A/N: Dear me, when was the last time I updated?! I'm so, so sorry for the long wait! Life has been hectic lately and I've discovered updating two stories at the same time is a very, very bad idea. So, I've took the decision to focus on my other work, which is almost finished anyway, to later focus solely on this little gem. In the meantime, to keep you patient, here's the next chapter, with the introduction of a few other characters you've all been waiting for!

Chapter 3

Anya's hands were resting on her lap, and, if they had a soul and a brain of their own, they would not even dare think of playing with the dress' belt, as it certainly would have been an undignified act.

Their possessor's stoic, dignified stillness was giving such an impression. Unlike most ladies who would have their eyes serenely lowered, Anya was looking straight in front of her. And the corners of her mouth finally twisted upwards in a smile, giving a surprisingly soft appearance to her figure, as she saw Jorah coming towards her. And somehow, she looked beautiful, despite the unconventionality in her traits.

"Ready to go?" her husband asked.

"Of course I am," she said, with a falsely grumpy tone. "I'm the one waiting after you. Getting ready took me a lot less time than you, since I probably spent a lot less time choosing my clothes."

"That's probably because you spent the entire night pondering on it."

"Why, how dare you!" An offended pout and a lifted nose were the signs of Anya's "insulted pride", but the malicious glimmer in her eye would have given a surprising effect to a stranger, but for Jorah, it was a heartwarming touch. A heartwarming touch before he would tag along like the parasite he was…

"Get in the cart, alright? We'll be leaving soon."

"And?" Anya asked, humorously inflexible.

"Do you expect me to kneel in front of you begging for your forgiveness?"

"It'd be fair enough."

Jorah lifted up his eyes to the sky, while a smirking Anya crossed her arms obstinately.

"Then you shall oblige me to be merciless!" he shouted, before attempting to lift her up in order to carry her to the covered cart prepared for her for their travelling. But Anya was quicker than he was, and swiftly entered, closing the curtain, but not before granting her husband a saucy grin. Jorah chuckled, before turning around, to jump as he saw that Erik had appeared just beside him.

"Since when were you here?" he inquired.

Erik shrugged, and was going to enter the cart before Ser Stark caught him by the arm.

"Oh no you don't!" he hissed, ignoring the dragon-man's nasty glare.

"Why? Are you afraid I'm going to rape her or something? Do I look like I want to die by your hand?"

"You. Stay with me. You. Will not see her." Jorah's patience was starting to grow thin. For a moment, he wanted to strangle the dragon-man like the monster he was, rip his wings so he would then somehow turn into dust, for the idea that Anya could get hurt by Erik was driving him madder than his adversary's own insanity.

"You. Want to keep an eye on me," Erik continued, imitating Jorah's voice and tone so well the latter was too shocked to get irritated about it. "Well that won't work."

A crooked smile appeared on the Targaryen monster's lips, the malicious glimmer in his green-golden eyes burning what was left of Jorah's self-control, as he realized with horror that his pupils were actually oblique. A little more, and he was certain that Erik would start gloating of that wolf howl he had heard before and which was supposedly his laugh, this time revealing fangs like one of a dragon's.

"Now what's going on here?"

Jorah turned quickly to see Anya popping her head of the cart's curtain. Her gaze steadied on Erik, and her eyes widened a bit in surprise, her mouth opening slightly. But the two men were totally taken aback by her quickly clearing her throat and standing straighter than ever.

"Jorah, you did not tell me we would have a companion," Lady Stark said in an worryingly low voice.

"Well…"

"Don't bother with an explanation. We want to arrive in Winterfell within two days, don't we? I suppose you don't have a horse for yourself, Ser?" she continued, turning to Erik and ignoring her husband. "I guess you'll have to do the trip with me."

"Anya…"

But Lady Stark had already entered the cart, leaving him all alone with Erik, who gave him a triumphant smirk before going in himself.

But the young Targaryen had barely crossed the curtains before he was blocked with what seemed like some sort of cane.

"Scoff at me if you want, Ser. I advise you that I'm perfectly capable of defending myself."

Erik turned towards Lady Stark and was just about to make a snide comment when he came across her iron glare. And for the first time, the last of the Targaryens felt uneasy. Was it something actually close to… respect?

The trip was going to be a long one.

As soon as they had arrived to the inn where they would stay for the night, Jorah's first move, as soon as he had come off his horse, was to rush to the cart and be certain Anya was alright. He had been careful during the entire journey to stay close and to immediately sprint to it as soon as he heard something abnormal. Everything had been seemingly fine… but Jorah didn't know if he had to be reassured or if he should worry even more.

But he had barely made it to the entrance that Anya was coming out, dignity personified if it wasn't for that very small, imperceptible smirk which her husband was unable to analyze. Not too far behind her, Erik very prudently popped his head out of the curtain, frowning as he saw there was too much of a crowd around him for his taste, even if the inn wasn't especially busy that evening, before rushing back in, unseen. Jorah shrugged. Anyway, that bloody boy could do anything he wanted, as long as he did not become too much of a nuisance. And that he decided not to follow them to cause havoc in the inn was a good thing.

It was only then that the thought stroke him: if Erik was seen by anyone, he didn't dare to imagine what would happen. Especially as unpredictable as he was…

He refrained from screaming. He saw the grip that the Hanessari reign was forming around Westeros. The king had given him the most ruthless of all his assassins to make sure the repression of the rebellion happening in his own domain would be merciless. Did he doubt his loyalty? Jorah was starting to believe it was the case.

But was it really Neihro? The king still seemed perfectly healthy on every point of view. He had been the one who had saved them all from the Targaryen tyranny. He was a hero, and they knew it all.

Twenty years later, the king was a mystery. Even to Jorah, who had had the kingdom's secrets revealed to him. Nadir was probably the one who knew him the most intimately. But he had never mentioned anything about him, even to his younger brother.

There was only the shadow of a queen behind him, who had been the one to have hidden the last of the Targaryens for years…

She was far more intelligent than she looked. The Hanessari had a more misogynist view of women's role in society. Marriage was the only issue, like it had been always the case for women in Westeros. But, as married women, the potential influence they could have was considerably reduced.

It wasn't that Jorah agreed with this way of living. His marriage was a vivid proof of this. But Queen Ayura's name was repeated more and more often, and with fear. And the emergence of Erik seemed to represent, suddenly, who she aspired to be but never could.

Lost in his thoughts, he suddenly felt a firm hand on his arm, to turn and see Anya at his side, her face indecipherable.

"Don't worry. He won't be coming in with us. He knows where his place is."

Jorah coughed, uncomfortable. His wife's tone in the last sentence had become somehow mysterious and all-knowing.

"What did he tell you?" he asked.

"Nothing much. He's not very talkative, you know. It makes him a rather agreeable companion."

Before he could reply, Lady Stark quickly grabbed her husband in order to follow a servant who lead them to their room for the night. They had barely entered that already, Anya quickly thanked the servant, practically shooing the girl out, and closed the door, turning to Jorah. She looked calm, as she always did. But there was a slight twitch in her lips that immediately warned Ser Stark that she wasn't quite in a good mood.

"Now, tell me, what is this sheer craziness of yours? Why do we have him?"

"Anya, please, let me explain…"

"Oh, no need. He's a degenerated Targaryen. I've seen before he even started boasting it to me and that I managed to teach him respect, at least for me."

"You what?" Jorah's mouth opened, considering his own failure at attempting to do the same with Erik.

"I taught him respect. You should do the same, you know," she replied, casually taking her gloves off, ignoring her husband looking to the sky, infuriated. "That child has had no kind of limit imposed to him.", Anya continued. "He may be an outcast, but he doesn't consider himself as such. Perhaps as a way of protecting himself from the world…"

"Wait… you have sympathy for him?"

Anya sighed heavily. "I don't know. But he mustn't have had an easy life. Corruption is everywhere, I guess."

She glanced quickly around her. "We have to talk. Gustav left me a message for you. Of utmost importance. Let's get settled in our room for the night. We'll be on our own there."

It didn't take long for them to be installed. That Gustav, of all people, had left a message that even Anya considered of being of utmost importance, tormented Jorah's mind. Gustav came from the Highgardens, after all, and the magnificent, elaborate landscapes had seemingly influenced his personality, which was eccentric and even careless at times. Anya had little consideration for him, for obvious reasons. She even thought that her sister would have been better off marrying a far more sensible man. But an alliance with him was profitable for both houses Tyrell and Redwyne. And Clyra did love him, after all…

"The Queen is using black magic to influence the King."

"How do you know that? No, I mean… how does Gustav know that, for heaven's sake?"

"Well, Gustav's new hobby is to discover hidden plots in the kingdom, apparently. I don't know where he finds all this. And I don't want to know either."

Ser Stark covered his face in his hands. Gustav was no coward, but he lacked any kind of self-discipline. And in order to discover and survive through the Court's deepest and most complex intrigues, it was essential.

"We'll have to tell him to stay away from this," Jorah finally said.

"Oh, I told him. He didn't listen, of course. Anyway, we are not aware of this, but, for instance, the laws in the cities which depend directly of King's Landing have been reinforced to the point the people barely have anything to eat. The harvesting has been good, lately. But all of it has gone to King's Landing."

"I knew that, of course. But some lords in the King's Council…"

"Yes, and the Queen is there pulling the strings. She wants power. She knows she cannot get it. So she does what she can do to obtain it, doesn't she?"

"Is there anything else?" Jorah turned to Anya. He didn't like how her face became even more serious, her eyebrows almost meeting.

"He is asking if you can join him."

Nine years later, Jorah wondered if it would have been better if he did join Gustav.

The beautiful Highgardens weren't made for holding a siege. Jorah wondered if his childhood companion had become mad. Some claimed that he was a hero, ready to fight for his beliefs to the end. But in a world where the priority was to survive and serve your interests, only madmen had ideals.

During those years, Clyra Tyrell had given birth to a little fawn-eyed porcelain doll with the dark, curly hair proper to House Tyrell. But the mother had not survived the difficult labor. Kirstina found herself left all alone with her father, and she, along with the revolution he was attempting to raise, became his sole interest.

Gustav had loved Clyra, with all his heart and soul. But he was one of those who would never display their pain or sadness outwardly and instead plunged into what remained of interest or love to him. He was one of the most sensitive people in this hardened world. And little Kirstina had inherited that latter tendency from her father.

In the meantime, House Stark had also found itself with a new member. A little girl had seen the day, a few months before Kirstina was born.

But that little girl was born blessed. Or rather cursed, considering the troubled times where they were now living.

It had all started a few centuries ago, where a Lord Stark of Winterfell had married the youngest Targaryen princess of a family of eight. While none of their children inherited the House of Dragons' appearance, skills and gifts, it did appear at every three generations.

When such a thing happened, they were assigned one of the most important functions in Westeros: be the guardian of the eggs which would have been, according to the legend, laid by Dracarys, the First Dragon. Therefore, when the next guardian was born, it didn't take long before the elder one, who would reach a venerable age, would pass away.

Feya Stark was the guardian when Jorah and Anya's child was born, and passed away a few days only after the birth, rather happy to leave a dull life in which she had been forced to go into hiding.

And, with the memory of Erik now associated to their child, it only made Jorah and Anya even more protective with her, determined not to have the little blonde-white-haired, grey-eyed little cherub corrupted in any way.

The little girl was called Margaery. But she was such a tiny little thing Margaery seemed too long of a name for her. Quickly, it was forgotten for the diminutive "Meg", to the point her real name was almost forgotten by most.

From a very young age, Anya had dyed Meg's hair into a strawberry blonde shade, constantly fearing that their secret would be discovered. She even preferred refusing the proposal of seeking refuge to King's Landing, when the revolt became general in Westeros. The North, anyway, was the calmest place of them all. Meg was to be kept hidden, for her sake.

The little girl didn't realize the seclusion in which she lived. Her world limited itself to her mama and her papa. And the dragon eggs.

They had kept on with the tradition, though not as rigidly as they used to before. It had no meaning anymore, now that it could be said that House Targaryen was extinguished. Still, the dragon eggs were still there, and Jorah had finally concluded that Meg needed to know about that fragment of history, remembrance of happier times, where the Targaryens were worthy of their "almost-God" title, that would be soon forgotten and re-written.

Perhaps it was in her soul, but Meg didn't want to be separated afterwards from the eggs. Anya didn't know if she had to laugh or cry in front of the little blonde who would pick up each egg in her arms one after the other, singing lullabies to them and inventing her own words when she would forget the original ones, snuggling them in soft sheets, as if they were dolls. They were now pretty much rocks, anyway, kept guarded because of the superstitious fear Targaryens and dragons stirred in people.

Meg was a bright little girl, who despite all her hyperactivity was quite intelligent and intuitive for her young age. Anya was content to give her, with Jorah's help, the education she had never received herself. After a horrible miscarriage, they had both been unable to have any more children. And Meg had to be ready to take charge of the North by herself, since Anya claimed that anyway, it would be unfortunate if she absolutely needed a husband, stranger to the North, to govern the place.

Meg was having a peaceful little childhood. But in Westeros, chaos was spreading everywhere.

When the conflicts had started, to reprise Anya's words, Gustav had had the good sense of sending his daughter to Winterfell. Not that he didn't care about Kirstina: it was actually quite the contrary. He feared for her safety, as he started to realize how foolish his quest was and how the chances he had of winning were wearing thin.

Ideals belonged to fools: such was one of the great laws of the Seven Kingdoms. But it was too late for him to go back without losing his honor and looking like a coward.

Now, the Highgardens were assieged. The tip of the iceberg had been the great battle as one could imagine it to be like what one found in legends. But Jorah knew that the Court Assassins' Guild would be present, in order to capture Gustav Tyrell, for he was wanted alive.

Erik was present, of course.

Jorah wished that, with the years, he would at least learn to tolerate his presence. Unfortunately, it never happened. A strange friendship had seemed to form itself between Erik and Anya, in the rare moments in which they would see each other again since the time where he had been sent to the North to assist Jorah. Lord Stark actually wasn't certain if it was some sort of peace treaty and that, despite everything, there were certain elements which they appreciated in the other. Jorah could easily see what interested Erik with Anya, of course; but on the opposite side, it was a mystery beyond him, and his wife's encrypted answers discouraged him from attempting to understand. Not that he doubted Anya's love, on the contrary. But he was driven to humbly admit that there were some things that were beyond him.

The troops belonging or allied to House Tyrell had been quickly forced to retreat. The end was only a matter of minutes, now, and the assassins had the job of capturing the leaders for them to be handed over to justice. A counsel composed of the King's Hand and many lords, including Jorah, would decide Gustav and his allies' fate.

And for the first time, Jorah felt like a coward. He knew he should have been on his childhood friend's side. At the same time, he knew he had now other obligations: his wife and his daughter were looking up to him (well, for Anya, it was debatable. But still.)f, and it was his duty to protect them and not throw them in captivity and misery. It was, to phrase it otherwise, that time where maturity was tested and that one had to do the best he could.

But, when Gustav arrived in front of him, his wrists tied, dragged by Erik thanks to a lasso used like a leash, and that the only reaction he had had among seeing Jorah was some sort of apologetic and pitiful smile, Lord Stark was forced to mentally mutter an apology to his family for almost wanting to let them down for his former companion.

A/N: As usual, please leave a review! ;)