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Jon slept for nearly half the day. When he next woke up, sunlight was streaming through his window and he was extremely disoriented. He sat up immediately, taking in his surroundings: a blue and white bed furnished with an almost ridiculously soft duvet, a large armoire in one corner, and large double windows that provided a sweeping view of the world outside. Standing, he crossed to look outside-and found himself looking down and down and down at the patchwork of meadows, rivers, and snowy mountaintops below him. He thought he could see his troops covering one meadow in a rush of grey and white banners; he marvelled at how far they'd traveled last night-and gave thanks silently to the gods for seeing them through alive.

His next order of business was to find Daenerys. It took all the willpower he had to swing himself out of bed and cross to the armoire, wincing as the cold soaked up through his bare feet. Inside the cabinet hung a simple jerkin, pants, and boots-probably left there by the servant who had shown him to his room the night before. He changed quickly, leaving his old clothes in a discarded heap on the floor with the intention of returning for them later, and left the room altogether.

The hallway was calm and quiet; his feet echoed on the bare marble as he walked along in the vague direction he'd seen Mya lead Daenerys in the night before. However, he hadn't gone far before Mya found him first. "Would you like something to eat, Lord Snow?"

"No thank you. I'm looking for her Majesty. Has she woken up yet?"

Mya nodded. "About an hour ago. She's still bathing. Shall I show you where to wait for her?"

"That sounds very nice. Thank you." As she led him to a small room strewn with small velvet settees and end tables (and of course, more windows) Jon couldn't help thinking the Queen had made a good call; the longer he thought about a hot bath, the better it sounded. Sometimes troops would bathe in the rivers they passed if it wasn't too cold, which it usually was, but the idea of bathing in warm water sounded absolutely heavenly. Later in the day, perhaps. "Please bring me paper and ink, Mya. I would like to send a letter to my sister." Even though she would no doubt hear of their safe arrival from Lord Baelish Jon preferred to write her himself as well; perhaps she would understand what had happened with Rhaegal more than he did.

He waited for almost an hour-glancing through books of genealogy when he finished his letter and Daenerys still wasn't finished yet-before the door to the room opened again and the dragon queen herself stepped into the room. She wore a simple white gown and a heavier blue robe, decorated with the Arryn's falcon and moon symbols. "These clothes were Sansa's when she last stayed here."

Jon felt a jolt of surprise; Sansa had never told him she'd been to the Eyrie. "Interesting. I didn't realize she had ever been here. Did you sleep well?"

She nodded and sat down on a chair across from him, sighing deeply as she sank into the soft velvet seat. "Better than I have in days. It's so quiet here; I keep thinking there's something wrong because I can't hear your men making japes and singing songs at all hours of the day." She looked out at the mountainside, still frosted white and freezing cold, as if she had a sudden urge to go outside. "Would you like to walk with me?"

"Of course." Reluctantly he stood up, making sure his sword was still sheathed at his side in case he needed it. He wasn't disillusioned enough to believe they would be attacked but he still harbored a deep distrust of Lord Baelish-and from the way Dany seemed determined to avoid him, she felt the same way.

Everything in the Eyrie was white marble or brightly colored tapestries; the castle seemed to be covered in a hushed kind of quiet that discouraged him from talking too loudly. Even though they walked down hallway after hallway until they reached a pair of large double doors that led out to a small balcony, they didn't meet a single person. It was enough to make Jon feel oddly uncomfortable, though he expected the Arryns didn't get many visitors that would brave such a perilous journey. He shivered just reliving the memories; there had been more than a couple occasions when he had been sure either he or Daenerys or both would plummet off the side of the mountain. It was enough to make him positive he wouldn't be making a return journey until summer came.

That is, if summer ever did come again.

The wind rushed over the balcony, whistling through the air and making him wish he'd thought to bring a heavier jacket. The view itself was spectacular; a sweeping vista of fields, mountains, and open sky. Everything else-Westeros, the White Walkers, the army waiting for them at Dragonstone-seemed far away and nonexistent. All that really mattered was the Eyrie itself-a tiny piece of marble in the middle of an endless sea of white. "It's beautiful, in a way. Frigid, but beautiful."

Daenerys nodded, resting her hand on the cold metal balcony and looking up towards the sky as if she expected to see the dragons flying above them. "Yes, it is. Until I flew north I had never seen snow before. I'd heard about it of course, but I never dreamed it actually existed. It was just something out of a story-like dragons, or white walkers. Though looking back on it, neither of them were really stories after all."

"And what do you think about snow, now that you've been given ample time to get to know it?"

She shivered. "It's cold and wet. I don't think I like it much."

He grinned. "Not many people do; especially if they aren't northerners by blood."

"I don't know how you could stay on the Wall for so long without going mad."

"You get used to it rather quickly when you know you have no better options. For a bastard, unable to hold a title or rank, it is-was-a symbol of honor; even though the rest of the world may not see you as you are, among the men who have pledged themselves to be your sworn brothers you are judged only by the content of your character. Where you may have lived and died a meaningless existence in the South, in the Night's Watch you can rise high."

She shifted from foot to foot; a stray gust of wind grabbed one of the light blonde strands of her hair and flicked it easily across her face. He almost reached out in order to brush it back, but something compelled him to keep still. "Jon, why did the Night's Watch betray you?" He stiffened; he wasn't aware she knew about his resurrection. "The Red Witch said you were reborn from among the ashes of your funeral pyre because your own men stabbed you."

"I only tried to do what I thought was right. I had just fought alongside the wildlings at Hardhome, far beyond the Wall...we were utterly crushed by the White Walkers. Many died and those of us who survived were lucky to make it out alive. The survivors-wildling men, women, and children alike, some barely tall enough to hold a weapon-had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. I couldn't just turn them away-they would have froze to death or been murdered by our enemies-so I allowed them safe passage to Castle Black. It was a gamble, but I felt it was a chance I was compelled to take. However, my brothers did not see the matter as I did. They thought that by letting in the wildlings I destroyed the very principles the Watch tries so hard to uphold-and they decided I deserved death."

Daenerys's eyes flashed with anger-although he didn't believe she was upset with him. At least, he hoped she wasn't. "They do not deserve their posts."

"Perhaps not. I hear the new Lord Commander is considering hanging the ringleaders. But in the end, it will not change much; whether they walk away or hang I will still not be welcomed back." That was the way of the world; good men made the right decisions and were faulted for it. He wasn't naive; children's stories never painted accurate pictures of the cruel world around them, Life rarely had happy endings. The hero didn't always come out ahead.

"Where will you go after the conquest, when a Targaryen again rules the Seven Kingdoms?" He could hear the words she left unsaid: When I no longer need you?

"I suppose I will lead the troops back to Winterfell and assist my sister however I can. Wait until the right moment to destroy the White Walkers." He hadn't given much thought to it; all that seemed to matter at the moment was the conquest itself. "Try to be a different kind of hero-the kind who doesn't hide behind mirrored shields or rely on godly intervention to fight his battles."

"I'd be surprised if heroes like that existed outside of children's stories. In the real world, everyone has demons."

At first he didn't realize she was talking to him. She stared straight ahead, out at the blinding white light reflecting off the snow hundreds of feet below them, hands clenching the railing so tightly her knuckles turned white. "That's true enough at least. Dany." He still felt odd calling her by her nickname, even though there was no one to hear them. It seemed oddly personal, like she was choosing to reveal a part of herself to him that she revealed to almost no one else. A particularly strong gust of wind ripped across the balcony, making them both grip the railing a little bit tighter. "Come on," he said as soon as the roar of the wind had died down, taking her hand gently in his. He could still feel the heat of her fingertips, even through the soft leather of his gloves; she didn't protest as he led her inside. "I don't know about you but I haven't eaten all day."

Daenerys summoned Mya, who returned soon after with a small platter bearing different kinds of breads and cheeses, interspersed with a few pieces of tough meat. They ate in the same reception room, in the same velvet chairs and the same white curtains drawn to shut out the incessant howl of the snow.

"It's a miracle you're still alive." Dany said, taking a cracker and a small piece of meat. "When I heard what had happened, I thought for certain Rhaegal would burn you where you stood."

"As did I." He couldn't laugh about his experience, even in passing; whenever he thought about it too hard or for too long his head burned and he remembered all too well the feeling of pure peace-pitched with plenty of terror. "For a few moments, I was positive I was seconds away from a fiery death."

"What happened? The way he looked at you...it was almost like the two of you connected."

"I wish I could explain it. I think I threw him off a bit at first by appearing so suddenly but after that..I felt as though he was testing me in some way. I didn't feel afraid, really...I just sensed he wouldn't hurt me."

"It's not unheard of for someone outside the Targaryen lineage to form a bond with a dragon-though it's certainly not common."

"Or perhaps I'm just extremely lucky."

She shook her head with a small smile. "There's no luck when it comes to dragons. If he had wished you harm, you would be dead right now." He didn't know if that was meant to make him feel better, but it did regardless-slightly. "Perhaps he will need you in the wars to come."

He sensed she wasn't simply talking about her own conquest. Winter had arrived-and the world would tremble under the weight of ice and snow if they didn't stop what came with it.

~FAS~

After a long, hot bath that intentionally took up nearly the entire rest of the day, he got another blissful night's sleep in the Eyrie that night, cocooned in soft silks and smooth satins. Morning dawned clear and cold, weak winter sunlight smothered by the heavy drapes covering the windows-and with it, a renewed excitement and a promise of movement. Today they would leave for Gulltown, and after that would come Dragonstone.

Daenerys met him to break their fast on a simple meal of eggs and toasted bread. "Lord Baelish believes we will be ready to leave within the next two hours. We should be over the mountains within the next three days."

"Will you have enough ships?" It had occurred to him the previous night what a truly large fighting force they were, especially to transport by ship all the way to Dragonstone.

"Of course." The answer was too quick, too clipped, but he didn't press.

"We'll be on Dragonstone for at least a week...won't that give the Lannisters and Tyrells enough time to consolidate an army force against you?"

Her smile was genuine, punctuated by a dragon's roar somewhere in the valley outside. "I have dragons, sellswords, and alliances with several powerful families. I'd like to see them try. Let them throw their worst at us; I will win a decisive victory. I will not be threatened or intimidated; when I sit upon the Iron Throne, no one in the Seven Kingdoms will doubt my right to the throne."

Several swift knocks sounded upon the door, startling them both, and Littlefinger swept into the room in a wave of blue robes. "Your Highness," he said, bowing quickly in Dany's direction. Jon could only see his profile, but that was enough for him to realize that something was very wrong. He'd not known the Lord Protector of the Vale long, but he was certain that Littlefinger was the sort of person who fancied he held all of the cards and was used to manipulating people to get his way. However, he was not composed now; his hands, where they rested against his sides, were trembling and he looked slightly shaken. "There has been a raven out of King's Landing. His Majesty, Tommen Baratheon, the First of his Name, killed himself this morning."

Jon was half out of his seat before the news even registered fully; across the room, Dany remained impassive but even he could see the shock in her eyes. "How did this happen?"

"He threw himself from the window of the Red Keep. Apparently, he was alone; the Kingsguard was busy dealing with another tragedy." He cleared his throat and straightened the collar of his doublet imperceptibly. "The Sept of Baelor was destroyed by wildfire, killing hundreds-including Lord Tyrell and his son. It is widely believed that Cersei Lannister planned the attack instead of risking execution during her trial before the Seven; she has seized power and now proclaimed herself the queen of Westeros."

For a minute the news seemed too horrible to take in. Jon knew about the great Sept of Baelor, even if he'd never seen it; everyone had. It was the crowning jewel of religion in the Seven Kingdoms, with its statues of the gods and seven pointed stars, placed on Visenya's Hill in the early days of Westeros. It had been the site of countless coronations and funerals of the nobility-including his father's beheading. It was a symbol of Westeros older than time itself-and he'd assumed it would stay that way. He'd assumed Dany would be coronated there, in the place where Targaryen rulers had been coronated for generations. And now it was gone in a matter of minutes, burned by a mad queen who would rather kill hundreds of innocents than face her own crimes. And the victims themselves...he was a hardened warrior, he understood the need to take lives in times of war, but to kill so many so quickly-many of whom were completely innocent-was treasonous, wrong, and evil.

There had never been much color in Dany's skin to begin with but now she looked extremely pale. "It was utterly destroyed?"

"Burnt to the ground-to ashes, my lady. The bodies of those inside were not recovered and I don't believe they ever will be. Rebuilding efforts will be slow in coming-but for now, King's Landing is in a shaky semblance of peace."

"Not for long." Her eyes hardened and he could see more clearly than ever the Dragon Queen, who would do whatever it took to protect her people and claim what was rightfully hers. "I will kill Cersei Lannister and water the ground with her blood. I will avenge those murdered; a woman who cannot face her own crimes is not meant to be a queen-much less Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. How soon can we be on the move?"

"Within the hour, your Highness. I will tell them you grow restless." With that he was gone, blue hem disappearing around the corner of the open door. His boots clicked down the hallway, fading into the distance the farther away he got.

"We cannot stay here." Daenerys said as soon as he was out of earshot, pushing her plate to the center of the table as though disgusted by it and standing up as if she could no longer sit still. It was a feeling Jon knew well; he felt the same way. "We have wasted enough time as it is. A madwoman rules King's Landing and is killing my subjects needlessly. Time is of the essence."

"Perhaps she will listen to reason when she has no other choice-when she realizes that our host is on the march-"

"Or it will only make her angrier. She is already insane. She will not listen to reason-and that will make her dangerous." Her fingernails dug into her arms so hard Jon could see little white scratches forming on her smooth skin.

"The city will not be on her side-"

"That won't matter if she has more wildfire. If she uses it again Jon, we could all be doomed. Tyrion has told me about just how destructive it can be-apparently, my father kept some under the city in case of a siege-and if there's more of it, our job could be much harder."

He spoke as calmly as he could, knowing she needed to be calm before they moved forward. "Or she may have just delivered us more allies. The Tyrells are all but extinct-and I wouldn't be surprised to find she has driven them to your doorstep." Targaryen, Stark, Tyrell, and Martell. An unstoppable force. An unholy alliance. She won't stand a chance, with wildfire or without it.

It took them nearly half a day to reunite with their troops, after bidding hasty farewells and words of thanks to Littlefinger and Lord Arryn. They had to travel back through the mountains, Mychel leading them down different pathways through the mountains that were usually cold and windy, making Jon worry all over again for their safety. By the time they were finally able to be on the move again the sun was just beginning to slip towards the western horizon; they marched until nearly moonrise, rejuvenated after their short rest and more than ready to reach King's Landing.

~FAS~

Nymeria didn't say much.

She said almost nothing for the entire journey across the Narrow Sea, preferring to stay ensconced in her cabin looking over maps of the Seven Kingdoms. Whispers about her spread over the ship-from the merchants in their richly decorated cabins, returning home after months of trade throughout the Free Cities and inquiring after the wives and children they had left behind; to the cabin stewards and their far off dreams of glory; to the few other passengers who had paid for a room and a few square meals, who spent their days strolling the cabin decks and revelling in the open air. No one knew who she was or where she had come from; some said she was a shadowbinder from Asshai while others believed she was a merchant's daughter whose father had been killed in Volantis after betting poorly in the fighting pits. No one talked to her and she never volunteered any information; she got off the boat as soon as it landed in Gulltown, worming her way among the people on the crowded deck until she was lost in the city itself. Her shipmates just as quickly forgot about her; she had been unimpressive in every way, with short dark hair and large dark eyes.

She stayed two days in an inn near the waterfront while she tried to get her bearings in a strange new world-one she barely remembered. It had been a long time since she had been to Westeros and much had changed. There was strange news in the air: the king was dead, the queen was insane and commanded a vast hoard of green fire that destroyed everything it touched, the Great Sept of Baelor was no more, and a pale haired dragon queen from the East was marching to King's Landing to save or destroy them all-in fact, she would be arriving in a couple of days' time to join her newly acquired Northern forces to the rest of her army. It was all the city could talk about: a Targaryen reborn, with silver hair, violet eyes, and three dragons so massive they blocked out the sun.

She saw the ships in the harbor: every one flying the black Targaryen standard over a different flag marked with a golden kraken. The Iron Fleet, they told her, in between their frenzied cleaning and hasty stitching of dragon banners of their own. A few had old ones, saved from the days before the rebellion, yellowed and tattered by age but still waved proudly when caught by the right wind. Yara Greyjoy seeks to make an alliance.

Daenerys Targaryen. The Stormborn. The Unburnt. The tales were almost fantastical-she walked through the flames of her husband's funeral pyre and walked out with three baby dragons. She had conquered Slaver's Bay and freed its slaves, renaming it the Bay of Dragons instead. She was a dragon rider. The slaves called her their mother. She had lain with a Dothraki horselord and could speak their strange, barbaric language. She was the most beautiful woman in the world. She bathed in the blood of infants and virgins to keep her beauty. She was Azor Ahai. She was the Prince who was Promised. She was a devil, a heathen, some heretics claimed. She would doom the world to shadow. She was a savior. She was a killer. She was a queen. She would destroy Queen Cersei and reduce King's Landing to rubble.

Only one thing, Nymeria thought, was certain: she was on her way.

Nymeria didn't care much about the Dragon Queen one way or the other. She was a politician-and politicians were always ruthless. Why did it matter if she was any different than Joffrey or Cersei? The Seven Kingdoms would always have a monarch; why did it matter whether she was a Lannister or a Targaryen, a Tyrell or a Martell? The common people would always lose. In fact, she wanted to leave the city and head north to Winterfell-her family was at Winterfell, she was certain of that; the castle was theirs. Her older sister had been pronounced Queen in the North; Nymeria wondered if she would still recognize her, after all these years. Was she the same as she'd always been? Probably not. The only people who survived the Game of Thrones were the people who'd adapted and changed.

She'd certainly changed over the last six years; she was certain of that.

But the city was full of people. More and more flooded in every day, from all over the surrounding towns and cities. They talked in excited voices about the Queen; some of them had seen her at Winterfell, when she'd talked to the common people and told them about the Free Cities. Her hair was like white silk, her voice like a smooth river. She was nothing like her father, nothing like the Lannisters-and she would have her throne back. She would rule the Seven Kingdoms; her right to rule was divine. It almost made Nymeria sick; they seemed to worship her, and soon everyone else was worshipping her too. The town was filled with Targaryen flags, the inns were full to capacity, and the traffic was so bad she couldn't have gotten out on foot-much less in a wagon. So, whether she liked it or not, Nymeria was stuck. She wandered restlessly up and down the waterfront, watching those ships bobbing in the harbor and stealing between shops and taverns to listen to people talk.

Then she heard someone bring up the hero of the Battle of Winterfell-Jon Snow, the Stark bastard who had refused legitimization to aid the Dragon Queen in her conquest and lead the Northern forces to victory in King's Landing. That was when she got excited; she'd once had a brother with that same name, a brother who had liked to play with swords and dream about things he could could never be and never have. He'd given her Needle, her sword that she still carried with her everywhere she went just in case.

The column passed through two days later, on a clear but cold winter morning with the sun shining through a frosty blue sky. Nymeria was roused at dawn like everyone else, lured from her room at the inn by the commotion in the tavern below. The streets were crowded with people; only a few hedge knights dressed in what looked like homemade armor yelled at everyone to stay back-needless to say, they weren't having much of an impact. She tried to push her way to the front of the crowd but found her way blocked by an almost impenetrable wall of people. The shouting grew louder and louder as the minutes passed-and as, presumably, the soldiers came closer to the main square. She found herself on the balls of her feet, tense and waiting for whatever would come next. There was always the chance that the man had been wrong, but she doubted it-after all, how many resurrected bastards named Jon Snow could there really be?

Suddenly the shouting reached a fever pitch and she found herself on the tips of her toes craning to see over the people in front of her. There was a moment of expectation and cautious wonder-and then the first set of horses rounded the corner of the square.

Her eyes quickly took in the four men dressed completely in black who rode in front of, behind, and on either side of the Queen in tight formation. Although it looked like they were doing their best to keep their cool it was obvious they were affected by the crowd's runaway love just as much as the woman they were supposed to be protecting; they were grinning and even waving, dressed proudly in their Night's Watch robes.

And then of course there was the Queen herself. The rumors hadn't been wrong-she was beautiful. Her long blonde hair had been pulled back into braids, but quite a bit of it still hung long down her back. Her smile was radiant as she looked at everyone crowding the square wall to wall, hanging out of windows or climbing up onto rooftops and shouting to get her attention. She truly looked like a queen-capable and confident, without the harsh and cruel edge Queen Cersei gave off from three miles away. For just a moment, Nymeria allowed herself to be swept away with the crowd's frenzied excitement and imagine a world where this woman was queen-a better world, even. Their excitement propelled her long and gave her a wild hope, just for a moment…until she saw the man riding by her side. The man wearing the Stark direwolf on his jerkin, with the curly dark hair she could have recognized even in her sleep-the man who didn't look like he'd changed a bit since the days when she used to watch him play at swords in Winterfell's training yard so long ago.

Suddenly, it didn't matter that there were rows of people separating her from her brother. She was shoving her way through them, screaming his name over and over until she thought she would lose her voice. Past the villagers with their disapproving faces, past merchants in their fancy Tyroshi silks, even past the hedge knights who yelled at her to stop-and Nymeria fell away, leaving Arya Stark in her place.

Jon's head swiveled towards her and she saw the recognition-coupled with disbelief-flash in his eyes. Of course there was disbelief; he hadn't seen her since she left Winterfell so long ago. No one had. As far as the rest of the world knew, the youngest Stark daughter was just another name on a page-presumed dead, most likely. But not anymore-and never again would she fade into the background.

And then she was there, running straight past the Queen to reach his horse, even as he jumped down into the street to meet her halfway and pull her into a bone crushing hug. Before she could stop them tears began to stream down her face-large, wet tears borne from large, hiccuping sobs as he held her tightly. She whispered his name over and over again, hugging him as tightly as she possibly could and running her hand over his jerkin again and again to make sure it was really him, to make sure he wasn't going to leave her. Father's dead Mother's dead Robb's dead Bran's dead Rickon's dead how are you not dead too? She resolved at that moment to never let him go, not until they were reunited with Sansa and they could be a family again.

"Arya." he whispered, voice cracking from disbelief. "Arya, is that really you?"

"Of course it's me." she replied, working hard to force out the words between sobs that felt they were tearing her lungs out. "It's me. Jon, I heard you were dead. They...they said your men murdered you."

"They said you were dead too. How did you survive? How are you here?"

She wanted to tell him everything-all about Harrenhal, Gendry, the Hound, the Red Wedding, the House of Black and White, the Waif, all of it. But before she could she was suddenly ripped away from him by one of the hedge knights, obviously trying to keep some semblance of order. Around them, the crowd seemed to be coming apart at the seams. They shouted, screamed, and pressed forward to get a look at the commotion; Targaryen banners still raised high. But none of that mattered to Arya; all that mattered was the man who was unfortunate enough to try and separate her from her brother. "Let me go!"

"You're not supposed to be here, missy. Back to the rabble with you." He tried to toss her away but she spun out of his grasp easily, stomping down hard on his foot and twisting his arm to send him sprawling. Her eyes met Jon's: Make them stop it. Tell them who I am! Tell them that I'm coming with you!

As it turned out, her rescue came from a different source. "Release her. Now." The voice wasn't cold so much as it was firm, ordering and expecting to be obeyed. The knight reacted instantly, dropping into a low bow and allowing Arya to walk back to Jon's side; the crowd had gone completely silent. "I would like to talk with her myself." The Queen was looking at her, violet eyes appraising her brown ones in a way that didn't seem as judgmental as it did simply curious. "Who are you, girl?"

"This is my sister, Arya Stark, your Grace." Jon answered for her. "Up until now, she was presumed dead."

"Presumed dead...tell me, Arya, if you were presumed dead, how do you come to be standing before me today- years after you went missing?"

She looked around at the crowd all watching her as though she were some oddity that had fallen from the sky. "It's a rather long story. Your Grace." she added hastily, figuring she should probably get on the Queen's good side if she wanted to be reunited with Jon in any capacity. "Perhaps we could talk it over...later?"

For a second Daenerys listed her head imperceptibly to the side, considering the possibilities, before she nodded once. "Very well then. Lord Snow, do you trust her?"

Jon responded immediately. "She is my kin, your Grace. I would trust her with my very life."

"As you say. Arya of House Stark, you will travel with us on your brother's good faith until we figure out what can be done with you. Bring a horse." she added to one of her guards, who immediately turned and galloped down the column to repeat the Queen's request. Once a horse-a black gelding with the prettiest brown eyes Arya had ever seen-had been procured, Arya mounted and made to ride off. However, Jon stopped her; Daenerys was obviously going to address the crowd. "People of the North: those of you who are in this square will always remember this day. You will remember it for as long as you live, and when you are no longer old enough to remember anything you will tell it to your children and grandchildren so that they might remember it instead. This is the day you saw a dynasty restored-and your true queen!"

The cheers of the adoring crowd accompanied them long after they left the square and angled off towards the waterfront.

Jon nudged her as they rode, grinning so broadly his eyes seemed to shine. "She's not that bad really, once you get to know her."

"She didn't turn me away. I already guessed that. How did you get here, of all places? I would have thought you would be back at Winterfell, relishing the fact that for once you weren't being judged by your parentage but rather by your honor as a Stark."

He smiled, but she could sense there was something beyond it-some part of him, maybe, that hadn't yet given up on that dream. "Sansa deserves it more than I do-and as for the rest of it, it's a long story. What about you? Where have you been since Father's beheading?"

She couldn't stop smiling, not when things were finally falling into place and she felt she was the closest to home she'd been since the day she'd set out with the rest of the caravan headed to King's Landing and whatever lay beyond. She was with her brother, her sister was safe, Winterfell was theirs, and the Lannisters would soon be brought to their knees. For the first time in years, Arya Stark felt truly happy. "It's a long story."

~FAS~

Daenerys had certainly been expecting ships-but she hadn't been expecting quite this many. She knew her forces had been pressed for space as it was, they wouldn't be able to spare many ships and the Northerners would have to make do with what they could get. And yet the ships amassed in front of her seemed more like a fleet than a contingent. Then she noticed the flag flying from each of the ship's masts: a golden kraken on a black background. Greyjoys. But as far as she knew, the Greyjoys were on the other side of the country and hadn't offered much interest in alliances of any kind. Tyrion, what else happened while I was away?

"Do you know them?" Jon asked, pulling his horse to a stop next to hers and looking just as confused as she did.

"I don't think so." She leapt down from her horse easily, walking to the riverfront to meet the woman who was already waiting for her in front of the largest ship in the fleet-there had to be at least forty ships in the harbor and more waiting in the open waterways. Wearing a black jerkin with a golden kraken on it, the visitor looked like she was used to traveling on open ocean herself; her brown hair looked tossed by years of salt spray and her very bearing exuded an easy confidence from years traveling the seas.

"So what Tyrion Lannister said was true-you were passing through Gulltown. We've been camped here for days; I was beginning to think we should simply sail back to Dragonstone and wait for you there." she said, meeting Dany's eye coolly. "Yara Greyjoy, your Majesty. If it pleases you, I would present you the Iron Fleet to aid you in your conquest of Westeros. One hundred ships, of the very finest quality."

She couldn't deny that ships were exactly what her rapidly expanding army needed-unless of course she wanted her troops to swim across Blackwater Bay-but, as with all negotiations, Dany knew to be wary. "I've heard stories about this famed Iron Fleet-and I've heard there are far more than one hundred ships."

"You're correct-however, the other ships are in the hands of my uncle, Euron. He came back to Pyke after long years away, murdered my father, and took the crown for himself. There is no one to challenge his claim-my father had no more brothers, his only son is either dead or as good as, and the Iron Islanders would rather trust a kingslayer with a mouthful of lies and empty promises than allow a woman who has proved herself time and time again to be a capable captain at sea to sit the Salt Throne. He's building a bigger fleet as we speak; when he's finished, he intends to present them to you along with his hand in marriage-and trust me, your Grace, this is not a union you want to involve yourself in. He wants the Iron Throne for himself, and he'll have you murdered as soon as he deems you've outlived your usefulness." Daenerys smirked; she had no intention of even considering marriage prospects until the throne was hers-and Euron Greyjoy was far off her radar.

"And I suppose you want my help in securing the throne that is rightfully yours?"

"And murdering an uncle who doesn't believe that girls can be rulers of men." It sounded like a manageable task-and necessary, if she stood a chance of securing her own throne in Westeros.

"Has a woman ever sat the Salt Throne?"

"No more than a woman has ever sat the Iron Throne-but that doesn't seem to be much of a deal breaker to you." She gestured to the rows upon rows of Northern soldiers, waiting for her command to prepare for boarding. "The ships I have brought you are the best in the fleet, and their crews are loyal and competent. They will serve you well."

"I'm sure they will." She decided to cut to the chase; the sun was riding across the sky as they spoke and she wanted to be well on her way by the time the tide went back out. "Is vengeance all you seek-or does your offer have another clause?"

"The Ironborn have always been a neglected people, your Majesty. I merely seek the opportunity to govern them as I will; your ancestors conquered us long ago and I simply ask for it back."

"Certainly manageable." She wished for a second that Tyrion was here to advise her; she didn't want to make a foolish decision. But she also knew, just as surely, that decisions like these were hers to make; if she wanted to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, she had to learn to rely on her own judgment. And she judged that Yara spoke the truth-her demands were reasonable and her ships were badly needed. "I've heard tell that your father was a terrible king."

The Ironborn smiled a quick smile, as though it had come out almost unintentionally. "I've heard the same about yours."

"They were both awful rulers-and they both left the world worse than they found it. But we'll be different; we'll make the world better. And when we leave it, our subjects will remember us for being kind and just rulers-not tyrants." With that, they shook on it and the deal was struck. "We'll sail for Dragonstone and meet with the rest of the fleet there. Ready your men and make the final preparations for sailing."

She felt rather than heard Jon dismount and come to her side, watching their new ally as she headed to the nearest ship and called something unintelligible to one of the many sailors scrambling among the masts and rigging like sea monkeys. "It looks like my soldiers will have more space now; they will appreciate that."

"It won't change things that much." Dany replied, watching the heads of each delegation trying to arrange themselves into neat groups and shouting over each other to be heard. The docks rang with their yells, joining the yells of the Ironborn at sea and the townspeople on land, the crack of wooden masts as the boats shifted in the harbor, and the snap of flags on tall flagpoles. An air of excitement hung in the air; they were finally on their way. For most of the Northerners, this would be their first time in the real South-including Jon. "They'll still have to share rooms."

"I think they're all used to that by now."

"This is your first journey below the Neck isn't it, Lord Snow?" She wondered how hard it would be for the wolf to shed his fur pelt as the temperature climbed.

"Yes it is. I've heard that the capital is beautiful this time of year-although Highgarden is undisputedly the most beautiful castle in the Seven Kingdoms. A pity we won't be stopping at the Reach."

"On the goodwill tour back north, perhaps.I'm sure they would be eager to welcome home heroes of the war." She caught sight of Arya standing near the back of a regiment of soldiers dressed in the colors of House Mormont, looking as though she had no idea where to go or what to do. "Your sister doesn't act much like a lady of Winterfell."

Jon laughed. "She never did. She would always rather play at swords than with dolls and my mother despaired of marrying her off. But she is kind, underneath that exterior of hers; loyal to a fault to the people she cares about, and extremely trustworthy." He cleared his throat; she wondered if the reality was still sinking in for him. Just this morning, he'd thought she was dead-they all had. "Thank you for not turning her away."

"How could I? She's kin of yours-and little more than a child besides. Although I am quite excited to hear what she's been up to these past few years."

Jon laughed. "So am I. I think I'm going to make sure she settles in all right, perhaps find her a room on one of the ships. I trust you're busy as well?"

"Yes, of course." She was always busy these days-and her duties would only increase once she reached Dragonstone, with advisors to speak to, armies to command, and plans to go over again and again until she could conquer Westeros in her sleep. Strangely, this moment felt like the first moment of peace she'd had in quite a long time; it was almost a pity to let it go so soon. "I'll see you and Arya later, I assume?"

"Of course." He gave her one last smile and disappeared into the crowd, while she headed for her ship: it was the largest ship in the harbor of course, with a neatly carved dragon at its helm and a Targaryen banner snapping in the wind high above her head. She couldn't help feeling a thrill of excitement as every sailor she passed snapped to a sudden attention as soon as she passed them and her dragons circled high above her and made strange screeching noises every now and then with all of the excitement. Now, more than ever, she was on the home stretch. She had ships, she had allies, and she was returning to her birthplace. After nearly six years, the pieces were finally beginning to fall into place.

Now, more than ever, she was going home.

~FAS~

Regaining control of Dragonstone had been almost laughably easy.

Once stronghold of Stannis Baratheon, now his forces were all but scattered-they put up a defense that could hardly be called a battle and had easily been either taken prison, swore fealty to the Dragon Queen, or thrown themselves off of the castle's intricately carved ramparts. The Targaryen forces had wasted no time setting up camp in the Queen's absence; the members of the inner circle had staked out their own lodgings in the citadel itself while footsoldiers camped on the rest of the island proper or even on their own ships once they ran out of room. The Dothraki had claimed the eastern coast as their own and no one was willing to argue; everyone gave them quite a large berth.

It had fallen to Tyrion to get things in order; a task he had applied himself to with great fervor. Although he was less than pleased that Daenerys had decided to go gallivanting off to the North (in the middle of her own conquest, no less) with little to no advanced warning, she'd somehow managed to make an alliance with Sansa Stark and gained another twelve thousand troops.

Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North...it was always odd to hear his former wife's name used in that context. When he'd known her she'd been a scared girl, naive and easily manipulated-and now she'd grown to rule the most powerful castle in the North. He couldn't say he wasn't proud of her; she'd deserved better than Joffrey and the writhing mess of vipers that was King's Landing.

And then there had been the Greyjoys, who had arrived almost as soon as the Targaryen banner had been raised and demanded an audience with Daenerys. Tyrion had spent nearly six hours treating with Yara, trying to learn everything he could about her before he sent her off to Gulltown. Although he didn't exactly have good relations with the Greyjoys-he could still remember how Prince Theon had taunted him at Winterfell (although to be fair, who hadn't back in those days)-Yara seemed intelligent, sane, and forthright. Not to mention the fact that the Targaryen fleet needed more ships after what had happened in Meereen. They'd worked out the rudimentary details of the Alliance and then he'd sent a third of the Iron Fleet to meet Daenerys and her soldiers in Gulltown-and now Viserion had arrived with a letter from the Queen saying they were on their way.

"I'm sure you're sick of acting like a raven, aren't you?" he asked, tossing the golden dragon a slaughtered sheep (one of the 'dragon treats' he kept on hand for instances like this). Although Viserion certainly had warmed up to him and he didn't necessarily worry about the dragon suddenly turning on him-all of the time, at least-Tyrion still approached the creature with a healthy dose of caution born from years of reading cautionary tales about men who had tried to tame dragons and been maimed or killed terribly for their efforts. "If you're anything like your brothers, you probably believe it's beneath you-but I must thank you for your services. I'll be glad too, once your mother arrives."

There was still the small problem of what to do with the man who called himself Aegon Targaryen, who Tyrion had confined to a few rooms in the castle to wait for Daenerys's arrival. There was no possible way he could be who he said he was...and yet his hair and eyes certainly matched those of his supposed father. The only person who had any way of knowing whether or not the boy's story was true had died just before the host arrived, from greyscale; for all intents and purposes, he was simply another usurper-another wrench in the Queen's plans.

A soldier ran out onto the veranda and stopped near the doorway, bowing respectfully and waiting for Tyrion to turn around. "My lord, Aegon would like to see you now. He wishes to discuss what will happen to him upon the Queen's arrival."

He sighed, leaving Viserion to finish the snack in peace. "Tell him I'm on my way." He had done all he could to make the boy comfortable and still keep him out from underfoot-the last thing he wanted to do was have word get out that there was another Targaryen campaigning for the Iron Throne. For the most part, Aegon was being compliant enough; he often complained about being bored but he followed all of Tyrion's instructions and didn't cause any problems.

Aegon was seated by the window next to his bed, still draped in the yellow and black of House Baratheon, reading a book-though he got to his feet impatiently when Tyrion arrived. At first glance Tyrion had thought he was looking at a ghost;the man sitting in front of him had Rhaegar's long, lanky figure and white blond hair that brushed his shoulders. His eyes were a startlingly vibrant shade of violet in a way that was strongly reminiscent of Dany's. His mannerisms, even the way he carried himself, spoke volumes to a dynasty that should have died long ago; it was altogether too much like looking at a ghost. "Has my aunt returned yet?"

"Not yet, though she's on her way-and when she does return, I would suggest for your own sake that you not address her as such."

He sighed. "How can I prove to you that I am who I say I am-the true son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell, heir to my father's throne?"

"I think you'll find that a hard task to accomplish, considering the only man who could have vouched for you is dead from greyscale-and if you're waiting for Daenerys to hand over her birthright, you'll be waiting for a very long time."

"I don't wish to take her throne-gods know if it weren't for her our family would still be in ashes. I merely wish to help her rule."

"A marriage alliance of some sort?" He needed more wine. "I believe the Queen will be looking to wed someone from one of the great houses, to cement her right to rule."

Aegon scoffed. "Who will she wed? The Tyrells are all but extinct, the Martells killed off their last available male heirs, the Stark boys were pronounced dead ages ago, and all that remains of the Lannisters are a scattering of hedge knights and glorified bankers. I fear her options are extremely limited-and the Targaryen bloodline must be kept strong for future generations. You must understand that I am the best option she has."

"I trust Daenerys will make that decision for herself." Tyrion replied coldly. "If you don't mind me asking, how exactly did you manage to survive the horrors that befell your mother and sister for all these years without bringing the likes of the royal family down upon you?"

"The Targaryens have many supporters. I was rescued-and ever since, I have been groomed to claim my birthright." He gave Tyrion a smile that seemed like it was trying too hard to be regal. "And now I am ready to take my place in a larger world. I ask your help-I cannot conquer the Seven Kingdoms alone. I don't wish to take my aunt's throne-but I do demand recognition." He sighed and Tyrion fancied, just for a moment, that he could see through the cracks in his hastily constructed armor. "It's the least I can do for my parents and sister."

"When the Queen arrives, I will arrange a meeting as soon as I can. She will decide the truth in your claims. Have a good day." He left, hoping for Aegon's sake the so-called prince wouldn't do anything he'd regret later; while everyone was certainly jubilant, there was an underlying tension to the air that was liable to invent enemies when there weren't any there-and if it came to that, he knew of quite a few people who would be happy to run a false claimant off one of Dragonstone's many battlements.

Another messenger ran up to him, bowing so low his chestnut brown hair flopped into his face. "Lord Tyrion, our scouts have spotted ships from the Iron Fleet approaching from upriver. We believe our Queen may be among them."

Finally. "Very well then. Alert the populace-we're going to show her a welcome she won't soon forget." Aegon could wait another few hours. He had other, more pressing, matters to attend to.

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