THE ROAD TO WINTERFELL

Six months later

Spring did come. Finally.

And with it, came changes, some glorious and filled with promise, like that of rose buds and lilies suddenly opening into full blooms and soft rain showers falling in the green wood and on damp meadows without the sting of ice and snow. Promises like brown seals appearing on the outer banks again. Or Drogon venturing to dip and sway in the cornflower blue skies above Bear Island.

Or the most astonishing promise of all—that of my mother's recently burgeoning waist, proving Mirri Maz Duur's words hollow and false for a second time.

There were others changes that proved far less pleasant. Sansa Stark sent a raven bidding the lords and ladies of Bear Island to come and treat with them at Winterfell, as winter's passing brought somber news that Euron Greyjoy had survived the winter and, far worse than that, it appeared that his ugly ambitions had survived with him.

His fleet was being rebuilt and he was gathering mercenaries from across the Narrow Sea to replace the Ironborn who had perished in the last days of war and the long days of winter. His intention was plain. He would claim the North for himself, raiding the shores from Moat Cailin to Bear Island. If he was brazen enough, he might march inland and try for Winterfell itself.

Everyone agreed…Euron Greyjoy was plenty brazen.

There was also news from the South, that Ellaria Sand had renewed her vows of revenge for her murdered daughter, Tyene, and her slain lover, Oberyn Martell. Since both Cersei Lannister and Lord Tywin were long dead, there seemed to be only one person upon whom she might take her revenge. She blamed the Lannisters for her misfortunes. And there was only one Lannister left in the world—the Imp, Tyrion Lannister, still lived at Winterfell.

Threats from too many sides spurred Sansa Stark to action. She had forgotten nothing of the days before the long winter and would not sit idly by and watch them return. And so she called her bannermen and allies to Winterfell as soon as the eaves began dripping.

My mother insisted on coming though my father begged her not to. Her time was close and she had not been with child in ten years.

I had heard them refer to me as their miracle child more than once. When I was four years old, one of the less tactful women on the island asked my mother if she would ever give Ser Jorah a son. Mother was silent for a long time before answering, her expression far away, in other places and other times. Finally, she related the prophecy that Mirri Maz Duur, the witch-woman, had cruelly spoken to her mere hours after my half-brother, Rhaego, was born on the other side of the world, stillborn and monstrous.

Then she pulled me close to her and whispered against my little head, "You proved the witch a liar, little one."

Still, it seemed I was to be their only child. Until recently anyway, when spring returned and brought with it all manner of miracles.

At least he convinced her to ride in the wagon. She had been intent on a horse, as the snows had now receded to the mountains for the first time in a decade and the road south to Winterfell beckoned travelers with an easy path.

"Dothraki women ride until the very hour they give birth," she reminded him when we landed on the mainland, standing close to him on the speck of sandy shore, as he saddled his own roan mare. She was dressed in a dark green travelling cloak that set off her violet eyes and hid her advanced pregnancy deceptively. My father was in light armor, in case of trouble on the road, and he had exchanged his winter furs for soft leather. He shook his head with finality.

"You are not Dothraki, Daenerys," he answered her firmly, as he fastened the flank cinch.

"No Khaleesi now? Just Daenerys, I see," she grumbled back at him. "You pick and choose as it suits you, Ser Jorah."

My father gave her a wry look in response, somehow simultaneously conveying his current exasperation, his pleas for her simple acquiescence and, as always, his undying adoration. As I've said before, my mother and father speak volumes in their silences.

Her posture lost some of its defiance, as I watched Father bend down and kiss her lips softly, fleetingly, like a brush of gentle sea breeze against a field of long grass. He followed that kiss with another, against her temple, nudging her into compliance, whispering something in her ear as he pulled away. She caught the leather cuff around his wrist and held him close for a moment longer. Stretching up on her toes, she kissed him back.

As she walked away from my father and his horse, I watched her right hand absently go to her abdomen, where she smoothed the soft fabric against the fullness of her figure. She was healthily flushed and looked content, which is not an emotion my mother is known for. I smiled at her uncommon display of peace, even in these uncertain times, and answering my smile, she took my hand in her own as we walked up the beach towards the traveling wagon.

"Well, I'll have you for company, Jeorgianna," she commented sweetly, in defeat, adding conspiratorially, "So your father won't be able to ruin this trip for me, after all…despite his best efforts."

She was nearly right. Father did end up ruining the trip for her, though certainly not of his own volition. But it was his child who decided to make an early appearance, so there's really no one else to blame.

We were no more than fifteen miles from Winterfell when I noticed her restlessness, the shadow over her violet eyes, the change in her breathing pattern. She had been subdued for most of the morning but this was different. She rose from her seat, holding onto the unsteady supports of the rambling wagon. She closed her eyes briefly and set her mouth in a firm line, sitting down again only after a few minutes of bearing some unnamed pain. She did this twice more, before managing to say a few words, breaking the tense silence of our carriage.

"Tell them to stop," she commanded, swallowing hard. "Please, Jeorgianna."

I turned in my seat immediately, getting on my knees on the padded bench and pulling the slot window open to the crisp spring air outside. There was a frigidness to the air that wasn't easily shaken and the woods we travelled through were speckled with green buds and patches of melting snow.

"Lyanna!" I called to my father's cousin. She was riding just ahead of the wagon, on her black stallion. At her name, she pulled him back, using a taut left rein to turn him abruptly. The stallion was accustomed to this sort of command. He was a beautiful animal, independent and green-broke, but his Mistress was the Lady of Bear Island and no one ever disobeyed her commands. Not even wild stallions.

"What is it?" she asked, coming up alongside the wagon, her dark, brown eyes sparking with concern at my urgent tone.

"Mother says we need to stop," I replied, adding, "And I think you should get my father."

I expected some sort of smart remark. Lyanna had her opinions on these sort of things. Damn, foolish women, came to mind, as Lyanna had told me once she didn't understand how a woman could willingly subject herself to childbirth, knowing that it left her vulnerable for hours at a time, forcing her to depend on the assistance and protection of others.

But surprisingly, Lyanna just nodded shortly, pulling her stallion around again, while calling to the procession to halt. The wagon's plodding progress ended roughly, jarring my balance. Mother steadied herself on the opposite bench, eyes closed again, a muted groan escaping her slightly parted lips.

"Is there anything I can do?" I wondered quietly, hoping not to break her concentration but wanting to help if I could.

"No," she managed, in short breaths, the pain deeply etched into her pale face. Her right hand went first to her waist and then lower, where her skirt was damp with a sudden flood of water. She grimaced and cried out, as a plea, "Jorah!"

"I'm here, Daenerys," he answered her immediately, already at the back door of the wagon. He was at her side quickly, taking her hand and helping her sit back on the mess of cushions we'd brought from the Island. She couldn't get comfortable and squeezed his hand in a white-knuckled grip as the next wave of pain came crashing over her.

"Go get the maester, Jeorgianna," Father said, quietly, calmly, but without one glance thrown in my direction. He was pushing the wayward strands of silver-blond hair out of Mother's face with one hand, while letting her use the other as a vice grip.

"Your hands are cold," she murmured in a brief moment of release, pulling the gentle hand that stroked her hair down to rest on her too warm cheek.

"And that's a good thing?" he nearly chuckled at the way she leaned her cheek into his large hand, a doll cradled in a bear's paw.

"Mmhmm," she nodded into the smallest smile before it quickly twisted away again, pain freshly renewed and written all over her face.

"Now, Jeorgianna!" Father repeated, with force of tone, though I was already halfway out the wagon anyway. That last expression on Mother's face said there wasn't much time.

And indeed, there wasn't. My little brother, Jon, was born that very hour.