Tempered In Fire, Quenched in Ice - a SteinMon Sample Story

by SteinMon1920518

With the help of unlikely allies, Ned Stark has rigged the Game to shield his family. Events have unfolded, their changes only slight. And when a funeral pyre burns on sands, so to does another burn Beyond the Wall. And only the Gods know what will hatch from them. And soon War will follow for the Seven Kingdoms.

3. Chapter 2: Honor in Treachery

A/N: Hey guys! SteinMon here with another literary experiment. I have way too many idea roaming around in my head, so I thought I'd ease the burden with some Samples.

I will try to write in true Maester Martin style, and hint at most changes I've made, or make mention of large-scale information in unassuming passing. Because lets face it, Maester Martin is a master at doing so. However, I can only do my best, and the writer that is "Me" will inevitably slip in.

That being read, I welcome your Reviews. If you have criticisms, I welcome those too. Please keep them constructive. I want to grow as an author, and I can't do that if people aren't willing to critique, or only want to tear me down. I'm not here to please everybody, but I am here to learn. There is a method to my madness. 90% of what I write, I don't write baselessly. There is a reason some things are changed, and others are the same.

Review Responses:

- "Guest": *Hands glass of water*

- Freelook: So much sibling dynamic. They're among two of my favorite characters too.

- Knighthunter911700: Glad it caught your attention. At first, the changes will appear more subtle along the original story, with further reaching "consequences" the longer the story proceeds. So, the longer the story, the more that will change, until it diverges completely.

- SeaweedBrainIsBlue: Maybe, maybe not. If so, it won't be for the reason you think. If not, then other story content takes place. You know, SPOILERS.

- Jon 'Fatjon' Umber: Mkay!

- "Jeric": If the story continues, I'll probably flesh it out more personally later.

*End of Responses

Disclaimer: I don't own Game of Thrones or a Song of Ice and Fire. Those rights belong exclusively to Maester Martin, and D&D pushed for the show. Mores the pity Season 7 and 8 took place (though kudos to the actors all the same) and the simplest translation of otherwise indecipherable Valyrian prophecy was made writ and scourges the fine-printed histories of Westeros.

Without further ado. *Que the dimming of the lights*

---

Chapter 2: Honor in Treachery, and Treachery in Honor

Winterfell Hold 298 AC

Jaime Lannister

Lions preferred the warmth over the freezing cold winds of the North, and Jaime Lannister was no different within Winterfell's Guest House bath, the water drawn from the same hot springs that were piped through the walls like the veins of a mighty beast. After stripping himself of weeks-old travel clothes, he relished taking a soaked rag to his skin to scrub the buildup of dirt and grime and salty cold sweat that had accumulated on his skin. Not his healthiest choice, but few things mattered in the last week or so than getting to Winterfell.

He scrubbed his skin red before laddling small measures of water through his short hair, rinsing the dust from the road from his messily cropped tresses. The simple act made him feel cleaner than he had in a long time. But running a hand across his face said he was going to have to see Tommy, Winterfell's master of sheers, before he started looking half-decent once more.

Once he was sure of his relative cleanliness, he'd sunk down into the mind-numbing warmth of the bath, submerging to his chest before finding a decent spot to sit and lean back against the brim so he could rest in peace. He took the soak plain, ignoring any herbs or oils that could be mixed into the water to make him smell pretty, tempted though he was to use them. Where the south preferred scents of rosewater and sweetpear, lilac pedals, sweet peas and lavenders stems, and other gentle and soothing flowered scents; the options at his disposal held more powerful scents of pine tar, sage and mint leaf, and rosemary sprigs, while the occasional expense of the more subtle rosehip made its way from White Harbor. But nothing so fancy as bath oils. Alas, he wasn't there to smell pretty.

The persistent chill that hung on the air of the North gave way to a pleasant ache down to his bones once indoors only intensified, and he just lay there with a sigh. Despite his haste, there was little he could do until Lord Stark returned, so he took it as a challenge to enjoy himself for a brief time before he was forced to exit the water. The idea of Kings, Lords, Games, fathers, sisters, and all the like were temporarily distant in his mind.

'Uhhh,' he sighed again. The perfect contrast of cold air and warm water seemed to soak almost to the soul.

Worries faded for a time, and stresses that were long built up since his last visit were gradually eased. Knots in his back and shoulders and crimping in his neck unwound, soothing out until Jaime was sighing again in relief. His was his own island in the middle of a sea.

A stone-sung island that he was too late in arriving on.

He growled as his thoughts betrayed him, stirring as he cupped the heated waters to his face as steam rose in tantalizing wisps. Even the simple act of breathing the steam-laden air almost seemed to purify him from the inside-out; the muted spring water scent far better than the shit of King's Landing. Rapidly cooling droplets dotted along his cheeks and forehead that gave the inclination of sweating. And yet it was so hard to simply lull back and relax.

By all accounts, he should despise the North. Hate it even. But time only proved that it was an acquired taste. Very acquired. Their drink, their food, their weather. How Northerners were perpetually dower, tended to hot-headedness, fought like devils of the Seven Hells made flesh, and how easily their pride could be mistaken for honor. And how much they didn't like that particular distinction being pointed out. They were honest folk though, true in word and in expression. If they bragged or boasted, they usually had a number of experiences and stories to back it up. The winters made them tough by necessity, famine and starvation a common occurrence during such times where grey-bearded men would often times leave in the middle of the night, just so their children and grandchildren had enough to last the winter. There were no bodies to put to rest, the wilder beasts taking thanks to such willing sacrifices. Jaime himself had dwelled nine or ten winters in this world, near the last half of those spent travelling to the North, and wintered in once or twice during particularly brutal bouts.

Despite the elements turned against them, these people wanted for little, asked for even less, and were content with such little things. If knights south of the Neck endured winters half as bleak and deadly as deadly as Jaime had experienced, perhaps none would mock the Northmen so openly or jape at their expense. Tales of wild men and barbarians, skinchangers and blood rituals. Perhaps fighting men would actually pose a challenge as the Northmen ensured they did. They hunted more of necessity rather than sport, ate tough roots and vegetables that could survive in the hard and cold soil or in their rare glasshouses, rather than sweeter fruits and summer vegetables. Cavalry won wars in the south where the lands were flatter and swooping charges could flatten an enemy line. But if one were to compare footmen and their steel, archers and their winds, and the sheer raw willfulness to survive among their trees and rocky hills; Jaime would pit bets on about any Northern greenboy to a southern squire.

Up here in the North, Jaime was the freest he'd ever been. For about two divided moons out of the year. Until he had to ride back down south where he spent the remainder of his time, save for the wintering in with the supposed savages. Life was good. Simple.

He might have laid there in the slowly cooling water until his skin pruned, but the sounds of giggling drew a grumble from him, one eye peaking open. Through the haze, a couple chambermaids weren't making any attempts to hide themselves as they peaked through the door and jam to the bath from his assigned quarters, whispering among themselves to elicit more giggles. He looked down at his bare-chest and smooth texture of skin still half-submerged, before he growled a curse or two under his breath. So much for relaxing.

"Alright, out," he ordered, exasperated at their startled yelps. That they were surprised to be caught when they weren't exactly being quiet irked on him. "And close the door." The heavy wood thudded as they moved too quickly to follow his orders, the scampering of their footsteps retreating. He could have sworn one of those poor girls almost tripped over herself. Soon enough, even the door to his chambers slammed shut.

Any hope for a moment of tranquility gone, Jaime sloshed to his feet, grabbing a nearby towel to dry himself and wrap around his waist, lest his modesty be compromised by a lack of eyes. He moved to the chambers quickly, making sure that it was indeed free of any lingering persons or errant servants before letting himself be bare. He couldn't dress fast enough.

Even pulling on the thick grey woolen tunic and dark trousers over his smallclothes, he still didn't feel covered enough, his damp hair dripping and dotting the darker fabrics. It was warm enough inside, but he'd always felt exposed behind the walls of Winterfell, as though every stone remained aware of his presence. Never unwelcome, just… unalone, in an unnerving sort.

The sharp knell of a bell sounded as affirmations of Lord Stark and his party's return echoed the yard, just as Lannister was fastening his sleeveless jerkin.

"Duty calls," he muttered, cinching the strings a comfortable tight before pulling on his socks and boots. Almost repetitiously, he looked around warily before reaching under the bed he would occupy for the remainder of his visit, pulling out the saddlebags that had accompanied him since King's Landing. The weight of it reassured him, but it wasn't until he reached inside and felt the rough but cool touch of his cargo that he breathed a little easier. But it only served to remind him of his duty; and the would-be dangers that were fast approaching.

Closing the top of satchel, hauling it to his shoulder, and hoping he'd still be warm enough, he made his way out to at least wait for the Lord of Winterfell. He would be in the Godswood after the execution, and unfortunately, Jaime dare not take a step in there without the guidance of the House to lead him. If the Old Gods existed – Hells, if any Gods existed – he was certain that they were bordering on malevolent toward him after the number of oaths and taboos he'd broken. Nevermind whether or not they'd entertain the rare prayer from him or not.

Stepping out of the Guest House, he was met by a pleasing sight, two little wolf children, bowls of milk sitting next to them as they tried to coax small bundles in their arms to drink.

"And what have we here?" he asked, leaning easily along a support post. The little she-wolf and little crow-foot, Arya and Bran Stark, both looked up and back at him, small smiles adorning their young faces.

"Uncle Jaime!" Bran greeted, half-fumbling with the thing in his arms before he lifted it up. "Look what Jon got us! They're direwolves!"

He blinked in surprise at that. "There are no direwolves south of the Wall."

"Well Jon said they were," Arya stated matter-of-factly, and he had to resist the urge to roll his eyes at her. If Jon said the moon was made of cheese or the sun out of honey, she'd believe him. She continued to dip her fingers in the milk bowl, letting the creature in her arms lick at her fingers. If these beasts truly were direwolves, they wouldn't be fitting in their palms for long. If legends were to be believed, direwolves could grow large enough for the brawn of Northmen to ride into battle.

"Then they must be so," he relinquished, shaking that terrifying thought away.

"We found them with their mother," Bran explained, downcast as he stroked his pup of a beast. "She was wounded when we took them. Jon convinced her to let us ward them for her."

"And the mother?" Jaime asked, bending down to brush the pup in the lad's hands curiously. It was soft as velvet, and the lion felt a smile on his face as it nuzzled at him blindly.

"Jon stayed with her until she passed. He says she's with the Old Gods now."

Jaime breathed deeply before patting the lad on the shoulder at that. He understood the implication well enough, even if these children did not. Mercy was not an easy sword to wield. And oft as not, double-edged; he knew that better than most anyone. He'd have to speak with Ae– Jon, soon enough.

"Are you going to train us?" Arya asked.

The lion was thankfully pulled from his thoughts as he smirked at her straight-forward request, little else crossing her mind. Come to think of it, this was probably the longest he'd seen her sitting on her arse. "I'll need to speak to your mother and father first. The King's business."

"Can you tell us?" Bran asked hopefully. When he shook his head, the lad pressed, "Not even a little?"

"I'm afraid these things are for much older ears only," he replied, earning a pouted frown from both children.

"What about after you speak with them?" Arya demanded. "Can we fight then?"

"Tomorrow," he stated with finality, slightly exasperated. Such was the nature of children though. They thought of so few things outside their own little worlds. Energetic little beings. Gods forbid he should sire one lest it take after him in any way. "Let an old man rest after so long travelling."

She frowned at him in confusion. "You're not old."

'Well, I'm certainly not young,' he rebutted silently, rolling his eyes visibly at her. It got a tug of a smile from her.

"So what's in the bag?" Bran asked, cocking his head ever so slightly with his inquiry. "Is it a present?"

"Did you bring us stuff?" Arya got off before he could explain.

Jaime had forgotten about it for a moment, eyeing the saddlebag on his shoulder warily. "Ah, I see how it is," he brushed off teasingly, sparing no heads from a fair ruffling. Their groans, and even a kick from Arya, were well worth the frustration. "Unfortunately, this is part of what I must speak with them about."

Their lips pursed in disappointment, but for once he couldn't bring himself to feel anything sympathetic toward them about it. There was a reason he was here, and unfortunately it wasn't tidings as simple or as desired as his usual rounds through the North.

"Ser Lannister." He looked up to see Lady Catelyn approaching across the yard, her hands folded in front of her in a manner that reminded him of most southern ladies. Save that this particular one had taken to Northern custom of carrying the minimum of a knife. The insistent tone to her gaze let him know all he needed to. "If you are readied, I would take you to see my husband."

"We'll speak later," he stated, patting the children on the head once more as he moved to follow after the lady of the House. "Lead the way."

Neither he nor his guide were much for conversation that day, and so both remained in dignified silence, even as he trailed after her through the gate into the Godswood. He wasn't one to put unnecessary stock in the Gods. Had they been as involved in the affairs of mortals as the Septon's liked to preach and the followers of the Faith liked to believe, then there would be no evils left to roam the world, and he along with them. But the Godswood was the closest he felt to their being true Gods at work. The wind breathed softly through the leaves, his skin feeling a tingle of warmth where there should be cold, and the air hung with a burdenless weight that Lannister felt rise from him. Wont as he was to believe it, there was a mysticism here that, more than the walls of Winterfell itself, made him feel watched. And more there in, unwelcome.

This was a sacred place, and it wasn't for the likes of him, even after eight and ten years of very rarely entering its sacred grounds. Only Starks and Northmen dared set foot in the Godswoods unimpeded.

He pressed on though, but not before he let Lady Catelyn gather a lead ahead of him as they made their steps toward the heart tree. "Ned?" she called, Jaime keeping his distance trailing behind as she announced him. Such was propriety.

A lump caught in his throat when he spied the lad. Jon Snow was every bit Stark coloured, and to many, thankfully that was all any who glanced at him would see. Being treated as a bastard wouldn't afford him much more than a passing glance for anyone to look too deeply. A perfect disguise; one that Jaime wished they hadn't bequeathed him. It was the subtle things that even Jaime himself might have missed if he wasn't looking for them: the curls in his hair, the shape of his eyes, the shape and edge to his jaw and chin. If he blinked too hard or looked too fast, he could see glimpses of Rhaegar in one of his morose moods reflected in Jon's Stark-coined brooding. Unfortunately, Jaime knew only briefly of Lyanna Stark during the Tourney of Harrenhal, too little to make a comparison, but it seemed that every time he came north, a little more of his late prince's features crept into place.

"Until I return, protect my family, Lannister. They are all that matter."

It only served to rise the creep of fear that had served his carefully preserved paranoia over the years. Particularly with the tidings he brought with him.

"We have a visitor, Ned," Catelyn said, drawing the Lannister from his observations with the harder edge to her tone as she noticed the lad too. Absently he wondered how much of it was real; if the firmness to her voice was genuine, or a result of her mummery having been entertained for so long.

"I'll take my leave," Jon excused himself, pulling up another one of those pup beasts that his siblings had, this one a snow white. "Lord Stark. Lady Catelyn."

Jaime stepped forward to reveal himself, lost for a moment. He desired so much to call him by his name. His true name. One he hadn't spoken since the gathering of Northern Lords so long ago; not even in full to the privacy of his thoughts, lest they betray him. The name of his birth. But not yet. It was still far too soon. Let him be safe for as long as these Northerner's Old Gods would grant them. Let him be a young man a little longer. What was a little longer when he had waited eight and ten years.

'I promised you I'd protect them. And I failed. But I won't. Not this time.'

"Bastard," he greeted, smiling as the lad's gaze left the ground. Snow's eyes were worse for wear, haggard and wary, but observant as always. The distraught glaze in his eye was expertly masked up with genuine happiness, but Jaime knew that look came from guiding the direwolves mother to the Old Gods. The lad's mouth opened and closed in surprise, and it made Lannister's smile turn into a smirk.

"Ser Lannister," he finally managed out with a nod, and Jaime chuckled to himself, rolling his eyes at the lad's attempt to act the station he was raised.

"Go on lad," he ushered dismissively, but not unkindly. "We'll say proper greetings in a moment." He crouched down with a chuckle at the tiny beast he held though. It was far too small, smaller than the ones he'd seen his siblings with. Contrary though, its eyes were wide open, making it look almost an extension of the weirwood they stood by. And equally unnerving with the way it seemed to stare into him. "And I'd love to hear how you came about these little creatures."

Jon nodded hastily before moving passed them to leave, not wanting to suffer any potential consequence, imagined or otherwise. Jaime remained where he had crouched as he watched him go.

"The more time passes, the more he seems to favor his mother," Stark commented once he had gone.

"And here I was about to say that he favors his father," Jaime offered back strictly, standing to his full height once again with a soft grunt. '"Not an old man," my arse.' With a heavy sigh, he turned to look at his host. "Stark," Lannister greeted simply.

"Lannister," Stark returned.

Both men stared blankly at each other for a few short moments, Lady Stark rolling her eyes at them with a huff before Jaime felt his face twitch into a grin, losing by default. "Damn," Lannister cursed, his smirk breaking out in full. "How do you always keep your face so stoic?"

"Practice," Ned offered, though Jaime was sure it was a lot more than practice. "How do you always have a sarcastic quip?"

Jaime bobbled his head in understanding. "Charm, good looks, and a pension for said sarcasm." He paused as he processed his own words. "Fair enough."

Eddard smirked as he continued the polishing strokes on his weapon a few more times before sheathing the Valyrian greatsword. He stood up, both men bracing arms in greeting. "What brings you here? We weren't expecting you for another two moons at least. Getting tired of King's Landing already?"

"Fashionably early," Jaime replied, their hands shaking firmly before a weighted look overcame his features. "And it wasn't just the smell that drove me north. I wish it were under better circumstances."

Jaime licked his lips as he fumbled with the saddlebag on his shoulder, almost to remind himself that it was there. He always hated being the bearer of bad tidings. The difference now was that he was giving it rather than receiving. "I bring news."

"Tell us," Lady Stark inquired, moving to stand by her husband. They must have deciphered something from his tone, because they both seemed... braced.

"Jon Arryn has passed."

Any comradered joy at this unexpected reunion was immediately doused as Ned Stark slowly exhaled, looking as though he had taken a punch to the gut. He might have stumbled back a step if it wasn't for his lady wife's hand resting against his arm, her own worry prevalent as well.

"Lysa? Her son?" Catelyn asked after a moment of digesting his words.

"Both were well last I had heard. She retreated to the Eyrie with him shortly after she received the verdict," he answered sympathetically. "I'm so sorry. To you both. I understand he was family."

"How… How did he go?" Ned closed his eyes as though he were summoning the strength to remain standing. Jaime himself was half-poised to jump forward if the Lord of Winterfell started to tip, but he remained as tall and firm as one of his family's crypt statues.

"Fever. It hit him as a mounted charge, hard and fast," Jaime answered simply, doing his best to keep his tone straight-forward and simple. The Starks didn't need to be burdened by the possibility that Jon Arryn may have been poisoned. At least, not yet. According to a mutual friend in King's Landing anyway. Better a little longer until it could be confirmed. Better than possibly chasing Old Nan's tales of Others or southern red starlings. "And there's more."

"More?" Ned's tone winced, almost begging for the contrary. Jaime would have loved to give him time to grieve. Craved it even. He knew the need for such allotted time better than most. But theirs was a Game that had fewer moments of peace for such things. All secret things were best relieved in the Godswood where few dared intrude.

His hesitation was more personal this time though, an ember sparking in his chest that he had to quickly tamp down lest it catch aflame. "The king rides for Winterfell. The whole royal procession, and an entourage of little over a couple hundred." He composed himself quickly, when all his jaw wanted to do was set, even as the bellows of mocking laughter long since faded echoed in his ears.

Bless the both of them that they held the intelligence to comprehend the broader implications of his words. Anyone in the south would claim the Northerner's were all mindless brutes and barbarians, making jest at their expense given the opportunity; yet here they were, underestimated. "There's only one reason he'd ride this far so soon," Catelyn confirmed, looking to Jaime for further support to her thoughts. He could only nod in acknowledgement.

To Stark's credit, he was taking it all in stride better than he himself would have in similar stead. "Perhaps," he said, though it resounded of dismissal in light of his foster father's death. He looked once more to Jaime, his visage smoothing into firm lines. The look was a conflict of the Lord of Winterfell and Eddard Stark. "Why not send a raven with this news? It would certainly be faster?"

The Kingslayer rolled his eyes at that. Not out of disrespect for the recent dead or the Keep's lord, but at the simple grant of inconsideration from the king. Especially for someone Ned deemed a brother. "Dark wings, dark words. And Robert would have put it off until the last second, a fortnight or so out. And I know how Lady Stark hates to leave plans until the last second." That brought a soft chuckle from them, proving a little truer than their currently burdened hearts. "Besides, it gave me an excuse to ride ahead rather than with the royal procession."

"Surely it can't be that bad," Stark suggested.

Jaime cocked an eyebrow. "The king whoring at every establishment he can stop at despite the queen and her children's' presence, my sister fussing over her children as though they're fragile little things, my eldest nephew being a right pain in the arse… pardon my lady," he amended quickly to Lady Catelyn for his crass tongue, who nodded graciously, "and any slew of truer knights who'd rather not speak with a north-turned Kingslayer?" He paused as he thought about it. "And I them for that matter.

"The only pleasant company is my brother, and my niece and youngest nephew, but I dread to hear the latest southern gossip or court intrigue or hear a never-ending trove of stories for near a month or so on end," he remarked dryly. "Simply travelling north by myself was a relief in and of itself, and I never thought that would be the case. I regret wishing for the company otherwise."

"Then we shall have to prepare for their arrival," the Lady of the House stated, clearly already planning a hundred and one things that needed to be done in time. Jaime felt for the servants, but not as much as if they had only been given a fortnight of preparation. Lady Stark would likely have run them ragged otherwise in an attempt to impress upon such important guests. His sister wouldn't complain, as was expected of her most gracious Grace, but neither would it be possible to please her; she despised everything associated to the North, and she despised every time he traveled for it. His niece and nephews would keep to their courtesies; however long that lasted for the eldest boy, though the younger might find some aspects authentically fascinating, and his niece would at least be open-minded. His brother only needed access to the vast Winterfell library, wine, and a conversation he considered riveting. Only Robert was so easily appeased, and all that required was a fat boar to consume, wine, and any wench he could get his hands on. "I'll need to check stocks, ensure all the linens are fresh. Bedding and furs! Will they be warm enough? The entire keep needs cleaned, and I–"

Lannister breathed a sigh of relief when Eddard held his wife firm by the arms, luckily before she could truly get started. "Peace, love," he ordered softly, but conjured his best smile for her all the same. "One thing at a time."

Lady Catelyn closed her eyes to take a deep breath before nodding. "Of course."

Once more Jaime, held the reigns of further communication with the south. While the missives were short and straight-forward, he had his own font of information he wished from the Starks, despite having heard of it just a few moons ago. The desire for such knowings was gradually eating away at his kept patience. These things would be spoken of in time, sooner than later.

The lion's hand tightened around the straps of the satchel, glancing around warily and his ears sharpening with the ease of one who had hunted and ridden solo in the North. His wariness didn't go unnoticed, but they waited for him to satisfy his cautious nature before he removed the saddlebag from his shoulder. "I was also tasked by our mutual friend to bring this north. For our charge." Lord and Lady stiffened at that, and he wouldn't blame them. Theirs had been a secret long kept, and it was so rarely spoken of directly, even when comparing the features he had attained from his parents. The less it was brought up, the more miniscule the chance of it getting out.

Without further ceremony, he lifted the flaps of the leather bag, giving the both of them a firm glance of what he guarded. "For when he is ready," he explained without explaining. "These are the true reason I rode ahead. I didn't want any nosy fool finding them." Specifically, his little shite of a nephew. Gods forbid if Robert were privy to what he held in his hands.

He had never seen two people grow so pale. Paler than those Boltons, if such a feat was even possible. The news just kept compounding, and he could see the flicker of fear and fearful anger alighting in Eddard Stark's eyes. "Are those...?" Stark couldn't even finish as Jaime nodded.

Lady Stark's hand seemed to reach out on its own, but held back as she noticed the action. Awe and terror in her voice, she whispered, "How?"

"I know not," he answered, shaking his head as he closed it back off. "Only that they are a gift better left in the hands of their true owner than traded as collateral or for gold. At least… that is how it was explained to me."

Ned Stark recovered first, seeming sad as he eyed such precious gifts. Reminders that not all was how it should be, and not all was as they would wish it. He himself had spent as much time pondering on such things, but wishes did not make knights of beggars. They had only now, and they would make the most of it.

"The Crypts," the Lord of Winterfell finally stated. "We'll hide them in the Crypts until he's ready. Away from… away from Lyanna's tomb, so they are safe from Robert's eyes. He'll…." Stark seemed to struggle within himself. "…He'll want to see her."

His wife held his hand, brows furrowed with their own strange intensity. "But is that what you want, Ned? You can tell him no. The Crypts are a place for the Starks."

Ned just shook his head, chuckling miserably. "He is the king. I cannot order him away, and doing so now would only rouse suspicions. It's but one of the sacrifices we make."

Catelyn comforted Ned as best she could, but even Jaime knew there was little comfort she could offer here. While they had all lost precious things eight and ten years ago, both he and Stark had lost more and would give more still. Ned was lucky enough to have a woman who understood that. "I'll take my leave," she stated, squeezing her husband's arm. "Preparations must be met, and you two appear to have much more to talk about."

"Alright Love. We'll talk later." Jaime shifting awkwardly and looked away as they kissed their farewells. With that, Lady Stark made her way from the Godswood, but before he noticed her eyeing the satchel warily. Fearfully. "Family, Duty, Honor" were the Tully House Words, and Jaime knew that his cargo would strain those things upon which she was raised to hold dear as long as they remained within Winterfell. She would hold her tongue though. Of that, Jaime had no doubt. If only because her silence protected her family.

"Do you trust him?" Ned spoke after several moments of eyeing Jaime's cargo himself, though with less caution, and more vehemence than his wife. "Your friend grants great gifts. But we both know that such gifts do not come free."

Jaime snorted out a chuckle. "No. And yes. And no. And yes again," he answered conflictingly. "His trustworthiness is questionable, as are... pretty much everyone outside of ourselves. But as far as allies go, he is better to have than to not. I only wish we had more to work with in the south. There isn't much to call on as is, and I don't trust many Houses to not turn if given the opportunity."

"It's been near two decades. Surely we have more allies," Ned insisted, though it seemed half-hearted. Most southerner's were geared more toward the powershifts than Northmen, but with little to none of the loyalty. Theirs would turn if it protected – or as was most oft, promoted – their family.

"They've grown lax. Comfortable with the current status, even if they're not happy with it. A few may join out of former loyalty, and even then, there is no guarantee we would stand with enough support. Robert shaved the lands and titles of many of the houses loyal to the Targaryen's, but especially those loyal to Rhaegar. They weren't just weakened, they were crippled, and even now show no signs of recovering. House Darry of the Riverlands, and Houses Velaryon, Celtigar, and Sunglass beholden to Dragonstone have proven infallibly loyal to the Targaryen's, and might prove so once more, but they don't have the power they once did. Other than that, it would be trust in Ned Stark that grants allies of the North. The Martells may rally Dorne simply on vengeful principle, but House Dayne is a more steadfast ally for the obvious. Most of the Riverlands may also rally, but only at your behest via marriage to Catelyn.

"Your word would hold most any conspiracy together, but that wouldn't strengthen Jon's claim. He would appear too much a Stark without hard proof to back our combined words. Logic may prevail on our side, but best that can be done is to avoid war altogether, and ease our way into play, making allies and alliances where we can. But long-standing loyalties will all depend on him."

"And any tax reforms he'd make," he added as an afterthought.

"What of the Reach? The Vale?" Ned inquired.

"The Reach has always sided with those they can safely place bets on," Jaime stated, rather bitterly. "And the Tyrells will be calling those bets. Though the Tarly's and Hightower's might be more amiable." That much was no secret. Jaime would rather have the Tyrell's as enemies than have them grasping their thorny vines at Ae– Jon's head for a crown as allies. They'd sooner strangle him than gamble their position. "As for the Vale, it's a safe bet that you might garner some support, but… pardon my words… your good sister is unreliable as an ally. Without the loyalty and sense of Jon Arryn, none of the Vale will move openly as long as she hasn't dismembered the loyalty your foster father forged.

"And I doubt you want to hear about where the Westerlands and Stormlands side. Even with the bad blood between Robert and his brothers, or if I openly declare. With my sister as queen, my father will fight fang and claw to keep a Lannister so close to the throne. We'll have to stick to plan for now and pray we don't start anything. Calling banners is not a promising prospect, and would put us at a larger disadvantage unless something changes."

Stark nodded, sighing as years of planning, preparation, and hiding were coming to a head. Too soon. It was all too soon, and Jaime only hoped they'd have another decades-half to work with. None of them were truly ready, and none of them would ever truly be ready. They certainly hadn't been for the last war. No matter that White Harbor had near double the ships and were benefitting from well-placed trade profit through the south and Essos. No matter that Moat Cailin was the firmest it had been since the days of the Winter Kings, even with no lord presiding over it and its remaining towers in slightly less ruin. No matter that food stores were brimmed and packed, and armories stockpiled across the North; even the winter silos were stocked full. No matter that there were a slew of loyal lealmen willing to rise at their Liege Lord's call to banners, and the few steadfast allies they possessed.

"If we want to act, we'll need to inform Jon," Jaime stated resolutely. "He'll need time to adjust to his predicament, and be made aware of the forces that will stand with him. Jon needs to be part of the decision-making if he's to throw in his claim. He'll be little more than a puppet otherwise."

"We will," Stark affirmed. "When he's ready."

"Will that time come, Stark? When he's ready?"

Ned Stark hesitated, but he nodded again, knowing that the former Kingsguard would confront him on this more adamantly than almost any man alive. Only one other would match Jaime as such, and the Lannister knew Ned was hesitant to confront him again. "Soon," was his answer. Though it was still too vague for his liking, Jaime would relent for now. But only for now. He hadn't spent years enduring King's Landing just for all his sacrifices to amount to nothing, and he knew Ned had made his share of plays. Their hopes had ridden too long on this, and they had given too much for it to fall flat now. All of it would be pointless if Jon wasn't informed.

They risked war. And the both of them had seen enough to last a lifetime. Perhaps more. But even the best laid plans could fall through, and their preparations were nothing short of an elaborate and well-fortified fallback should attempting to quietly move into place failed. An expensive one, no doubt. Jaime didn't even want to know the sum of gold dragons it had cost to slowly arrange these things over the years. A lot less than the Kingdom's debt for certain. Thankfully, they'd had time to acquire their gains.

However they intended their approach, war might just be inevitable if they saw this through. How damning and bloody it would be, was the defining matter.

"Why is the world so cruel, to put such burdens on children?" Ned asked no one as he sat back down, and yet it was the question Jaime assumed most fathers asked after their own. Even if not truly of Stark's making, the lad was as dear as one of his children. "Jon may very well have to lead us into a war we started." But he knew it was much more than that. Stark was easily plotting the downfall of the man who had once considered his best friend and battle brother, no matter how far the king had fallen; for a lad he had raised as close to his own, who was truly his nephew. And he, the removal of his House from King's Landing, perhaps permanently; for a boy he had sworn his service to from the day of his first breath. If that didn't define treason for the both of them, he didn't know what did.

"We turned out alright," Jaime stated with a scoffed smile, both of them staring into the dark pools under the heartwood. They had been mere boys themselves at the hand of the Rebellion. "And if Jon is half the man either of us was at that age, he will be too. The best we can do is guide him from making the mistakes we did." He hesitated a moment before he took a seat on the rock next to Ned's, where he had seen their young charge seated just moments before. 'We are both men of broken honor. And guilt. And regrets. And such unrequited hopes,' he noted. There was something poetic to be said about the two of them. Their history said they should hate each other, and yet here they were, perhaps among the most similar men in Westeros. "If he so chooses, he will make a great king."

Jaime wasn't the same boy anymore either, aglow with a fresh knighting by Ser Arthur Dayne himself; nor newly cloaked in white at his sister's insistence or his father's ire or his former king's schemes. At times, it was as if he were looking back at himself with all the regard of a stranger. Disassociated as though his life had happened to someone else, and yet they were one and the same. Who had he truly been? The him of now was little better than a hedge knight despite his Lannister name and features, and certainly not to the standard of the mantle of Kingsguard as he once been proud to don; one foot toward the hellish Wall, but without the bearing of such. It was more grace than he felt he deserved, but he was a better man he felt, if only in spirit.

He pulled the satchel to his lap, staring down at the soft leather, and all the pain and sorrow and inlaid histories of its holdings. A Tragedy embodied. And yet their hopes rode on a lad who didn't even know the extent of his identity. A direwolf they'd have to prove could fly and breathe fire. Jaime wished not for the first time that they had a way to ease this to the lad; all the secrets they had kept from him; all the trust that would be strained, if not broken. And yet, all they could do was mobilize plans to keep them all safe, and hope that he would understand why they had kept him in the dark.

"They're doing well." Ned interrupted his ponderings, the both of them equally as present as they were lost in thought.

"Who?" he blinked, not quite sure to whom Stark referred to.

"Jon's… extended family," Ned explained somewhat cryptically.

"You've heard news?" Jaime asked, the swell in his chest already drawing him in once more to hang on every word Stark spoke. Despite the harrowing news he'd brought north with him, a desperate affirmation of the things he wished after escaped him. But one of his greatest regrets all the same; and yet he couldn't help but be left hoping. A great distraction from their current predicament. "From your man?"

Stark nodded firmly, hands drawing together to his rest under his chin as he continued to remain a vigil stoicism over the pools. "Within the last fortnight. It was... implied that they were safe and well."

A soft exhale breathed as Jaime closed his eyes in the briefest of reliefs. But still, that painful gnaw in his chest swelled once more. "But are they happy?" He let his thoughts wander for a moment longer before another thought came to mind. "Does he write of what they are like? Who they take after?"

"No. He writes only of their health and safety. As is his way."

"As is his way," Jaime echoed emptily. Reluctantly, he nodded, resigned to the limited information he would hear of the children, and the moons between when said information was sent and its reception. They were in safer hands than any he could provide, and yet guilt seized at his chest whenever he thought of them. Did little Viserys take after his brother? Or was he more akin to his father's better years? What about the little one, Daenerys? He had yet to lay eyes on her, missing her birth by mere weeks; but was she as her mother? Or was she something he hadn't yet seen from the House of the Dragon?

Or was madness all that remained of a once great dynasty?

They were alive, safe, and had their health. He knew that much, and were he a devoted pious man, he'd be thanking some pantheon of Gods or other for it, and praying that it remained so. That they had been little other than children didn't stop the king from sending his assassins over the years. Were they dead though, Robert would have been celebrating with a slew of ale and whores. More. More ale and whores. He'd have sent missives out across the whole of Westeros and to every House in the Seven Kingdoms proclaiming the deaths of the "last" of the "dragonspawn".

If only it would serve them pragmatically to have him by their side as their shield. Alas, it would not, even as he wished they were the safer still by his side, but their fortunes found them less pursued for the contrary. His father would have paid handsomely for his location had he sworn his sword to them, and he knew exactly what would have transpired had the Targaryen children been found in his care. If he didn't lose his head along with them at Robert's command. That Stark had sent someone of… questionable loyalty… in their stead to protect them without rousing suspicion was of small relief at least. It was the closest to safe that could be provided without him directly by their sides. It didn't help that he had his more immediate charge on this side of the Narrow Sea to worry about keeping safe.

"So what do we do about Robert?" he asked after a moment, the silence persisting a little longer than he was comfortable with. Between the news he'd delivered and his own ponderings, silence was an enemy invasive by stagnant thought that would only cloud him with 'What if's' and 'Should have been's'. "I wasn't jesting when I said Jon looks more and more of his father." Jaime had yet to test the depths he'd fathom to protect Rhaegar's last child. He was already a Kingslayer. But Stark… Stark was another matter. He was still an honorable man; even in treachery.

"Then we keep him occupied," Stark stated, his voice heavy still with the grief of losing the man who had been as a father to him, and the heaviness that came with years of plotting deceit, and possibly more, against one who was as a brother. Not to mention the addition of the bundle in Jaime's lap. "Prevent him from taking a second glance."

"Well that shouldn't be too hard," Jaime responded wryly. "Food and drink. Any pretty face that bats their eyes at him. You savages do have women, right?"

Ned rolled his eyes at the jab, but wasn't slighted by it.

"And his offer?" the Lannister clarified, looking worriedly at him, but nodded in contemplation. "It's just a theory, but he'll most likely make you Hand of the King. You'd be the most powerful man in all of Westeros."

"Second," Ned corrected. "Robert would still be king."

"Like I said, most powerful man in all of Westeros," Jaime reaffirmed, both of them having chuckling at that before they sobered up again. "It would put you in place, but it would take you away from your family. From your home." 'From Jon. At least until we can get him south,' he added thoughtfully. He had his own way to circumvent that though should other methods prove unfruitful, but admittedly, it was a last ditch effort. "It's mentioned in jest when they say "the King shits and the Hand wipes", but it was also the truth.

"But let's face it, Catelyn would probably gut Robert if he tried pawning off the entire kingdom onto you."

Eddard's heavier features loosened into a fond smile. "Aye, she would." He sighed, rising to his feet with Jaime following closely. "Forgive me. All this news has left my mind occupied and I haven't acted a proper host. We will… need to discuss details further." He eyed the satchel once again. "And that will need to be properly hidden. We best see you fed and rested beforehand. Besides, the children will want to know you're here."

"If I wanted a proper host, I'd have some lord of a middling house suck up to me," Jaime dismissed with a smile, knowing Stark was as keen not to ponder these things too long, just as he was. There would be time later in the too few weeks that followed, before Robert inevitably reached Winterfell. Time to grieve, time to mourn, time to plan, time to plot. Best they spoke with clearer heads anyhow. "Besides, the little she-wolf's already asked me to fight."

That at least got a laugh out of him, perfectly transitioning the Lord of Winterfell back into Eddard Stark. "Then you shouldn't disappoint."

"But supper first," Jaime insisted as they made to exit the Godswood. "And nothing before sunup. I haven't had a full night's rest in well over a week."

"I could ask the kitchens after a pair of meat pies," Stark offered, and Lannister inevitably felt his palate wet, letting his attentions wander easily after such prior stern focuses.

"The ones with the onions and the little mushrooms? With the meaty gravy?" Jaime inquired.

Ned chuckled, shaking his head in good humor. "I'll see we have some prepared." Jaime found he agreed to that.

"Protect them, Jaime. Protect my children," he felt tickle in his ear, even as the heartwood just disappeared from view. He fought every instinct to turn around, searching for a voice he knew had breathed it's last submerged under the Trident. Yet another reason he felt uncomfortable amidst the Godswood.

He was no stranger to the world, and he knew that there were some things he couldn't protect them from, just as a parent couldn't always protect their child from their own wanderings. The Starks already started their introductions to death early in their male children. Jaime felt as though he was preparing to send the boy feet-first into a war they had instigated, and couldn't be sure what would come out the other side. To live through war, the lad might have to take a life, and that would kill another part of the child that Jaime had sworn to protect.

'I will do my best,' he promised, hoping it would be enough, and yet not confident enough to utter truer assurances. He'd already lost his princes. His princesses. His queen. He'd protect what was left of their legacies, even if that protection could only be provided to most of them by keeping his distance. And as long as this time, they proved just as worthy of protecting, just as Jon was proving each and every time he saw the lad. Not just because of Dragon-blood, but a good person, with a good heart.

Because the only way Rhaegar's son and Rhaella's children would be – and remain – safe was if he played the Game.

And won.

No matter the sacrifices he'd had to make.

---

Braavos 298 AC

Daenerys Targaryen

Not for the first time did she leave her "guards" behind, trailing the dustier and less commercial roads outside across the waters from the city, urging her painted palfrey from a trot into a gallop. Outside of the dull Braavosi gray that plagued the stone-wrought city of interconnected islands, both natural and artifical, it was surrounded by tall tree-strewn islands that sheltered the cove from the harshest of sea winds. The only true color to be found in the city was in the flourishing markets or that garnished walls decoratively, and the sails of ships that traveled to and from the ports and harbors. The south and east from the lagoon, toward the mainland gave way from marshes to coastal hills, and streams and brooks that were formed from the inlands, and sea rains and storms that commonly rolled through the land; the waters drinkable and suitable for the aqueduct flows to the city, if not with a vague taste that reminded one of its origin. The hills were somewhat rocky, with bright green grasses growing in currents, waves rippling whenever the warmer wind caught their tresses.

She encouraged the mare faster, having long left her escorts back in the city itself. She had nothing against the men hired to escort her, only that such excesses tended to leave her smothered and ill-at-ease, even amidst the pleasing scenery. It was rare enough occasion to get out of the city. As it stood, she was more likely to catch a knife among the tight roads and canal bridges of Braavos than the open lands across its waters. Any Catspaw or Faceless Man could hide behind a street or alley, and she'd be helpless to them alone. There, her guards were welcome. Out here among the grasses and hills, it was as close to free as such constraints allowed, when she could bear their stifling presence no longer. From there it was a matter of losing them and catching a boat or dinghy to shore, and to the stables that housed hers and the horses of other Braavosi lords and bravos that enjoyed their own rides outside the city.

The chill of the sea rode inland, providing a wind she and her steed seemed to ride, and she crouched lower in the saddle, feeling as it whipped at her lashed silver hair and her horse's clay-red mane flowed near wildly around her like a stream of fire. She let the beast have just enough reign. It knew best the places to step, and she trusted it well enough not to steer her false as they raced the worn paths and sheep trails along the hills.

Her blood sang in jubilation at the wind, knowing that this was as close to the realm her ancestors had known on dragonback. If she closed her eyes, she might believe for a moment that she was flying.

At the hill's crest she slowed, near breathless from exhilaration. Her heart pounded, and a joyous smile rose to her cheeks. From her vantage, she could see the city far off and below, its first stones risen on the shores of a once hidden lagoon, the present giving way to one of the most fortified and prosperous cities in Essos, if not the most. Her eyes turned over the Titan, it's enormity standing vigil with ships passing underneath the arch of its legs, each so small from this distance, they might have been mere toys to the statue they skirted under, a testament to the power and strength of the city itself.

The view was dull, with the drab colors of granite, and the dreary weather that frequented the city. It was perhaps the coldest of the Free Cities, with its frequent clouds and summer storms, the only one that she was aware of that knew of the rare ice and snows of the winter years outside of the Ib to the far east, with borders that immersed in the Shivering Sea. These things had made it secure back when it was still known as the Secret City. But she found it beautiful. Like it was true to its origin while embracing how it had grown and expanded into one of the foremost trading ports in Essos.

She dismounted, dusting her riding trousers before softly stroking her horse's nose as she leaned into its neck. As habit would dictate, she found her gaze drifting further and further west, from the Titan to the sea, and finally the clear horizon beyond. "What do you think it's like?" she asked her companion softly as she rubbed its cheek, looking longingly past the sea. "Do you think Westeros is just as beautiful?" The mare's only response was to lip at some grass at its hooves.

It was easy, and yet impossible, to imagine the land of her birth; in such a way that her longing for it seemed misplaced sometimes, spirited away as a babe as she had been. All she had were the stories her brother told her; though those were laced with a tinged bitter and angry rants about those who had unseated their family, and more often than not, the superiority of their Valyrian blood. There was little context to be gathered from his tales. There was their guardian as well, but he was a kind of stern that dissuaded her from asking, though, when she had, he'd avoided speaking of Westeros. Her whole life had been spent in Essos.

All she knew of Westeros came from simple informative books, written in the bland, matter-of-fact, and frequently bias undertones that was so often reflected by the maesters that wrote them. Geographies, histories, militias, politics.

And yet, a part of her wanted to know about it beyond the context of books she could read when the words lacked... wonder. To see it. Feel it. Smell it. Taste it even. If only to form just the faintest, dismal connection with the lands her family had ruled over. As it was to her now, it was little more than a faraway land of a bedtime story from her childhood.

Her horse snorted, its ears flicking behind them as turned its head to see around her. Dany followed its gaze, noting the handful of horses galloping toward them.

"Looks like they found us already," she muttered unworried as she recognized the colors they wore, stroking her palfrey's neck once more as she continued to gaze toward her distant home. "I thought we had another hour." It wasn't more than a moment more before the thudding of hooves reached her own ears. But she didn't move, wanting to enjoy the view a little longer before she was once more forced to return to a cage of safety.

She sighed as the riders approached, the same men who had been charged with her safety for a year now. Half the time she could do without them. But it wasn't her orders they followed, nor was it any coin she could produce that paid them.

Their approaching pace slowed, until they had wordlessly positioned their mounts in formation around her, guarding her once more from all threats, both seen and unseen. The walls of men on horses closed in on her once more, and her view was blocked from her lower vantage.

"Captain Zaltho," she met with a frustrated sigh, glaring half-heartedly at the leader of their small troop, but there was no true contempt. He was just doing as he was ordered. He bore the presence of a seasoned fighter, a wind-weathered face, a salted coloration to his kept black hair, and complete with an age that bore warning to those younger in his profession.

Like the rest of her guard, he wore a rich maroon red, just short of the vibrancy common of the bravos that roamed numerous throughout the city; yet still paying some homage to her House colors. "So our enemies cannot see us bleed," she had been told. In her opinion, it just made them more appealing targets. Red was a color that encouraged challenge, just as the red dragon of her House had.

'And look where that led us,' she thought sadly.

"Princess Daenerys." His simple coppery stare and flat tone was as much chastisement as could be mustered without him seeming flippant or speaking out of line, conveying an entire conversation about her desertion without him needing to utter any further word.

It was far easier to relent, and so she did, easily pulling herself into the saddle once more. She considered continuing to ride with her guards in tow, but their indifferent forward gazes smothered any desire to do so. Without a word, she began riding back toward the city, trying not to seem a petulant child despite wanting nothing more than to order them away. They wouldn't listen to her anyway. Her guards fell in line silently before she'd even urged her mount forward.

Where minutes before even the bland colors of the city seemed their own brand of bright and vibrant, there was a lackluster to it now, swallowed by a common sea haze that blew in. Viridescent grasses now appeared patches of off gray with the mist and cloud-cover that dotted the sky, and the air growing more humid, contrasting between radiating the suns warmth and the cooling in the wind's chill. Soon enough, the damp and her sweat clung her shirt to her skin, thankfully of a darker blue or purple, as was common among Braavos' wealthy, and better yet, not of sheer or thin make. The cotton surcoat she wore didn't help as it trapped the moisture and heat to her chest and back, but was by far a better choice than the riding corset she would have been made to wear in keeping with Westerosi style, or the more loosened or lessened clothing of typical Essos fashion. At least in these clothes, she could breathe without feeling any more exposed than her violet eyes and silver hair revealed.

Far sooner than she would have preferred, they were back along the coast-side stables, intended for those that couldn't house their horses within the narrow-streeted city. She didn't want to say goodbye to hers just yet though, prolonging contact with it as much as could be garnered. And yet, she couldn't stay. With as fond a farewell as she could muster, she hired the nearest ferry for her and her escorts, a skiff too small for their number.

The ferryman skirted the outside lagoon-city as per her askance, north-bound toward the Green Canal, with a destination that would see them nearer to the Moon Pool and the Iron Bank of Braavos. All the while they sailed, she sat with her back to the prow, eyeing the retreating mainland past the ferry's single mast and the canopied stern and rudder. When that view weighed too heavy, she turned to eye the city, and the passing of less grand housings of Silty Town.

From here, she could spy several packs of children with their crudely fashioned poles fishing from docks and the water's edge for the bottom-feeders that hid in the cool of deeper waters for the scraps that would eventually be dumped into the canals or near the city edge, or occasionally enticing the odd eel with their bait. How long had it been since Viserys had taught her the same so they wouldn't starve? Midday as it was, did those children know that such creatures would rise closer to the surface in the cooler evenings? Or that the docks would be far more fishable once the fishermen had begun gutting their catch? Or was their need so great that the hope of any catch would do? Perhaps their mothers didn't want them staying out so late, when the drunks and other less savory individuals roamed the water's edge.

Dany turned away, her heart feeling much heavier than it had been moments before. Near five years hadn't been enough time to forget the eight that had led her and her brother through the Free Cities, surviving by any means. What she had learned, been taught, and taken away from that time was as forefront to her as the name of her House. She couldn't forget. Even now with her guards around her, she felt more like she was being escorted to serve her sentence, than protected by them; and it showed in her withdrawn posture and averted gaze despite her attempts to appear otherwise.

No. The last five years couldn't erase the terror of blades in the night, or the fear of starving that would occasionally seize her unbidden, or the frequent discomfort that came with sleeping in a soft bed when the cobbles of any random alley sounded far more appealing. The hiding, the running, a new Magister and manse whenever the old one would tire of her brother's assurances, until they were once more cast out. She had tried to keep faith in her brother's words and promises that they would return home. But she was no longer a little girl, and if there was one thing she had learned, it was that words were wind. Words were wind.

"Princess." She started from her musings, almost lulled quietly by what little of the clouded sun's reflection softly glared across the water. Captain Zaltho and one of his men had already disembarked their craft, holding out his rugged hand to help her off the ferry. She hadn't even noticed they had stopped. Her other escorts would not leave until she did.

She blinked some wakefulness back into her eyes as she stood to accept his help. The rest of her guards soon followed, and she bid her thanks to the ferryman for his service with a couple more coins. The streets were busy, but not crowded, peoples retreated mostly to the cool of their homes from the mid-summer afternoon sun. As she stepped up, Dany had to force her posture to return to that which befitted her royal status; taller, firmer, but not ridged, her chin slightly upturned but not too much, her mouth pursed just so.

Further into the city from their approach she recognized the Moon Pool fountain, where the Sweetwater River met its end and Water Dancers honed their blades throughout all hours of the day and night. Across from there stood the imposing power of the Iron Bank of Braavos, towering over and expanding further than any of the surrounding buildings, demonstrating a level of wealth befitting such a powerful institution.

She moved purposefully forward, her entourage melding among the denizens, particularly the commonfolk, the occasional bravo to glance their way, and the wealthy with their own guards. The people seeming to bend around her entourage with every step she took, walking the streets as they would take her closer toward the Purple Harbor. The culmination of Braavos' wealth flowed in its northern streets, the markets and stalls replaced by large stores and shops of impeccable trade and repute, some with clear Myrish glass offering a glimpse of the stores inner workings and displays of their tradecraft before anyone had even stepped inside.

And scattered among the city, the manses of the people elite, wealthy merchants, and families reigning since before the Doom of Valyria; their lots and villas behind encompassing stone walls, behind which revealed roomier accommodations than was standard to see in the normally packed city. It was one such manse that she gravitated toward. The guards at the gates and doors needed no introduction to allow her in.

While not to the wealth, size, or splendor of many others, it still stood as a sign to be respected. Its granite was polished, pillars and beams immaculate, it's two towers and singular dome more telling of its status than any other feature. Intricate carvings were inlaid in the skirting, the stiles and rails, and the frames; some floral in appearance, others fiery, or wavy, and others an assorted carved tapestry of Braavosi history.

Dany understood it was not to the standard of Dragons; her brother had labelled it so despite their years spent completely without such luxuries, and would have had it renovated to fit his vision of their House's power had their guardian not held a tighter leash on the expense of their finances. In Dany's eyes though, it was a beauty to be appreciated, even without that which made it fit for them.

It was no house with the red door. Or the lemon tree. But it was the closest she'd known to it. And she was grateful to have a place to return to as opposed to the constant running.

The tapestries, paintings, and inlays though meant little to her as she passed through the welcome hall, merely present to display a certain level of wealth as deemed necessary. Unlike manses throughout the other Free Cities, in Braavos they remained mostly closed off, less opened to the city itself, but still not without its grandeur, with large painted windows that filtered the sunlight and doors that opened to small terraces to prevent true confinement to the indoors.

She didn't wish to dally, but couldn't rush away either, forced to take a measured pace as she made to her room; the only place she could attain solitude for any measure of time. Her guards continued to surround her, even in the confines of what she considered her own home.

So absorbed in her retreat was she, that she almost didn't notice the sharp ring of steel, the grunts of exertion, or the snap of instruction as she attempt a shortcut through the inner courtyard.

"Parry higher," came a simple, calm command, followed further by the clash of metal.

She paused, sighing as recognition drew out a true smile on her face as she stopped to watch.

Nearer to the edge of the yard centered by an ornate and gurgling fountain, two men swung the weight of blunt tourney blades, the clang of steel-on-steel echoing throughout the yard, servants aside flinching at the amplified resound. The familiar flash of silver hair shimmering identified her brother's lithe form, pushing to meet the commands as they were given. Also familiar was the dark hair and stronger build of the instructor, their guardian and keeper these last five years, the man who had prevented the Targaryen House from the falling further into ruin; only pushed back harder in challenge.

Dany watched as they spared, noting that despite their prolonged engagement, her brother was the only one of the two that showed any sign of being winded.

"And faster," he commanded again. The blades moved and met with no room or moment for retort, her brother struggling to keep up, and yet keep up he did. "Very good." The flat of the instructor's blade tapped away the other, signaling the end of their bout. "Wash up."

"When can I use naked steel in practice? I've fought men true before. I'm more than ready!" Viserys demanded heavily as he tiredly lowered his blade. Impatience seemed to be the only tone he knew anymore. "Eager" was the word he would use, but it was impatience Dany saw that he was to reclaim their family's home.

"When there is a threat in front of you that demands such a thing," their guardian returned patiently, and not for the first time, laying down the law with her brother as he had done often enough. He didn't hesitate to pull off his gloves to splash a handful of cool fountain water on his face. A servant was already moving to hand him a towel to dry his hands. "Needlessly boasting an edge in play is begging the loss of a finger. And I should think you'd like to keep all of yours."

That silenced her brother as his hand tightened reflexively at that thought. The servant by their guardian retrieved the towel and his sword, while another did the same for her brother as he followed suite. Meanwhile, Dany quickly stepped forward, ignoring protocol to greet them.

"Viserys! Ser Jorah! You're back! How was your company?"

Her brother turned to eye her as he toweled off, but Ser Jorah's face remained unmoved upon her reveal. "That we are, princess. Back in once piece." His simple words made her smile, even if there was no break from his soft but stern tone. She knew little of him, save that Ser Jorah hailed from a House of the North in Westeros. Mormont it was named, with the standard of a standing black bear over a green wood, a sigil that he continued to wear even amidst the lands of Essos. She also knew him to be an exceptional swordsman and knight. She had never seen him fight, but when he spared, he seemed immovable.

And he was honest. Brutally so. He'd held no qualms about cutting down the silk-spun dreams her brother had woven about their House; revealing how their father had made it habit to burn those who disagreed with him. How it wasn't just the kidnapping of Lyanna Stark that had set into motion the Rebellion, but the burning of the Starks and many good men and their heirs. He was as true to events as he knew them, knowing good and evil committed on both sides, and not shying away from the truth of it; a kind of observation she found distasteful, but at the same time, welcome. War was war. And both sides knew good and evil.

And he had saved them, the last of the Targaryens, from spiraling further into misfortune. He offered them shelter, food, education, and a place to call home. For all intents and purposes, he had fostered them.

"Of course we're back," Viserys scoffed. "Did you think we wouldn't return? That simple men could slay a Dragon?"

"N-No," she stammered, the joy slowly draining from her face at the chastisement. "I'm just glad you are both safe."

Her brother scoffed again, handing his towel off to the waiting servant. "We are never safe dear sister. Not as long as the Usurper remains on my throne." Ser Jorah exhaled soundlessly, rolling his eyes to demonstrate his opinion of her brother's words. Viserys seemed to play with whatever thought he fancied in that moment with unbridled delight before he turned back to her, his gaze much harder. "You weren't here to greet us upon our return. Where were you?"

She felt more than saw her own guards stiffen, and she had to force an easier smile to her face. "We went riding," she answered, trying to keep her tone pleasant enough, as though she had done nothing wrong, which she had not. Ser Jorah's guarded eyes narrowed, but her brother took no notice.

"On the mainland?" he asked, more a demand.

She hesitated, but nodded. At his approach she stiffened along with her guards. His finger gently lifted her chin, looking her directly in the eyes despite her desire to stare at the tiled ground. "And your guards did their job I hope." His statement contained a bit of unconcealed warning.

Her smile faded to a frown, forcing herself to put on a mummery, knowing that he'd never believe that she was happy with constantly being guarded. Because in truth, she hadn't been. But she knew what he did to servants who displeased him. She knew what happened to her last guards when they had "lost" her. And she knew what could happen to her once she had woken the dragon. "They did. But is it really necessary? It is… difficult to enjoy the ride when they're so stifling."

Her brother's hearty laugh at her words seemed to ease her guards, although Captain Zaltho kept up his ridged appearance. "Dear sister, that is what they are paid to do. You know as well as I that the Usurper would love to send an assassin to slit your pretty little throat. These measures are simply preventive." As if he were demonstrating, his hand cupped under her jaw, making it hard for her to swallow. He looked at her then as though he were the Usurper, preparing to wring her neck, a glint in his eye reflecting malevolent glee.

And then he let her go. If there had been any joy left, it was dead now. She had to blink carefully to prevent tears from forming at the corners of her eyes, shifting uncomfortably as she wished to move away, but could not.

That was what he said. That was what he always said when she was younger. That the Usurper was always sending assassins, and yet, she had never seen any of them. She wondered how much of it was the truth. Ser Jorah never seemed to confirm nor deny those words.

"We can't have that happen, now can we?" he asked rhetorically, brushing his hand from her chin along her cheek. Her jaw locked, inhaling softly, but sharply as she did her best not to pull away. "I still need a queen for when I retake my throne." He eyed her then as he always did when he spoke of her as his queen, roaming up and down her form, just as many men had when they had had no home to call their own: hunger. She despised being touched while he looked at her like that, but she didn't make her objections known. Even while Ser Jorah had taken measures to temper her brother's "Waking the Dragon", it didn't mean her brother couldn't hurt her in other, less physical, ways.

"Should I remind you, Viserys, that such matches are better arranged for political ties," Ser Jorah interjected, Dany holding back a breath of relief as her brother's hand dropped away. "Bonds of marriage are just as prevalent as lands, titles, and offices."

Her brother looked annoyed, as though this had been a topic much discussed, and he was tired of it. "Only Dragons lie with dragons." Her shoulders tensed as he eyed her once more, his eyes roaming deeper than her riding clothes, leaving her feeling bare and exposed. "We do not lie with common men."

"The King's of Winter possessed the Blood of the First of Man," Ser Jorah stated matter-of-factly. "And like the Blood of Old Valyria, it was said to contain magic. Do you know what they did?" Her brother grinded his teeth as his own argument was being so easily ignored. "They created bonds with their bannermen. Bonds forged through blood, and marriage. The purity of their blood matter little when magic faded from the world, but it was the bonds they had forged in the process that sustained them. And had your ancestors been wiser, they might have realized that when the dragons faded from the world as well."

Her brother growled, low and throaty, at a perceived slight, just as he did in times when she had woke the dragon in their youth. Ser Jorah however was nonplused by it. "Bonds should not matter when it is mine by right of succession! The lords should bow joyously before their true king! I will take what is rightfully owed me!"

"With a mindset like that, your reign would be as short as the Second of your namesake," Ser Jorah shot back with a firm resolve, one her brother could not match. "With none of the positive reform or tenure his garnered in his time as the Hand, and instead of illness, it will be a dagger that ends your reign."

Ser Jorah's approach was slow and firm, and none of the guards moved to stop them. It was he who dealt with their employment, he who paid them their coin, he who assigned them their tasks. Not they of dragon blood. The bear was the one with the power here. Her brother had to clench his hand to resolve from stepping back in retreat, and Dany looked away from the fortitude the knight exuded. He had seen and experienced many sides of the world that they had not, and it was projected in his presence.

"Do not make the mistake of believing that any man would follow you simply because you order it. You are an exiled prince that has only made demands and spouted empty promises."

"And yet here you are. An exile yourself," Viserys retorted bitterly.

"Yes. And yet, said exile sees to your safety, continued well-being, education, and finances; all because a bleeding heart pitied you." Ser Jorah moved closer still, his visage never once faltering as he stepped near chest to chest with her brother. "Skill with a sword does not make a king. A crown does not make a king. Blood does not make a king.

"If you wish to play a king, at least do the sorted world the curtesy of possessing the grace of one."

Viserys's lip trembled in rage, but he held his tongue, his fist clenched and trembled.

Ser Jorah flicked his chin. "You may go." Her brother didn't hesitate to storm away, the air not receding its tension until he was out of sight. Dany didn't know she had held her breath until she inhaled sharply, drinking in the relief. Unfortunately, it didn't end at her brother's outbursts. "Captain Zaltho, we will discuss you and your men's failure to accompany Princess Daenerys later."

"Ser Jorah it was my fault!" she exclaimed before she could stop herself. "I'm the one who ran off without my guards!" She froze in fear, hoping that her brother was too far away and too angry to have heard her outburst. She swallowed thickly, hoping she wasn't trembling. She spied her guards from the corner of her eye, and their indifference toward the concept of punishment. It had been their failure as hired swords, and yet, she felt it was her responsibility still. They had lost her, yes, but she had run from them.

With an effort, she lifted her chin, still having to look up to meet the knight's eyes. "Any punishment you would bestow upon them is rightfully mine.

"So please," she whispered out, much less sure of herself as he refused to respond. He stared at her hard, and while she couldn't meet his ferocity, she held his gaze, even if it was only to beg. She was used to begging. Begging to eat, begging to sleep, begging to live; but now would mark the first time she had begged for someone else's sake.

"You lied to your brother."

She swallowed, but nodded.

"You lied to your king."

She nodded again, weaker this time. What sort of punishment would it be? Would he ignore her plea? Her brother had made no expense of her punishments when she had woken the dragon, and while she knew Ser Jorah to be a fair man, there had never been a need for her to receive such things from the knight until now.

He didn't break his gaze as he spoke to her guard, his face not betraying any thoughts in his indifference. "The princess is to be confined to her quarters for the remainder of the day except for supper. She is to remain restricted to the manse for the week following, unless as directed by myself. See to it this time that you do as you are paid for. There will not be another warning." His last words felt more directed toward her.

"As you command, Ser."

The Northman just sighed as he walked away, the only sign of his discontent, leaving Dany to take deep breath of relief that the extent of her sentence was only a short confinement, a far cry from what she was expecting. Even if she was used to it, the prospect of being made to starve terrified her. She was glad he wasn't denying her a meal. Nor that he was extending any further punishment to them.

"Princess." Captain Zaltho gestured, he and his men parting so she could continue on her way. She hesitated a moment to step forward, but knew it would solve nothing to delay any longer. So she relented.

Only the Captain followed, the other guards breaking before the guard shifts rotated. They walked for some time, allowing her to actively enjoy the ornate halls and artistries for few more moments as she savored her relief. Though, now she had to ponder why she felt the punishment was too little.

"There was no need to lie on our behalf," Zaltho interrupted her train of thought in his low tone, quiet even when he spoke evenly. "We failed in our duties. It is our own shame to bear."

"I…." She hesitated in speaking the truth. "…did not think of the consequences when I ran off. My brother is not forgiving of failure, even if the failure is truly mine. And I know little of Ser Jorah's methods as such."

She could feel his eyes at her side, gazing at her peripherally. "It is not your brother we answer to. We were informed by the Northman of what happened to your last guards. We knew of the consequences before hand, and were assured it would be Mormont who would handle it. I have not yet known him to be unfair in his dealings."

Dany stopped suddenly, unable to look up at him in shame. "I owe you an apology. All of you. I was… selfish. I didn't think about what my actions could entail for you."

"We're little better than mercenaries, Princess. Coin and conflict are the only Gods we've worshiped for as long as we've known our lot. If not here, there are other places that would hire us. There is no need to apologize."

'Not if my brother ordered your fingers removed. Or worse.' She kept that thought to herself though. He had said they knew the consequences, and that was in Ser Jorah's hands, so she would leave it be. "All the same, it was my inadherence that started this, so it is me that is at fault. Please do not believe yourselves responsible where my actions might have done you harm."

Captain Zaltho didn't acknowledge her request, leaving her ill at east about his and his men's disposition toward her. Alas, there was little more she could do, other than hope that her brother would never find out the truth; no matter how much she despised lying to him. And that Ser Jorah would continue to protect their House as he had; even if she was ultimately unaware of his motivations. It felt as though, the only person she could truly rely on in the end, was herself. Even if she didn't know exactly how to do so. She could hardly remember a life before the knight – snippets and hazy images – and there wasn't a time she was without her brother. They were all she truly had.

Near as soon as she had stopped, she was walking again, far less interested in the furnishings this journey round, nodding acceptingly to the subtle quiet of passing servants bowing and uttering soft words of acknowledgement. "Princess" they all called her. But a "Princess" of Nothing. That title was hollow to her. It was not her, nor did it feel like they were talking to her.

Her door was within reach now. A sanctum of sorts after today, and an asylum from the rest of the manse for the remainder of the week, until such time as she could leave once more. Just the thought of riding again brought a hopeful smile to her face, but was quickly quelled by a resurgence of guilt.

"Thank you for the escort, Captain. I believe I can find my room from here," she politely dismissed.

"Confinement requires a guard," he stated simply. "I don't intend to enter the room, Princess. Merely guard the door." She could find no reason to refute him. "Just… don't climb out the window." Dany nodded in acceptance followed by a humored shake of her head. Although… she probably could if she truly tried.

Pushing open the double doors, the Captain taking his position at the door as it was closed behind her. A few servants – women all – that had awaited her return immediately set upon her, silently helping her strip from her sweat-soaked riding clothes and taking her boots while others went about ensure that a warm bath was ready, no doubt informed of the moment she had returned. She had learned a long time ago not to try and help as they stripped her. She'd only get in their way. She only did as they asked or gestured when they did so, until she was bare and exposed before them. It was only then that they guided her to the warm water.

Her toes clenched from the welcome heat as she slipped a foot into the steaming water, though it wasn't too hot for her. It was never too hot. Within moments she had submerged past her breasts, relishing as the heat both cocooned and flowed around her. The aromatic herbs churned as she listlessly attempted to catch them, only for them to slip around her hand under the water.

It wouldn't last long, and neither would this momentary peace. True to form, one servant began scrubbing at her skin with a porous stone until it flushed, a while another removed the tie from her hair and began washing and combing the wind-lashed snags and tangles out from over the lip of the tub. Cleanliness was a dull ache that gave way to the occasional sharp pains across her limbs or in the roots of her scalp, but she bore with it, relishing instead on the tangible feeling of the dust and sweat being slowly removed.

What felt like an eternity took only spare minutes, enunciated by a gentle rinse being poured over her silver hair.

"Will there be anything else, princess?" one of the servants asked on the rest of their behalf.

"No. Thank you. That will be all for now," she replied. With a short, adherent nod, the servants dismissed themselves, one or two but a call away to help her finish bathing once she was ready. And then she was alone, left to sit back amidst the slowly dwindling warmth of the bath water, though she was unable to properly gauge the heat. She knew not what herbs were used, only that some of the scents were sharp, and made the act of breathing in the vapors refreshing, providing a kind of ease, if not clarity.

But she didn't close her eyes as she lounged. She couldn't. The manse was well guarded, Ser Jorah was a well-trained knight, and her brother knew his way around a sword. But such a simple restful and relieving act as relaxing left her feeling afraid. Vulnerable. As her brother had said, they weren't safe. She didn't feel safe.

And there was no indication she would any time soon.

Sloshing as she turned in the water, she looked west, a smooth granite wall staring back at her as she tried to imagine the land of her birth once more. What it would feel like to be safe, and wanted there. What it would be like, to truly be at the house with the red door, and the lemon tree. Perhaps not in body, but in mind and spirit.

What it would be like, to be home.

---

Author's Note: Read & Review :D

Heads-up: I'm not sure how often I'll be posting these yet, or if it will continue. This is mostly to relieve the pressure on my brain. Because it's a Sample Story, if I get serious about writing this, it will be subject to changes. So not everything here will be gospel if I come back to it.