A/N: Hi guys. Sorry for the long delay. But here's a big chapter with a lot of goings on. Reimagining of one of Fire and Blood's scariest moments.

Read and comment!

Chapter 41: Maidenpool

"She is here!"

A snarl of disgust. "The vile dragon, with her bigamous uncle and their abomination in her belly."

"She cannot pollute our holy site."

"We will kill her, poison the babe in her belly."

From the various squabbling and angry banter between each other, the hooded figure held up his hand. "Stop." He didn't speak loudly, but had that authoritative tone that made all listen. Staring at his covered face, upon which only his drooping blonde mustache was visible. "You will be killed before you even get near her Grace. Her guards are too numerous, as is her husband, the one that wields Blackfyre."

While the men present shifted their feet, trembling at the great legacy of that blade in the violent history of the Targaryen realm, it were the women that scoffed fearlessly. "Cowards, all of you!" one snarled. "You will allow the holy domains of the Seven who are One be defiled by such abominations and their tree-worshiping heathen allies?"

The hooded man slammed his fist on the table, shutting her up - as well as the other women. "You must be smart, and think." That in which he fought for once was staffed by fools. Those fools… it was long since they had been in power, replaced for the most part by those competent. Now it was time to do the same to the religious authorities of the Faith, not just the temporal. "Think of what transpires here… what is present here upon which few can follow to protect her Grace."

Of those gathered, the clever understood quickly, while the stupid took much, much longer. But time healed all wounds. "She has female guards, doesn't she?"

From underneath his hood, Ser Joffrey Dogget smiled. "One, but I think she can be overcome."

"I don't like this at all," Rhaena whispered, leaning off her palfrey so as only her husband could hear her. "We should be in the air."

Maegor snorted. "Think I agreed with my brother's command?" According to Aenys, given the situation in the Realm it would be best if neither of them mounted their dragons. That they travel on horseback to project a more humble posture to all on their progress. "Clearly our welcome isn't as warm as he expected from such a show of humility."

"Then can we forget this and mount up?"

"It's a direct command. We cannot disobey."

Rhaena huffed, her famously defiant and challenging uncle quite subdued for once. However, he had some point. All around the crowds of Smallfolk watched them, both here as they passed through the gates of Maidenpool town and from the roads and keeps long since visited. The cheering throngs Rhaena remembered from traveling with her grandfather and kepa were nonexistent. Some cheered or clapped, a sizable minority to her relief but most were silent. Watching her… and Maegor, especially Maegor. Mostly in their common unarmed bands, but here there was a sizable detachment of Poor Fellows in their leather armor and carrying spears and swords.

It made them… bolder. "Whore!" shouted a woman from… Rhaena couldn't tell where, only it was to her left.

"Abomination!" This was a man, with a more educated tongue.

"Whore!" A badly thrown clod of dung slammed into the ground near her palfrey, and the horse neighed and near panicked. She managed to keep it calm while two guards headed in the direction of the clod. "Incestuous whore!" Big mistake for the heckler, as his second insult caused Dick Bean to locate him and knock him to the ground with a powerful punch. Bones cracking against his steel gauntlet.

The smallfolk seemed wary of challenging, while the Poor Fellows advanced menacingly upon Ser Dick…

Until two powerful roars stopped them in their tracks.

Rhaena smirked as Balerion and Dreamfyre appeared above, circling the town. They couldn't ride them, but the dragons were there, her husband's powerful mount supplemented by her fiery one. The smallfolk and even the Poor Fellows were likely all illiterate, but the dragons they knew. Not only was the mighty Prince Maegor the rider of the Black Dread, but Princess Rhaena was the accomplished rider herself. Both dangerous. Both threatening. The Poor Fellows backed down, as did the Smallfolk.

"I love them so," Rhaena smiled to her husband… only to notice him frowning. "My love?"

He glanced at her warily. "Think they've only been quiet cause the dragons are with us?" It was a question, but his inflection made it clear he knew the answer to it.

Rhaena did as well, and was silent the rest of the ride.

The cool reception of the town was less evident when they passed into the keep of Maidenpool. Lord Mooton, son of Jon Mooton whom had fought for her grandfather, had his arms open to welcome Rhaena's entry. "Princess," he spoke, kissing her hand. "Welcome to Maidenpool, most holy and loyal city." He noticeably didn't greet Maegor as warmly.

The Princess didn't address it nor forgot. "You are most kind, Lord Mooton. I have heard much of Maidenpool, especially that of Jonquil's Pool and its healing properties." She gestured to her belly. "I pray every day for a healthy babe, and perhaps bathing there as many do will ensure that."

While grumbles came from a group of women in Septa habits, the Septon among them with his coronet only nodded. "I am Septon Alfyn of the sanctuary, and it is open to any of the Seven's faithful to enter."

"Is her Grace one of the Faithful?" asked another man, wearing the uniform of the Poor Fellows but noticeably more ornate. "I know for a fact that Queen Visenya isn't, and that her aunt worships the old gods."

Maegor growled. "You are impertinent, Commander Silas." Rhaena looked at him. So that's who he is.

"I am only protecting the spirituality of the holy site, Prince Maegor."

"Rest assured, Commander," Rhaena replied. "You need not worry from me. I have memorized the Seven-Pointed Star by heart." She truly did, showing from an early age her intelligence. Silas remained quiet, as did Alfyn, though the Septas weren't mollified.

Greeting the many Lords of the Riverlands and Vale that had gathered, one in particular seemed desirous of speaking to them. "Ah, Princess Rhaena, Prince Maegor," stated Robar Royce, his hair graying and skin beginning to wrinkle with age but still lean and strong. A warrior's body, but coupled with a rather impressive scowl that made him look a decade older. Behind was Alayne, whom had already greeted and embraced her father. "Full respect and good tidings to your father."

Rhaena nodded. "Such sentiments are undoubtedly appreciated by him, as they are for us as well." The father of one of her closest friends deserved her respect - even if he seemed cross with her. "It heartens me to reunite you with Alayne. She has missed you."

The scowl only deepened, if that was possible. "Indeed I'd hope she did, considering what you'd put her through."

"Excuse me, Lord Royce?"

Turned out that Lord Robar, for all the knightly prowess that House Royce often boasted of - Alayne being one to speak of it - was true to his house's history of being kings of the First Men within the Vale. Bold, yet oddly brooding in nature. "Aye, tarnishing her good name in that little stunt of yours. Betrothals had been broken for it, ones I was negotiating!" His eyes shifted to Maegor, the first person they had met that day that actually had the audacity to challenge them on what was the elephant in the chambers. "As if being her uncle wasn't depraved enough for you? Two wives? I am glad my daughter is now with me and not mired in this sickness."

Septon Alfyn gulped, while Lord Mooton looked as if he would keel over on the spot. Rhaena stared at Lord Royce, but it was Maegor that answered him, stepping forward. "I would kindly ask you to heed your words, Lord Royce." For him, his words were quite even-tempered and restrained. Everyone who knew him was shocked. "She is my wife and your Princess. The word treason comes to mind."

Royce huffed. "The word cunt comes to mind as well, given her actions."

Fists clenching, undoubtedly blades would've been drawn had not Rhaena loudly cleared your throat. "If I am a cunt, Lord Robar, then I would also state that you are as well one - anyone that would insult the person that has enabled the reunion of him and his daughter is most definitely a cunt."

While most eyes were on Maegor out of fear for what he would do… or shocked at Rhaena's words being almost a return of Visenya's, Robar broke it all by chuckling. "One cunt to another, I like that." Rhaena's brow rose. Had he been testing her mettle? Looking back at Maegor, his eyes said it all - a First Man trait. "Apologies, Princess," he replied, tension dissipating. "But I still do not appreciate your including my dear Alayne in your wedding, controversial that it was."

She could afford to be gracious at this point. "We can discuss it at a later time, Lord Robar."

"Aye, I would much appreciate it." Bowing to her, and nodding gruffly at the still glaring Maegor, he stepped back.

Clearing his throat, Lord Mooton gestured forward. "Let us see you to your quarters, and prepare for the feast tonight. Maidenpool is at your disposal, Princess, and in full loyalty to his Grace."

"That would be most welcome, my Lord." Rhaena rubbed her swelling stomach. "A long ride upon horseback is not welcome to the growing Prince." Those more loyal to their house chuckled merrily, while the others were muted… or simply stared with unwelcome eyes. The latter more concentrated among the Faith and more faithful lords. Taking Maegor's hand, Rhaena leaned against his shoulder - a gesture of love but also helping her speak to him and only him. "Why was he testing my mettle?"

Maegor shrugged. "Could be angling for a royal betrothal perhaps, given he's a recent grandfather to a girl, or thinks you the heir and wants to see if you're a viable ally for him."

Rhaena nodded. "Or the Vale is not as united as would seem."

"Sharra Arryn is aging. She's been a voice of moderation recently much like Vivienne Gardener."

"Odd, since she's the High Septon's half-sister." Rhaena gazed at where Silas and Septon Alfyn were talking, the former's eyes not warm when they found her. "We have much to repair. Perhaps it would've been better had my brother and Alys made this journey."

"We can handle the Riverlands. Best for them to head to the Reach and Westerlands."

"True." Where Lord Darklyn waited, she saw a young woman around her age waiting. She was slender and wearing a fine dress, but nevertheless had the eyes of a warrior. Rhaena raised her brow, but in an instant the girl turned away. And who might you be?

Shoved to the side, Alaric grunted. "No fair! You're cheating." His seventh time knocked to the ground while sparring with his new teacher.

"Fightin's not fair, wee pup." Grinning with axe in hand, Gelina's gaze shifted to one particular onlooker. "Oi', silver. Git over here and let me teach 'ya the same lessons as yer brothers." Her call was paired with a similar gesture of the hand.

Startled by the attention, Saera shook her head. "No, tis' alright."

"Come on, don't be a southern priss."

Saera took offense to that. "I am a Stark of Valyrian blood," she haughtily insisted. "Rider of Tessarion and a daughter of Winterfell. I am not a priss."

Gelina laughed. "Fancy words, lass."

As his sister fumed, Egg shook his head. "Lady Gelina, leave my sister be, she's fine…" He was cut off as the wildling woman put him in a headlock. "Fuck… let me go!" Aegon tried to fight her off and escape, but her grip was too strong.

"Don't," she said in a firm voice, "Call me 'Lady Gelina.'" Alaric nervously shifted his feet while Saera looked in worry… Raya, for her part, seemed intrigued at the scene.

Just as the headlock went from an amusing play upon their future Lord to something more akin to a threat to their future Lord, those of Winterfell were drawn to a much firmer voice than Gelina's. "Unhand my son." Princess Rhaenys, dressed as a northerner but with the silver hair and purple eyes of a pure Valyrian dragonrider.

Pure, no mix of ice and fire as her daughter and sons.

Narrowing her eyes at the Lady of Winterfell, Alaric expected Gelina to at least defend her actions in some manner… but surprisingly the wildling warrior simply let Egg go. Ruffling his hair and sending him away with a shove of the shoulder. "My apologies, Princess," she spoke, further shocking Alaric. "Forgive me though, if I wish that babe in yer' belly'll be a tough northern lass. Even a southern northern will do." Alright, that sounded more like their hostage/guest.

Rhaenys, for her part, chuckled. "I shall endeavor to make that happen." She rubbed her belly, which was starting to grow. Alaric, for his part, couldn't wait to meet his little sibling… nor his cousin, Maegor's child with Rhaena. Gods, I'm still stunned at that. "Gelina, you are requested to Lord Stark's solar."

Gelina blinked. "Huh?"

"In what way were my words complex. Come, now."

Shrugging, Gelina tossed the axe to the master-at-arms and headed towards the keep, watched over by the household guards.

Alaric found his older brother by his side. "Strange."

He looked up at Egg. "What does that mean?"

"Fuck if I know, nor when Gelina of all people ended up in muna's confidence." He spat on the ground. "I see the looks she gives muna, disgusting."

"What looks?"

Egg looked down at him and snickered, mussing his hair. "All in good time, pup. You'll learn that all in good time." He walked away before Alaric could glare at him - at least when the new babe arrived, he'd stop being the runt of the pack.

While he could leap on his brother and start a wrestling contest, Alaric's gaze shifted back to the keep. What could they be talking about? Curiosity peaked in him and before anyone noticed, he had already crossed the courtyard and aimed for his chambers.

Installed after the first Bolton sack of Winterfell, the secret passageways were a well-kept secret of House Stark. Alaric, however, came upon the hidden corridor by accident one day - it made for the perfect manner to sneak a glimpse of his father and muna in whatever they would discuss. Dust coated everywhere but he braved it, reaching a little spot to which he could hear and just glimpse those inside the Lord's solar.

"...the banners for a possible conflict with the Faith." It was his father. "How soon could they be mustered?"

"The road from Castle Black to White Harbor on one end and through Moat Cailin on the other is complete, but those branching to the other keeps are still only half-built at best." Was that… Lord Theomare Manderly. Alaric remembered his voice, and that his wife was one of his cousin Rhaena's best friends. "Would take many moons to assemble them, let alone gather together."

"The harvest has been gathered," spoke Maester Lothar, one of Northern blood. "There would be no disruption if you'd seek to mobilize them at the keeps if well coordinated by the individual houses."

A snort. "Be stupid." That was Gelina - a peek found her at the edges of the gathered few within the solar… next to Alaric's muna. Somewhat purposeful if Aegon was to be believed. "We knew when war comes cause all the clans mass up. Wanna make 'em think yer ready to fight, then mass up."

"Chieftess Gelina makes a good point," Rhaenys mused. "We are not the aggressors here nor wish to provoke a war."

"While we do not wish to look weak," countered Lord Theomare.

Brandon sighed. "There has been no order for mobilization, nor will I make a full call of the banners until one is requested."

The final voice was that of his grandmother, Jocelyn Reed. "House Stark should call its banners and post them at Moat Cailin. A show of force, but not overwhelmingly so, while that of House Manderly is called fully at White Harbor. The remainder can gather somewhat at their keeps for if war comes, as Maester Lothar states."

Seeing his parents and their bannermen begin to coalesce into an agreement, Alaric slowly backed away from his alcove… only to nearly yelp as he ran into something warm and fleshy. "Ow," squeaked a girlish voice. He turned to see Raya, staring expectantly at him. "Al…"

"Shhh," he hissed, finger over his lips. Motioning for her to follow him, they crawled towards the secret entrance starting in his chambers, shutting it behind them with none the wiser. "What were you doing, following me?"

She shrugged. "I wanted to know where you were going… was curious."

"Well… don't do that."

"I'm sorry." Pouting, Alaric melted, his scowl fading. "There's not gonna be a war, is there?"

Sensing her fear, Alaric guided the two of them to his bed, where they sat. Immediately, Frost lept on the bed, his growing form wedging between them and then behind them, a massive yawn and stretch of the tongue heralding his unceremonious sleep. Alaric shook his head. "Dumb animal… you're lucky I love you." The direwolf only snorted in reply. Noticing Raya's mood somewhat improved from that, he took her hand in his. "What's the matter?"

Raya sighed. "Father is a warrior." He knew she referred to Rogar Bolton. "He'll be fighting with your father… if there's war. He could die, as could your family." She seemed innocent and sweet, but was cleverer than she appeared to be. Alaric could tell, though Raya didn't open up to many.

Not even for Aegon. "They fought the wildlings, captured Gelina, and you know how tough she is."

A snort. "Aye, she is." But she shook her head. "Those of the south, they are tougher. More powerful. I've heard the guards talk - if they can challenge dragons then they are not ones to underestimate."

Alaric hugged her. "You'll be safe here, I promise."

"It is not myself… I worry for everyone who fights… if it lasts long…" A soft sob passed Raya's lips. "You especially." Smiling sadly, suddenly Raya leaned forward and pressed a short kiss to his lips before running off. Leaving him alone in his chambers.

Pressing his finger against his mouth in shock, for the longest time he stared upon the doorway in which she had passed through. She kissed me? For a moment, Alaric felt a smile curve on his lips… only for a frown to replace it. "Egg's betrothed." Few talked about it formally, but such was the barely hidden secret of Winterfell, the union of House Stark and House Bolton - cementing the bonds in the North with the son of the Pact of Ice and Fire.

A Bolton being the Lady of Winterfell, not the wife of a second son without power. Without even a dragon.

Nothing could come from this.

Eyes closed and scowl deep, only Frost could tell that his master was so close to crying.

"And here we are, Princess," spoke Septa Maris, hands clasped over her dress as she gestured with her eyes to the large doors to the outside compound. Two poor fellows in their leather armor guarded the gate with halberds, and they both bowed with stone faces as Rhaena approached. "Jonquil's Pool."

Crossing her arms, Rhaena regarded it with an eager curiosity. "Quite beautiful, the way the vines cover the walls." Flowers sprouted all over them, adding some color to the drab browns and greens.

Trailing behind, Lady Jorelle Mormont snorted. "So any lout can climb the walls and watch the girls bathe?"

Septa Maris seemed aghast. "Heavens no, there are no men allowed in the pool."

"Doesn't mean they won't."

Another of the septas huffed. "This isn't the North with all of you tree-worshipping barbarians. Any man caught peeking will suffer the wrath of the gods' justice…"

Jorelle had half a head on the woman, and stood all of it above her. "Speak one more word, I dare you." The septa stammered, fear on her face.

Shaking her head with half-annoyance, half-amusement, Rhaena clicked her tongue. "Enough. Jorelle." A smile to the two Septas. "Forgive her. Those of Bear Island have to endure wildling and Ironborn raids, so they can be a bit aggressive." As Jorelle grinned at that, the other Septa pursed her lips and fled.

Septa Maris took it in somewhat stride. "Thank you, your Grace, and apologies for her as well. We at Jonquil's Pool do try and welcome all to the healing waters. And to answer Lady Jorelle's question, yes, Florian the Fool made this place famous by peeking on his lady love but rest assured we are safe. Any man seeking to disturb the sanctity of the feminine space will find himself flogged and beheaded… or simply crippled depending on the severity of the offense."

"Brutal, I like it."

"Sounds like what you say of the North," murmured Alayne Royce, quite happy since reuniting with her father the day before. "A rough and tumble place I am glad to not have been raised in, no offense."

"A southern lady couldn't hack it up there anyway." Jorelle patted the bear pommel of Longclaw, securely strapped to her waist. "Least you won't need a guard with me present, Rhaena." Of all her companions, Jorelle was the only one armed. "Should've brought Dark Sister though."

Rhaena chuckled. "I am the future Queen, and here to bathe in the pool." She rubbed her stomach. "My child and I seek healing and good health, not war and conflict. Hopefully the Seven who are One will see that."

"You honor us, Princess," spoke Septa Maris. "Shall we then?"

A nod. "We shall."

The walls of the compound surrounded a large, wooded glade that was clearly tended and trimmed unlike the First Men godswoods. Stones marked off the waters of the pool, while a causeway connected the path from the entrance through to the open-air bathhouse. Normally there were many pilgrims present alongside those holy women that tended to the site, but all had been cleared for the Princess to bathe. A courtesy extended to all women of royal houses that visited.

Rhaena approached the central pool, a large rectangle with steps leading inside. It looked to be about chest deep. "I should hope drownings are not a frequent occurrence," she asked Septa Maris, loosening the ties of her braids. Letting her silver hair fall unbound about her shoulders, it sparkling in the sunlight and showing off just how otherworldly the Targaryen beauty was.

Swallowing, Maris shook her head. "Um… no, thank the mother above. We haven't had any of those in my eleven years here."

"The caretakers run a tight ship, then?" Alayne asked.

"Of course, they are very devoted."

With one of her maids working at the ties behind her, Rhaena's hands moved to deftly lower the straps of her dress. At first the fabric held up, but with each tie loosened the fine wool began to sag more and more until it fell in a heap of cloth around her feet. To which she stepped out of it. The rays of the sun hit her porcelain skin and it felt wonderful.

"Do you wish for me to remove your smallclothes, your Grace?" the maid asked.

Rhaena nodded. "Go ahead, I am not embarrassed." She personally lowered her smallclothes, while the maid removed her bindings to release her swollen breasts. The Princess so relieved that the linen was no longer chafing against the sensitive nipples. The babe was taking its toll on her, not to mention her husband's… attention upon that part of her body.

"The Prince isn't here, nor is Tyanna," Alayne called out, grinning while Jorelle stifled a laugh. "No need to give a show."

"Shut it," Rhaena replied with an obscene gesture, only making them laugh harder. She ghosted a hand over her growing swell. "Ignore them, sweetling," she murmured. "They're just being fools." Fully nude, she gingerly placed one foot onto the first step of the pool, then another. Sighing happily as the cool water soothed the swelling of her soles. "Ahhhh…"

"Great healing powers, my Princess," replied one of the Septas, her head bowed. "The future Prince will have an uneventful birth after a round of bathing here."

"I should hope so," Rhaena replied, gasping slightly as the cool water began to chill her waist and breasts. Plunging in quickly and growing used to it, Rhaena submerged her whole body. Rising to let her silver hair tumble back and mat against her neck. "Wonderful, simply wonderful… if only Maegor were here."

Alayne shook her head. "No men in Jonquil's Pool, remember." She was enjoying reminding her friend.

Rhaena sighed again. "I know, I know." No restrictions for Tyanna, though. The Fourteen Flames would die before she regretted her marriage, but sometimes the Princess missed her friend and lover in that respect. They… truly were compatible in a way different from her and Maegor, and such hadn't been unwelcome.

Shaking her head at the pensive expression on the woman to which she had sworn her sword, Jorelle shared a look with Alayne before she headed towards the entrance to the pool's grounds. "That girl is lucky she's a Targaryen." Nothing but forbidden love for her, but what truly was forbidden when one could ride a fire-breathing dragon that could turn an army of men into ash? With Dreamfyre as my mount, I'd have married Tyanna as well as Maegor and tell the Septons to eat my asshole. The thought was incomprehensible, but the daughter of House Mormont chuckled to herself regardless.

A half-dozen figures slipped through the door ahead of her, catching her attention. "May I help you?" she called out, not very worried since they all wore the habits of Septas.

The lead one, an old crone with only the wrinkled skin of her face not covered by her habit, scowled sourly at Jorelle. "We are the holy order that tends the pool."

"Alright." Nothing untoward. "Her Grace is bathing at the moment, so perhaps…" Too late did Jorelle notice the flashing blade drawn by another from beneath her habit, face far younger but no less sour than the elder. Her hand went for Longclaw sheathed at her side, but the blade plunged deep in her side. Jorelle cried out in pain before one of the other Septas slammed something against her head, everything fading to black.

"No."

"Father, please."

"By the grace of all the Seven Gods, what has become of you," bellowed Lord Darklyn, himself crossing his arms and regarding the slender girl in front of him more trouble than it was worth bedding her mother. That tavern wench hadn't even been that good a lay. "I take you in, I give you a home and food and a better education than any girl deserves, and this is how you repay me?"

Jonquil Darke never begged for anything. Not since she was a mere girl begging for a pair of fine leather boots she had seen the fierce daughter of a Dornish merchant wear. Then, just as now, her begging was on deaf ears. "Father, this will not embarrass you. Princess Rhaena is a warrior, as is the Queen Dowager. They are surrounded by warrior women…"

A slap echoed in the chamber, her Lord father seething. "Firstly, I will not have my family associating with Northern barbarians and pillow princesses." The implication made Jonquil blush madly at the implication, but her father wasn't finished. "And even if I would wish my name to be sullied with a woman acting as a man would, by the Seven I would never allow a bastard to be that one. Get out of my sight before I kill you!" Knowing it was over, Jonquil fled.

Hours later, his words were still on her mind as she wandered the grounds of the great castle of Maidenpool, overlooking the cliffs to the mouth of the Trident below and the harbor city nestled along the strip of flat lowlands between the shore and the hills. It was a beautiful sight, much as Duskendale. Such beauty was all the fondness she felt for her home.

The rest was simply pain. Nothing but a demanding, dismissive father. One that wished she had never been born… Jonquil pulled the cowl deeper over her face, hoping to bury herself so that no one would see her tears. The scarlet cloak with a green serpent emblazoned on it had been her one item of comfort while fostered at Runestone, purchased with hoarded coin when she dreamed of competing in a melee with the longsword made for her in the castle forge.

As if that would ever happen. But a girl could dream. Some dreamed of marriages and handsome knights. Jonquil Darke dreamed of vanquishing said handsome knights.

And with her father opposed fully, only a royal could save her from this. From the eventual toss off the battlements of Duskendale and ultimate explanation of a "drunken accident."

Said royal, shockingly, was just ahead. She was a distance away, but Jonquil could tell the flash of silver hair anywhere. Only Targaryens or Velaryons - well, Starks now but they were all in the North - had that shade of hair color and already her excitement was back.

Her father never could quash it.

The Princess was radiant even from the far-off distances Jonquil had seen her from, but as she entered the domain of Jonquil's Pool she couldn't believe her luck. "Only women," she whispered to herself. "Perfect, just her and her infamous favorites." The women that scandalized Westeros - at least circles like her father's - would understand…

As she approached the entry, the guards blocked the door. "You may not enter," said one Poor Fellow, his accent rather educated for one of the stars and not the swords.

Jonquil stopped, blinking. "The grounds are free of access." Her sword was hidden under the cloak, not that she would use it to harm the Princess. Perhaps only for a demonstration of her skill…

"No one enters. The Princess is in there."

"I will just be a moment, I wish to speak to her Grace…"

"We wouldn't allow Lady Mooton, let alone some gutter rat. Fuck off."

Glaring at them, Jonquil decided that she wasn't going to draw more attention to herself than was necessary. Their attitude… the Poor Fellows were usually easily bribable in coin or… other things, but these - while eye fucking her hard - weren't interested.

Truth be told, it was bizarre, and as she walked away the more bizarre it got. Especially when a gaggle of a half-dozen septas in their habits practically marched towards the entrance. The septas she'd known were usually kind souls, but these looked sour. Expressions more akin to vile hedge knights than women of the Seven.

"Odd."

But her mind was on Princess Rhaena. Determined to show herself worthy of at least being a guard in the Dragonpalace. Eyes trained to the vines, Jonquil smirked. Why not? She was a woman, not some lascivious lad lusting for nude women bathing. What would they do to her?

Gripping the vines, she hauled herself up. Not hard given how slender she was - innately slim, on top of the constant training that toned her curves and muscles. But just as she was about to peek over the wall, a scream made her tense…

No, many screams, ones that instinctively had her haul up and leap over the top of the wall. Landing on her feet, Jonquil's eyes widened at the sight.

Princess Rhaena was indeed in the pool, shed of clothes and any armor or arms that would've protected her. Lady Jorelle Mormont was nowhere to be seen, so the ten or so unarmed women maids and ladies that accompanied the Princess were all that were defending her against the same half-dozen septas. Except these septas were all armed with daggers and threw themselves at the women. Crimson blood splattered over the sacred ground.

"Protect her Grace!" screamed… gods, was that Alayne Royce?!

"Kill them!" snarled a Septa.

"Please Wylla, what are you doing?!" pleaded a septa being attacked.

The dagger plunged into her belly, to which the Princess cried out. "Maris!"

"Abomination!" screeched Wylla, rushing towards the Princess with her bloodied dagger.

Too bad for her that Jonquil was quicker than the bony, aging septa. And her instincts kicking in quite instantaneously. Sword out, the septa lost her head with a powerful swing, cowl falling off to reveal the screaming bastard of Duskendale. Jaw open and eyes dark with fury.

Her sword added to the mix, the attackers didn't stand a chance. Older women for the most part and all of them focused on prayer rather than combat arts, faced with the powerful blows of Jonquil quickly led to all but two into death alongside their compatriot. Of the survivors, one was knocked out from a blow across the temple by Jonquil's sword while the other was knocked down onto the stone floor.

"Hold her down!" Jonquil ordered one of the maids. A meek woman who shook like mad, she was nevertheless larger than the ancient wraith that had been part of the attackers. Firmly pinned, the bastard took off her cloak and handed it to the naked, dripping Princess. "Your Grace…"

Shivering and only partly from the water, Rhaena nodded. Letting it be draped over her. "Thank you… Lady…"

Jonquil smiled at her. "Darke, Jonquil Darke, bastard of Duskendale." She looked away. "Forgive me for my impertinence in approaching you…"

But Rhaena shook her head. "No, I owe my life to you, Jonquil Darke." Small smile on her face, the Princess' expression turned to horror as she gazed at the fallen. "Septa Maris… oh gods, Alayne."

"Don't look Princess." Jonquil hugged her comfortingly, the fact she had embraced a Targaryen Princess near causing her to faint.

Before any could speak after, royal guards poured into the compound. Defying the religious laws to force themselves in. Eyes on the blood and corpses, they saw someone unfamiliar next to Rhaena and made their own conclusions. "You!" bellowed Dick Bean. "Back away from her Grace!" His sword was out and pointed at Jonquil's heart.

"No!" Rhaena stilled them all. "She saved me… the septas attacked."

"The septas? Truly, Princess?" Bean asked, looking to the only one of them both alive and conscious.

The crone sealed her fate. "I should've cut that abomination out of the dragonwhore's womb!" she snarled.

"You'll die for such words, traitor!"

"Just take me… take me to my husband, Ser Dick," Rhaena begged, guided out of Jonquil's arms as the bastard was watched over by wary guards. "And she's to come with me."

"Your Grace…"

Her glare cut him off. "You will not disobey me." Gesturing to Jonquil, she followed - a feeling in her heart that her life had just changed in a manner once impossible.

"Rhaena!" Already, it was as if a crushing vice had been removed from her heart when Maegor enveloped her in his arms. Rhaena melted into his embrace, one arm tight around her back while the other large palm splayed on her belly protectively. "Are you… is the babe…?" His voice, normally powerful and authoritative, was halting from pure fear.

She nodded, burying her cheek deeper against his chest. "We're both fine, my love." Rhaena felt his tension dissipate somewhat. "They knocked out Jorelle, but a woman named Jonquil Darke arrived with her sword."

"Jonquil Darke?"

"The bastard daughter of Lord Darklyn."

He snorted. "You draw the most interesting of persons to protect you." A wry jape, but it made her smile. "Is Lady Jorelle alright?" Maegor asked.

Rhaena sighed. "She's unconscious and with a wound, but the maester says she'll recover. Alayne though…" Now it was her turn to tremble as the combined shock of what transpired and relief at being back in Maegor's arms fell away to the true cost of the attack. "They killed Alayne… Septa Maris as well. Slit their throats…" Tears fell, unbidden. "They were coming for my babe, Maegor. Our babe. Why? By the gods, why?"

A slow rage bubbled deep within him. "I will find out… and there will be justice." The same anger that had so rocked Casterly Rock years before. In which he had proven himself worthy of her love and demonstrated just how a dragon should act. "Stay here, I will take care of this."

But Rhaena wasn't a Princess of House Targaryen for nothing. "No, you will not leave me cloistered in these chambers."

"Rhaena… the babe…"

She placed her hands on his chest. "Alayne and Septa Maris were my friends - I must see justice brought to them." Softening, Rhaena took his own and pulled them to cup her stomach. "I hope you can feel our son in here, calm and ever healthy thanks to the waters of the holy pool. He will be born a strong Prince, the future King of Westeros."

He pursed his lips. "Forgive me if I'm a bit paranoid about my children."

Rhaena understood. "I know, my love, I know." They kissed. "With you by my side, there will be no worries." Squeezing his hand, she let Maegor lead her out.

The Great Hall of Maidenpool keep was deserted apart from the two dozen knights and household guards sworn to House Mooton. Lord Mooton sat at the head upon the old throne of the local petty Kings of the region in ancient times. Once a child when his uncle advanced upon King Aegon in the first moons of the Conquest and ended as a burnt corpse. The Late Jon Mooton had been a loyal bannerman after his brother died, but this one… he had only been ruling for five years and was thus quite insignificant in the greater scheme of things.

At his feet were the tied up figures of the two surviving septas and both Poor Fellow guards. Several lords of the Riverlands, Crownlands, and Vale were present as well, not to mention Commander Silas of the Poor Fellows, Septon Alfyn, and an imposing figure with a drooping blonde mustache and greatsword strapped at his side.

But it was Lord Robar Royce whose words boomed over all others. "What is this of a trial?! They are guilty!"

"Calm down, Robar," spoke Lord Mooton, himself a close friend of the Lord of Runestone.

But all he found was an accusatory finger… had it been a spear Robar would've skewered the balding cunt sitting in the ancient throne - however friendly they had been. "Do not speak to me of calm, not when it isn't your daughter whose throat was slit by these… perversions of the gods."

"Apostate!" screamed the younger of the septas, herself quite pretty but with the most vile of hate marring those features. "Tool of the dragonspawn!"

"You killed my daughter! I will have your head!" Lord Royce grabbed one of the swords of his own knights and tossed it at Lord Mooton's feet. "There cannot be a trial! They have confessed!"

"That is true." Eyes turned to Rhaena as she stepped forward, taking a steeled breath to calm her while Maegor stood behind her, looking menacing. Enough to make most cower, even Silas. The one with the mustache didn't though, meeting her gaze with a steely one of his own. Rhaena ignored him. "They have confessed, as I see, to murder, attempted murder of a Princess, and high treason. Haven't you?" she asked the two septas.

The elder looked tired, while the other blazed with defiance. "By the grace of the Stranger, I pray your demon babe dies before the world can be infected with its incestuous blood…" She was cut off when Jonquil Darke, one of the guards alongside Dick Bean and Kingsguard Ser Jon Hogg, slammed her fist into her stomach.

"Speak to the Princess again and I will have your tongue." Rhaena shared a fierce gaze with her protector, who seemed in her element.

Clearing his throat, Maegor's voice was rather even for all the rage coursing through him. "Seems to me that the only reason not to dispense justice is that of interrogation. To find if this is some sort of seditious conspiracy against the Crown by striking at my wife, the Crown Princess."

Septon Alfyn chortled. "Your Grace, she is not the Crown Princess by any decree…"

Maegor fisted his vestiments, making the man sputter in fear. "And are you the one that makes that decision."

He gulped. "No…"

"Then shut it."

"Enough, husband," Rhaena said, to which Maegor let the Septon go. "Have they been interrogated?"

Lord Mooton nodded. "I saw to it myself."

"And?" She looked at Jonquil and Ser Dick. The latter shook his head. "Well?"

"We questioned them, not interrogated them. They said they acted alone."

"Aye," spoke the old septa for the first time. "It was planned by us and executed by us. How else would any woman sworn to the Holy Mother act when an abomination would pollute our sacred pool?"

Jonquil moved to hit her again, but Maegor stilled her with a raised hand. "Not good enough. Have them put to the rack."

Silent until now, the mustached Warrior's Son - rainbow cloak immaculate - stepped forward. "I am afraid, your Grace, that I cannot permit that to happen."

Maegor eyed him with contempt. "And who are you?"

The man's eyes gave nothing away. Unlike the mercurial Damon Morrigen, this man was a true knight and therefore, far more dangerous if less unpredictable. "Ser Joffrey Doggett, Captain of the Warrior's Sons at Lannisport. We have met before, at Casterly Rock."

"Truly?" Maegor shrugged his shoulders and looked to his wife. "Must've not made an impression." The Targaryen partisans there all chuckled at the veiled insult.

If Ser Joffrey was insulted by this, he did not show it. "While I am appalled by any sort of attack upon the personage of her Grace, you cannot dispense justice in the Crown's name, nor may Lord Mooton exercise pit and gallows for these prisoners. They are in the jurisdiction of the Faith, and must be tried in an ecclesiastical court in Oldtown."

"He is right, your Grace," remarked Alfyn, not looking at Maegor while instead focusing on Rhaena. "You have my word on the faith of the Crone that justice and the truth will be ascertained."

Both Rhaena and Maegor knew that the Faith would wash this under the rug… that even if the perpetrators were killed, it would be a cover up. There is no chance at them acting alone. Rhaena stared at Doggett. Unlike her husband, she remembered him at Casterly Rock. Recalled a moment where he had been conversing with Tyrion Lannister. Perhaps it was he that engineered that false trial of Ser Lyonel Lorch? A very dangerous man, Ser Joffrey Doggett. Undoubtedly not to go forgotten again.

But it was not she that spoke next, but rather Robar. "I demand blood!" Lord Royce shook with fury. "A daughter for a daughter, as there is no question of guilt!"

"You will have it, my Lord," insisted Rhaena. "No objections will be had, are we clear Ser Joffrey?"

But Ser Joffrey, Commander Silas behind him resolute and keeping old Alfyn and Lord Mooton quite intimidated, refused to break. "Those of the Faith, that have taken up the vestments of the Mother, are not in your purview to try. Your Grace, the right of pit and gallows belongs not to House Targaryen nor House Mooton but to the Starry Sept themselves. We will try these four and…"

It happened quickly. All eyes focused on the fury of Rhaena and the defiance of Ser Joffrey that Lord Robar's dagger wasn't noticed till it had plunged right between the ribs of the tied Septa. The young woman gasped, almost in shock until her eyes dilated. Life leeching out of her as blood spurted through the wound in her chest. Body finally slumping against the binds that kept her wrists tied to the post.

None spoke except Robar, drawing back his blade and wiping it on the holy vestments of the dead septa. "A daughter for a daughter. The blood debt of the gods has been repaid."

Silence reigned until Alfyn spoke. "You commit blasphemy as well as murder."

Robar snorted. "No court could find me guilty of murder, as a Lord of my stature would require trial by the King himself." Perhaps Lord Tully would have first jurisdiction, but the victim being a would be assassin of the Princess would undoubtedly lead the King to demand the trial be held with him as judge and juror. Pure acquittal. "And as for blasphemy…"

"You killed a servant of the Holy Mother without trial under the name of her and the Seven as a whole," Silas commented, himself rather well-spoken in spite of his humble origins. "You face excommunication."

A laugh this time, followed when Robar spit at Silas' feet. "Such is what I think of the new gods. May they all burn." Some more pious of Lord Mooton's court gasped, while Silas and Alfyn stared shocked. Ser Joffrey, for his part, was silent again. Not done, Robar grabbed a pendant of a seven pointed star and threw it to the floor at Alfyn's feet this time. "My ancestors would roll in their graves to find me worshiping in a sept. Yet the Seven couldn't give me justice for my daughter, yet the old ways did. Time for me to return to them." Turning heel, he stormed out of the hall followed by his sworn swords.

While Lord Mooton seemed to want to crawl between the floorboards and hunker there till it was all over, Doggett shook his head. "He has made an enemy of the Faith for his vile actions." He shook his head. "Execute them all, the prisoners. For the murder of Septa Maris of King's Landing and attempted murder within a consecrated holy site."

Rhaena tightened her fists. "They will be sent to King's Landing for interrogation, under my order."

"You have no authority," Doggett replied with a deathly calm. Much as Lord Royce did, he drew his own dagger and slit the throat of first the old Septa, and then the two Poor Fellows. "Justice has been done."

Maegor drew Blackfyre. "You commit treason."

Doggett drew his own sword. "Strike me down and the Faith will rise, so heed your blade."

"This is my keep!" yelled Lord Mooton, finding his voice. "There shan't be violence here!"

Too late for that. Rhaena had a desire to see Ser Joffrey's head on a pike, but now wasn't the time. "Come, husband," she urged, hand encircling his bicep. "Let us go home. Our business has concluded here." It was she that shot the last glare at Ser Joffrey, and once again the man refused to avert his gaze.

A/N: Yep, so Jonquil Darke this times saved the pregnant Targaryen in Maidenpool. Hopefully little Daemon is safe.

Till next time!

Enjoy and please comment!