A Prince of Dragonstone

by Etsukazu

The Targaryen dynasty has collapsed, ending three centuries of undivided rule and leaving a continent in the chaos and uncertainty of usurpation. However, even dethroned, the princes and princesses of the House Targaryen still live, hidden as they can, in Essos as in Westeros. The Seven Kingdoms may not have heard the last of the Targaryens and their mighty dragons.

1. In the Heart of the Storm

The Targaryen were said to be powerful Dragon Lords from the East. Shrouded in mystery, they were often accused of witchcraft and incest, but their unshakeable supremacy on the continent of Westeros had never been threatened. Their dragons and then their royal prestige had always protected them.

Yet the Targaryen dynasty has collapsed, ending three centuries of undivided rule and leaving a continent in the chaos and uncertainty of usurpation.

However, even dethroned, the princes and princesses of the House Targaryen still live, hidden as they can, in Essos as in Westeros, sometimes at their expense, sometimes without even knowing who they are. The Seven Kingdoms may not have heard the last of the Targaryens and their mighty dragons.

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A Prince of Dragonstone - Prologue

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THE QUIET WOLF

283

The dawn and the sight of the sun rising in the East were a view that was difficult to appreciate in Winterfell. The dawn was far too cold, the wind and its coolness often too sharp to open the shutters and watch the colourful sky and the dancing clouds of the morning. The men of the North were far too austere to devote even a few seconds to hobbies considered to be of little interest or eccentricities of the people of the south. Eddard had to admit, however, that the southern sunrises were a sight to behold, an eccentricity if there ever was one, but one which brought a peace of mind in a way that no northern contemplative activity could. Here, while the celestial light of the Sun glowed over the blue expanses of the Narrow Sea and the waters of Blackwater Bay, the restful warmth of its radiance and the marine fragrance that accompanied the morning breeze contrasted with his morose state of mind and the striking military picture that stretched as far as the eye could see.

Before his eyes laid out the rolling, green expanses of the Crownlands, on which stood farms and fields of every colour and where both fruits and grains were grown. But today, as the last days, these normally fertile expanses of life and greenery made way to an ocean of iron, leather and steel. Tents were erected everywhere in the distance, the ground was mud and dirt, the smoke of campfires was intermingled in the heights, while columns of men and horses were intermingled here below, moving and patrolling at the rhythm of the orders that the officers and captains gave at the top of their voices. It was not a landscape of peace and fertile provinces, it was the image of war and military campaigns. The Lands of King's Landing, the central regions of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, far from reflecting the appearance of prosperity one was entitled to expect from them, seemed devastated, exhausted and barren.

Beyond the camps and the smoke, the great western walls of King's Landing looked like as if they were emerging from the earth, lit by the first rays of daylight. In spite of the density of the outer villages, Eddard could still guess - if not perceive it clearly from the distance - the King's Gate. The diffuse but immense silhouettes of the Kingswood stretched further south, towards the Stormlands, and he could guess by the steepness of the long forest edge the plunging presence of the Blackwater Rush. While the red stone walls of the town gleamed brightly, the blackened stones of the surrounding buildings and the collapsed houses clearly showed to the young lord of Winterfell the signs of fire and looting. The blossoming spectacle of the dawn of the south immediately seemed tainted and unworthy to him, so he quickly turned his gaze away from the sky and from afar, and looked upon what laid out before him.

The outer perimeter of King's Landing and the grounds devoted to tournaments and major games were covered with armies, so much so that it was impossible for the young Stark to see the end of them. Fifty thousand men, if not more, were gathered together in the same place and organized themselves as best as they could. They came from all over the kingdom. The falcon rousant Bleu celeste upon a plate argent on the azure banners of the House Arryn of the Eyrie floated everywhere, and the direwolf courant cendrée on the argent banners of the House Stark of Winterfell floated beside them, interspersed with the trout embowed argent of the paly wavy azure and gules banners on the House Tully of Riverrun. On either side, isolated, stood the banners of the Houses Lannister and Baratheon, respectively the coats of arms Gules, a lion Or, and Or, a stag salient, crowned, Sable. It was indeed fifty thousand men and five massive armies, at the pinnacle of their glory and strength, encamped at the foot of a ravaged city.

It was a grandiose and impressive spectacle, but one that inspired him only pain and melancholy. Just like the one of the infant whose babblings full of joy were filling the alcove of his big tent.

"He has his father's eyes." Ser Arthur Dayne suddenly said, as he held the baby and stared at it with a respect that a man of his rank could only hold for a prince.

Eddard squinted in doubt at the expression of the dornish knight. Arthur Dayne, the man of legend known as the Sword of the Morning, the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms, former member of the Kingsguard, was holding little Jon, already known as the bastard he had sired in the south. Eddard would have preferred the truth to be that simple. Because every time the young Warden of the North looked into little Jon's eyes, every time he appreciated their incredible dark and purple reflections, it was not the purple tones of southern families like the Dayne that he saw, but the purple tones of Old Valyria, of conquerors and liberators, of tyrants and kings.

The tincture of the Dragonlords.

"No," he replied mechanically, before crossing Arthur's purple eyes. "He has his mother's eyes." he added, as if to convince himself of the lie they were obliged to diffuse.

"For now."

The knight's terse response put an end to any further debate, but his expression was indicative of his resentment. It was clear to Eddard that the dornishman did not like the idea of using lies in this way. The Quiet Wolf of Winterfell gave a passing thought to the memory of those they used, praying for forgiveness as he had done for many weeks. But they never had a choice.

"Lord Eddard!"

Eddard turned towards the tent entrance as soon as he heard his name. A man was standing there and had just entered without announcing himself. His outfit of gambeson and brown and gray leather clearly identified him as a northerner and one of his banners. His expression was solemn. His facies was hard and typically embodied the austerity of a northman, but his clear features and small stature betrayed his roots as a crannogman. He was none other than Howland Reed, lord of the stronghold of Greywater Watch, his faithful companion.

"What happened?" the young lord of Winterfell asked bluntly.

"The King. He demands your presence. He's heading this way."

The King. If that word did not inspire such disgust in Ned, in reminiscence of what the previous bearer of this title of nobility had dared to do to his family and to the whole kingdom, perhaps he would not have pointed it out, if not so bitterly. But the fact that his dear friend Robert was able to dress in such a pomp and circumstance even before he was crowned and to claim all the properties of his future title so quickly caused him constant uneasiness. King Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his name. What a vulgar reality, knowing that the man's first royal act had been to legitimize in his vengeful madness the same kind of act against which he had risen. What a sad irony.

"I'm going to retire." Ser Arthur said calmly as he rose to his feet.

Eddard briefly crossed the dornish glance, a meaningful glance which he also addressed to Howland Reed. His little Jon was indeed still in the arms of the Dayne, and it was clear to all three why it was safer for the knight to retire with him. The further away the baby was from Robert, the better off they all would be. Them, and the kingdom.

"I'm going to meet him." Howland said, before returning outside when he received the consent of his liege.

Howland knew the truth, he knew their strategy, and the trust that Eddard had in him was as solid as Valyrian steel. Since the famous Harrenhal tournament that brought them together, the crannogman had been a true brother in arms and had saved his life many times, often at the risk of his own. He looked serenely at the man's back as he left his tent.

His relationship with Arthur Dayne was much more complicated, but despite the fact that they had both been on opposite sides during the war, circumstances made it so that there was no more reliable than him. Eddard may even have had more confidence in Dayne than he had in Reed, if it was relevant for him to compare. Arthur Dayne, with a sharp but complicit look, gave him one last acquiescence before silently leaving the scene in the footsteps of the crannogman.

From then on, he returned to the solitude of his quarters, the silence that had taken over the room being spontaneously interrupted by the sounds of the outside world, the bursts of voice, the sound of steel and horses. Knowing Howland had gone to meet Robert, the Stark went to sit on one of the seats around the table in the center of his tent. His spirit wandered then, as he remembered the sum of the events that had brought him to this place, until that moment, when he was no longer waiting for a friend, but for a king. A compulsive king, who was mourning ferociously. Or was he trying to believe it, because mourning and ferocity were no guarantee of harmony. Robert didn't like to wear black anyway.

The shadow at the entrance of the tent followed by the sound of footsteps soon announced the arrival of the person concerned. He came in with a bang.

"Ned Stark!" he exclaimed loudly, a stubborn gleam shining in his blue eyes, and then a joyful one the very moment he saw him.

Eddard immediately stood up at the sight of him and stared at him with great caution. Robert was tall as well as muscular. He was a handsome man, the typical image of the powerful Baratheon: big blue eyes evoking storm and fury, like the motto of his house. His hair, cut relatively short, evoking the soldier that he was, was deep brown, almost black. His skin was pale, and his finely trimmed beard betrayed a vigorous, thick growth. His friend Robert Baratheon, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. His friend, or so he thought. But now that he was the King, it was hard to know if such a bond still existed. One could not be a friend of a king. Only his subject.

"Your Grace." he said humbly while bowing.

"Oh, enough!" Robert exclaimed at once as he stepped forward. "I've had enough of Your Grace for one day. I won't have this mawkishness from you, Ned."

Eddard wanted to protest, and his half-reticent look expressed it for him before his voice could rise. He changed his mind, however, when he saw the humorous gleam of warning shining in the Baratheon's eyes. Robert knew him well… And he knew Robert well in return.

"All right, Robert. What can I do for you?"

Robert didn't answer. He looked at the room with curiosity. He seemed to be looking for something, and Eddard obviously knew what it was. It wasn't that hard to guess.

"I don't see Ashara's bastard, Ned. Where did you hide him?" he asked shamelessly. The new king was rarely ankylosing himself with politeness. He resumed quite quickly in a snarling tone while continuing to observe around them. "Let me guess! His damned Dornish uncle has him in his care once again, hasn't he? If he hadn't come out of the same womb as the mother of your bastard son, I would have had him quartered and I would have divided the pieces in each of the Seven Kingdoms for breaking his damn oath. Goddamn oath-breaking and dragon-sucking traitor, as if that's all there was in that Kingsguard."

"Robert."

Eddard's neutral tone was not above reproach.

"I know, I know. As if I could do it now that I accepted his resignation. As if I could do it at all. He's sharing the blood of your blood, isn't he? You Northern wolves and your principles. They will lose you."

The Quiet Wolf of Winterfell took an imperceptible breath of relief. After what had happened lately, it was hard to know how serious Robert was about what he was saying. About what was true and what wasn't. Especially when it concerned the former sworn shield of Rhaegar Targaryen.

Eddard didn't know anything anymore.

"I want to see her."

The expression of his king of a friend changed as quickly as his tone. His look was as eager as it was sinister, and there reigned in the apple of his eye that contemplative glow, as if he were consulting some upsetting events of the past. Eddard had seen that look so many times in the last few days that he was no longer surprised. But even more so than when he had watched Robert looking strangely obsessively at his little Jon, Eddard had been overcome with an unpleasant feeling of morbid embarrassment.

"Robert, you already know that it's not reasonable. It's unhealthy and it's going to drive you crazy. You cannot keep doing that."

"Damn it Ned, I'm not asking your permission. I have to see her. I have to."

Eddard remained silent for a few seconds and then nodded calmly. He told his friend to follow him and went to a second, smaller alcove in the back of his tent. It was only separated from the rest of his quarters by a simple curtain, as if it were somehow intended to conceal this part of the tent. A coffin was laying there on a simple wooden table. The light barely passed through the thick canvas of the tent, not much more than the few candle lights in the adjacent alcove. Nevertheless, despite the gloomy atmosphere of the place, the air was still relatively pure. And the coffin, black and polished. The two men approached and Eddard then slowly opened the top of the large mortuary container.

In spite of the three weeks that had passed since her death, the silent sisters and the maesters under his authority, as well as those who had chosen to follow Arthur Dayne since their stopover at Starfall, had accomplished an impressive work of conservation. Cold but clean, Lyanna Stark looked like a sleeping beauty. The one waiting for her promised prince to come and rescue her from her long sleep. She looked peaceful. Soft, smooth and white. But his beloved younger sister was well and truly dead, and never again she would open her eyes to honour the people she laid them on with her beautiful Stark gray stare.

Lyanna Stark, the She-Wolf of Winterfell, was dead before she was even twenty years old. The last sun she was lucky enough to see was a sun of Dorne, which was setting through the red mountains and cliffs of the Dornish Marches. A warm and yellow sun and a blue summer sky, but this, thousands of leagues away from her home, far from the North and far from her kind. Her last moments had been spent in agony… What Robert didn't know was that she had also spent them in felicity.

"I should have been there for her."

Robert's words caused Eddard to break into a cold sweat. He realized, however, that the Baratheon had not alluded to the more than peculiar circumstances of his dear little sister's death.

"I kill him every night since the Trident," he continued afterwards, the self-pity present in the timbre of his voice transmuting into a palpable hatred. Eddard knew immediately who Robert was talking about. "I can't get enough of it. I drive my war hammer deep into his chest and the rubies of his armour continue to fly in the wind tirelessly before sinking around his carcass. I keep ripping out his damn heart, ripping it out and leaving it to rot in the water. Damn it, Ned, I want to kill that bastard as many times as I can. I want to see him suffer for what he did, but it's not enough. His eyes and his thoughts are elsewhere, he doesn't even see me."

Robert somewhat leaned over the sleeping She-Wolf of Winterfell, bewitched by her state of death. Solemn, Eddard listened to him, overcome with pity for his friend.

"All he does is whispering her name. As if he had the right to!"

His supplications full of rancour and regret presented a sad spectacle of the man who once lived always in the future. Robert Baratheon's insouciance had died as quickly as he had been told of Lyanna's disappearance, and the king's odious request to execute them both after the execution of so many of their friends had left only anger. Now that she was dead, now that so many of them were dead, he was living with ghosts. Those of Lyanna, Brandon, Father, Denys, Elbert, Kyle, Jeffory, and so many others. In his mind, Eddard had already made the decision to bring him back to reality, but it was not easy.

"She should stay here, with me, Ned. She should stay and rest here, in front of the sea, under the sun, on a hill where the wind blows. In the light of the Seven and the Kingdom."

Eddard sighed at this line.

"Robert, we've already talked about this…" he answered wearily. "Lyanna is a Stark. She is from the North. She must rest among her kind, under the watchful eye of our ancestors and the Old Gods. There is nothing here for her."

"There is me."

Eddard didn't respond to his friend's injunction. He didn't have to, and they both knew it. Robert was stubborn, and so was he. But Eddard had already decided. And more than with their father, their brother, and their ancestors, Lyanna's place was with the only creature of love to whom she had offered life.

Her little Aegon.

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THE RED VIPER

"Oberyn, I'm asking you again, you need to calm down."

Oberyn heard the voice of Prince Doran and the injunctions he was formulating. Reasoned and calm, the reigning prince of Dorne remained true to what he had always been and what people had always known about him. The emotions on his thin and matt rhoynish face revealed no anger, no hatred. The only thing Oberyn saw in it was mistrust, caution, a hint of sorrow and concern that he knew was directed at him. Knowning it didn't help him to calm down, on the contrary. Oberyn knew himself well, he knew himself to be warm-blooded, he knew himself to be impulsive. But his intentions were good, and he was so repulsed by this situation that he couldn't stop the fury and disgust from crackling in his veins.

And the only way for him to get rid of this burning desire to scream his head off, to break everything around him and wield his spear in all directions, was to walk nervously in front of his elder brother's office. Doran saw it, and he suspected it himself: his face must have been disfigured by hatred, he must have displayed an expression of unparalleled rage. The way the hysteria had invaded his thoughts and his body indicated this in every way.

"Let me go!" he exclaimed, the tone of his voice easily betraying a state of mind torn between a gloomy calm and an urgent desire for revenge. "I can gather twenty thousand spears and five thousand riders in two weeks. I can raise Dorne and the whole Greenblood. We would have tens of thousands dornishmen from all over the country in less than a month!"

Oberyn had uttered his suggestion in an almost panicked gasp and without even stopping his hundred paces. He hadn't even clearly observed Doran. He knew it wasn't good manners towards his older brother and reigning prince, but his mind was elsewhere. He was facing north. Towards traitors, monsters, rapists and child killers. His ranting was such that he could have vomited blood with his guts.

"We have to strike now, when they're not expecting it. I'll rip apart the Lannisters and their vulgar Baratheon puppet myself if I have to!"

Alas, Oberyn noticed that his older brother didn't seem convinced. He even saw him breathe a tired sigh.

"Doran! Elia, she…! We have to…"

"Oberyn, enough. Sit down. Please."

Oberyn realized that he was out of breath and was gradually entering a state of hyperventilation. He would have liked to insist more, to try to stir up his elder brother's rage to make it correlate with his own. But Doran remained adamant, and his gaze had hardened even more. What he'd once formulated as a request had suddenly become more than that. And Doran rarely gave him orders. Oberyn then remembered where he was, and looking at the ground and his feet in a haggard way, he tried as best he could to end his bewilderment. Inhaling several times, deeper and deeper, calmer and calmer, he managed to get the warm blood that was bubbling out of his veins.

Only infinite sadness remained, while the tears in his eyes replaced the blood in his veins. And his sadness echoed that of his dear Doran, to whom he gave a tearful and worried look. Then he came to sit down, following his brother's wish. Silence occupied the room for long seconds. Until his brother decided to break it, as he knew how to do so well.

"If you were to raise the Greenblood, if you walked with Dorne behind you, heading north, what would happen next?" he asked him. Oberyn had the decency to not answer him. "We would enter into war against the Usurper and his followers, of whom there are many. Against the Lannisters, who are powerful. What would the Reach do? Can you make sure the Tyrells are neutral?"

Oberyn realized soon enough that Doran was expecting an answer from him. He felt frustrated at his question, knowing what his reigning prince wanted him to say. He wouldn't take it so easily.

"The Tyrells were loyal to the Targaryens. The Redwynes and the Tarlys were the most dedicated houses in the—"

The thwarted and disdainful clacking of Doran's tongue immediately made him understand that the reigning prince did not at all agree with his observation.

"The Tyrells were defeated at Storm's End. A grotesque defeat after a useless siege. The Redwynes withdrew with losses and what was left of their war fleet," Doran replied wisely. He exuded caution, and Oberyn let him continue. "But above all, the Usurper granted them forgiveness when they could have received death. Well, Oberyn? Can you make sure the Tyrells are at least neutral if we attack?"

Oberyn clenched his fists in frustration as his knees trembled.

"No, I can't." he admitted quietly.

"No, you can't," his brother nodded calmly. "If we were to attack, if we were to attempt a retaliation, not only would we find ourselves against the Usurper's army, but we might end up finding ourselves caught in pincers by the Reach's armies. We would lose."

It was a fact that the enmity that reigned between the Dornishmen and the inhabitants of the Reach was as old as the history of the Seven Kingdoms, but these cultural tensions had essentially decreased during the union of the Seven Kingdoms with Dorne under Daeron the Good, following the marriage of his sister the Princess Daenerys Targaryen with the Prince Maron Martell of Dorne. Since then, the regional tensions between Dorne and the Reach had more to do with folklore and gossip and inn jokes than with territorial realities. The idea that the Tyrells or the Redwynes could turn against them when it was a question of punishing regicides and perjurers revolted Oberyn to the utmost.

"If we do nothing, if we let the slaughter of Elia and the House Targaryen go unpunished, we'll look like cowards in the eyes of the whole kingdom, Doran."

His brother's response was not long in coming, nor was the indignation that began to flow through his veins again.

"If that's our fate, then so be it. The war is over."

"But Brother!" he harangued him at once. "Elia is—"

"Elia is dead, Oberyn!"

Doran had gotten up and had raised his voice. It was the first visible trace of anger on his face since Oberyn had entered his office to tell him of his desire to lead Dorne's armies to war. He then fell back to his seat and concluded his line in a dull and defeated tone.

"She is dead."

Yes, of that they could no longer doubt. Princess Elia Martell, their beloved sister, and recent widow of Prince Rhaegar, had been murdered within the walls of the Red Keep of King's Landing. The rumour was spreading, ever stronger and more credible, that she and her two children had been horribly massacred, so much so that Tywin Lannister, who had not even taken responsibility for it, could not present their bodies other than wrapped in sheets with the Gules and Or Lannister coat-of-arms. Sheets stained with innocent blood, before which Robert the Usurper had granted pardon to the perpetrators of the crimes.

That was two months ago. And Oberyn couldn't stop crying every night at the thought of her dear Elia screaming under torture and abuse. According to the accusations made by Lord Eddard Stark, which were on all the mouths of Dorne, Ser Gregor Clegane and Ser Amory Lorch, sinister bannermen of the Westerlands, were the culprits. It was said of them that they raped Elia during the night of the sacking of King's Landing before killing her in an odious manner, with their bare hands, and desecrating her body for hours on end, subjecting her to indignities even worse than her rape had been, if that was even possible. The same fate was said to have been reserved for her children, whose bodies had turned out to be so unrecognizable during their presentation to the Usurper that it had been difficult to describe them as human remains.

"Elia is dead, but Rhaenys is still alive."

Doran's reply brought Oberyn out of his dark thoughts. Doran was right a thousand times. Rhaenys was alive. His little dragon princess. He loved her right away, when Elia presented her to him at birth. He had nearly forgotten her. Through all the savagery of this rebellion and despite the atrocious death of his poor sister, a miracle occurred. Oberyn could hardly understand how it was even possible, but Rhaenys had indeed survived the massacre.

The lint body that may still lie in those sinister Lannister sheets was not that of his beloved niece. One of Elia's servants who was present on the royal floors during the attack had the quick wit to carry Rhaenys away before the Red Keep fell into Lannister hands. It was according to this servant lady another little dornish girl, a certain Myria, daughter of a servant girl, who had been targeted. The poor girl must have been captured in the company of Princess Rhaenys little black kitten and was mistaken for her.

But Oberyn would have recognized her among a thousand, just as he had recognized her when he saw her come down in tears from the boat that had seen her fleeing from King's Landing. Rhaenys had taken a lot from Elia, including her delightfully olive skin colour, it was true. But she had also taken so much from Rhaegar, starting with that incredible strand of gold-silver hair, a unique and typical Targaryen colour, which ran elegantly through her dark brown hair on the left side of her head. Her eyes gleaming an intense golden colour as if they were imbued with the magic of the Rhoyne, like those of the water witches of the past, signalled a rhoynish blood as strong as her fine features screamed out her powerful Valyrian heritage.

Oberyn remembered losing track of time when he had been able to hug and console her on this isolated quay in the port of the Planky Town. He had rarely been seen away from her this past week. He had lost Elia without even being able to do anything, and he didn't want to feel so helpless anymore.

"You understand why you shouldn't do anything, little brother." Doran then continued. His brother watched him, and must have appreciated the fact that his expression softened at the thought of their surviving niece. "She's a Targaryen, maybe the last one. She's also a Martell. For the better or the worse, we will share her fate. We must protect her at all costs. And by protecting her, we must also protect ourselves."

He sighed as he let Doran's words reach him and caress the reason that was finally coming back to him. War couldn't be an option, not now when they were alone.

They stopped their discussion and immediately interrupted all reflection when a series of three knocks were heard at the door of Doran's office. The two brothers looked at each other for a moment in anticipation before Doran exclaimed vigorously: "Come in!". A few seconds passed before the door opened to the face of Areo Hotah, one of Doran's trusted men. Like his brother's beloved wife, Lady Mellario, young Areo Hotah was from the Free City of Norvos. Oberyn didn't know him well, but he trusted the judgment of his brother and goodsister. The norvoshi was loyal to Mellario and seemed to have naturally extended that loyalty to the recent husband of his esteemed mistress.

"My princes," he said simply, bowing respectfully. "Lady Tyrone wishes to see you."

"Bring her in." Doran replied simply in an acquiescence.

The young norvoshi guard humbly returned to remove himself from their presence and let the aforementioned one in. Lady Tyrone, as he had called her, was the servant to whom Princess Rhaenys owed her life. She was a relatively old woman, whose features, though tired, betrayed her origins as a stony dornishwoman. She served in the nursery of the Red Keep even before Elia married Rhaegar. For Oberyn, the maid owed her survival and luck to her more andal than rhoynish features. Had she been more salty or sandy than stony, and he doubted that she would have made it through the Lannister troops with Rhaenys in her footsteps.

"Prince Doran, Prince Oberyn." she greeted them with a gracious curtsy. It was clear that Lady Tyrone had lived in the Red Keep for a long time. With the door now closed behind her, Oberyn realized that three of the four people who knew the identity of Rhaenys Targaryen were in the same room. The last one was none other than Mellario. The four had agreed that the princess would never be isolated. Lady Tyrone quickly focused on him and gave him a sad look. "My prince, the princess… She needs you. Her mother's absence has again brought her to tears, and she is inconsolable. The presence of Lady Mellario has made no difference."

Oberyn turned to Doran with a worried look, who returned his attention with a sympathetic one. Rhaenys had become attached to him very quickly. There hadn't been much need for words. As soon as they had met on the docks and he had given her all the warmth and affection of an uncle, the little girl's tears had changed from tears of fear to tears of sadness. She had gradually calmed down in his presence and he had done everything he could to maintain this bond. She was the beloved daughter of his dear Elia. She was like his own daughter.

"Lead me to her, Lady Tyrone." he said as he stood up.

Doran got up after him and they followed the maid through the palace corridors. Down a wide white marble staircase, Tyrone led them outside, the soft darkness of the corridors immediately replaced by an ocean of light, revealing the sumptuous main courtyard of the Water Gardens, the most famous coastal palace of the Princes of Dorne.

The beautiful palace was one of Dorne's most magnificent mansions, if not of Westeros as a whole. The fresh sea air from the Summer Sea brought with it the floral scents of the palace's many gardens. Sweet scents of roses and tulips, intermingled with the exotic emanations of the fruits growing on date and mango trees, permeated the semi-shaded alleys of the gardens and courtyards. A rainbow of greenery, a panel as rich in scent as it was in colour was offered to the nose and eyes, the bright green of the trees and leaves and the limpid blue of the waters and the sky being sprinkled with yellow, red, pink, white and a multitude of other colours.

Benches made of luxurious mahogany wood were placed here and there between the bushes, against the walls or in front of the shallow water basins and comfortable cushions of all colours were placed there for the pleasure of the visitors who wanted to come and relax in this bath of light and nature. In front of the young prince's eyes was a small paradise, a true haven of peace and serenity, jewel of Dorne.

But further on, sitting on one of the famous benches, was Dorne's real jewel.

When Oberyn saw her, he felt his heart clench so tightly in his chest that he almost wavered with emotion. She was crying, Lady Tyrone had not lied. She did indeed seem inconsolable, in spite of Lady Mellario's warm embrace, who tried in vain to ease her princely troubles. She was not alone in her attempts. Around her, his eldest natural daughters, Obara and Nymeria, tried as best as they could to bring their contribution to the edifice by caressing and kissing her. Lady Mellario and his brother's eldest daughter, Arianne, stood behind her mother and held the hand of his third natural daughter, Tyene. The two little ones seemed just as caring and benevolent as the others.

It was as sad as it was touching to witness how their family had accepted the little Targaryen princess with such love. Rhaenys was already viscerally one of them, even though she didn't seem to be aware of it. But she was young, without her mother, scared. She couldn't see these things, and judging by the expressions of Lady Mellario, Arianne, and his daughters, they had already understood this and it didn't matter. They all adored her anyway.

Oberyn and Doran approached them, so they all turned around as they noticed them. Rhaenys, in tears, was the last to see him. She immediately evaded Mellario's gentle embrace and rushed into his arms as fast as her tiny legs would let her, babbling inaudible words through her sobs. But their sadness still reached Oberyn, finding an echo in his own wounded heart. Kneeling down, he received the little one with his arms wide open before hugging her warmly, kissing her little head at the place of her gold-silver strand as she cried her whole heart out in his chest.

"Muña." he managed to heard a few times. She was mourning Elia, her mother. "Gon!" he heard then between two cries. She was crying for Aegon, her little brother. "Ba-lion...!" he also understood as he covered her with comforting kisses and caresses. She mourned Balerion, her little kitten.

No words were spoken around him. Not by Doran, not by Mellario, not by their daughter, not by his. But their eyes were clear. One day, like the illustrious sons and daughters of the Rhoyne of the ancient times, they would have their revenge.

And for her, until that moment, they would remain Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken.

---

THE QUIET WOLF

Eddard always had a deep respect for Jon Arryn, and a great trust in him. Sent as a ward alongside Robert Baratheon under the care of the old lord of the Eyrie, Eddard gradually came to see him as a father. Jon had always been good to them, he had taught them, and he had formed them. Eddard liked to think that he had become a man of honour like Jon, or at least he constantly strived every day of his life to achieve that ideal. When his father, Rickard, and his brother, Brandon, were killed by Aerys II Targaryen, known as the Mad King, Jon brought them the thoughtful comfort of a mentor. When the said Mad King demanded their heads for some crimes they had not committed, he and Robert, Jon Arryn did not even hesitate to raise the whole Vale against the Iron Throne. Jon would have given his life for them, despite the danger that his potential death represented for his lineage.

But now Eddard could not guarantee that he would blindly follow Jon Arryn and trust him with his life and those of his people as he had done during their uprising and at the height of the war. What Jon Arryn had done was unforgivable. Justifiable in terms of his benevolent political intentions, but unforgivable in terms of honour. Eddard still remembered the blood-stained sheets in which the bodies - or what was left of them - of Elia Martell and her children were lying. They had watched with haunted glances as one of Robert's bannermen unrolled the sheets at his command. Their bodies were desecrated beyond all reason, as if the Others themselves had been at work. No human being, or anyone claiming to be one, should have been capable of such savagery, such cruelty. One had to believe that the Mad King had not been the only madman of the Seven Kingdoms. Added to this was the disappointing death of Aerys II, pierced in the back and then slit in the throat by his regicide of a Kingsguard as if he had been a pig.

Jaime Lannister, author of this heinous regicide, should have been hanged up on the spot. Tywin should have been sent to the wall as it should have been for any instigator, and the bannermen responsible for the murder of Rhaegar Targaryen's family should have been finished like the beasts they were. More than honour, all the laws of the realm called for it.

And yet, in spite of this, Jon Arryn the man of honour, Jon Arryn the man of law, had contradicted his demands for justice and had pushed Robert to turn a blind eye to this odious affair. In the name of peace. And now that Eddard had in mind the beautiful violet eyes of his little Jon, glowing with that strange Valyrian magic, his disgust at the time had turned to horror, to fear, at the mere thought that the Starks would suffer the same fate as the poor souls who soaked those Lannister sheets.

"No disrespect, Lord Lannister, but you understand my position. As Hand of the King, I would still like to be informed of those decisions first."

As Eddard sank into a contemplative silence, a discussion continued before his eyes.

"Lord Arryn, with all due respect, these decisions are not entirely within your qualifications as Hand. It was a long-standing agreement between Lord Lannister and His Grace."

"Long-standing, you say, Grand Maester Pycelle? What do you mean, by long-standing? A month?"

"Well, any perception of time is relative to the elements and the convenience of each and every…"

Eddard watched the exchange between the two men taking place. To his right, Jon Arryn stood dignified, seated on his chair and emanating all the qualities he was known for. Lord Jon Arryn was upright, it could be felt in the way he stood. He was just, as could be seen from his respectful gaze and his manner of expression. He was a good man, as could be seen from the kindness of his words and his temperance.

Facing them, sitting on the other side of the large table, at the far left, Grand Maester Pycelle stood without claiming to be so graceful. Eddard didn't know if he was playing his character and his alleged old age fatigue, but he was standing bent over, dressed in an almost too humble scholar's toga decorated with four heavy chains, and looking so modest that it seemed almost too accommodating and untrue. But Eddard could understand it: Maester Pycelle had been the Maester of the small council of the Mad King, and the Maester of the small council of his father King Jaehaerys II Targaryen before him. His situation in front of the allies was not the most favorable, even if he seemed quite comfortable in front of them.

"And yet, it is not the decision as such that bothers me, since I am the one who had initially suggested it. But your propensity to overstep your prerogatives and ignore my consultations is quite troubling, Lord Lannister. This also applies to you, Your Grace. I am your Hand, you have to inform me of your decisions, and whether or not I have given my prior support is irrelevant in that matter."

"There's no need to discuss it any further, Lord Arryn. The decision has been made, it has been ratified, and unless you wish to contradict it, we will not reconsider it."

Tywin Lannister's voice sounded clear and firm. His tone was dry and brittle, and judging by the expression on his face, his state of mind matched his tone. The man didn't like Jon Arryn reversing his decision. Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, former friend of the Mad King, former Hand of the King. He had many titles, was one of the most renowned and feared personalities in the kingdom. His reputation as a ruthless hardliner had been confirmed two months earlier, when King's Landing was sacked and the Targaryen massacre he had instigated was carried out.

Tywin Lannister was a dangerous man, an extremely dangerous one. This was the second time Eddard had faced the man, the first time having been at the capture of the Red Keep, when his men had presented the bodies of Princess Elia and her children. The lord of Casterly Rock and the House Lannister was like the sinister songs written about him. A lion was the word. Older than them by about twenty years, the mass of his Lannister blond hair had already begun to diminish under a nascent baldness, but there was still a predatory glow in his green eyes, which came out all the more because he rarely blinked. He seemed unyielding and looked up at them with his superior air, showing that he was in no way intimidated by their presence. The Lion of Casterly Rock knew what he wanted and he would get it.

"My daughter Cersei will be queen. King Robert has agreed. End of the discussion."

But Jon Arryn obviously didn't let himself be intimidated, and turned to Robert. His old mentor's answer was a bored look from his friend of the Stormlands. Jon Arryn sighed with a weary look of resignation. Eddard could understand it, as the terms of this matrimonial alliance had not been as financially binding as an efficient administrator such as Jon Arryn would have wished. All he actually got out of it was the definitive peace in the kingdom. Eddard himself had not even been informed of such a betrothal arrangement. To his credit, he'd been away for over two months while he scoured the Stormlands and Dorne, on Lord Varys' informations, in search of his sister.

Eddard observed Robert for a few seconds. Would the Baratheon have agreed to his marriage with Cersei Lannister before he even knew of Lyanna's death? Certainly, it was not possible. But it was as if the Baratheon had been in a hurry to get engaged again, barely having received the news of his younger sister's death. The raven he had sent to King's Landing from Starfall, stronghold of the House Dayne, dated back to this period.

"Are there any other decisions I should know about or can we move on to the subject of the day?" Jon asked in a bitter tone.

The new Hand of the King had probably asked this question without waiting for a serious answer, but against all odds, he did get an answer from none other than Stannis Baratheon. At the far right of the table was Robert's little brother. If Eddard had not questioned his presence in the first place, the fact that he sat on the small council without a function to justify it had remained intriguing. Eddard had, however, been quick to suspect the reason.

"Well, since it came up to this point, I might as well say it. Now that Robert is Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Storm's End is left without a lord. I've discussed it with him. I want Storm's End. It belongs to me, by right. Please ratify this decision."

Storm's End, the historic stronghold of the House Baratheon, and the stronghold of the Storm Kings of the House Durrandon before them. It was the administrative capital of the Stormlands and seat of their Lord Paramount.

"I see," Jon Arryn pronounced simply. Eddard saw no surprise in his eyes, nor in the eyes of the other occupants of the room. Lord Tywin seemed indifferent while Grand Maester Pycelle looked at his feet. At the far left of the table sat his goodfather, Hoster Tully, lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Trident. When he received the expectant glances of the other lords and Robert, the man shrugged his shoulders as if to testify of his neutral agreement. He saw no conflict. When Jon and Stannis' eyes then crossed his, Eddard nodded naturally, receiving a satisfied look from Stannis. "Then I, Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, announce that by the unanimous vote of the first small council of King Robert of the House Baratheon, First of his name, Lord Stannis of the House Baratheon is made Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands."

No one, and certainly not Eddard, had the audacity to dwell on the fact that the small councils did not grant the suzerainty of a kingdom or other fiefdoms so simply. The truth was that this meeting was not a small council. Dorne and the Reach aside, and now that Stannis had been inducted as Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, all the Wardens and Lord Paramounts of the kingdom were here. It was a meeting of the victors. The six most powerful men in Westeros at that very moment were standing beside each other, deciding with an almost nonchalant phlegm what was to become of the fate of their countries and the tens of millions of their people.

Maester Pycelle, in his capacity as scribe, diligently took care to copy at word what Jon Arryn had announced. Eddard saw him adding numerous additional annotations, certainly for a later archival work. That was, after all, his job. The young Warden of the North could not ignore Stannis glorious and fulfilled expression. Nor did he ignore Robert's neutral, almost acrimonious expression. He knew that Robert didn't like Stannis very much and that he preferred their little brother Renly, just six years old, to him. Robert had told him many times of his wish to make Renly the lord of Storm's End after the war.

He didn't know why Robert had changed his mind, but like Jon Arryn, he couldn't help but feel relieved. Storm's End belonged rightfully to his inflexible defender. Not only did Stannis have the legitimacy of a commander, for having defended Storm's End for an entire year from a terrible siege of the Reach's forces, but he also had the legitimacy of the birthright.

Satisfied with the progress of the meeting, despite the unpleasant surprise embodied in the subject of the engagement between Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister and the disdain with which Lord Tywin had responded to them, his old mentor soon took the floor again to refocus the discussion on the agenda.

"The issue of Storm's End and the Stormlands being resolved, now to the original subject of this meeting–"

"There's something else before that."

It was Lord Hoster Tully who had just interrupted his eldest goodson rather rudely. With his eyes full of questions, like those of all the lords present, Jon Arryn remained silent to let his goodfather speak. The man let himself be desired, since he didn't immediately take the floor that was given to him, but Eddard quickly understood from his expression that he was thinking of his next words.

"The devastation in the Riverlands has been immeasurable. The towns of Stoney Sept, Harroway and Maidenpool were violently pillaged by the royal army and my banners reported the sacking of more than a dozen castles and their granaries along the Red Fork."

"Get to the point, Lord Tully." Robert suddenly intervened.

"The House Tully does not have the funds to provide for the needs of the disaster victims and to repair the damage. I wish the Riverlands and my house to be compensated by the Targaryen royal treasury. As war reparations. To the extent of one million golden dragons."

Robert and Stannis's sceptical reactions were not long in coming, as their disbelieving looks demonstrated. Eddard knew they were attached to their funds, even if for two opposing reasons. Robert was a natural spendthrift where Stannis was reputed to be austere. Either way, they were thrifty. Jon Arryn remained relatively neutral. Perhaps it was Lord Tywin's reaction that was the most notable. The man had given way to a disdainful laugh.

"One million golden dragons? Lord Hoster, perhaps you should speak to your steward again."

"No disrespect, Tywin Lannister, but you are no longer the Hand of the King."

Hoster's line didn't wait. And the Tully was roundly urging his caller to be quiet. Eddard saw the Lannister look menacingly at his goodfather. The contempt the two lords had for each other was no longer a mystery. As with the Martells, Lord Tywin had proposed his younger son, Tyrion Lannister, a dwarf, for engagement to one of the Tully daughters in place of his older brother Jaime. And like the Martells before them, the Tullys had taken this proposal as an insult and had severed all relations with the Lannisters.

Robert's answer came very quickly, at the expense of Jon Arryn, whose opinion he had not consulted.

"Denied, Lord Tully. Review your numbers with your stewards. A million golden dragons, that's absurd."

Hoster Tully made a withdrawal and didn't respond. He stared at Robert and then at Lord Tywin, and then Eddard noticed that he looked at them succinctly, him and his mentor. He then allowed himself a line that cast a chill across the room and suddenly created a heavy tension.

"We have not devastated any cities or fortresses, nor have we stabbed our allies, our protégés, our prisoners or our suzerains in the back. You would do well to remember that it was trouts who stood by your side at the risk of their lives at the Trident, Your Grace, and not lions."

Tywin Lannister immediately sat straight back in his seat, holding the gaze of the Lord Paramount of the Trident.

"Be very careful with the words you use from now on, Hoster Tully."

The menacing glow in his eyes was clear and promised much retaliation if he dared to say more. Robert didn't seem to have taken the remark any better than his future Lannister goodfather, and he had a complicated expression, both insulted and uncertain. He and Jon shared an uncertain look. Stannis, meanwhile, seemed to have come out of his austere silence and remained on the alert.

Against all odds, Maester Pycelle was the one who tried to temper the atmosphere and prevent the situation from unfortunate outbursts.

"Your Grace…" he began in his honeyed voice before resuming in a deliberately slow tone. "Lord Tully seems to be mistaken… We might think he meant Lord Lannister to be a coward… Or a perjurer, which would be very hazardous for him, Lord Lannister being, like all of us here, a man of honour, always respectful–"

"Can someone explain to me again why this sinister lackey of the Mad King is here and opens his mouth so impetuously?" Hoster Tully suddenly cut him off.

Inflexible despite the tension and the stakes involved, the lord of Riverrun supported the gaze of Robert and Tywin Lannister. But he seemed to have heeded the warning of the lord of Casterly Rock and did not go any further, preferring to direct his animosity towards the former scribe of the House Targaryen. On the side, Pycelle seemed to grumble in his beard a few inaudible and uninteresting words, surely offended by the remark of the Lord Paramount of the Trident. In his defense, he had nevertheless succeeded in defeating the nascent conflict by his ridiculous intervention. Jon Arryn finally regained his role as a moderator, and tried to appease the already deep-rooted animosity with his wise words.

"Lord Tully, I understand your motives and they are not so unreasonable, but a little moderation, please…" the Lord of the Eyrie began in a diplomatic tone. He then turned to Robert and gave him a friendly and understanding look. "Your Grace, I apologize for Lord Tully's behavior. His demands are not unreasonable. You've seen it as we all have. The southern part of the Trident has suffered destruction unparalleled in the Seven Kingdoms. Without support, the House Tully, in addition to going into debt, could find itself in trouble with its vassals in the south, and the prolonged devastation of towns such as Maidenpool could also have very bad consequences for the economy of the regions north to the Trident as well, perhaps even for the Vale. If the royal treasury is not enough, we may be able to take out a loan at a preferential rate from the Iron Bank of Braavos. I am sure they would accept with a promise of partnership. The Mad King hated Braavos and it was mutual animosity."

"Jon, a million fucking golden dragons!"

Robert's line was almost childish, but everyone could understand it. It wasn't a modest sum.

"Not responding to the distress of the Riverlands after two years of war could send the wrong signal to the people, Robert," Jon replied in a soft tone. He had deliberately used his friend's first name, to echo his familiarity and make him understand that he was in no way seeking an antagonistic exchange. "If necessary, we can set up a reconstruction council to assess the costs. But I think it's the right thing to do. The decision is yours, Your Grace."

Eddard felt the need to intervene at this time.

"Your Grace, I second the Hand's opinion. I agree with him in principle. If funding is too much of a problem, the North is prepared to commit to help the Riverlands and the Seven Kingdoms."

"Just like the Vale." Jon Arryn hastened to add after him.

Robert looked at them for a few seconds and then breathed a strong, almost theatrical sigh of resignation. He then swept the case aside with a wave of his hand.

"All right, you'll get your golden dragons. There's no way my image will be tarnished like that of the Mad King. I'll leave that to you, Jon."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Hoster Tully humbly pronounced, leaning slightly forward to pay his respects. He seemed quite satisfied.

Tywin Lannister, on the other hand, didn't seem to be in the least satisfied, but he didn't seem to want to protest either. Stannis, meanwhile, remained silent. He seemed to have seen the value in Jon Arryn's arguments and stuck to them. A strange silence settled for a few seconds, while Maester Pycelle's inked pen worked the paper, saving for posterity all that was said at the time. And then, as if this discussion had not taken place, as if the camouflage of the lord of Riverrun to the lord of Casterly Rock had not been sent in such a scathing manner, the course of the meeting restarted at Jon Arryn's ceremonial injunction.

But it was futile for Eddard to believe that this so-called first small council of the Seven Kingdoms would end so well. For when the final subject of the meeting fell, the situation soon became unpredictable and uncontrollable. And above all, it overwhelmed him more than any other.

"You want to entrust the management of Dragonstone… to the North?"

That was the incredulous voice of Tywin Lannister. The way he had pronounced it should have offended Eddard, but he couldn't help but agree. The discussion had focused primarily on the issues surrounding the installation of the siege of the Isle of Dragonstone and the islands of the Lords of the Narrow Sea, notably Driftmark and Claw Isle. The deposed Queen Rhaella Targaryen and her son, the deposed Crown Prince Viserys Targaryen, took refuge there, jealously protected by Houses Velaryon and Celtigar. The ravens that had been sent to them to surrender and hand over Queen Rhaella and her child had never returned.

The discussion had then taken a strange turn following a comment by Maester Pycelle on the possible abolition of the autonomy of the Lords of the Narrow Sea and the attachment of the Valyrian fiefdoms to the Crownlands. And as things led to others, Robert decided to entrust him with their suzerainty.

"Not to the North, Lord Tywin, to the Starks. I want Ned to be Lord of Dragonstone. His family has suffered greatly at the hands of the Targaryens, it's only fair to give the Starks what were rightfully theirs."

Despite everything that had happened, despite the uneasiness he now felt around Robert, Eddard could not help but be touched by his friend's affection. The man cherished their friendship without setting any limits. But this was too much.

"Robert." Eddard intervened immediately. "I understand your enthusiasm, and I'm flattered by it, really. But it's absolutely not reasonable."

"I agree." Jon supported him immediately. "Robert, this is not possible. Dragonstone is a subdivision like the North. Eddard is now Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. To appoint a Warden over two sovereign regions is unrealistic."

"I want the Targaryens to pay for what they did. They took Lyanna, our friends and your family from us, Ned, so I'll take their kingdom and you take their damn fiefdom. I've seen it that way from the beginning." Robert continued, half ignoring Jon's line to focus on him.

The Quiet Wolf of Winterfell saw his friend's stubborn gaze without any difficulty. The man clung hard to his idea.

"I'm from the North, Robert, not the south. I wouldn't even know what to do with these islands."

Frustration was on the young king's face. Strangely, Lord Stannis, of all of them, remained impassive. Lord Tywin, meanwhile, seemed extremely upset. Jon Arryn seemed uneasy about their king's eccentricities. But before any of them could even intervene, Robert seemed to reach for the epiphany, judging by the glow in his eyes.

"If you can't handle it because you're from the North, why don't you give it to your bastard who's from the south!"

Eddard didn't even have to turn his head to find out what kind of a head his stepfather made of the proposal. As for Lord Tywin and Jon Arryn, both were even more incredulous than before, the former using the same kind of outraged expression as his Tully neighbour.

"If this is a joke, it's not at all funny, King Robert."

The Lannister's sharp reaction had not waited, but Robert's response was equally quick and sharp.

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

Eddard didn't even know what to say. In fact, he didn't dare to say anything. The worst possible situation had just come to pass: the small council was dealing with his little Jon. And in the worst possible way. It was as if the gods were laughing at him. Shocked, Eddard was at that moment very much the embodiment of what he was known for. He remained taciturn and reserved.

And it all happened very quickly, like the storm.

"Your Grace… Perhaps, if I may, you should reconsider… It would be extremely unwise, regarding the laws of the Realm, to declare such a low-born lord of such a princely place, especially since—"

"Such a low-born? Ned Stark's son with Ashara Dayne, such a low-born? Are you insulting my friend in front of me with your honeyed words, Pycelle?"

"No, Your Grace. I was humbly pointing out that entrusting a fief to an illegitimate child at the expense of, let's say, more suitable candidates, would upset a certain number of lords…"

"How do you think my family was born, Pycelle? My ancestor was said to be the bastard half-brother of the Conqueror. Do you think I give a shit about bastardy?"

"No, Your Grace… But it would be frowned upon to give the princely fief, traditionally given to the heir of the Seven Kingdoms, to—"

"I don't need to know what this island means to the Targaryens, I shit on the Targaryens!"

Eddard felt his mentor's intrigued gaze fall on him and felt a cold sweat freeze on his spine. The one outraged from Hoster Tully. "Lyanna…" He invoked his sister's name in his spirit like a prayer. Eddard knew he had to pull himself together, but the fact was that he was caught short and didn't know how to lie. He knew his limits and the worst was yet to come. The worst was yet to come, if he couldn't keep up appearances. And talking now was the best way to make others suspicious, even more than not talking. But he decided to stay brave and not keep his eyes down.

Jon Arryn, who had been observing him until then, seemed to interpret his attitude as a modest reticence and stepped in.

"Robert… Perhaps would it be wiser to listen to maester Pycelle and reconsider our options. Conferring suzerainty of the valyrian strongholds to Ned's son… Such possession should fall to Stannis."

"To lose Storm's End? Lord Arryn, you're delirious. I don't want this dismal stone."

Lord Stannis's answer had the merit of being clear. But the attention of the room was no longer on Eddard and his little Jon.

"In that case, a Redwyne could be in charge…" the lord of the Eyrie then shackled.

"This is even crazier," the Lord of Storm's End answered again. "I refuse that one of those cowards of the Reach who besieged me for a year locks the Blackwater Bay. If you care so much about this stone, then tie it back to the Vale."

Jon Arryn was not offended by Lord Stannis' lack of decorum to any great extent, but his lack of cooperation was playing on his patience. It was clear that the attachment of Dragonstone and its dependencies to the Vale was nonsense.

"Are you all really debating the suzerainty over the Narrow Sea?" Tywin Lannister suddenly intervened in a brittle tone. "These lands belong to the Crownlands. Now that the Targaryens are no more, their autonomy is no longer relevant and there is no reason to entrust their management to a Stark, or a Redwyne, nor anyone else but a member of the royal family."

And naturally to Pycelle to support him, as he strangely seemed to make a specialty out of it.

"Lord Lannister speaks truly, my lords. Logically, um… the Island of Dragonstone should belong to His Grace's rightful son and heir with Lady Cersei." the Maester humbly intervened.

"So that his mother can whisper in his ear about the way ahead and hold me by the balls while I rule? You're dreaming! And you more so, Lord Tywin! This island will go to Ned Stark's bastard and you'll have your queen, so don't argue with me, I'm the King, I decide!"

Robert's insulting words were the words too many. Annoyed by his attitude, Tywin got up from his chair without saying anything and withdrew before the confused looks of his peers. When Robert realized that the man was responding to his demands with an empty chair, he immediately went into a rage.

"Come back here, Tywin Lannister! I have not allowed you to leave!" he shouted as he rose to his feet, his harangue being accompanied by an imperious finger pointing imperiously in his direction. But Tywin didn't even deign to turn around and didn't answer, and walked out of the room. Red came to Robert's face as the outrage seemed to overwhelm him. "Ah! Pestilence be upon this man!"

Meanwhile, Hoster Tully stared at him dismissively. Eddard knew the man hadn't digested the fact that "Ned Stark's bastard son" had been brought to the negotiating table in front of him. The Tullys were prideful individuals. It wasn't long before the Lord Paramount of the Trident voiced his opposition.

"Your Grace, I do insist that you reconsider your decision. You cannot cede the suzerainty of the Narrow Sea to a mere bastard."

Robert frowned. Turned away from his burgeoning anger, his tone was no less dry.

"I can and I will. Aren't your golden dragons enough for you? Must you also challenge my decisions, Lord Tully?"

What could Eddard do now that Lord Tywin was gone? He hesitated. He couldn't afford to strain his relationship with Hoster Tully, father of his wife Catelyn. But he didn't want to escalate the situation and put his little Jon at risk. Dragonstone was the stronghold of Rhaegar Targaryen, and to even remotely link Jon to the Dragon Prince was an immense risk. Every second of reflection devoted to the infant by Robert or anyone else was a risk.

"Perhaps it would be wise to listen to Ned's opinion. You didn't ask him."

"Well, let's hear him then. Ned. What do you think? Your bastard, on Dragonstone. I'll make him a Stark if that's your problem."

Eddard turned his head towards Jon, taken aback. Then towards his stepfather Tully, whose vindictive gaze he reluctantly confronted. Then again towards Jon and Robert.

"Robert, really… I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know, Lord Stark? Answer the question!"

Hoster Tully's imposing voice had almost cut him off, so quick had his response been.

"It's too sudden. I can't answer so hastily!"

"Because you're seriously considering the proposition? Seven Hells! You've got to be kidding me! How can you further dishonour my daughter, this is an outrage! This bastard shouldn't exist, and you are considering on top of—"

Hoster Tully had risen to his feet as he spoke, his indignation rising to a crescendo. But he suddenly stopped, as if he realized the yellings were in vain. Or maybe it was because of something else. Nevertheless, he remained silent for a few seconds.

"No. That's enough. I can take no more," he said simply, before turning to their king. He didn't care for Robert any more than he did for him, judging by the way he looked at him. But he remained respectful when he spoke to Robert. "King Robert, I humbly ask your permission to withdraw."

Robert looked uncertain about Hoster Tully's attitude and came to seek the silent advice of Jon Arryn. Arryn looked at the young king, who then nodded to Tully.

"Granted." he said simply.

Without even claiming his due, Hoster Tully turned and left the room as promptly as Tywin Lannister before him. Robert let out a tired sigh and sat down heavily in his seat under the sad gaze of their mentor. Stannis Baratheon, however, seemed relatively indifferent to the unfolding situation.

Maester Pycelle cleared his throat, signaling his intention to intervene.

"Your Grace, if I may—"

"Knock it off, you chattering old jackal, or I'll cut out your tongue." Robert suddenly exclaimed. Everyone looked at him with a surprised look on their faces. Pycelle's expression could have been hilarious if it wasn't for the current situation. Robert didn't let him marinate in uncertainty for long. "Besides, out."

The Maester looked at them for a moment, confused.

"Your Grace, without a scribe in the presence of—"

"I said out!"

Robert's scream was accompanied by a sharp blow against the table. The gesture was so violent that Eddard swore he felt the walls shake. Naturally, frightened by the unpredictable anger of their king, Pycelle got up in a hurry, as if he had just regained his youth, and simply fled. He gave them all a quick nod and disappeared into the corridor.

"Cursed be all these sons of whores!"

Robert's reply marked the coming of silence. A silence that none of them intended to break during the long minute that followed. Robert let his face rest in his hands, while he stood leaning on his seat. He looked prostrate, but that was understandable. The silence lasted until Lord Stannis decided to state the obvious.

"This meeting is a mess."

He got the credit for wrenching a nervous laugh out of his older brother. Eddard felt Jon Arryn's gaze, which he respectfully returned, and then Jon Arryn turned to the Lord of Storm's End.

"Lord Stannis, if I might, you don't seem to mind seeing Ned's son on Dragonstone. Why so?"

Then his mentor noticed it, too. Eddard realized he hadn't hallucinated. Lord Stannis seemed genuinely supportive of Robert's idea. The latter was watching his younger brother with interest. Seeing that his peers were waiting for an answer, the Baratheon cadet finally gave it to them.

"Why not? It seems obvious to me." he began with an austere look.

Eddard, however, found it difficult to see the obvious in this absurd idea.

"Unlike those two, I think it's a smart move. Beyond sullying the honour of the Targaryens and their cousin houses, whose fate does not concern me, the fact remains that the area must be controlled by a man we can trust. As Robert said, the North has not been properly rewarded despite the fact that they have invested the most in this war. Putting a Stark on the lock on the Blackwater Bay means stability in the region. He shall be loyal to the King."

He and Jon looked at each other. The Warden of the East looked even less convinced than he was.

"It seems very risky to me…" his mentor replied. "I don't see a shadow of stability on the horizon with such a decision. The Lords of the Narrow Sea will never forgive us."

"If they know what's good for them, they'll drop the case and be indebted to us for still being alive. When I talked about stability, I wasn't talking about them."

"Who else then?"

"The people, quite simply, Lord Arryn. You are not unaware of the many clans of First Men in the Crackclaw Point valleys. Do you think the Velaryons or the Celtigars have any hold over this region? Is there anyone better than a Stark, bastard or not, to pacify it and bring it back in the realm?"

Jon Arryn leaned back on his seat and held his chin in his right hand, immersed in his thoughts. Maybe it made sense, Eddard could recognize it, but it wasn't enough of an argument to convince him to accept the offer.

"Should I assume you were aware of this all along, Lord Stannis?" asked Jon Arryn.

The Stark was very attentive to that question. If Jon Arryn had been right, the relationship between Robert and his younger brother had definitely changed. The gift of Storm's End could explain his alignment.

"That is correct," the young Baratheon replied simply. He then looked at him for a moment before continuing. "Not in detail. The bastard wasn't in the equation. But that doesn't change anything."

"Queen Rhaella will never accept such an outrage…" Jon Arryn whispered softly.

"Because you expect her to survive the siege, Jon?" Robert suddenly intervened.

The three men present looked at him. The realization of what the eldest of the Baratheons had implied gradually came to them. Eddard immediately felt the disgust overwhelming him.

"Robert, you can't be serious!" he exclaimed in an indignant tone. "The murders of Princess Elia and her children weren't enough for you?!"

"Ned, when are you going to realize that this is a war? A war!"

"But this war is over, damn it!"

"No, this war is not over. Dragonstone still stands, and Targaryens still live! How long do you want this kingdom to keep burning Ned? How many more deaths for the lives of three miserable incest offsprings!?"

Robert's stubbornness was terrifying. He could no longer recognize his friend. And he thought he had found him again somewhat when he returned to King's Landing, but Eddard knew he could never bring himself to tolerate the murder of innocents, even for the so-called greater good. Robert obviously did not have the same point of view. The man still seemed to be devoured by his hatred of the Targaryen dynasty, or was he devoured by his new ambitions. Either way, it was insanity. Pure cruelty. And the death of Lyanna and all the others only served to reinforce his macabre convictions.

"This is a mother and her son!" he almost spat out with indignation. "By all the gods, she's pregnant, Robert!"

"Precisely." Robert replied aggressively. "I don't need any more pretenders. And of them, that damned incestuous queen has already laid enough!"

"So that's it? You're going to build the legitimacy of your reign on the slaughter of women and children?"

"Not women and children, Ned. Nothing but pretenders."

The Usurper, that's what their loyalist enemies were already calling him. And at that moment more than ever, as a gleam of hatred burned into his blue eyes, Eddard saw some truth in it.

And he thought of Lyanna. Brandon. Their father Rickard. He even thought of Rhaegar Targaryen. Were they all dead for nothing?

---

THE CRANNOGMAN

"Accept the offer."

Howland Reed was not surprised by Arthur Dayne's quick response. To be honest with himself, Howland would actually have been surprised by the opposite. In spite of what everyone had believed, in spite of what everyone had naively accepted, the Kingsguard Arthur Dayne had never broken his oath, and it was in contrary Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Jaime Lannister that had outrageously broken it.

The first had been honourably defeated at the Battle of the Trident before being carefully treated. Having shown clemency towards him and noting the death of his prince, Ser Barristan bent his knee before King Robert. The confusion of defeat must have clouded his judgment as he bowed his knee and abandoned his vows while members of House Targaryen were still alive.

The second had broken his oath in a less honourable manner, putting the king to death as if he had been a beast. Some would say Ser Jaime was a Lannister, and that he had his father's cruelty in his blood. Some even said that he knowingly allowed the bannermen Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch to slaughter Princess Elia and her family. Logically, such perjury should have been grounds for immediate death… but indignities such as Robert Baratheon's acts of clemency were of variable geometry.

Still, Ser Arthur Dayne, despite his initial affiliation, inspired a solid confidence in him. He was not alone. When he, Eddard and their five other companions, Ethan Glover, Theo Wull, Ser Martyn Cassel, Ser Mark Ryswell and Lord William Dustin, had arrived at the Tower of Joy, where Lyanna Stark was supposedly detained, Ser Arthur Dayne had not been the only one to defend the place. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Oswell Whent stood by their sworn brother side. The three men could have put them in trouble and several would undoubtedly have perished in the ensuing battle. But rather than fighting, they had found the dialogue more beneficial to all. If the two men had not found a way to reach Dragonstone, as the island was under a major blockade by the Allied fleet, then they must already have been in Essos.

The harsh reality was that, knowing these facts, they were already conspiring when King Robert had not even been crowned yet.

"Certainly not."

Eddard's voice echoed through the tent. Taking great care not to be spied upon by curious uninvited guests, Eddard had invited him and Arthur Dayne into his tent. The man jealously guarded little Jon in his arms. The infant was calm and watched them with his bright violet eyes.

"This is a huge opportunity."

"It's not an opportunity, it's a poisoned gift! Every second this child occupies in the thoughts of Robert or someone too perceptive is one second too many. And you want to make him the liege lord of Dragonstone? You are out of your mind, Ser Arthur."

The face of the intrepid King's guard looked pensive. By dint of being in his presence, Howland was beginning to know his expressions, and he knew that the expression shown by the Sword of the Morning showed little anxiety.

"Think about it, Lord Stark. What you've brought us cannot be ignored. It may even be a blessing for us."

"How is that a blessing?"

"Because in his obsession to plunder the legacy of Prince Rhaegar, the Usurper…"

"Don't call him that!" Eddard immediately interrupted with a dry tone.

Arthur Dayne didn't seem to appreciate Eddard interrupting him. He ignored it, and resumed.

"…the King is ready to place it in his son's hands."

"You're not answering the question, Ser Arthur. I still don't see why it's "a blessing"!"

"That's a blessing, because it brings Prince Aegon closer to the only real support he'll ever truly have. The Velaryons. The Celtigars. The Lords of the Narrow Sea. The Loyalists."

"Because you also want to spread the secret of his lineage? You're completely irresponsible in addition to being suicidal."

"Lord Stark. A secret this big will come out eventually. Too many people already know about it. My sister's servants, who agreed to pass her off as his mother. Your companions, the three of us here. You can't hide his identity forever. He's the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, the heir to the Iron Throne, it's already a deep blow to his honour to pass him off as your bastard. He is not destined to remain hidden, to spend his life in the North and suffer the contempt of your bannermen and your people. He is destined for greatness."

"He's Lyanna's son. He's from the north."

"He's not from the north, he's a Targaryen! You can't deny him his inheritance, not when it's handed to him on a silver platter! That would be a sacrilege!"

Howland looked at little Jon. Or Aegon, as his parents named him. When one knew the truth or suspected the extent of it, it was undeniable. His eyes were those of Rhaegar Targaryen. Howland looked at Ser Arthur, and saw his determined expression. But a single glance at Eddard was enough to detect his scepticism. The Quiet Wolf of Winterfell seemed unyielding.

"If you didn't want to take on his legacy, you shouldn't have taken him with you and had us take him to Essos."

"You know very well it wasn't possible. He's my blood, and I promised his mother I'd protect him."

Arthur Dayne growled in frustration at Eddard's inflexible attitude.

"Your stubbornness makes me sick. I'll tell you just one thing, Eddard," exclaimed the Dayne. Howland immediately remarked that it was the first time Arthur Dayne had addressed Eddard in such a familiar manner. The concerned man had raised his eyebrows as well.

"For Lady Lyanna, the question never arose. Neither when she had to flee south with Rhaegar, nor when they got married at Summerhall, not even when they had to escape from Ashford. And even less when she gave birth to him. She named him Aegon. Aegon Targaryen. The name of the Greatest that ever was. If you wish to honour your sister's wish, then honour it to the end. She didn't give birth to a bastard. She gave birth to a king."

---

THE DYING QUENN

284

Rhaella Targaryen had seen her prestigious family collapse before her very eyes. From the tournament in Harrenhal three years ago, where it all began, until today, when the Island of Dragonstone was dying under a terrible siege. All her years she had seen the madness of Aerys, her brother and husband, gnawing at his soul until there was nothing human left of him. She had watched her many children perish one after the other, most of them born weak or stillborn. She had seen her eldest son Rhaegar leave for the north and never return. He had died at the Trident, she had been told. She had not even been able to stay with her dear Elia and her adorable grandchildren. In his paranoia, Aerys thought that keeping Elia and her children as hostages in the capital would keep the principality of Dorne in his bosom. Aerys suspected the Martells of being traitors, just as he had suspected the whole world of treachery. Now even Elia and her grandchildren were dead. A gruesome death that had left her even more weakened than she already was. She had felt her body abandon her, despair permeating her muscles, her flesh and her lungs.

To prevent their eradication, the Celtigar and Velaryon houses had been forced to bend the knee before the Usurper. Six moons of fierce maritime resistance had seen the disappearance of many of their people and almost their entire fleet. The two hundred triremes of the mighty Velaryon fleet were no more. What would happen now? After Driftmark and Claw Isle had surrendered? Rhaella knew it in her heart. That monstrous deer and its bloodthirsty banners would slaughter her. They would rape her again and again until she felt no pain, finish her off like a beast and then desecrate her remains. Rhaella no longer had the strength to fight. She was tired. But still, for her adorable little Viserys, her little King, she had to. For him, and for the adorable little creature who was just waiting to take its first breath. Please don't let it be stillborn like all the others. She had prayed long and hard. For him, or for her, she had to hold on a little longer.

"Push, Your Highness! Push!"

And Rhaella pushed as hard as her body would allow. The young Laena Velaryon, one of her faithful lady-in-waiting, calmly assisted her. She had only requested her presence. Rhaella felt the tears streaming down her face, but she held on despite the horrible pain that was stabbing her. She had never felt such pain before, despite her many deliveries, and her cries of suffering seemed to find an echo in the distance. With each cry, each push, each time she felt her baby forcing its way, the thunder roared like a dragon. Her water had broken when the storm had begun. And the ten hours of painful labor she had gone through since then had turned the storm into a real typhoon.

The roaring echoes of lightning shook the air like the earth. The dark walls of Dragonstone's fortress then lit up succinctly, as if to urge her to fight. And then Rhaella Targaryen fought. She screamed, whole parts of her body abandoning her as the sweat mingled with the blood. But she fought as she had always fought.

"That's great, Your Highness! Keep going, I can see the head!"

With each thunderclap, with each terrifying flash, various moments of her life came back to her. The smile of her adorable Rhaegar. The tears of her little Viserys. The laughters of Aerys. The screams of the late Lord Rickard Stark… The raven announcing Rhaegar's death… Then the one announcing the death of Elia and Aegon and Rhaenys. The death of Ashara, who died in childbirth at Starfall. She realized she couldn't feel her legs, then she felt the pain leave her as the thunder subsided.

But just as clearly as the typhoon before, a small cry suddenly entered the room. Then two, then three. And then more. Rhaella felt warm tears streaming down her cheeks again. And Laena, looking both delighted and defeated, came to her with the flesh of her flesh.

"Congratulations, Your Highness… It's a girl."

Laena was crying. Rhaella knew why. She had come to understand it in the last few hours, as the pain was cutting through her body like a dagger. She had already delivered many babies. The blood soaked the sheets more than usual. Words were no longer necessary. She had just been content to stay strong, for her incredible little Valyrian beauty.

She wasn't a stillborn, like many of her brothers and sisters before her. She was not half decomposed, dressed in scales and small reptilian wings. She was alive, panting like the adorable little creature that she was. She seemed to respond to the storm. Smiling, Rhaella moved her head as close as her body would allow, her daughter resting on the pillow. She was beautiful, a little silvery down already reflecting where a proud dragon's hair would one day stand. And then Rhaella lost herself in her eyes. Her beautiful eyes, so deep and vivid purple that they seemed to shimmer with magic.

The girl born of the typhoon, in torment and love. She was like a jewel in the heart of the storm.

"Daenerys… Her name will be Daenerys Targaryen."

Her daughter's eyes fixed on her own as her crying stopped. Slowly, Rhaella came to bathe in them, lulled by their deep colour, letting the melody that emanated from them take her. She could feel the dark circles under her eyes telling her to close them, while her entrails called for rest. And while her friend was crying beside them, peacefully, Rhaella fell asleep.

And she dreamed of Dragon Lords with dark or silver hair and magic-soaked eyes, riding their gigantic coloured mounts, dancing in the skies.

It was a beautiful dream.

---

THE OLD MAN OF THE VALE

Jon Arryn contemplated with melancholy the shores of the Island of Dragonstone. Despite his advanced age, Jon had not traveled much in his life. He had succeeded his father's death as lord of the Eyrie and Warden of the East, and since then had led a modest and austere life. His first two wives, Lady Jeyne Royce and Lady Rowena Arryn, had died of illness without giving him a heir, which had always plunged Jon Arryn into a perpetual worry about the future of his house. He had once placed his hopes in Elbert and then Denys Arryn, his young and vigorous cadets. The former, his dear nephew, was executed by the Mad King alongside the young Brandon Stark, and the latter, his brave cousin, was tragically killed in battle by Lord Jon Connington, at the height of the war, at the end of the Battle of the Bells. The fate of the House Arryn and its vacillating influence on the Vale had never allowed Jon Arryn to concentrate much of his time on his most enjoyable hobbies, and the Seven knew how much Jon would have enjoyed travelling. So he had been content to let his spirit travel, thanks to the many books he had in his possession.

The Island of Dragonstone was such as books had often portrayed it. It was a very large island, whose slope exposed to Essos was bordered by high and vertiginous cliffs, as if to respond to the eccentricities and immensity of the East. The slope exposed to Westeros was low, smooth and calm. Its beaches were made of white sand and the vegetation was, in some places, almost luxuriant. The Island seemed to be marked by a duality, a warm, temperate and wooded side, and a colder and devoid of superfluous vegetation, oceanic side. It was an island in the image of its ancestral occupants. It was not clear in the books when the Targaryen arrived on Dragonstone, but the maesters agreed to give credit to a certain Aenar, Dragon Lord of Old Valyria, for the settlement of their powerful family on this place.

Unlike the Island of Driftmarck, further southwest, Dragonstone was a fairly sparsely populated island. Its undeniable beauty did not make it any more welcoming and the weather was not the most cooperative. Like the rest, it was like the island, sometimes pleasant and even clearly summery: the water was so clear and warm that it was far too attractive and pleasant not to swim in it. But often the weather was chaotic or even terrible, full of irrational and murderous fury. As Jon had found out only two weeks ago. The Allied fleet had lost more than half of its ships during an unpredictable typhoon. It was said that the Admiralty had not seen the storm coming, which had been even more sudden than those hitting Storm's End or the Isle of Tarth. In less than an hour, the storm had grown to an unprecedented magnitude and had swept more than ten thousand men in its wake. Never in almost three years of war had the coalition suffered such a loss.

The typhoon, however, had allowed several Targaryen ships to escape eastward, apparently including Queen Rhaella's children. The fallen queen had died giving birth to a daughter. The news had sounded the death knell for the island. In a fit of rage, Robert ordered an assault, and the following week the coalition set foot on the white beaches of the northwestern slope. The garrison in the harbour town of Dragonstone, which the locals called Dragon Port, could do nothing. There were not even a thousand of them, and the overcrowding during the landing had left them helpless. Seeing the massive arrival of the rebels, the locals as well as the defenders of the island had withdrawn in panic to the fortress of Dragonstone. They had bravely held on. But for some obscure reasons, the occupants of the fortress had raised the white flag when they announced their arrival on the island. They then opened the gates in full view of the royal delegation.

As Jon Arryn walked through the dark gates of the fortress, he realized that the books did not do justice to what he saw. Dragonstone was even more incredible. The architectural influence of the Targaryen Dynasty and Old Valyria was beyond compare in these historic places. The walls made of dark stone, almost black in many places, were high and very angular. The walls were tangled with external attics with sharp shapes, such as dragon claws or teeth. The castle and its dungeon were themselves reminiscent of these shapes, and were among the largest castles Jon Arryn had ever seen. It was a grand sight and a great moment of discovery.

The sight of the occupants of the citadel took care to nuance his mischievous state of curiosity. As soon as he and the other members of the delegation had set foot on the ground, abandoning their horses or their comfortable carriages, they faced the misery of the siege. A few soldiers in a shabby state stood there, still hesitant and, above all, terrified, but the vast majority were women and children. They all wore rags, all seemed to be suffering from hunger and fatigue. Dragonstone had been besieged and blockaded for more than six months, so it was normal that these poor souls would suffer. Jon was quick to swallow his feelings of pity at the sight of them and felt relieved to see that the Allied troops who were quietly storming the citadel were coming to their aid rather than to their ruin. These little people had already suffered enough, and the sacking would have been a sad and useless cruelty to add to Robert's already stained banner.

The latter marched in front of him, accompanied by several of his generals. Eddard was among them, along with several other Northern dignitaries. Seeing Eddard and Robert in such a position inspired immense pride in Jon, almost making him forget the anguish of his dying bloodline. Eddard and Robert were like sons to him and he was incredibly touched to see the young green boys he had once welcomed become such honourable and courageous men.

After a tour of the site, the delegation finally crossed the walls on the south side of the citadel, passing through a passage called the Dragon's Tail. They ended up in a very large garden in which many large fruit trees, such as chestnut and rosehips, grew. In the background lay a kind of swamp or pond around which swarmed ferns and rosebushes, and at the edge of which stood what everyone humbly recognized as a huge weirwood. The heart tree stood there and watched them with its strangely laughing face, as if out of place. In spite of the multi-century-old Valyrian presence of the Targaryen, it had never been cut down as the Andals had done with those of southern Westeros during their invasions of the ancient times. Jon saw the admiring gaze of Eddard, who had frozen at his sight. The whitish trunk of the thousand-year-old tree alone dominated the pond, while its bony branches and reddish foliage stretched over the place, distorting the light to give it that typical supernatural halo that seemed to drive the men of the North mad with contemplation.

"This place reeks of dragon, but this, my friend, is a sign from these Old Gods of yours." Robert commented with amusement after noticing Ned's haggard look.

It wasn't unique to Ned. His banners also seemed to admire the tree, and seemed as if they were immersed in prayers. Around them, the other dignitaries of the delegation watched them, some with disdain and others with amusement. For most of the Andals and other peoples of the south, the northerners belief in the Old Gods was for many a sign of their supposedly primitive culture but also an extension of the mysteries that surrounded them and their mystical country.

"Let's move on." Robert exclaimed, and they all resumed their march, rushing into the castle.

Climbing up the numerous staircases, crossing room after room, discovering the incredible decorations of the corridors, the numerous obsidian statues depicting dragons, wyverns and basilisks, they quickly reached the famous throne room, from which they passed through the high and thick stone doors. The hall was very large and the ceiling so high that it was difficult to perceive it. The light was reflected on the floor from diffuse rays coming from the loopholes on the sides, hidden by strange vertical stone parapets placed in battlements. A large triangular opening at the back of the room opened onto a terrace.

But more than that, what attracted all their attention was none other than the imposing throne of obsidian at the back of the room, which obstructed the opening of the rear. Sitting slightly high on a platform, it stood against a strange giant block of obsidian arranged at an angle, perhaps in the image of a sharp mountain, perhaps in the image of an oceanic breaking wave, perhaps in the image of a dragon's back… Jon was not sure. The throne seemed to be embedded in the block of volcanic rock.

The throne of Aegon the Conqueror. The one he sat on before the Iron Throne ever existed. The one on which his sister-wives had lasciviously leaned, caressing their brother-husband and defying all the unshakeable morals of the Andals of that era. This room, in its strange sobriety despite its apparent splendour, symbolised all the Valyrian audacity of the Dragon Lords of the ancient times.

Then he followed Eddard and Robert, who went around the block to his right to reach the terrace outside. He saw them leaning against the marbled edges of the balcony, silently observing the Island of Dragonstone that laid in front of them. Eddard seemed immersed in great reflection, and Robert was waiting for him to speak.

"It's a beautiful island. It's nothing like the dreary island Stannis mentioned."

"There's even one of your sacred trees. What more do you need, Ned? I've put my offer on hold, but it won't last forever. You wanted to come here on your own to see the place. Now I want your answer."

Eddard was watching him and Robert. Then he returned to his contemplation of the island. A few seconds passed, but finally a thin smile stretched across his lips. He turned to them and honoured them with a humble acquiescence, looking almost relieved.

"I accept," he declared before the silence returned. Then his Stark gray eyes gleamed with pride. "Jon will be Lord of Dragonstone."

---

Hello everyone,

As you have without a doubt guessed, this story is a translation from my French fanfiction "Le Prince de Peyredragon". If not, then good :)

I am quite unsure of its quality, but the reactions of some English-speaking readers on the French version and the wise advices of some of my friends (Hello Bbj777, Lexias, I see you.) made me start it. That chapter was a test and it makes me anxious.

I hope you enjoyed what you read. Feel free to tell me if you didn't, and especially don't hesitate to tell me if there are any mistakes or nonsense. I am French, English is not my native language, and you must have heard about our reluctance to master any language other than our own.

Until next time,
And don't hesitate to leave me a review, it will please me very much,
Etsukazu