Jon
Jon had been sitting by the half-frozen river for a while now — at least if he had counted the time correctly. The small stream ran through the rocky forest, winding through small valleys and carving out pieces of rock over time.
The time north of the wall had given him a better feeling for the time that flowed past. Knowing when the sun would rise and when it would disappear once more was a huge boon there, where daylight provided shelter and security.
The King would be coming to Winterfell soon, with his entire entourage, planning to make Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell the new Hand of the King. A shit idea if there ever was one, but he would neither be able to convince the King to name someone else, nor his uncle to refuse the position.
Jon wanted to groan at the thought of his uncle as Hand. He could not think of anyone who would be suited worse for the positions.
He'd like nothing more than to avoid Robert Baratheon and his offspring. The visions Lord Brynden had showed him regarding the royal children, especially the eldest, was enough for him to wish he'd never meet them, save maybe on the battlefield. The younger two seemed like somewhat decent kids, but they were still too young to truly tell.
For a few minutes, he simply laid back in the pure, white snow of the north and tried to sort his thoughts.
North
North was where he wanted to go and north was where he would go. But not as far as before. The Night's Watch and his great-great-uncle Aemon were his destination.
But what afterwards? He wouldn't go back to Winterfell. With Lord Stark in King's Landing, his wife would rule in Winterfell, at least for a few years until Robb was a bit older. Staying at the wall and swearing his oaths was not something he intended to do either.
He didn't spend years pursuing the three-eyed-raven, only to now waste all potential by swearing an oath for life.
Further north again maybe? But the wildlings all knew who had killed their king by now and none would ever welcome them. Quite the opposite - north of the wall they would be hunted men and Jon had no desire to fill the belly of a Thenn anytime soon.
Going south was another thought. But what to do in the south? Jon had been taught enough by Lord Bloodraven to become a spymaster for any house worth the name, and training with the Children of the Forest, known for their insane speed and agility had given him the potential to become the Master of Arms in any keep he walked into.
Robb likely would have suggested it to his father already, had the two of them sparred since his return. Maybe later. But once again, the option was quickly nullified in Jon's mind. Becoming Master of Arms in Winterfell was tempting to be sure, but he would have to suffer Lady Stark's presence for the rest of his life. Not that the old crone's cold stares intimidated him anymore, but they were a nuisance nonetheless.
East then. Going east was the only option that truly remained for him. East, where his aunt resided, as empress of her very own Imperial Dynasty.
Flashback
Jon carefully swallowed the weirwood paste, given to him by the children. It tasted bitter and nasty, like food that had been left in the midday heat of Dorne for days, but as he continued to eat the taste changed.
He nearly threw up during the first spoons, but as he swallowed the third the taste became sweeter and sweeter. Where the paste had been bitter at first, it now tasted as sweet as honey. It tasted like new-fallen snow, of pepper and cinnamon and a dozen other tastes, that filled him from within.
"Will this make me a greenseer?" Jon asked Bloodraven, who merely frowned at him, his pale skin stretching even further over his hollow cheeks.
"Your blood makes you a greenseer," said Lord Brynden, his voice crooking. "But this will help. A thousand eyes, a thousand skins. Such is the price of true wisdom."
As Jon finished the bowl of paste, he looked around himself as if expecting something. "I don't feel anything. What changed?"
The child he called Leaf walked up behind him, resting a hand reassuringly on his shoulder. On her command, the other children extinguished the torches around them, engulfing him in darkness.
"Close your eyes," she whispered, her voice sweet and tender. "Leave your skin, go beyond the limitations of your body. Leave your skin, go deep beneath you, where the weirwood's roots creep through the dirt."
"Follow them," she instructed again. "Chase the roots upwards, follow them through the earth until you can touch the sky."
Jon followed her command and slipped out of his skin. The usual feeling when he was warging into Frost engulfed him. But this time he didn't enter the wolf's mind.
His third eye chased through the long white roots of the weirwood that ran through the dirt like pale snakes until suddenly he was somewhere else entirely.
He saw the world from the eyes of a weirwood. The godswood, where it was located, overlooked a dark bay. Around him was an acre of elm, alder, and black cottonwood. The weirwood itself was a great tree, whose roots twisted and wound itself around the entire area, choking out all other growth close to it. Only a few smokeberry vines crept up the tree's stem and a small group of Dragon's Breath, a dark red flower, grew beneath it.
Jon saw the silhouette of a tall and slender man, walk around the godswood with what seemed to be his wife.
She was a beautiful woman, with a slender frame, dark black eyes and a flat chest. She wore Dornish robes and a silver bracelet around her wrist, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen engraved into it. The man, on the other hand, had deep purple, almost indigo eyes. He had long, silver-blond hair. He wore a long and elegant cloak of dark red that was clasped to his shoulder, with a night-black plate armour beneath it. Just like in his wife's bracelet, the three-headed dragon was engraved in the chest plate. Red rubies were embedded all over it, forming the eyes and tail of the sigil, as well as a trail of flame that formed in the dragon's throat.
"I hope this is worth it, for you," the woman said, disappointment evident in her voice. "A third child you want. I hope that this will give you the happiness you lack. I was never enough for you, it would seem."
The man turned to look at her, with a deep sadness filling his eyes. "I am sorry," he said, shaking his head in regret. "But there is just no other way. The Song of Ice and Fire must come alive, the dragon must have-"
"...Three heads, I know," the woman sighed. "You've told me a dozen times. A stupid prophecy, made thousands of years ago is apparently trustworthy enough for you, to go and start a war over it."
"I never-" the man started, but the woman quickly interrupted him once more.
"Of course you didn't intend to start a war," she snorted. "But had you used the brain given to you by whatever gods there are to come to a logical conclusion instead of brooding about prophecies, you would have known this would happen."
"Lya left a letter, I don't know what happened to it," the man defended himself quickly.
"So she's 'Lya' now, hm? Your Lya is no more than a girl, who sees you for a better man than you are. You're using her for your prophecy, nothing more, nothing less."
"She came with me willingly, Elia. I never forced her to do anything she didn't want."
"Oh, so she never wanted to return home, when her brother and father were slaughtered in this very city? She's a girl who fancies herself in love, because the only alternative to you, was marrying Robert Baratheon. You know this and you never should have let her come with you. All for the sake of your stupid prophecy. So go now. Go to the trident and kill whatever remains of her family."
"I'm sorry," the man said once more. "There is just no other way."
Suddenly, Jon was pulled away, as he slipped back into his human skin.
"What did you see?" Leaf asked. In the small torchlight that lit the room, she looked almost like a girl, a year or two younger than Jon himself. But Jon knew better than that.
"I saw King's Landing," Jon slowly spoke, remembering the giant castle with the high, red walls that had loomed over them. "It must have been... there was a man and a woman... It must have been Prince Rhaegar and his wife Elia... He did call her Elia once..."
"What did they talk about?" the old Lord Bloodraven asked, his voice hoarse.
"A Prince," Jon replied. "Another child... someone he ran off with. Lya."
"Lyanna Stark," Brynden stated matter-of-factly.
"Lyanna," Jon muttered. She had been dead for decades. She had been his father's sister, but Lord Stark had never talked about her.
"How do I see all of this?" he asked. "How do I see those people walk and talk, people dead for decades?"
"Those were shadows of days long past. You were looking through the eyes of the heart tree in the godswood. Time is different for a tree than a man. A tree does not experience hours or days, years or decades. It notices only the changes in sun and soil and water, when the seasons change and when Winter comes. And weirwoods are even more special in this regard... a thousand years for us, is only the merest shade of a moment to a weirwood, and through such gates, you and I may gaze into the past."
"Can they hear me?"
"No more, than you can hear greenseers from the future speak to you, I'm afraid. The ink is dry, the past unchangeable. I tried many times when the ghosts of my past came to haunt me. The men I killed, the men I saved. Aenys Blackfyre, Daemon and his sons, and a thousand more. I remember all their faces, if not their names. I have my ghosts, Jon Snow. A brother I loved, a brother I hated and a woman I desired. I've seen them a hundred times through the trees, tried to talk to them, but still, two of them have not heard my voice in many decades.
"Only two of them?" Jon asked confused, receiving only a nod.
"Only two."
"What else did they speak about?" Bloodraven asked him once more, dropping the topic.
"Princess Elia mentioned something else," Jon said, slowly and carefully, as if he was uncertain about what he was about to say. "A prophecy, the Song of Ice and Fire, she called it."
"I don't know what it means," he added after a short pause.
"The Song of Ice and Fire..." Bloodraven mumbled. "An old prophecy, one the crowned prince was obsessed with. It states that there shall one day be a legendary hero reborn with the name Azor Ahai. A hero who shall fight back the darkness and bring the dawn. Defeat the White Walkers and bring spring to Westeros."
"White Walkers?" Jon asked incredulously. "The Others from the old stories?"
"The very same," Leaf nodded from beside him. Her cloak of leaves shuffled as she walked next to him. "Have you never wondered, why the men who live in the far north are fleeing south? It is why you're here. That's why you're trained by us."
"Even if it is true what you say..." Jon started, his voice indicating that he did not believe what she said. "Why me? There are a thousand men in the kingdoms with more influence. Who would be better suited to stop those White Walkers."
He paused for a moment, looking at Brynden questioningly.
"You spoke about Daenerys Targaryen in the east. You said she had dragons. Wouldn't she be suited a thousand times better to fulfil this task? Why didn't you train her?"
He looked at the roots that grew in and out of the old man's body.
"Well, I don't think you could go there yourself, but you could send someone to do it for you?"
The old man looked at him for a moment, a small smile creeping on his pale and old face.
"Who said I haven't?"
End of Flashback
Jon gradually made his way back to Winterfell, Frost slowly trailing behind him. The newborn puppy, that he had dubbed Ghost looked tiny in comparison, even if he had already grown a lot since they had found them.
The small pup ran circles around the older Direwolf, panting and nudging his flank. The pup's father allowed it with a mix of defeated-annoyment and adoration, occasionally nudging back.
Jon silently pondered on whether or not he would be able to actually ride on Frost's back. He might be too heavy for it, but a smaller person like Arya or Bran would surely be able to. Not that Lady Stark would allow her children to ride on such a wild beast.
He slowly walked through Wintertown, as dozens of little children were held back by their mother's to not approach the giant direwolf. The inhabitants of the small Wintertown had gotten used to the sight of the direwolves, yet still most of them remained wary of them.
Farther off, outside the streets of Wintertown the rutted kingsroad that vanished, lost amidst the fields and hills and meadows around it, that now just formed one giant mantle of white.
A short supply chain was about to enter the castle, bringing bread and meat to stock up on for the rapidly approaching winter. Autumn had arrived, and Winter would soon follow.
Jon silently walked through the gates and the godswood, where the white-cloaked trees stood, the earth beneath them turning to mud. The heart tree was in the middle, a pale giant with a carved face with red weirwood sap streaming from its eyes. The eyes through which he had looked so often.
He walked on and on, silently taking in the busy castle, as the snows fell softly around him, pale and silent.
"Where have you been?" Arya called out angrily, as he entered the training yard. Robb and Greyjoy were hacking at straw dummies, while Arya stood by and watched, obviously annoyed that she couldn't participate under Ser Rodrik's watchful eyes.
"In the Wolfswood," Jon stated, as he turned towards her with a small smile.
"And where have you been? Aren't you supposed to be with our favourite Septa, learning how to sew?" he continued with a wolfish grin. Arya's Direwolf Nymeria stormed towards Frost and Ghost, as the two of them entered the yard as well.
"Fancy sword you got there, Snow," Greyjoy called out, as he moved towards Jon.
"Yes, Greyjoy, a sword," Jon shot back. He could see Ramsay stand atop the battlements of the castle nearby, eyeing the scene with interest. "A good sword as well, finely crafted. Quite large as well. Not that you would know anything about large swords."
He could see Robb doing his best and failing to suppress his laughter, while Arya looked confused.
"Whatever, Bastard. Show me what you got then."
"Fight me? Sure," Jon said with a slight shrug. "I thought you had a little self-respect."
"Self-respect?" Theon frowned. "Hollow words. Come. Fight."
Theon drew his sword, a somewhat sharp blade of steel, though it seemed like it hadn't been taken care off in some time. The hilt was formed from silver and iron, though rust had started creep over it.
Jon smiled and drew his sword, the ripples of the Valyrian Steel reflecting in the dim light of the reflecting snowflakes.
The ancient longsword glittered in the light, earning a few gasps from the guards around them.
"Valyrian Steel," Robb exclaimed, stating the obvious. "Where did you get that sword from?"
"An old friend..." Jon said, slightly melancholic. "Though I suppose we can talk about this later."
"Put that blade away," came Ser Rodrik's command suddenly. His voice was strong, despite his age, echoing through the yard. "I won't have anyone spar with Valyrian Steel in this training yard."
"I can take him," Theon all but snarled, raising his sword.
"I won't cut you, Greyjoy. I promise. Or you would probably start crying and run back to the Iron Isl.., Oh wait, there are no Greyjoys left on them."
Theon stormed forwards his sword raised, ignoring Ser Rodrik's shouting, but his charge was stopped differently.
His sword was old and rusty, part of the blade crumbling. It could have withstood Orphan-maker had it been taken care of, but like this, it was no match for the old sword of House Roxton.
Jon's sword sliced clean through the blade, cutting it in two, right through the middle, before Jon tripped Theon, making him tumble to the ground.
It took no more than half-a-dozen seconds until Greyjoy was on the ground, the tip of the Valyrian sword at his throat, his eyes wide and in shock.
"Well, that was easy," Jon grinned. He slowly removed the tip of the sword from Greyjoy's throat, as he smiled at the fuming Ser Rodrik.
"Teach me how to do that," Arya said in awe, as he moved to stand next to her once more.
"Another time, little wolf," he smiled, as he ruffled her hair.
Nobody noticed, how for a split second, his eyes turned as white as the snows on the battlements.
"What if there is no later," Arya pouted. "The King comes to Winterfell, father drags me with him to King's Landing and you disappear for another 3 years."
"Then starting now won't help you anything either," Jon shrugged. "But for what it's worth I'll try to teach you as soon as I can."
"Thank you," Arya said, as she embraced Jon into a tight hug. "But still, why not now? Because of Ser Rodrik? He'll go to meet Father in a few minutes."
"Not Ser Rodrik," Jon told her. "Someone else."
Arya followed his gaze, that led to Bran, who was climbing a tower, far above them.
"Bran?" she asked, just as Bran cried out to them.
"They're here!" he shouted. "The King is here!"
"How did you-" Arya started, but Jon interrupted her.
"I'll tell you soon as well. But for now, I'm afraid you'll have to allow yourself to be clothed in some dress by your mother."
"Only if you promise to teach me."
"I promise."
"Fine then."
"Wait, you're really going to wear a dress?" Jon asked, incredulously, not expecting her to be actually serious.
"Of course not, idiot."
"Idiot?" Jon said with fake hurt. "That hurt a lot, truly." He clutched his chest dramatically. "I'm afraid I won't be able to teach you anymore."
Arya only snorted, knowing he wasn't serious about it. Finally, she turned and walked off, ready to steal some breeches from Bran, that she would try to wear during the King's arrival, only to get reprimanded by her mother and start an hour-long discussion about her not wanting to be a lady.
The usual.
"You've got a lot to tell me, Jon," Robb said finally, as he walked up behind him. He rested an arm on his shoulder, pushing it slightly so that Jon turned to look at him.
"What happened to you, while you were gone?"
"I fought. I learned. I returned," Jon said, his voice lost in memories, but still firm.
"I killed and I lived with the wildlings, saw some Children of the Forest. Believe me, they still exist. Their numbers are few, but not non-existent."
His dark grey eyes bored into Tully-blue ones.
"I have a choice to make. My life will change from it, and I'll never know if it was the right one."
The King rode through the gates of Winterfell atop his giant stallion. The entire Stark family and their household was lined up in the courtyard, while Jon and Ramsay stood on the battlements above them.
"Fancy horse," Ramsay remarked. "My bitches would love it, I'm sure."
"I'm sure they would," Jon reaffirmed sarcastically. "As if they wouldn't eat everything that comes between their teeth."
"That's what good dogs do."
The King was leaner than what Jon remembered from his visions. Where the visions of years past had showed him growing fat, they were now replaced by muscles. Not that it made him any lighter. The horse looked as if it were about to crumble.
"I pity the horse. Poor thing. Being eaten by your dogs might be a more merciful fate for it," Jon stated, as they looked on.
"Surely."
A young boy with black hair rode next to Robert, atop a smaller horse. Robert's queen, Cersei Lannister, entered on foot with her other two children. The wheelhouse in which they had ridden, a huge double-decked carriage of oiled oak and gilded metal pulled by forty heavy draft horses, was too wide to pass through the castle gate.
When Jon and Ramsay turned, they could see the monstrosity standing outside the castle walls.
"Who the fuck even came up with that shit," Ramsay muttered silently, as they looked at it.
Jon merely shrugged, as he turned to observe the scene in the courtyard once more. It seemed as if Lady Stark had managed to force Arya into a dress, though she wore breaches beneath it regardless. Still, it did not please her well, if the pout on her face was anything to go by.
The King first hugged Lord and Lady Stark before looking at each of the Stark children, their wolves next to them.
"What are these beasts doing here?" the queen asked her husband, loud enough so that all could hear her. She eyed the not-anymore pups with distrust, as they nibbed at their masters legs.
Ramsay looked at him for a moment, a grin on his face. "Do your thing," he commanded, earning a confused look from Jon.
"I've seen you control your wolf more often than you could know. Bring him down there," Ramsay demanded, and Jon couldn't help but feel surprised that he liked one of the boy's ideas.
It took no more than a second until he felt the phantom sensation of Frost's paws moving over the frozen ground and snow. When he returned to his body shortly after, he could already hear the shouts from the yard below, as the huge direwolf trotted towards the men.
"Seven Hells!" the King exclaimed as the grey wolf approached them.
"Tough beast," Ned confirmed. "A Direwolf, the first to be seen south of the wall in a long time. He is the father of the pups."
"He's yours?" the King asked Lord Stark. "Wish we would'a had one of those when we fought in the Rebellion!" he let out a bellowing laugh.
"Those Targaryen cunts would have shat themselves!"
"Of course, your Grace," Lord Stark answered, always courteous. "But he's not mine. My son Jon found him, around three years ago. The pups were born just 2 months ago, however."
"Your bastard?" the Queen asked incredulously. Jon had decided that he hated her long ago, however seeing her in person was even worse than his first spoons of weirwood paste.
"My son."
"You allow him to own such a beast? You did not demand that it be given to you?"
"A Direwolf is not 'given', your Grace," Lord Stark replied, though there was an edge to his voice and Jon could see a tinge of annoyment in his eyes. "The wolf chose him, so he belongs to him."
"And where is that bastard of yours? Did he not see fit to greet his king and queen?"
"Oh, shut up, ya blasted woman," Robert exclaimed, making Sansa gasp, Arya smile and the rest look shocked. "We all know that you would have been whining about a bastard standing in your damn presence for the rest of yer miserable life. Now take me to the crypts, Ned. I have yet to pay my respects."
Jon and Ramsay laughed at the queen's insulted frown, as Lord Stark led the King to the crypts.
Maybe this will still get interesting.
Daenerys
"We received a raven from Volantis, Empress Daenerys," Marwyn said, but Daenerys just waved off the titles. It was quite late, the sun had already set on the horizon, so it was mainly the many glass candles that illuminated the streets and rooms.
"Stop with the titles, Marwyn, and tell me what was in the letter."
"A summon," Marwyn answered carefully. "By the boy that took Volantis. He calls himself Aegon Targaryen. Your nephew," he said placing a scroll back onto the table in front of him. It was small, tiny in fact, neatly written and sealed with a 3 headed dragon embedded in a red drop of wax.
This incited whispers from the other members of the council, a dozen words being muttered into each other.
"Anything else?" Daenerys asked, taking a sip from the glass of wine that was placed in front of her.
"It is signed by Jon Connington. An old friend of your brother, as you probably know. They claim to have taken the city."
"They did," Daenerys nodded. "I was told. Bloody affair it would seem. But I'm not one to judge."
"Jon Connington?" Ser Barristan interrupted. "It is said that he drunk himself to an early grave many years ago. Though those were mostly rumours."
"False rumours," Daenerys shrugged. She wore a long Tokar, a ghiscari gown that was wound around her hips and under an arm and over a shoulder. It was wrapped this way to display the dangling fringes on the sides that showed the wearer's status - In Daenerys case, they were made from the finest silk, with emeralds woven into the loose ends of the fabric.
"What about the boy, Ser Barristan? Could there be truth to those claims?"
"His parentage?" Ser Barristan grumbled. "I saw the boy's head, crushed to pieces when he was smashed against the walls of Maegor's holdfast. Wrapped in Lannister cloaks, so that the crimson colour hid the blood that splattered everywhere."
"But his head was crushed?" Dany asked. "He was not recognizable?"
Ser Barristan only shook his head.
"No. The corpse was mutilated and unrecognizable. It was Ser Gregor's work, as you probably know."
"I do..." she paused for a moment. "So there is a possibility, that there might be truth to his claims?"
"If Jon Connington serves him, it might be true. He was one of the many lordlings that followed your brother Rhaegar like a swarm of insects follows the light. He was a loyal man, loyal only to Rhaegar, almost fanatic at times. He was already a capable man all those years ago, but if he is indeed still alive, he is now a changed man. More dangerous, likely more cunning as well. You ought to respect him, if not fear him."
"You can't mean to surrender to... whatever boy that is," Merana spoke up for the first time. "You don't need to, regardless of who his parents may have been."
"Never said that I would."
She leaned back in her chair and observed the people who sat around the long, oaken table.
"It is an insult," Pree nodded. "A show of force may be the way to go. A way to show your power, to distinguish yourself as an equal, if not superior."
There was nothing more to be said for a while. Daenerys set her lips into a line and considered it. There is merit to the idea.
Allowing herself to be ordered around by a boy with a few thousand men at his back would show weakness. It might embolden others to try the same.
Missandei and Marwyn had built up a network of spies with time, all across Essos and parts of Westeros, that she now hoped to use.
She gave the two a nod. "What do your spies say about this... Aegon?"
Marwyn pursed his fatty lips, then spoke. "They have been sending lots of news recently, especially those in Volantis. It is commonly said by them, that Aegon is young, supposedly brave, and seemingly fair, but also at times naive and headstrong. He leads an army of mercenaries, the Golden Company and it seems other sellswords might join him soon. The Stormcrows, Windblown and Second Sons have all distinguished themselves as potential allies to this boy. He styles himself the King of Volantis."
"How did they sack the city?" Daenerys asked. "The walls of Volantis have never fallen easily, only to the power of the dragons did they bow."
"Treachery," Missandei stated, her voice sweet yet strong. "The Golden Company was hired by the masters of Volantis to defend the city against a horselord named Khal Drogo. Once they were inside the city, they turned on them."
"Foul Treachery," Ser Barristan shook his head. "I have seen enough battles, to know that battles are always filled with it. Lords fleeing when it is essential to charge, others stabbing their liege's in the back, so they might be rewarded by whoever might succeed them. But it is vile nonetheless."
A servant that entered the room to clean up and refill Daenerys's wine. Daenerys quickly gulped down the wine, before it was refilled. She carefully wiped her mouth, before she spoke.
"I shall go there," Daenerys declared. "With my dragons behind me. Find out the truth about this supposed dragon and then return. Be ready for whatever might happen. Keep the Unsullied ready and trained, prepare to draw legions from Slaver's Bay if necessary. Tomorrow at dawn, I will leave. If you don't hear from me within the sennight, consider this a war."
"Your Grace, please," Ser Barristan all but stuttered. "I must protest this decision. Go there by boat and allow me and your other guards to accompany you. Do not go into such danger alone. Your dragons are powerful, but they can't protect you from daggers in the dark."
"I won't be alone," Daenerys stated matter-of-factly. The huge she-hellhound that was shadow approached from behind her. She had grown huge over the past years, so much that when Daenerys sat down, the hound could comfortably rest her head on hers. And even if she stood, it was close.
"Shadow will be coming with me. Let them try to fight her."
"She won't be always there."
"I can handle myself."
"I know you can, your Grace, I have seen you fight myself often enough. But when Daemon Blackfyre fell on the Redgrass Field, it wasn't because his opponent was a better fighter. Daemon was the finest swordsman in the realm, but when Bloodraven sent a dozen arrows through him, all his swordsmanship couldn't protect him."
"It is my decision, Ser," Daenerys replied, a bit of an edge in her voice.
"I appreciate your concern for my safety," she then added a bit more softly. "But this is what I will do."
Ser Barristan only nodded, accepting her decision. Merana looked displeased but kept silent as well.
"At dawn," she declared. "Let's find out the truth."
She left her advisors behind and left the room, with Shadow trailing silently behind her, to guard her as she got a good night of sleep before the long flight on the morrow.
At least that's what she had hoped, but when she fell asleep she came face to face with a very familiar red mask.
Quaithe's red mask appeared slowly before her, dark mist surrounding her as she spoke and walked. Her form was veiled in the same smoke and fog as Bloodstone, with shadows accompanying her every step.
"Daenerys Targaryen," she muttered silently, as Daenerys stood before her. The two of them stood atop a giant mansion, with hundred thousands of houses beneath them, the streets twisting and turning, forming an endless web of roads.
Still, the streets were completely abandoned. The city was built entirely of the same, oily black stone, in blocks so large it would require a dozen elephants to move them. It looked as if it had remained in desolation for many thousands of years, yet the jungle surrounding it had scarcely ever touched it. Wildlife bloomed around it, so many plants and animals that Daenerys could not hope to name even half of them, but not a single flower bloomed inside the city walls.
"Why are you here, Shiera," Daenerys demanded. "I told you I never wanted to hear from you again and I meant it. If I could kill you here and now, I would."
The older woman, however, looked unimpressed, something Dany was entirely unused to.
"I came here to warn you, Daenerys Stormborn. You might hate me, but I do not hate you, nor ever will. Threats are arising to your freshly forged empire."
"Speak your words and leave, Shiera," Daenerys shot back. "Whatever threats there are, I will defeat them. My empire has stood for years now and it will continue to stand."
"Years are not enough for stability, you know that," Shiera sighed, her dark brown, almost black eyes behind the mask shone with a sad tinge. Wrong eyes.
"Threats are here, threats will come. A dragon and his gryffin, the children of summer and the children of winter, a crow's fallen apprentice, the form of a Kraken and the tides of Winter. Dragons of red, dragons of black, the mind of a lion. Beware all and trust none, for betrayal is always present."
"Is that why you came here, Shiera? To warn me about not trusting anyone? The only one to ever prove himself unworthy of my trust is you."
"I did what was best for you if you see it or not. Where would you be today, had I not done what I'd done? There are millions of possibilities and I doubt there are more than a dozen that are preferable to this version."
"And a million in which I could have kept my brother."
"Is that truly all you desire, Daenerys?" Shiera asked, her voice a sweet melody. But Daenerys only laughed bitterly.
"It is. A family is what I've always wanted, but what I've never been given. All the kingdoms of this world can not give you happiness."
"Then tell me, Empress Daenerys Targaryen, bride of shadows and daughter of fire. If you were to return to that very day the house in Braavos again. All your powers lost, with only the knowledge that if you let that house burn, you will become what you are today. Would you prevent it?"
When Daenerys remained silent, she continued.
"You yearn for family and trust, but you love your power even more. The feeling when you ride atop your dragons, the power of their flames consuming all who dare to challenge you."
Her dark eyes were piercing behind the red mask, as she stared at her intensely.
"Do not speak, as if you knew me, Shiera Seastar," Daenerys finally replied. "You know nothing about me, not what I feel, not what I think, not what I intend to do."
"I know you better than anyone else, Daenerys. I've seen you grow up, it was me who raised you. I know exactly what you are going to do. I know you are going to challenge your current bonds, I know you will continue to push forwards, testing more and more how far you can go, what else you can conquer. You will challenge the rest of the Free Cities, you will challenge Dorne, followed by Highgarden and Storm's End. And Casterly Rock, and the Vale, and Riverrun, Winterfell, King's Landing, Oldtown altogether. You didn't get to where you are now, by hugging your elders and staying in safety. So either someone will eventually end your conquest by ending you, or you will never stop. Nothing but death could stop you, as this is what I taught you. Whether you win or lose your battles is of no concern, because regardless, you will be there, challenging whoever happens to be blocking your empire's expansion."
She sighed slightly before looking her dead in the eyes.
"This is inevitable. This is you. This is Daenerys Targaryen. This is what I taught you and you should be proud of it. You're a dragon. Be a dragon."
Shiera slowly extended her hand towards her, her nimble fingers open in invitationg.
Daenerys hesitated for a few seconds, yet they seemed like ages to her, until finally she grasped it.