THE WILES OF WOMEN

Jon IV

Feasts had not been a common occurrence in his youth, his Lord father citing the senseless waste of food as reason to abstain from such extravagance, and non-existent at the Wall. Even on those rare occasions when a guest's presence saw a modest feast served in Winterfell's hall, Jon had been relegated to the lower tables while his trueborn siblings played the roles of Lords and Ladies at the High Table. His own role had never been made more clear than during those festivities. The Bastard of Winterfell. Lord Eddard Stark's Shame. It had hurt, then, when he was too young and naïve to understand how fortunate he truly was. Now he longed for the anonymity of the crowd.

Instead, he sat at the centre of the High Table — in the seat once occupied by his father, the one meant for Robb or Bran or Rickon — flanked on both sides by beautiful women. Sansa was seated to his right, her hair all but glowing red in the firelight as she conversed with the circulating Lords and Ladies. To his left, Daenerys bloody Targaryen surveyed the hall with the same closed-off expression she'd worn since her arrival. While his eldest sister seemed more comfortable with the foreign queen in front of her, Jon had never doubted his plan more. Watching the two women spar verbally with each other had been a painful reminder of his social (not to mention political) ineptitude. True, they had accomplished their goal in that first conversation — the Mother of Dragons was here and Winterfell was not on fire — but still, he found himself second guessing his every move around her.

Gods, even the dragons themselves were less intimidating.

Arya had barely dropped from some shadowed crevice above the Great Hall before she had started in on him, wondering mockingly what his cock thought of their guest. The Baratheon bastard, Gendry, had flushed deep red at that so he supposed there was a reason for her teasing but still, Jon liked to think he based his impression on more than just looks. That was not to say there was nothing to look at. Daenerys Targaryen was a beautiful woman, what with her almost inhuman features, dainty frame, white hair and violet eyes… He could hear Theon's mocking voice in his head, laughing that a bastard who so feared pretty girls that he couldn't even fuck a whore was truly destined for the Wall.

And that had been something he hadn't considered.

Theon Turncloak had slipped into Winterfell like a beaten dog with his tail between his legs.

Sansa had greeted him warmly, hurrying out to embrace the man who had once been their family without reservation. Jon did not join her. He understood enough to know that he couldn't understand what had transpired between them, and as such he had not interfered. He had searched out Lady Yara Greyjoy, however, and made it clear that should her brother ever set foot within Winterfell's main keep again, he would take his head himself. She'd offered no rebuttal, accepting his threat with an ease that suggested she expected nothing less.

Yara Greyjoy, he decided as he spotted her laughing comfortably among a group of rowdy men at one of the lower tables, was everything Theon had ever tried to be. Bold, sexually confident, a respected commander and made of iron and sea salt both in equal measure. She wasn't pretty, but she didn't have to be as she commanded attraction in other ways. She and Ygritte would have got on… Or got straight inside each other. Neither woman seemed the type to turn down a good fuck. He shook himself free of those thoughts before he could start considering how Arya would fit in.

His little sister was nowhere to be seen, but Jon had no doubt she was lurking somewhere nearby. What she could do — appearing and disappearing almost at will, slipping into and out of anywhere, her proficiency with her little Needle and any other weapon they'd spared with since his return — what she had become… His already damaged heart broke for what the girl he'd hugged goodbye had been forced to endure. The wild wolf pup she had been was still in there and Jon treasured those moments he glimpsed her in the depth of his sister's eyes or the quirk of her lips or an expressive gesture...

He had sought Arya out this evening before King Jon was expected to brave the feast. Queen Daenerys' dragons had been circling Winterfell all day, so he had followed a hunch and scaled the castle walls when he was certain Sansa wasn't looking. He found his sister perched in the window of the Broken Tower, staring out at the sky. She scooted over for him as he hauled himself ungracefully up the final few feet, and they sat together in silence as the winter winds whipped snow into their hair.

"Do you ever wish I'd been born a boy?" she'd asked at last, her gaze still fixed on the horizon.

The question had come out of nowhere, and Jon had frowned as he considered it. Arya was the girl who wouldn't be. She always had been. She was wild and loud and angry and active and so alive in a way he had never been. She was the one who pulled him from his brooding and into the real world, the one who pushed him to rebel and prodded him until he learned to laugh… Robb would always be his first friend, but Arya was his best friend.

Her life would have been so much easier as a boy, he knew that. She could have run and played and trained with Robb and Bran without reprimand. Perhaps she and Bran would have ridden South together to become knights? Or perhaps their father would have seen her take command of the Neck and rule over the region in his stead? The part of him who loved his sister more than anything wished she could have had that life, and yet…

The selfish part of him couldn't help but think that perhaps she wouldn't have been Arya had she been a boy. Perhaps if she hadn't been different and just that little bit wrong, she would never have looked to her bastard brother for companionship. Perhaps if she hadn't had to fight so hard to be herself, she wouldn't have grown so loud…

"No," he'd told her.

Arya had looked at him then, her lips quirked in that way that let the little girl peek through. "Do you remember playing Dragon Conquest in the Godswood?" she'd asked him, "Robb always wanted to be Torrhen Stark, I'd wear red and black and pretend to be Visenya and you'd be Aegon — "

"As I recall, you'd make me pretend to be Vhagar."

"That's only because Bran couldn't carry me and I didn't want to ride Theon."

Jon had laughed, then, at the wording and the memories and the rightness of the moment.

Arya had knocked their shoulders together with a smirk. "Shut up," she'd snarked playfully before looking back toward the circling beasts above, "They're just like I imagined…"

Jon had followed her gaze and watched as one of the dragons dropped lower than the others and soared gracefully past their hiding place. "Me too…"

"Your Grace."

Pulled back to the present, Jon almost smiled to himself. Speaking of loud little girls who demand respect… "Lady Lyanna."

The Lady of Bear Island had approached the Head Table while he had been remembering and stood before him now, as straight-backed and controlled as ever, while angling herself such that they had a modicum of privacy from the Dragon Queen and her advisors. "I hope my cousin's return served its purpose?"

Jon offered the child a slight smile. "It didn't hurt," he told her, honestly, "I must thank you once again for your permission, my Lady."

"You had no need of it, Your Grace."

"Perhaps, but I was glad to have it all the same."

Lyanna, somehow, straightened even further. "Bear Island has no use for traitors — "

"Ned!" a voice shouted out from the mass of bodies.

Jon's head snapped up to gaze over young Lyanna's head. It wasn't him. He knew it wasn't. But he searched all the same. Next to him, Sansa seemed to have had a similar reaction — albeit far less obvious than his own.

The voice seemed to have come from a sizeable group of Dornish men who had entered the hall in search of more food for those gathered outside. One man, in particular, had separated from the group and was weaving his way deftly through the gathered crowd toward a pale-haired youth Jon recognized as Lord Edric Dayne. The newcomer must have seen thirty namedays, perhaps a few more, and boosted a striking appearance with sharp features and shoulder-length silver hair streaked with black. With the general ruckus of the feast still at full swing it was impossible to make out any further words the two shared, but the stiffness in Lord Dayne's posture was unmistakable.

Jon frowned, curiosity quelling his insecurities for the moment as he leaned closer to the Targaryen Queen. "Pardon the interruption, Your Grace, but might I inquire as to the identity of the silver haired soldier?"

Queen Daenerys, who had been speaking quietly with the advisor he had come to learn was named Missandei in what sounded to his untrained ear like Valyrian, looked over at him with an unreadable expression before following his gaze to the man in question. "Ser Gerold Dayne," she replied, "A Dornish Lord under Ellaria Sand's command."

"Dorne is ruled by a woman bastard?"

"As the North is ruled by a bastard King."

Jon could think of no response to that, but was saved from his social ineptitude by the curious expression his fellow monarch was directing at Bear Island's little Lady.

"Your Grace, may I present Lady Lyanna Mormont," he introduced them quickly, "Lady of Bear Island and cousin to your Ser Jorah. My Lady, this is Queen Daenerys Targaryen of Meereen and the Dothraki Sea."

"Your Grace." Lady Lyanna offered the barest hint of a bow as she examined their guest without shame.

"My Lady," Queen Daenerys returned, offering the girl a gentle smile, "I'm honoured to make your acquaintance. Your cousin has served me well for many years."

"Alas, he did not extend that same service to his own House." Blunt and concise, as always, Lady Mormont's demeanour did not change even as the smile slipped from the visiting Queen's face and a begrudging respect took its place. "Surely you have been informed of the White Walkers?"

Taking Lady Lyanna in better stride than he himself had upon first meeting her, the Dragon Queen straightened her posture slightly. "Your King has mentioned them, yes."

"Good. I've no intention of allowing a single man, woman or child from Bear Island to join their army's ranks." The young Lady's conviction was palpable. Without waiting for a response, she turned and bowed to her King before glancing back at their guest. "Perhaps my cousin can yet be of use among your forces," she added, before making her way back to her seat.

Both monarchs watched her go in silence.

"You've quite a number of women in positions of authority," Queen Daenerys observed at last.

Jon fought the urge to shrug and instead tried to match her posture as he replied. "The Seven Kingdoms have been at war for some time now, and plenty of Houses have paid the price for that. Bear Island was left in a precarious position when Ser Jorah fled to Essos. His father had taken the Black to allow his son to rule as Lord and when he left with no other male heirs available, control was passed to his aunt — Lady Lyanna's mother, Maege Mormont," he explained, being sure to avoid mentioning why Ser Jorah had been forced to flee. He was sure that the Queen must know of her advisor's transgressions and who ordered his punishment, but it was not something he had any inclination to discuss. "When she and her elder daughter were killed fighting for my brother, Lyanna assumed control of Bear Island. She was six, I believe."

"She's quite something."

"She is. I count myself lucky to hold her allegiance."

The silence that overtook them this time seemed more natural than the last, but still Jon had to fight the urge to rub at the ever growing tension in his chest. The steel adorning his brigandine — the only symbol of status he had allowed Sansa to dress him in — seemed heavier than his damaged chest could manage, and the raised wolves at his breast mocked him with each laboured breath. They were not his to wear. He didn't belong here...

Wrestling back control of his rapidly deteriorating thoughts, Jon looked out over the feast. Gerold Dayne and Dornish soldiers seemed to have made their way back outside, and the King noted that young Lord Edric had returned to his place at Lord Beric's side. Neither man appeared to be eating. The same could not be said for Lord Tyrion, who sat further down the table in the company of Podrick Payne. The two men seemed in good spirits, and rather deep in their cups, as they chatted loudly. The Red Priest, Thoros, could be seen trying to join their conversation with limited success as his excessive consumption of ale had rendered him unable to lift his head from the table. Lady Brienne stood against a nearby wall, watching the scene with a disapproving scowl.

At the next table over, the mood was much the same. Yara Greyjoy and the other Lords of the Iron Islands had begun regaling their tablemates with various bawdy drinking songs and the Dothraki and Dornish Lords around them were now responding in kind. Jon found himself equal parts relieved and disappointed that the free folk were already at the Wall. Still, it didn't take long for more familiar songs to begin echoing around the Hall as the Northern Lords made their presence known. There were so many different voices and accents and languages that it took the King a moment to notice that Old Tongue had joined the mix as well.

The Chieftains of the Mountain Clans sat at yet another table, offering an enthusiastic rendition of a song Jon could have sworn he'd heard beyond the Wall to the growing din. The Ned's Boy, they had called him when he'd gone to meet with all the Lords and Ladies who had settled around Winterfell in person. The Ned Again. Despite his best efforts to explain that The Ned's boys had been Robb and Bran and Rickon, it had been The Ned Returned to whom they'd bid farewell. And they hadn't been the only ones. Wolfson had been the greeting he had received from the Magnars of Skagos. They had not joined the feast, Jon observed, but that was hardly a surprise.

He'd not known much of the North's northernmost subjects before their arrival, only a few days before the Dragon Queen, besides rumours and terrifying tales whispered between children on stormy nights. Monstrous men, it was said, just as viscous and wild as wildlings. Savages who still practiced the tradition of First Night, some whispered, while others denied they had any concept of marriage to begin with and instead lay with whatever woman they could hold still long enough. Human sacrifice before the Weirwood trees. Ghostly songs and false lights that lured ships to their death. Shaggy unicorns as likely to run a man through as their masters… Jon had sent a raven all the same.

He'd written it out twice, once in the Common Tongue and again (with Tormund's help before he made for the wall) in the runic script of Old Tongue. Still, he'd not expected anything to come of it. Robb had been taught little more than their existence in his lessons and told his siblings once that even their father had never met a Skagg. That was one of the few instances in which he could recall Lord Stark growing angry with his heir. The term was a slur, he'd told them, and they were forbidden from repeating it. Having met them now, Jon understood why.

Skagos, it seemed, had been a refuge of sorts during the Age of Heroes. Children of the Forest and Giants and, later, First Men had fled there in search of safety. Jon couldn't be sure what they had needed safety from, the Magnars spoke a strange dialect of Old Tongue mixed with sounds men would have no hope of recreating and communication between them was limited, but fear was the same among all creatures and they were afraid. Whether Eddard Stark knew the full tale behind Skagos' existence or whether he simply respected his people on principle without need for details, Jon would never know for certain but he was glad for the lessons on respect all the same.

While the Magnars of Skagos could perhaps pass for men at a distance — they shared the blood of the first men, after all — such was not the case for all of their people.

Standing an average of seven feet tall, their height was clearly a result of Giant ancestors if their features were anything to go by. Even the Magnars boasted long arms, oversized hands and hair thick enough to be considered a pelt blanketing their lower half. Their upper body was rife with hair as well, as coarse as that below if far less thick toward their chests and shoulders, that varied in colour from black to brown to tan to grey. They had faces that reminded him of Wun Wun, squished and wrinkled save for the round protrusion of their nasal cavity and the wide, shapeless noses that sat atop it. That, however, was where the Giant features ended. The skin beneath their fur was dark, ranging from nut-brown (in those with more First Men blood) to a muted colour somewhere between brown and green, and dappled with pale speckles. Their eyes, in contrast to the Giants, were large and round and slit like those of a cat. They moved far more swiftly than men, their legs as long as their arms, and wore no shoes revealing feet with only three large toes and black claws in place of nails. Their hands, likewise, had only three long, flat fingers along with their thumb…

From their appearance alone Jon could understand their vicious reputation, but their actions thus far had done little to support it.

"The sea is dead," they had told him, huddled together in the Wolfswood in a protective circle around their children, "The sea is dead. Fire, Wolfson, the sea is dead."

At least, Jon was fairly certain that's what they had been saying. In their hysteria, their dialect had been near impossible for him to understand.

He had taken Sansa to meet them the morning before Queen Daenerys had arrived, acting as a poor excuse for a translator as the children peeked out from the safety of their elders' bulk and trilled curiously to each other while gently touching his sister's hair. It had occurred to him, as he watched her smile gently and hold out sections of her deep red locks to the shyer children, how much she had grown. As a girl, Sansa would never have approached such strange looking beings, let alone take the time to interact with them, yet here she was... He hadn't been able to help the surge of pride the thought had brought him.

Pulling himself back to the present, he looked to his sister expecting to see some flicker of amusement at the songs still battling for dominance within the hall, but he was instead greeted by a stoic expression that could only mean one thing. Sure enough, Lord Baelish appeared before them a moment later.

"My Lady. Your Grace," he nodded to each of them in turn with what Jon considered to be a deceptively pleasant smile, before addressing the Dragon Queen with a short bow, "Your Grace, it's an honour to make your acquaintance. I must say, you look so like your Queen mother."

Queen Daenerys' polite disinterest sharpened ever so slightly, and she eyed Baelish curiously. "And you are?"

"Lord Petyr Baelish, Your Grace. Lord of Harrenhal and Lord Protector of the Vale."

"Lord Protector of the Vale," the Queen repeated, "My Lord Hand was surprised to see so many non-Northern Houses among those gathered here. Should I assume, then, that you are responsible for their presence?"

"Lord Baelish and the Knights of the Vale rode to assist us in retaking Winterfell," Sansa cut in before Littlefinger could reply, "Their presence was an integral part of our victory."

An understatement, Jon thought sourly, and if the smirk on Baelish's face was any indication he thought so too.

"Lady Sansa is my niece-by-law," he smiled easily, "Of course we would ride to her aid."

"For which the North is very grateful." Jon forced a smile of his own.

"I see," Queen Daenerys did not bother to mimic their expressions, "And, Lord Baelish, you say you knew my mother?"

"Not personally, I'm afraid, but like many I admired her from afar. She was a conscientious and dutiful Queen."

"I'm pleased to hear it." Jon noted that she didn't sound pleased. "Tell me, my Lord, which ruler does your Vale serve?"

"The King in the North, Your Grace," Littlefinger replied as though the answer was obvious, but Jon still released a breath he hadn't known he was holding, "His Grace, Jon Snow."

"Not Cersei Lannister upon the Iron Throne?" the Dragon Queen queered mildly.

"Not at all, Your Grace. Few serve her willingly, I assure you." Baelish bowed once more, this time to the three of them. "I'll leave you to your meals. Your Grace. Your Grace. My Lady."

"I've met men like him before," Queen Daenerys mused once the Lord Protector of the Vale had disappeared into the crowd, "They look at you as though you're nothing but meat."

"Yes." Jon was sure he failed to keep the surprise off his face as his sister replied honestly, "But they do have their uses."

Queen Daenerys hummed in agreement. "Tell me something, Jon Snow," she said after a moment, turning her violet gaze on him, "Why propose this truce?"

"The White Walkers and their army — "

"Yes, yes," she interrupted, "The dead. Even pretending they're real and the cold hasn't driven you all to madness, why reach out to me? Our families were at war not twenty years past, surely you were raised to hate me as much as I was you?"

"My father was never one for hate," Jon replied truthfully. He remembered Theon's shock at finding the Stark children playing make believe as dragonriders and his fear that should Lord Stark find out they would all be punished, but Lord Stark had never forbidden them from their dragon games nor spoken ill of anyone beyond recounting their deeds… "Regardless, I prefer to pass my own judgement and I've had nothing but pleasant experiences with your family."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I was a sworn Brother of the Night's Watch for several years…" Jon told her, but the information did nothing to clear the confusion from her face. He'd always assumed the knowledge went both ways, but perhaps... "You don't know, do you? He knew of you…"

Those violet eyes were narrowed, now. "Who did?"

"The maester at Castle Black. Maester Aemon Targaryen. Brother to Aegon the Unlikely, I believe, who refused the throne in favour of his maester's vows."

The Queen stared at him. "I was told my family was slaughtered," she said at last, her voice soft and almost disbelieving, "That my brother and I were all that remained of our House…"

Jon nodded in sympathy. He knew all too well what it was to not know. He knew what it was to wonder what aspects of yourself were down to blood you would never know, and he knew the hole that was left in that knowledge's place… "Aye, your family met a cruel end," he replied, "But the Night's Watch plays no part in the affairs of Kings and Queens and its members are beyond their reach. Even if Robert Baratheon knew of Maester Aemon' existence, he could have done nothing about it."

Queen Daenerys was quiet for a moment. "He knew of me. Knew."

"Yes," the King saw no reason to gentle his words. She would likely resent him for patronizing her, "He had already seen more than one hundred namedays by the time I met him. The years won out, in the end, and he passed away peacefully nearly two years past. He was blind when I knew him, but he still received regular word from the East detailing your accomplishments. My friend served as an assistant of sorts to him, and he would read them out. He was very proud, I think, and often bemoaned being unable to help you."

The Dragon Queen's face was softer than he'd seen it since Ser Jorah had been presented to her, an air of regret and hope and longing playing across her pale features. "I didn't know…"

"I'm sorry," Jon replied, and he meant it truly, "He was a great man, you would have liked him. He was kind, always, regardless of who addressed him or how. Even the most vile men of the Watch treated him with respect. But he had a sense of humour about him as well, subtle for the most part yet wicked all the same. I remember him laughing when Sam made mention publically of another Brother's cowardice… It was Maester Aemon I went to when I needed advice. It was him who helped me understand that my pain was no better or worse than anyone else's and that honour can be the most difficult choice in a man's life…" He paused and blinked the memories away even as he attempted to gauge her reaction. Organizing his thoughts more carefully, and sensing no resistance from the visiting Queen, he pushed onward. "He wasn't the only member of your family to visit the Wall. Queen Alysanne Targaryen flew her dragon, Silverwing, there during the reign of Jaehaerys I. The Queenscrown and the Queensgate both are named for her, and she financed the construction of Deep Lake castle for the Night's Watch with her own jewels. Her likeness still stands in the main hall to this day. And Brynden Rivers, who arrived at the Wall along with Maester Aemon, was Lord Commander of the Night's Watch for a time."

Queen Daenerys was very nearly smiling now, but Jon very much doubted she was aware of it. "How is it you know so much about my family?"

"My youngest sister, Arya…" Is dead, Jon reminded himself. Arya had made that abundantly clear before rattling off the information he was now repeating to the Queen, "Targaryen women were heroines of hers. Queen Visenya and Rhaenyra the Half Year Queen and little Baela upon Moondancer during the Dance of Dragons… We used to reenact their great battles in the Godswood as children. Sansa even sewed us a Targaryen banner once, do you remember?"

Sansa's smile was fond. "Mother had to take it away in the end. Arya had taken to sleeping in it."

The laugh that slipped past the Dragon Queen's smile surprised him. She looked young.

Jon suspected he bore a similar expression. "Those games are some of my fondest memories…" he confessed.

"It certainly sounds like it." Queen Daenerys seemed almost wistful.

"Pardon the interruption, Your Grace."

Jon glanced up at the interruption, the moment of peaceful reminiscing falling away. "Lady Meera," he greeted, taking in the moss-green dress and willow wood pins taming her chestnut brown curls, "You look well."

"Sleeping in a bed will do that," the young woman smiled, "If it please you, may I present my father, Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch."

If Jon didn't know him to be a similar age to his father, he would have thought Lord Reed an old man. He stood a few inches shorter than the King himself, with stooped shoulders and slightly bowed legs. His hair may once have matched his daughter's, but it had long since faded to a lifeless grey and while he shared Meera's green eyes his own were clouded and milky. The king recalled Meera's comment about the price of visions, but seeing it in person was somehow different...

"Jon Snow," Lord Reed bowed in greeting as best he could while being supported by his daughter, "It is an honour, indeed."

"Lord Howland," Jon returned politely, "The honour is mine. You will forever have my gratitude, my father told us often how he owed you his life."

Next to him, Queen Daenerys was looking over newcomers with a curious gaze. The youth and softness were gone from her face, replaced by the now familiar closed-off expression once more.

"My Lord, may I present Queen Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen," Jon began, but Lord Reed's gentle voice cut him off.

"Yes," he smiled, "Daenerys, of Daenys the Dreamer. Do you dream, little queen?"

"Father…" Lady Meera warned in a low voice, but neither her father nor the Dragon Queen paid her any mind.

"I do."

They stared at each other for a moment, sharp violet into clouded green, until Lord Howland's eyes slid closed. "Hmm…" he hummed thoughtfully, "Then you know. Three there must be if dawn we shall see."

If possible, the Queen's face closed still tighter. "What do you know of threes?"

"Only what I dream, I'm afraid. Sand and snow and stone of fire. Chela of red and points of gold and dragons of coal..."

"And what does that mean?"

"Oh, I can't know that, Your Grace," Lord Reed's smile grew still wider, apparently unconcerned by the admission. His eyes slid open lazily, so clouded now that they appeared wholly white, "It is not my place to know, only to dream."

"I apologize for my father," Lady Meera cut in abruptly, gathering his slouching frame still more tightly in her arms, "The gift of foresight has always been strong in my family, but it does take a toll on mind and body both. If you'll excuse us. Your Grace, Your Grace…"

"You are your father's son, Jon Snow." Lord Reed's almost laughing voice floated back to them as he was led away into the crowd.