Once again, thank you all so much for the support, whether through following, favouriting or, especially, reviewing. The reviews, especially, have carried me through writing this story that ended up being nearly twice as long as I had planned, and they will, I hope, carry me through writing the next story I am planning out. Again, I am sorry I haven't really had the chance to answer the reviews, and I am keeping my fingers crossed that some day soon RL will slow down enough for me to answer each review individually. Right now, it's not looking likely. But know that I read and treasure each and every one.

297 AC

Princess Daenerys Targaryen

Dany was exhausted. She had never stopped struggling, not once. Not when she was captured in the gardens of Illyrio Mopatis' manse, not when she was tied up and gagged and thrown over the back of a horse. Not when she was thrown on this ship and left in the bunk of a tiny, cramped cabin. She had snarled, had tried to bite through her gag, work her small hands through her bindings. Blood made her fingers sticky now, from where the ropes had bit into her wrists. And she was tired, so tired, and so frightened. It thrummed through her, made her shiver as though from cold, made her throat tight and her head feel as though someone had stuffed cotton inside her very skull.

Just when she thought there was no possible way she could stand it anymore, when the lull of the ship had made her half drowsy and more than a little seasick, the door opened and a tall, slender, middle-aged man wearing white armour stepped inside the cabin. "Princess," he greeted her, inclining his head in respect.

Dany blinked, and tried to place the man. She had never seen him before, was not sure what to make of him at all. There was a bat on his helm. But this could not possibly be Oswell Whent, could it? The Kingsguard had abandoned them, had not even cared to answer Viserys' missives. She swallowed, did not react otherwise. She could not have, even had she wanted to. Her bonds and gag prevented her.

With a sigh, her captor stepped forth and freed her from the gag. "I apologise for all this," he said. "The cheesemonger had his own plans for you, and they were not pretty. Nor would they have led you anywhere productive, unless you like the Dothraki Sea this time of the year. We had to remove you from his care." He paused a moment, grimaced. "I apologise again, My Princess. My years of exile have stolen some of my manners, I am afraid. I am Ser Oswell Whent, of the Kingsguard."

Dany narrowed his eyes, tried to stare him down the way she had seen Viserys stare down Lords unworthy of their attention and unwilling to give them their due. Of course, Viserys' stare was rarely effective, but for right now, it was all Dany had. "I thought you had forsaken the Kingsguard."

Ser Oswell had the temerity to laugh at that. At long last, he shook his head. "Never," he said. "I have served the true king since he was a squalling, ugly newborn with exceptionally pretty curls, and I shall do so until my last breath."

Dany blinked. "You ignored my brother entirely," she said.

"Your brother has no pretty curls that I have seen," he said, a slight grin on his face now. "Viserys is a second son, and not the useful kind of Second Son either. He must have forgotten what that means, but I hoped you were smarter than that. Your priss of a brother will sit no throne while a trueborn son of Rhaegar's lives."

Dany thought she actually felt her heart skip a beat at those words. The thought that Rhaegar's son still lived, that she might have family beyond Viserys, it frightened and excited her almost equally. Maybe Aegon would be kind, would be everything she had always wished and dreamed Viserys could be, but had known in the cruel light of the day he did not have within him. "Aegon survived?" she breathed.

"Rhaegar's son lives," Ser Oswell repeated, lips quirking. "His Lady Wife is at most a moon's turn away from birthing his first child. You have more family than you could possibly imagine." For a moment, his smile seemed almost kind. "And an old friend of mine informed me that he needs his family as well. He is lost and confused right now, and for all that he loves his wife and the people closest to him... A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing, or so I have been told."

Dany nodded, swallowed down another lump in her throat. How often had she felt just that? The crippling, biting loneliness, the cold fear and bleak isolation? How much had it dominated her life, even with Viserys in it? "May I meet him?" she asked.

Ser Oswell inclined his head. "If you swear fealty to your nephew, if you vow to never betray him and to follow him always, as any good princess should do for their king, I will take you to him."

For a moment, Dany's thoughts went to Viserys. Their mother had crowned him, she knew, before she had even been born. All her life, she had been told that Viserys was the rightful king, the true heir to the Targaryen name. Would leaving him for their nephew be yet another betrayal for her brother to bear? Or would he understand? He should. If Aegon still lived, he was the true king. Even Viserys would have no choice but to admit as much. And if so... was not going to him her privilege as much as her duty? And a babe. Something within her sang at the notion. A babe of her own blood, even if it was not hers. She would hold her and love her, and she would call her Aunt Dany, as her nephew might think himself too old to use that title. She would teach her Old Valyrian, and how to avoid her father's temper, if it were like Viserys'. Suddenly, that was all she wanted. "Is he a good man?" she asked. "My nephew?"

"The best my friend says he has ever known," Ser Oswell assured her. "The honour of an Arryn, the ferocity of a Stark and the heart of a Targaryen. The true kind, like your grandfather, and his father before him."

Dany was not entirely certain what any of that meant, but she hoped it was as good as it sounded. She let out a harsh breath. Felt a smile stretch her face. It was the first one that had really felt true in longer than she cared to remember. "I will swear fealty to my nephew," she promised. "He is the one true king." She swallowed again, more noisily than she might have wished. "And I wish to hold my great nephew or niece, and get to know my goodniece. Please, Ser Whent. All I ever wanted was family. To know so many of my kin still exist is the happiest thing I have heard for as long as I can remember."

He smiled, reached out and squeezed her shoulder. "Good girl," he told her. "You are the very image of your mother," he added then. "I pray to the Seven you have her kindness and wisdom. Your nephew needs women in his life who are not Tyrells. Gods know the queen dominates her husband already."

Somehow, despite herself, despite the fact that she knew he was warning her of a weakness in her own House, the words brought a smile to Dany's lips. A king who would let his queen's words matter, have weight, would have to be a kind, gentle man, would he not? Maybe, even if he loved this supposed Tyrell bride of his, he would have something left for her as well, for his own aunt. Maybe, one day, he would love her too, as she did not think Viserys had since she had killed their mother to come into the world.

It was only after Ser Oswell left that she realised the only young Tyrell woman from the main line she had heard talk of was the one wed to the Usurper Stark of Dragonstone. She shook her head. No, obviously there had to be another sister. Or a cousin, even. Her nephew must be hidden or exiled somewhere. Considering his circumstances, the cousin to a Great House was still a more than decent match. And she would make friends regardless. She had had enough of being alone, now that she knew that more of her blood existed out there in the world.

Lady Olenna Tyrell

Olenna could not help the smile spreading over her face as she watched Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, knight her grandson. He had earned it, she knew. Even with no battle or obvious strife, young Loras had earned this in a way many knights had not. He had seen his liege lord rushing into danger, and had followed at his own peril. That was more than many seasoned knights could claim. It had taken moons, nearly half a year, for Loras to regain his full strength, but now that he had, he looked stronger and more determined than ever, and Olenna could not remember the last time she had been so proud of anyone. She glanced out the corner of her eye, caught sight of her Margaery, her belly large and swollen beneath the clothes she had sewn at Loras' bedside. She looked ready to burst, but also content. No, that was not the word. Olenna had been content for most of her life. Margaery, she looked more than that. She looked happy, radiantly so, and the way her eyes softened when they settled upon her husband was more than enough to warm even Olenna's old, frozen heart. There would be a babe within a sennight, if Olenna was not very mistaken, and it would be lovely. For all that they were painfully young, the both of them, Olenna could not help but think they would be far better parents than most. Another point of pride for her.

Down in Dorne, Garlan had wed as well, and Olenna had travelled with Jaehaerys, Benjen Stark and Ser Arthur Dayne to attend the festivities, and just a moon ago they had received a raven announcing that Arianne Martell was expecting the next ruler of the southernmost kingdom.

All they needed was the Iron Throne, and she would be fit to burst with all her family had accomplished. And to be honest, right here and now, watching everything playing out in front of her, she did not mind the wait. She was a patient woman. Every small success now would make the big success later that much sweeter, and that much more earned, not that the Tyrells had not been working to earn it for the past three centuries. Still, she struggled to even recall songs of a Targaryen monarch looking upon his queen like Jaehaerys looked upon Margaery. She struggled to remember as proud and deserving a knight as her Loras. And never before had Tyrell blood been in line for Sunspear. Her pride was well earned.

Something within her fluttered with an almost childish giddiness as she looked on her Margaery's Lord Husband again. It had been five moons since her granddaughter had pulled her into the Lord's chambers, silent and seeming almost struck speechless. The boy had been sitting there, on the floor of his bedchamber with four tiny, newly hatched dragons climbing all over him. He had turned to face them, and in the firelight, his eyes had looked almost purple. Olenna would prefer not to remember how close she had come to fainting, how only Margaery's hand on her elbow had kept her knees from buckling.

Before that, when she had first resigned herself to her granddaughter's marriage, she had also resigned herself to usurping the Usurper, to putting another pretender on the Throne. At least this one was good-hearted and clever and would make her Margaery queen. But a usurper nonetheless. She had resigned herself to spurning Prince Viserys if he ever returned from exile, to lying the rightful heir to the House her own owed so much to, in the face. She had decided, on the day of the wedding, to forget the truth, to do her best to believe and to never think on the matter of the boy's true origins. For the sake of her granddaughter, her House, to keep growing strong, it was what she would have to do. So she had allowed herself to focus on those of the boy's features that seemed so deceptively Targaryen, on the faith of his Valyrian bannermen, on his skill with a sword, the love his people had for him, and the quiet dignity with which he held himself. To put her faith in the humility and good heart her grandson could never seem to get enough of telling her about, the knight's heart without the title of 'Ser'.

Relief and awe had crashed through her at the sight of the boy and his dragons. There were no lies, except the necessary ones. No schemes, only the righteous plot to put the true king on the Throne. Her Margeary's husband truly was a Targaryen. The dearest wish of her family had truly come true. To her shame, it had been all she could do not to weep.

She was not a particularly loyal woman, to anyone outside her family. Had never considered herself as such. But she had been a Tyrell long enough to know the debt they owed the Targaryens, and that their fates would be far better with a good Targaryen King on the Throne than that lumbering Baratheon lackwit.

Now, Loras rose from where he was kneeling on the floor, bleary-eyed from his long vigil, and turned towards Jon Stark - Jaehaerys Targaryen; Gods, it was a good plot when even she wondered what to call the boy. "Your Grace," Loras said, and Olenna was suddenly beyond grateful that Ser Arthur had ordered everyone out and banned any audience beyond the most trustworthy from witnessing her grandson's knighting, even if she had been displeased when she had first learnt of it. "I know it is customary to be appointed and recommended for the position, but your Kingsguard, while it has three noble knights, has four empty places. I would like to humbly request that you consider me for one of them."

Olenna held her breath. Like Loras said, it was rather irregular for a knight to request the honour. Still, she thought he had earned the right. Had he not already proven his loyalty to Jon? Was his loyalty towards Margaery - his sister - and the babe - his niece or nephew - not beyond question? He was a third son, and as such, being a Kingsguard was a worthy and honourable pursuit, one she commended him fully for wanting to take. Jon would take him. How could he not? The two were as close as Prince Rhaegar and Ser Arthur Dayne had ever been, and their blood united far more recently besides. Jon would not deny her boy this honour.

"I recommend the boy, Your Grace," Ser Arthur Dayne spoke up. "He is strong and honourable and deadly. Very few opponents will be able to stand up to him, in a tourney or on a battlefield." He paused for a moment. Then, "Let him pretend to be his sister's sworn sword. He is a third son; no one would question it, or the fact that his protection extends to you as well. And he is loyal. Of that, I have no doubt."

Jon smiled, and Olenna could breathe again, though she knew she would treasure Arthur Dayne's words for the rest of her life, whatever the outcome. She knew her grandson would as well. "I want to accept, Loras," Jon said, far less formal than the others had been. "You must know I do. But you would have to lie, to dishonour yourself, for a while at least. Perhaps for good. Stay in the shadows without being able to fully explain your cause. I cannot ask that of you."

"That is why you are not asking," Loras said. "I am offering. I am asking. I want you on the Throne, like everyone who knows the truth. I want to protect you until you get there, and I want to protect you afterwards. Your Grace." The last was said with a cheeky smile, a jest and an afterthought all at once, and Olenna would have boxed the boy's ears if she did not know he and Jon had the closeness to warrant it. As it was, she was rather grateful this was the form her grandson's infatuation had taken, rather than some fruitless pursuit. No one could tear Jon and Margaery apart, she was grateful to know. Not even Loras, had he wanted to, even had Jon been of the inclination. She was proud of how her grandson bore his pain, made something productive of it, even if she ached for him in the midst of her delight.

Jon's expression retained hesitation for long moments, and Olenna could not say she was surprised. The foolish boy had no wish for the Throne, even if he was clever enough to know that sooner or later he would have to take it or watch his family put to the sword. At long last, his face broke into a smile. He rose from his chair. "Then I accept," he said. The tiny dragon that had been hiding behind his chair hopped out of the shadows and climbed his cloak to sit on his shoulder. It was the green and black one, she noticed, rather than the black and white, which had taken to roaring at its brothers recently and ignoring its master while the black and green - Longclaw, she thought the boy had named it - followed Jaehaerys around unfalteringly. Again, Olenna was beyond grateful that only the most trusted people were here. If news of the dragons got out, it would move their schedule up. They could bear it, but not as easily as if they had been fully prepared. Still, the beasts never ceased to fill her with awe and joy. She could not believe she was one of the witnesses to the dragons' return. She was struck with happiness at being part of these times they lived in, where only a few years ago she could have sworn only sorrow and empty scheming would be left to them, only attempts at forging something good out of the ashes of the Seven Kingdoms of old. Now they had dragons, and a Dragon King, and her dragon great grandchild on the verge of being born, and Olenna was rendered near motionless by a fierce, proud joy that she thought would carry her through everything and anything. Jon, in front of her, turned to Ser Arthur. "I am afraid I do not know the vows," he admitted.

Ser Arthur smiled. "Only the rightful king and his true Kingsguard does," he said. "From everything I have heard, even Barristan's oath to the Usurper was incomplete." He turned to Loras. "Ser Loras," he said. "If everyone else will leave the room, and you, Ser Loras, repeat after me..."

Olenna Tyrell left the room with her head held high and her arm wrapped around her granddaughter's.

Princess Daenerys Targaryen

"We will make land soon, My Princess," Ser Oswell told her, sticking his head into the cabin without entering entirely, in a way that suggested he would be there only briefly before exiting once more. He tossed in a bundle of clothes. "I apologise for the quality, but we cannot exactly march you through the gate wearing silks." He, she noticed, was wearing a rough spun tunic and simple boiled leather rather than his usual plate and cloak. He made to withdraw, and Dany felt another fierce burst of desperation rush through her, mixing with the fear and anticipation that had made her stomach churn almost continuously for the entirety of their sennights long journey.

"Wait," she called. She swallowed down her nerves. "What of my brother?"

"He remains in Essos with my sworn brother," Ser Oswell said. "Prince Viserys is known to presume too much, My Princess. He needs to be taught the truth of things before we can introduce him to His Grace. It is my hope that within time, he can be brought here as well. If nothing else, it should be amusing to watch."

Dany nodded, swallowed again. As much as part of her was fiercely glad to be away from him, she missed Viserys so much it hurt. All her life, he had been her one constant, her whole family and the one person she could rely upon. She understood, though. Her brother would not take kindly to learning that he was not the rightful heir to the Throne, and it would do no one any good if he came to their nephew still screaming about what he should be given, what he believed should be his. Still, Dany wished he were here. She wished she were not coming to meet their nephew alone. What if he did not like her? What if he saw her and Viserys as threats and tossed them right back out on the streets? Or worse. What need did he have for them, with a wife of his own and an heir already so close?

However, as much as she dreaded meeting Aegon, she longed for it as well. She longed to see the face of the man who had been a babe in arms when her brother had last seen him, who was so close to her in age. She longed for more family, for someone who she could trust, who might love her without hurting her like Viserys was prone to. And if she wanted that to happen, she had best prepare herself.

She stripped out of the silk dress, which was not exactly presentable anymore either way. Then she pulled on the drab, rough spun dress Ser Oswell had presented her with. The fabric itched her skin, and the cut was foreign. She took a moment to wonder where it even was they were taking her. Where might they have hidden Aegon for all these years? Ser Oswell had not told her to cover her hair, so it had to be somewhere that still held Valyrian descendents. Myr or Lys, perhaps. Or the Stepstones. No. No one would have raised a Prince of the Blood, the rightful king, in a pirates' nest.

As she ascended onto the deck and looked ahead at the land becoming visible ahead of them, she barely bit back a gasp. She did not need anyone to tell her where she was. Even if she had not recognised it from Viserys' stories, she thought her very soul would still have recognised Dragonstone. The home of her ancestors, the place where she was born. But how? How could Aegon be here? Last she heard, Dragonstone was held by Eddard Stark's bastard. How, then, could Ser Oswell think she would be safe here? Unless he meant to give her up. A sharp stab of fear went through her, but before she had time to do anything, they docked in the harbour and Ser Oswell gripped her arm and led her down the gangplank.

Dany's hands trembled and her legs felt less than steady underneath her. Her stomach turned. She wanted to turn around, to run back, go back to Essos and Viserys where, even when everything was uncertain, she was at least not being given up to their enemies. She swallowed painfully, made to jerk her arm free.

Ser Oswell looked at her with eyes that were strangely compassionate. "I swore an oath to your family once," he said, barely breathing the words just under his breath. Dany barely heard him. No one around them could possibly have. "I am no oathbreaker."

Dany fought to lower her own trembling voice until it was as inaudible as his. "The Starks hold Dragonstone," she breathed. "This is not safe. My nephew... You cannot mean to tell me he is here."

Ser Oswell opened his mouth to answer, but before he got quite that far, a tall man, younger than Ser Oswell by maybe half a decade or a bit more, with dark hair and violet eyes, stepped into view. He looked between them, then gave a brief nod, grasping Ser Oswell's free arm in a tight clasp, the greeting of two long-time comrades. "Come quickly," he said, voice kept just as soft as Ser Oswell's was. "Margaery has just taken to the birthing bed. Jon is about to go out of his skin, and our newest brother is not much better off. I must be there."

Ser Oswell nodded, and without ever breaking his hold on her arm, he followed the other man, upping their pace until Dany's shorter legs could barely keep up. Dany's head was spinning, and all she could do was stumble along in their wake. There was no way she would be able to slip away now, not with two of them, not with the rush they were apparently in. Margaery... Did that mean Margaery Tyrell? But she was wed to Jon Stark, Lord of Dragonstone, and that had to be who the new man had said was going out of his skin. Which meant, she realised with a sinking heart and growing, freezing panic, that regardless of Ser Oswell's reassurances, they really did mean to hand her over to her enemies.

Under different circumstances, passing through the gates to Dragonstone proper would have been a dream come true for her. She would have wanted to stop and take in all the sights and smells and sounds, all the tiny wonders of being back home at long last. Now, though, it was all she could do to keep from crying, keep from sobbing out the fear that gripped her tight in icy jaws. She did not see any of the sights they passed. She did not smell anything, or hear anything. She could not, over the pounding of her own pulse in her ears. She could barely draw breath. Vaguely, she was aware of the fact that they were passing through into another, more private, courtyard. The training yard, she deduced, when she saw the glint of steel in front of her.

Two boys were there, sparring hard enough that sweat shone on their faces. They could not be much older than her, but they were both taller and broader, though they were both slender and one was shorter than his movements with the sword would imply. She took in the sight of them, even as the sight of their bared steel struck fresh fear within her. Somehow, despite herself, her eyes seemed to insist on sticking to the smaller of the boys. He moved with an almost predatory grace, even though something about him seemed distracted. Thick, near-black curls swung about his cheeks with every move he made, and once or twice she saw a flash of dark eyes against skin paler than her own. Something about him was familiar even through her haze of fear, made him, despite the situation, feel safe in a way that was all instinct and showed not a whit of sense on her part.

"Jon," the man who had met them shouted. "Should you not be wearing grooves in the floor outside the birthing chamber?"

The fighting in front of them ceased, and both young men turned to face them. The taller one moved into position at the shoulder of the one called Jon - Jon Stark, she reminded herself, legitimised bastard of the Usurper's dog. The stance seemed so natural. She had no idea what to make of it. Jon Stark shrugged, looked almost bashful for a moment. "This seemed more productive," he said at last. She saw his hand twitch, even after he had sheathed the sword. The leather covered hilt and crossguard looked almost absurd against what Dany was near certain had to be Valyrian steel. His gaze flickered up towards the Stone Drum even as he spoke and he was shifting from foot to foot.

The man who had brought her here looked like he might almost laugh, but he was nervous too, Dany realised, though he hid it better than the boys. "You have guests," he said then, voice even. "I would have you meet them in the Lord's solar."

Jon Stark's dark grey eyes widened for a moment before he nodded and led the way. Both of the other men fell into step at his shoulders, almost like an honour guard. No, Dany realised. They were within Jon Stark's own home, and they were both still armed, one hand always near the hilt of their swords. Not an honorary guard. A very serious one, almost like she would have imagined the Kingsguard of old. Ser Oswell kept his grip on her arm as he pulled her along with their 'hosts'.

It seemed to take an eternity before they entered into a large solar. It was warm and utilitarian all at once, and lived in, judging by the books of laws and ships lying open on the desk. The tapestry on the far wall was of Targaryen origin. She did not recognise it, but she remembered Viserys' stories of Queen Alysanne's visit to the Wall and her granting of the New Gift. Viserys had thought her quest as silly as her long-standing grudge against her husband the king, and her giving away land to a useless Order of men who were not even knights downright foolish. Dany could never really help but admire her, if for nothing else than her courage to stand up to her brother-husband, the King.

"Your Grace," the violet-eyed stranger said once the door had shut behind them, and with a jolt of surprise, Dany looked away from the tapestry to see that the man was addressing Jon Stark. "May I present my Sworn Brother, Ser Oswell Whent of the Kingsguard." He paused, just long enough for Ser Oswell to take the knee and Jon Stark to give a deep, albeit distracted, nod of acknowledgement. "And your aunt, the Princess Daenerys." He turned towards her, then. "My Princess. I apologise for the rough handling and the secrecy, but not everywhere is safe, even in the seat of your family's power." He paused a moment, inclining his head to her. "May I present to you your nephew, Jaehaerys of Houses Targaryen and Stark, Third of his Name and the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms."

Dany's breath caught. Her eyes immediately swooped back to Jon Stark. And she saw what she had not, before. His familiarity had a reason after all, then. He shared Viserys' nose and chin. His mouth, while more generous, seemed to come from the same cast. The slant of their eyebrows and the curve of their foreheads were nearly the same, for all that Jon Stark's was set in a longer face. She did not know what to make of it. She did not understand, could not make all the pieces fit. A rush of blood to her head made her dizzy, made her sway on her feet. In front of her, Jon Stark's eyes seemed to have widened, and he was staring at her in mute shock, which, even then, did not look quite as great as the one that was threatening to send her crashing to the floor at any moment.

Out the corner of her eye, she was vaguely aware of a door that was open to just a crack. It must lead to his bedchambers. And as she watched, most of her attention still on this boy they claimed was her nephew, she just barely caught sight of the door opening fully. Something came through, squeaking softly and balancing precariously on immature limbs. It looked like an awkward winged lizard, its scales glittering black and white. It stared at her with red eyes, and something inside Dany went still at the sight. Her fears and uncertainties seemed to wash away, and all she could do was stare at the tiny thing. Another one came out behind it, milky white and violet, and another, pale blue and silver, and a final one of green and black, and Dany sucked in a sharp breath. Awe raised her up, and she was so amazed, so, so... She did not know the words to describe it. She was home. She was safe. What they had said was true. She did not know the details yet, and she did not need to, not with true dragons staring her in the face from behind the form of her nephew. She was home.

Gasping out a sudden sob, she rushed forward and threw her arms around Jon Stark, Jaehaerys Targaryen, whatever his name was, and clutched him to her. Rather more slowly, his arms came up to encircle her, but when they finally did, he clutched her to him, shuddering against her, his breath uneven against her temple. "My sweet nephew," she breathed, even though he was bigger and stronger and older than her. "My sweet, sweet nephew." He just held her more tightly.

Dany could not have possibly said how long they stood there, both fighting down sobs as they clung to each other. The three knights of the Kingsguard in the chamber - and she knew that must be what they all were - did nothing to interrupt. Even the dragons did not interrupt, though she thought she felt them climbing all around them, tiny claws clinging to their clothes while carefully never piercing their skin. And she felt home, and she felt safe, like she never had before. She did have family, family that was not Viserys, someone with her blood who would not harm or punish her for something she could not help, and that was everything, all she had ever wanted. From the way he held her, she thought he must feel at least a little of the same.

At long last a knock on the door interrupted them. The servant did not come in; apparently they were well trained, as befit Dragonstone. "Lord Stark," the servant called through the heavy wood of the door. "The Lady Margaery is near to birthing the babe. Lady Olenna requests that you come to the birthing chamber and be ready to meet your child."

Dany felt him go rigid against her, and looked up to see the naked fear and hope on his face, the breathless quality of it. And she felt it herself. Family. All she had ever wanted was family, and even now her House might be growing by a member. She squeezed his forearm, dredged up a smile for him. "Go, Jaehaerys," she said, and she could not have kept her voice steady if she had tried. "Go meet your babe."

Jaehaerys gave a jerky nod. Then he walked out with the younger of the unidentified men following him so closely Dany almost thought he would be racing his king there if not for the dignity of the knight of the Kingsguard. She felt shaky, utterly exhausted by the events of the day, the past moon's turn, and all the years before, everything that had happened since she was last here, at home in Dragonstone. Her legs gave out beneath her, and she might have slumped all the way to the floor in weariness and relief if Ser Oswell had not caught her and swept her up in his arms. He said something about the servants' quarters, but Dany could not have cared less. She was home. She would have slept in the Dragonmont, had she had to.

A/N: Dany is not and will not be the character we know from either the books or the TV series. She never goes through the experiences that shape her canon self, and so she has more in common with the meeker, more careful and gentle girl she was before her involvement with the Dothraki. This means that, yes, all her scenes from here on out will probably seem wildly OOC, but she simply lacks the experiences that shaped her canon self.

I would also like to add that I have followed and very much enjoyed the discussions raised in the comments of the previous chapter. Again, I honestly encourage you all to keep it up. Even if I don't have the time to participate, that does not mean the comments shouldn't be an interactive place. However, I do want to add that each character has their own unique viewpoint that doesn't necessarily match up with my own. If all characters were simply reflections of my own opinions of muddled medieval law and one single view of canon, it wouldn't be a story at all, just a collection of strawmen. I love your discussions, and enjoy all the unique perspectives. Just a brief reminder that the views brought forward in a story do not necessarily reflect the views of the writer. Also, the question of 'rightful' or lawful succession will be brought up in a much later chapter.

One new question did pop up: Where is Ser Davos? I did consider including him in the story, but I didn't want to make it even longer by bringing in characters not pretty central to the plot, as much as I love Davos Seaworth. If you're in a fatalistic mood, assume he died with Stannis in the Greyjoy Rebellion. If you're of a sunnier disposition, assume that after Stannis died, Davos retired to the holdfast he was given to spend time with his wife and ridiculous number of sons and is happy and satisfied there, though he still grieves for Stannis.

Next up: Jon meets his firstborn. Naming babes is a surprisingly tricky business. And once again, the realm decides to involve itself in Dragonstone affairs.