’s warmth and safety?”
“She’ll have who I tell her to have,” Robert grunted out, pulling a tankard of ale to his mouth and drinking heavily. “And I am telling you,” Robert pointed at Jamie Lannister, “Cyra Lannister will become Lady of Stark of Winterfell in the future.”
Edric Baratheon sat quietly this entire time. He had only come to terms with his own betrothal to Sansa Stark, and though it pained him as he loved another, he knew it was his duty to follow his King and Father’s order. However he had never thought that it would cost him even the physical presence of Cyra. He and his brother had yet to even determine if the North men were safe and savory to be around their sister and cousin. How could he tell her she would never see home again? That they would never spar as they did or hunt mice in the dungeons? To laugh and make merry at dinner parties and festivals?
His eyes traveled to Robb Stark, heir of Winterfell. A rugged boy, he didn’t doubt despite the clean shave and shear he supported. The Tully eyed lad wasn’t as mouthy as his friend nor as quiet as his bastard brother, but still he was a bit rough of tongue and look. If not for the words the youth had just said, Edric would have voiced his own disagreement on a much stronger stance. Now he wasn’t so sure he should try to dissuade his father.
“Your words,” Edric spoke softly, eyes calculating the conversation as he looked at Robb. “I appreciate your forethought of my cousin. It shows you have conviction and compassion. We will be brothers, should your father allow me to take Sansa into my hearth. As she is under my protection, I could trust my cousin under yours.”
Jamie smirked, unable to help himself. His nephew’s words had been so politically polite, but the true meaning was much darker underneath. If Robb took Cyra as his own, Jamie knew Edric was promising anything uncouth done to her would be shared with Sansa Stark. If the lad laid a hand or other on his daughter without her consent or acceptance, if he hurt her or let harm come to her his sister would pay the price.
Robb swallowed. He was not naïve to understand the threat in those civil words, nor was Ned. The Starks were no fools to political niceties despite living in the North. “Should I take Lady Cyra under my cloak-“
“Into your hearth,” Edric interrupted. “Cyra has no love nor loyalty to the Faith of the Seven. She is a faithful follower of the Lord of Light. One of his chosen.”
Robb wasn’t sure what that meant nor did he understand the Lord of Light, however if a change of words mattered so he could change them still. “Should I take Lady Cyra into my hearth, I shall protect her as I trust you to protect my sister.”
King Robert gave a pleased grin. While the men had bickered, the grooms in question had come to an understanding. He would have his way, and Freys be damned about it. “I believe it is settled. To lives with wives,” Robert lifted his tankard to his lips only to put it down and curse it being empty. Such a symbolic look at his own marriage.
Jamie Lannister stood, hand on the hilt of his sword for a moment as though he would cut Robb Stark through rather than see his daughter wed. Then without another word, he turned from the study, the heavy door slamming closed behind him.
Eddard Stark grimaced. “It seems I have no choice,” he rose to his feet, giving his childhood friend a look of exasperation. “By the King’s leave.”
Robert rose slowly to his feet, hand on the table to give him a bit of a push. “I’ll see you at the feast Ned. I have a wife to hide from now and a sully maid to fall in.”
Robb stared hard at Edric when the king spoke, his jaw set hard and with displeasure should the dark-haired prince be anything like his father. Edric looked upon Robb with the same intense look, placing an open palm on his chest and giving his head a slight shake. On his honor, he was not like his father in the ways of women.
Both young men had much to contemplate now, both grooms to be with Ladies of powerful ties. Each would admit to the beauty of said ladies, though only one would be truly interested in his bride. The other was less inclined, heart already given away. He could only treat his future bride with care and make sure she wanted for nothing in their time together.
Jon Snow was a bastard. It was common knowledge, and something he detested with all he was. All his life he had taken grief for his father’s mistake, and still he found himself bewildered on the change in the last month before the King’s visit. Surely he was still Ned Stark’s bastard, which had not changed. But the way he was seen, the way he was treated had changed. Always, all his life he had skulked in the shadows of Winterfell behind his half-brother. It was safest to avoid the Lady Stark that way.
Oh he trained with Robb, had trained with him since they were Rickon’s age. Yet he had held back, unwilling to beat his father’s True son in fear of what the lad’s mother would do. He followed after the heir and ward of Winterfell like a third wheel, watching them live their lives as the noble lordlings they were while knowing he could never hold his head high as they do.
All he has ever wanted was the love of his mother and the acknowledgement of his blood. He had cried when he was a boy, curled in his bed in the night wishing to the Old Gods and the Seven that she be returned to him to take him away from the could castle he hide about in. Lady Stark had never loved him, seeing him only of Ned’s transgression against her despite all he had done to appease her. It had taken him until Bran’s age to realize she would never love him. That she would never tuck him in at night as she did Robb and later Sansa. That she would never hold him when he was sad or hurt, never tell him he would be alright.
His father’s wife good and truly hated him.
“Uncle please take me,” Jon begged Benjen Stark once more, though his uncle looked none too keen on the prospect of his nephew taking the Black.
So many were deserting the Wall, with whispers of White Walkers and a Wildling Army on the rise. Benjen needed men to man their stations, to hold their castles and scout out into the far northern chill. He would be happy to have someone of his nephew’s training and skill by his side, but he could not take away Jon’s youth and potential for his need of bodies. The Black would both welcome and test Jon Snow, he could thrive there amongst the other men and no longer feel the ire of Benjen’s sister-in-law. Still he was hesitant, wishing a better life for the young man, a happy one with hearth and home.
“You don’t understand what you ask, what you give up taking the Black,” Benjen spoke out, patting Jon’s shoulder. “We swear to take no wives, have no heirs, to live our lives only to man the Wall. You can’t choose this now, Jon. You’re too young to realize what you are leaving behind.”
Jon glared out at the walls of Winterfell. He knew well what he was leaving behind taking the Black. He knew he would take no wife, that he could have no son nor daughter. How could he though? Knowing his last name was Snow. What could he give such a family? He had nothing to offer save his sword and a sword wouldn’t promise his children a better future. He was no lordling, no noble or even a common man with a name and a trade. He had his bastard blood and his sword, he had his life that he could give to insure his brothers and sisters lived peacefully for Winter was coming.
Craster’s Keep
“Quit ye squalling,” a burly man growled low at the squirming newborn babe in his hand. The infant’s cry rose into the night like the northern wind howls. The whisperings of cracking ice touched Craster’s ear as he put the babe down, cradled in the frozen rot of an ancient tree stump. “The True Gods take you, and be reborn,” Craster spoke to his son before turning his back on the screaming babe. Heavy feet crunch ice and snow as the Wildling man returned to his keep with his wives, hands reaching out for the closest one as he turned to sneer at a crying new mother.
“Wine woman, get me wine ye useless cunt.” His other wife in hand, Craster made his way to a worn out throne-like seat. Settling in, he shoved the woman between his legs and stared down at her. “Well….Warm me up,” a bitter twisted laugh came from his lips as the woman began to trail her hands along his legs messaging the cold away.
Cold hands moved to life the now quiet infant from the cradle of the trees. Still alive, but slowly fading from the harsh cold of the North, the infant let out no cry of pain or fear within frozen hands. Creaking ice whispered into the babe’s ear, and arm curled tightly around holding the bundle of life to a bare frozen chest. Bare feet walked upon the snow leaving no print behind as the white body of a man vanished into the flurry of Northern winter snow.
Of Horses and Dragons
Outside the city of Pentos by the blue raging waters of the sea, drums beat and cheers filled the air. Bodies of men and women danced together along the warm sand and before the cliff. Merchants and men of power from Pentos come one at a time to bow before a great Khal and his new bride. A Dothraki wedding cementing the vow of alliance and war.
Danny stared out at the happenings around her, unsure of this strange world she found herself becoming a part of. The Dothraki were violent and unclothe, their culture savage and free. She had been raised within the safety of Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of Pentos for many years and shielded away from such acts that were now displayed before her.
Beautiful amethyst eyes watched as once again a Pentos Merchant brought a gift before her and her husband. Opening a bejeweled box, she shivered as he pulled from it a mating pair of serpents. Though she flinched back, she could not help but note the serpents paired to her pale looks and the Khal’s golden flesh. It was if she could see her future in the knotted creatures, her body wrapped in the strength of her husband and forced to bend to his will. It frightened her, but there was a sense of fascination of what was to come as well creeping along her spine.
Viserys Targaryen was displeased. Here he sat on the lower stoops while he watched his sister sit high above all beside the savage Khal. Time and again he watched as riches were placed before her, gifts of silks, jewels, gold. Gifts of value and worthy of a king. He was a King. Everything his sister was given should have fallen into his own hands. She was even served food before him, showing her own value over his to the vast people before them.
Jealousy and envy crept and curled inside him. Insecurity had given root and would slowly begin to grow to fester in the future. Viserys caught Khal Drogo glance his way before looking away and scowled.
“When do I meet with the Khal, we must begin planning for the invasion.” Viserys tried to distract himself, turning to speak to Illyrio.
“Khal Drogo has promised you a crown and so you shall have it,” Illyrio replied looking at the impatient Targaryen prince. Once again he could not help but look to the princess now wed to a mighty horse-lord and think of the waste in it. She had so much more potential, he was beginning to come to understand than the man by his side.
“When shall I have it,” Viserys nearly snapped at Illyrio.
Ever the politician, Illyrio showed nothing on his face of the irritation in his heart at the boy before him. “When the Khal’s omens favor war.”
Viserys rolled his eyes and raised the horn of wine to his lips. “I piss on Dothraki omens. I’ve waited seventeen years to have what is mine.” Gulping down some wine, Viserys turned his eyes back to what was before him, shooting a glare towards his sweet sister.
The drums continued to beat as Danny watched what would become her people dance and fill themselves with their savage joys. Only a few feet before her, a woman was taken to her knees and mounted by one of her Khal’s warriors. Such open sexual nature held her eyes at the outlandish behavior, unable to look away. Heat trailed along her skin at their sounds and curled in her belly like rich wine.
A gasp fell from Danny’s lips as another man tore the first out of the woman and happily took his place thrusting into her. Eyes wide, she listened as the woman gave no complaint and simply panted harder. Beside her, the Khal was not oblivious to his little wife’s experiences. He had gazed at her pale flesh long enough in the short time they had been near one another to see the flush in her cheeks and the thump of her blood in her throat from the corner of his eye.
“Itte oakah!” Khal Drogo called out as the two men began to fight for the right of taking the woman. The violence bringing his own blood to boil and slither through his veins. He wished to test his new Khaleesi, to see what blood and death rose out of her. It was the way of his people and her people now.
Danny froze as she watched what had been public sex turn into violence. The men held nothing back though they were comrades and part of the same Khalasar. She didn’t understand what was happening before her, to watch what she knew were the same people willingly duel – if what she saw could even be considered a duel.
Then her heart seemed to stop as one warrior, the second to take the woman, gutted the first and cut off the dying man’s braid. No one attempted to help the dying man, no one seemed to care. Two women swarmed the victor and the wedding party continued leaving her gasp for breath a bit as the smell of cooked meat and salt water mingled together on the air.
Illyrio clapped and turned back to the prince who stared in shock at the violence. “A Dothraki wedding with less than three deaths is considered a dull affair.”
Unsure what he meant, Viserys simply forced a grin to his lips. Illyrio could already tell the Targaryen prince was not bright enough to understand the savage culture he was counting on to die for him. Then something caught Viserys eye as he watched a man who looked like none of Pentos or Dothraki make his way up the rise Daenerys and Khal Drogo sat, slightly bowing before his little sister and handing her a bundle of old books. He felt his face fall as he watched him, listening to what he said of the books given to Danny. It irked him, feeling she had no need for such knowledge as she was now nothing more than a common horse whore. If anything the books should have been in his hands like everything else his sister had been given.
Yet the worst was yet to come as Viserys watched Illyrio get up and motion slaves forward with a large chest. He did not know what was inside but his hands clenched together. Already Illyrio had given Daenerys silks and rich fabrics. He had even bought the slaves for Viserys to give as hand maids to teach his sister how to ride, how to speak, and how to whore her way correctly in the Khal’s tent to insure the horse-lord was pleased.
Daenerys had acquired much wealth, too much wealth already in Viserys eyes that whatever lay within that large chest should have been given to him. Eyes narrow and mouth turned grim he watched with heated envy as the chest was opened to display something that meant everything to his family.
“Dragon’s eggs, Daenerys. From the Shadow Lands beyond the Shine. The ages have turned them to stone, but they will always be beautiful.” Illyrio spoke, a sense of pride in what he was able to accomplish for the young woman. When he had first come into contact with the eggs, he had thought to give them to Viserys to sell. They cost a great fortune to the right buyer. However he had grown to see how the boy treated his sister, even when she was sacrificing greatly for him. Illyrio hoped the eggs could give the Taragaryen a sense of home among the savage one she was forced into.
“Thank you, Magister,” Danny replied, her hands holding up one of the dragon’s eggs. One with emerald scales. Her hands held it gently, cradling it in her palm as one might a babe. These were the most amazing of gifts she had received, something she never thought to see in her lifetime. Even if they had turned to stone, she adored them like her own, cherished them as children and felt as though in her hands they pulsed with a strange warmth.
Khal Drogo could see how pleased his wife was, how happy she felt in that moment and knew it was time. Rising to stand, he slowly walked past her, only a few steps at a pace that didn’t match what his long legs could do. Danny placed the egg gently back into the chest and rose to her feet to follow. Nerves and fear danced along her skin and made her almost sick.
Hearing her behind him, the Khal seemed to pick up pace where his horse awaited with his own gift for the new Khaleesi. Proud of the fine horse he had found for her, a pale grey filly that matched her own exotic grace, Drogo turned to gaze at the fearful Daenerys who walked at a stiffened gate towards him slowly followed by his horde. He understood her fear, he wasn’t unintelligent in the feelings of a foreigner adjusting to another’s culture and ways. Many times he watched the slaves they took learn their place among his people and accept what was forced upon them. But his Khaleesi was not a slave, she was the moon that shined above them all.
The awe on Danny’s face as she touched the horse given to her seemed to chase away her fear. Fear of what was to come, fear of her brother should she fail and wake the dragon. The horse was breathtaking and held sway over her very being as though with a touch against the velvety fur was the only thing which could ground her. The Dothraki watched on with approval at their Khaleesi’s trance, praising their Khal’s choice as he lifted her onto the saddle.
Danny looked perplexed on what to do, having ridden very little in her life if really at all. Her eyes sought out aid in Sir Jorah Mormont, the man who swore himself to her father and gave her a great gift of history and lore from her homeland. She didn’t know what drew her to look to him over anyone else, but as she gazed into his dark blue-grey eyes she felt she could trust in him.
Jorah Mormont stared at the Khaleesi briefly before turning his eyes to the horse. “Hold the reigns firmly in your hands, Khaleesi, use your legs to help you push the horse in the direction you wish to go as well as tugging the reigns. Pull back on the reigns if you want the horse to stop, lean forward and squeeze both knees if you wish to gallop.”
Danny turned back to the horse, her hands on the reigns. “Sir Jorah, how do I say thank-you in Dothraki?”
“There is no word for thank-you in Dothraki, Khaleesi.” Jorah watched as Danny’s face fell a little at that, though he couldn’t be sure of what she was thinking.
Khal Drogo watched the interaction between his Khaleesi and the Andal man, though he remained as stern-faced as ever. He knew they spoke in the common tongue of their people and part of him hated that fact. He felt a twinge of unease when he watched the man look at his moon, as though he did not trust what could come of such a look should it ever deepen to something more. Whatever the man and his bride spoke of, he watched as her shoulders slumped a bit. The grey filly nickered and bobbed its head and then he watched as it beat the sand with one hoof moving to take a step forward.
Danny was saddened that the term of thank-you was unknown to the Dothraki. It wasn’t that they were savage, though they were, but that she mourned the loss for them in perhaps never knowing what it meant to be thanked or to be thankful. There were many things Daenerys was thankful for. Her life, the gifts given to her, the kindness she hoped would last.
Knees pressed into the filly’s side, and Daenerys gave a mock shout as the horse jumped into gallop, pulling her quickly across the beach sands. Her laughter rang out for all to hear as wind whipped by her, silver hair and dress billowing with it. ‘He has given me the wind,’ she thought as she turned the reigns back, meeting the Dothraki Khal halfway as he galloped towards her on his own black stallion.