Thanks so much for all the support. It means the world to me, and the reviews always brighten up my day.

Tusind tak til jer, der lagde beskeder på dansk og norsk. Det er altid sjovt at se ;P

299 AC

Ser Oswell Whent

Ser Oswell did his very best to keep his cool. It should have been much easier than this; he had spent years serving Mad King Aerys, had stood and watched, to his shame, as Aerys burnt people alive, as he took gentle Rhaella against her will, as he turned up his nose at his own granddaughter. Ser Oswell should be used to it all by now. But it had been a decade and a half. He had been away from all that, had been his own man and made his own fortune, even if he had done it all in the name of the boy he hoped could truly be a king. He was no longer content to follow the whims of madmen. And looking at the raging lunatic before him right now, all he could do was curse the fact that he was the king's uncle, that Oswell, after everything, was still sworn to do no harm to Jaehaerys' kin. Even so, his fist inched with the need to smack some sense into the boy. For two years now, Prince Viserys had been shuttled back and forth between himself and Gerold in the hopes that he could one day be sent to Dragonstone to join his sister and nephew and the rest of the family.

In front of Oswell, Viserys raged on, and Oswell shut his eyes tight for long moments, breathed in deep. He reminded himself of the word he had had from Arthur and Gerold. Daenerys, as they had hoped, was kind and gentle, with a fierce core of Valyrian steel. Jaehaerys was honourable and just, brave and strong and wise beyond his years, a proper king if ever there had been one. His children were strong and thriving, and a third one would be along in a few moons' turn. It was everything they had hoped for when Jaehaerys had first been born in the midst of the ashes of all that tragedy. Everything they had hoped for and more. Jaehaerys was a better man than even his father, with no trace of the Targaryen madness. He had an heir already, and dragons. For the first time in nearly two centuries, the true king had dragons at his disposal. All they had to do was wait for the day to finally arrive when it was time to take back the Iron Throne. And hope they had figured out what to do with the king's mad uncle before he could become a problem again.

"My Prince," Ser Oswell said at last, managing to push his voice out through gritted teeth. "We have explained this time and again, but it is time for you to listen. The only reason we have kept you alive in spite of all your talk of treason is the fact that you are a Prince of the Blood. But you are no king, nor will you ever be. The true King is of age, and his son and heir is thriving. You have no claim. You will never sit the Throne. Your nephew, when the time comes, will have at least four of the Seven Kingdoms behind him. And four dragons as well. Ser Gerold and I are already moving our men into place in the Crownlands, the Reach and Dorne. We will take over, and there will be a Targaryen on the Throne once more. But it will not be you. No one will declare for you, not even your own sister. Give up this hopeless quest for power and stand behind your nephew, and he will welcome you. By all accounts, he is a kind and gracious young man, to the point where he might be an idiot about you. But if you will not, you will be cast out and you will never lay your own eyes on your House's restoration."

Viserys had tried to talk over him several times, but for the last few sentences, he had been silent, staring at Oswell with those wide, mad eyes of his. His mouth contorted into something of a snarl. "My mother, the queen, crowned me," he spat, then. "Me. Not my brother's upstart bastard. I am the king, and they will take the Throne for me. It is mine." His eyes narrowed. "Do not wake the dragon, Ser Oswell."

Oswell sighed. Gods, what had he ever done to Arthur and Gerold to deserve getting stuck with this idiot? "Had your mother known a trueborn son of Rhaegar's lived, she would have been the first to support his claim," he said. "She was a grieving, desperate woman at the end, or she would never have put her crown on the head of a boy she knew to be as mad as her husband. Trust me," he added, before Viserys could go on another rant. "I knew the queen longer than you did. She was a smart woman. She would have been the first to tell you to step aside."

"My mother the queen crowned me king," Viserys screamed, and Oswell sighed and left the room, locking the door behind him rather than listen to the mad prince any longer. There were rooms in Dragonstone as well as the Red Keep, he knew, where the Targaryens of old had kept their less than stable relations in comfort and safety, where they were close at hand and could not be used against them, even as they were unable to make a move of their own while they lived out their lives in comfort. He hoped no one had redecorated so much that those chambers no longer existed. That, or that the Kingslayer might do the job for them once more. Viserys, who should have been an asset, should have been someone Jaehaerys could count on, lean on, was fit for nothing else.

Oswell could only hope and pray that the Targaryens had learnt their lesson and took action to prevent more of this madness from entering into their House again.

Lord Jon Arryn

Jon Arryn could still hardly believe what he was beginning to figure out, but as he viewed the fifth of Robert's bastards - the ones Varys had been able to track down anyway - he felt the cold shivers begin to run down his back. They all had the Baratheon look, the black hair and the piercing storm blue eyes. The Baratheon seed was strong indeed, stronger than that of any House he had encountered. The Targaryen blood had bent to different colourings many times throughout the generations - to the Baratheons, most notably, only a few generations back. The Starks' First Men blood, which Jon had always thought to be stronger than most, had still given way to the Tully colouring in Ned's children, with only Jon and Arya Stark still looking like Northerners. The fact that so many other Houses' ancestral looks had crumbled beneath outside influence might have persuaded him that this was just the natural way of things, that a House's looks changed over time. But that had not ever proven true with the Baratheons. No matter what blood came in from the outside, the Baratheons had always carried the look of Orys Baratheon, and unlike the Starks they had not been near pure First Men with the First Men look. Robert's bastards, with their mothers as diverse as they were, were strong evidence, even if the genealogies had not done it on their own. Black of hair, blue eyes. Black of hair, blue eyes. Black of hair, blue eyes. Black of hair, blue eyes. Again and again and again. It was starting to seem to Jon that one could not be a Baratheon and look otherwise. So how could Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen possibly be explained?

The thing was, Jon was fairly certain he knew already. He was less certain that he wanted to believe. What evidence did he have? Duncan Stark was already a perfect, existing example of a child born who looked nothing like what anyone would have expected. Jon Stark's mother's blood was thought to have been snuffed out by his own strong Northern heritage, and then a child emerged with the rarest of the Dayne colourings. Jon did not pretend to know for sure how it all worked. All he knew was that he could not ignore it. Perhaps Prince Joffrey's children would be born with black hair and blue eyes. Perhaps, had Prince Joffrey been good and just and intelligent, Jon would have let sleeping dogs lie. But Joffrey was a butcher clad in silks, with no conscience or sense of honour. Jon, quite frankly, wished he had noticed sooner. The signs had been there for all to see, but Jon had watched the boy grow up, and the disturbing signs had accumulated so slowly that Jon might have dismissed them altogether, had he not seen Robert's boy next to Ned's boy.

Jon Stark, for all that he feigned friendliness - probably for the sake of his own safety and that of his family - was disgusted by Joffrey Baratheon. It did not take much of a trained eye to see that. As clever as Jon Stark was, as much of an asset as he was on the Small Council, he was not very good at keeping his feelings hidden. However impassive and stern his face was, Jon Arryn had watched Ned Stark grow up, and those dark wildling eyes gave Jon Stark away. Jon was grateful Robert had allowed Willas Tyrell to take up the post of Master of Laws, however risky it was. While Lord Willas made good suggestions and decisions of his own, his primary role on the council had become, more or less, strengthening and supporting Jon Stark's policies and shielding him from outside attacks. Together - and often with the support of Ser Barristan and even Varys - they created a sensible power block that worked for the betterment of the realm rather than any overt personal advantage. Jon Stark had needed the support, but he had always had the ideas, and their combined presence on the Small Council made Jon grateful he had not fought harder against Robert's ideas all those years ago. The Reach was back in the fold, guided by Ned's very own pup, and it all worked to strengthen the realm.

Still, he was getting away from his own trail of thought, and as much as he appreciated Ned's son, he could not allow that gratitude and the relief of his presence to distract him now. Jon Stark had his father's heart and honour. He was a good man, a better man than Jon had met in King's Landing for years. So what did it say when the best man Jon had met here for years turned away from the King's heir in weakly concealed disgust? No, Jon might have been able to ignore his findings, had Joffrey Baratheon been more like Jon Stark. But as it was, Robert needed to be told the truth so he could cast aside his false, poisonous heir and father a better one. It was all the more important now that Robert was the last trueborn Baratheon alive. Jon had to make sure he knew, that he cast Cersei and her children aside. But first, he needed to gather evidence hard enough that even Robert's pride could not overcome it. For a moment, he considered bringing Jon Stark in on the investigation - Robert would surely believe the word of Ned's son - but he discarded the idea almost as quickly as it had occurred to him. What Jon was doing was dangerous, and until Jon Stark learned how to mask his own emotions behind more than just that passive Northern face of his, Jon could not put him in a situation that would be dangerous. He could not find it within himself to do that to any of Ned's children, let alone the boy named for him, the one Jon had always believed to be Ned's firstborn.

Lord Eddard Stark

"That is the only time you can be brave," Ned was telling Bran who, at eight namedays, still might not quite understand all the details of why Ned had had no choice but to execute the deserter. Let alone why Robb and Arya - who had followed them unnoticed for long enough that Ned had not been able to send her back - had argued about the manner of the way the former man of the Night's Watch had received his death.

Bran held his eyes for long moments, seeming to drink his expression at least as much as his words. Then he nodded. "Jon wrote that you told him the same thing," he said. "He had to behead a raper for House Crabb, did he not? He would have sent him to the Watch, except the rapist killed the woman he dishonoured."

Ned winced. He wished Jon did not have to deal with things like that, that he did not have to carry out executions of his own, let alone at an age when Ned had still been no more than a ward at the Eyrie. But Jon had been a Lord of his own Keep and a man grown for close to a year now, and the Lords of Crackclaw Point, according to the letters first from Benjen and then from Jon himself, did not answer to any Lord who did not carry out his own justice. Even for the Targaryens of old, they had only bent to the New Ways on the pain of dragons. Jon had those, but could not expose himself thusly even to subjects who might have guessed at least half of his true name, and so had to rely on First Man to First Man justice. As much as Ned ached for his son, he could not help but feel proud of him in the same breath. "You should not be reading Jon's letters to Robb," he told his middle son after several long beats. "Your brother takes no more pleasure in the act than I do, but half his subjects expect the Old Way, and Jon has the blood of the First Men running through his veins, just as you do."

Bran flushed at the knowledge that he had been found out. "I know he writes letters for all of us," he said. "But they are so vague. They are all about Lady Margaery and the babes." His eyes darted to Ned's for a moment. "I enjoy hearing about them, I promise," he added. "They are my niece and nephew, and I would love to meet them. But he only writes to you and Robb and Arya about the important things."

Ned swallowed, and he could not help but wish that Jon could have stayed home a few years longer. He wished Bran could have had the chance to know Jon, might have known the kind and honourable man, rather than just the lordly older brother to look up to. He wished Rickon had any memory of Jon at all. But he could not change the past, could not bring Jon home now. And he would not, even if he had had the chance. Jon, without being confined to Winterfell and the whispers and murmurs that had surrounded his early years, had become more than Ned could have ever imagined, and Ned would not wish to stunt his growth any further, even to keep him safe or to let his youngest brothers know him better. "I could send you to visit with him for a while, if you wish," he said at last. "Jon could teach you things about the Seven Kingdoms at large that I cannot, and if you prove yourself, Ser Arthur might take you on as a squire. I know he misses you, and that he wishes to know you, but Jon has fewer hours in the day than he wishes, I believe."

Bran, at least, smiled at that. "I would like that, some day," he said at last, eyes shining at the promise that he might be able to earn himself a knighthood, at the promise of getting to know the South and the brother he idolised. Still, if Ned let Bran go, he would have to let Arya leave as well. Sansa had already gone. What would he and Catelyn do if only Robb and Rickon were left to them? He choked back a laugh, then. Catelyn would want another babe, never mind that Ned was a grandfather twice over with a third on the way. She would demand it and never let it go, at least if he insisted on sending their children South.

"I will see what I can do," Ned promised. "Your mother may want to keep you close for a few years yet, and Ser Arthur is still busy training up his Dayne nephew."

"Maybe I could be Jon's squire," Bran suggested, eyes shining.

Ned could not help but laugh. "Jon is no knight," he said. "Nor will he ever be one. He has not wished for it for many years. Jon worships the Old Gods alone, not like you who worship the Old and the New alike. You could be his squire, but he could never knight you."

Bran shrugged. "I can be Jon's squire, and Ser Arthur can knight me once I prove myself," he said.

Before Ned could answer, he heard a cry from up ahead. "Come on, lad," he said. "Let us see what has all their hearts pounding now."

Bran grinned, and followed right behind as Ned pushed his heels into the flanks of his horse.

Ned's own heart damned near stopped when he took in the sight of the direwolf in front of him. He slid off his horse, barely keeping on his feet, and drank in the view of the great beast. She was exhausted, that much was clear, and very close to death. As if from far away, he heard the speculations of his and his children's companions. Something seemed to hold him immobile as he heard Arya and Robb explain everything they knew about direwolves, watched as they held the pups close to them. All along, most of Ned's attention was on the mother wolf. Dread set into him as he watched the way her flanks puffed out and deflated, far too fast and desperate, as though the birthing of her pups weighed on her so much that going on was nearly too much to ask. He breathed in the fetid stench of infection. That sounded fantastical to his own ears, but then so were direwolves south of the Wall. He was only half aware of what he was doing when he gave Theon and Ser Rodrik permission to kill the beasts.

"Father," Arya said, stepping up in front of him with those fierce wolf eyes of hers. She was so like Lyanna, painfully so, more even than Jon, whose wolf and dragon blood seemed to have balanced one another out and tamed both beasts within him. It hurt, and it made him shudder in fear sometimes, when he wondered at just how much of his sister was in his daughter, even if her colouring was subtly different and she was shorter of stature. "There are six pups. Five grey, like the banner of Winterfell, and one white, like the banner of Dragonstone." Ned had not even noticed the white one, but he saw it now, where its mother held it close by the scruff of its neck, nearly camouflaged by the snow around them. Its deep red eyes had opened, where those of its brothers and sisters had not, and while it was not the largest of the litter, it somehow seemed the most developed, the most independent and ready to live by itself. "One for each of your children," Arya added.

"We were meant to have these wolves, Father," Robb interjected, holding the grey one in his own arms close. Ned could already tell how unwilling his eldest son would be to part from the beast. He reached out, picked up the white pup as well. "Jon needs this," he said. "He is in King's Landing most of the time. Let us help him remember he is a Stark and a wolf, that he is part of a pack."

That, more than anything else, was what wore Ned down. He gave a sharp nod. "Fashion a sled for the she-wolf," he instructed the men-at-arms. He looked up at Robb. "You will train them yourselves, care for them yourselves, and if they die, you will bury them yourselves. You and Arya will be in charge of Jon and Sansa's wolves until they can be given to them."

Robb gave a solemn nod that reminded Ned all too much of the way he himself had accepted responsibility for his nephew all those years ago. "Yes, Father," he said.

Lord Jon Arryn

Jon Arryn sucked in a harsh breath that rattled through his whole body. Was it his imagination, or did it seem even harder to get this one in than the one before? He was not at all certain how he had suddenly become so ill. He was well up there in his years, he knew, but he had rarely ever been sick in his life. Now, suddenly, it had hit him, and so hard it had struck him down within the span of a few days.

He wished he had had the time to find the true evidence, the hard kind that could not be disputed. He wished he had had a chance to even tell his suspicions to Robert, but Robert was not here. Robert was off hunting. Again. And Jon, to his chagrin, was not certain he would live long enough to see him return.

It was a difficult thing to be faced with, the knowledge of his own mortality. Jon would not have thought he would have died with any regrets. He had lived a long life, full of joy and tragedy alike. He had done everything he could to leave the Seven Kingdoms a better place than he had been born into. Now, at the very end of things, he feared he had failed. Robert was a good man, a great warrior, but he had no interest in managing the realm. And he had no true heir to follow him. None. Now, when Jon should have been pleased with his legacy, he could not help but fear what he might be leaving behind. He would have seen Ned and Robert reunited, so he could at least have been certain Robert would have one loyal Lord Paramount behind him. So that Robert might finally know some kind of happiness once more. He was- He should have pushed it more. He would not have had these regrets then.

He wished he could say he regretted nothing. It would have been a lie. He even regretted how he had let his Lady Wife raise his own heir.

His breath hitched again, and for a moment he feared his lungs had stopped working entirely. The fever wracked through him, made him cry out with pain even as he pulled blankets and furs all around him, trying in vain to keep warm even when he knew the temperature was just fine. "Jon Stark," he told one of his attendants. He was not certain what he wanted to tell Ned's boy. He was not sure what he was thinking at all. He knew nothing, anymore, with the fever tearing through his mind and body.

Jon blinked out of consciousness. When he opened his eyes once more, Jon Stark was looking down at him with those near-black Northern Mountain Clans eyes he shared with his uncles and aunt but never with Ned himself. "You wanted to see me, My Lord Hand," Jon Stark said, his solemn voice startlingly deep to Jon's ears, just as Ned's had when his voice had appeared to deepen and mature between one day and the next. Jon blinked up at the boy - no, man now, was he not? He tried to form words, attempted to explain everything, but nothing left his lips. "The seed is strong," he said at last. "The seed is strong." Then, without his permission, his eyes were closing.

As if from far away, he heard Jon Stark shouting for a maester. None appeared in time, and all Jon could do was hope that in death he might find the peace that had eluded him in life.

Notes: Did Olenna have a hand in Renly's death? That is for Olenna to know and us to guess at.

Subsequent pregnancies close together are not necessarily healthy, but nor are they necessarily fatal or even as detrimental as some would think, depending on health, fitness and age of the mother. Historically, it was very common. There will be no more babies for a while, though, which should probably come as a relief to some.

Dany will eventually be in a pairing. NOT with Jon. Feel free to speculate away ;P

I would also like to add to those people who complained about Jon crying that although he and Margaery both refer to earlier instances and there are definitely moments when he is emotional, there is no actual crying in the last chapter. I went back to check an be sure, but there really isn't. The references are to the past and in the present narrative meant as exaggerations, self-deprecating on Jon's part and half-teasing half making a point on Margaery's.

Next up: Jon gets some time on Dragonstone. Hurricane Margaery hits King's Landing. The Starks have a family reunion, and Jon really likes the name Aemon.