Davos

He didn't have a maester's mastery over the human body, nor the Red Viper's expertise regarding poison, but Davos had always been told he made people calmer just by being nearby. As such, he sat at the side of Lord Brandon's bed, night after night, waiting to see whether he'd take a turn for the worse or wake up once and for all.

It had been three days since Baelish had been gutted and Brandon poisoned, three days of tension and fear and uncertainty as the eldest Stark inched closer to death. He'd remained unconscious the entire time, shaking and sweating as any dregs of the poison made their journey through his body with the odd whisper making its way from his lips.

'Any change, Ser Davos?'

Davos turned his head at the sound of the voice, the colossal frame of Robert Baratheon filling the doorway. Despite years of Stannis' tirades about the idiocy and carelessness of his older brother, none of that was particularly evident in the man before him—true, no-one would ever call him a genius, but he was far from the blustering lost cause he'd had drilled into his head by Stannis.

'Not yet, your grace.' Davos may have been many things, but he surely knew where he stood in relation to nobility.

Robert waved a hand away, grimacing slightly. 'Please, call me Robert.' He took a seat next to Davos and cast a worried eye over the prone form of Brandon. 'I always hated all that Your Grace bollocks. The sycophants and lickspittles, all pushing each other out of the way to try and lick my boots. Men like me and Brandon weren't meant for any of this—give us some ale and a fight, and a wench when it's all over and we'd be happy men. I didn't want to be King and he didn't want to be a lord. Look how we both ended up.' He shot Davos a glance. 'Back at Castle Black, when we were talking about how we intended to fight those beasts beyond the wall, you said that Dragonstone had a healthy supply of a material that killed them. What was that called again?'

'Dragonglass?' Where could he be going with this?

'Aye, that's the one. You also said you knew someone who could forge it?'

'That's correct.' Shit. Davos now knew exactly where this was headed.

'You said that I'd have to come along to find this man, whoever he may be. I…I suppose I was wondering why that might be?'

Gods, how was Davos supposed to answer this? True, Robert was less thorny than his younger brother, but then with Stannis there'd never been the risk of having his head caved in when hearing news that he didn't like. Still his hammer wasn't on his person, so he was likely safe enough

'His name is Gendry, your gr—Robert, Gendry Waters. He was a smith in King's Landing, apprenticed to Tobho Mott. A good one, by all accounts.' Davos paused, clutching at his bag of finger bones. 'He…he's your son.'

The room was silent, save for the shaky breaths coming from the mouth of Brandon as Robert stood up, pacing to nowhere in particular. He and the boy may have been more or less identical anyway, but he was now the spitting image, an almost pained expression crossing his face as his brain tried to catch up with the information he'd been given.

'I thought…Ned said…weren't they all the Kingslayer's?'

'May I be blunt, your grace?' Davos asked.

'Please.'

'Your…appetites were—or, are—I suppose, well-known across the kingdom. Aye, your children with Cersei may not have been yours, but there were still a number of your children across the kingdoms.'

Robert muttered under his breath, vaguely sounding as though he was saying just had to make the bloody eight as he continued to pace. 'How many, Ser Davos? How many children do I have?'

'Are you sure you want to know?'

'Aye, I'm bloody well sure! Tell me!'

'You…' Davos began before trailing off. 'Stannis estimated about 16 children before the purge.'

Robert's voice was iron. 'Purge?'

'Your wife was a jealous woman, your grace. When there were whispers of her children's illegitimacy, she knew that any of your bastards might be used against them. So…she had them killed.'

Robert's eyes widened. 'Gods, that evil bitch! I'll kill her!' A thought clicked in his head. 'Is Mya alright? Edric?'

'Aye, I think they're alive.'

'Thank the gods,' Robert sighed. 'We need to go and get them immediately!'

'Patience, your grace.' Davos had long since given up trying to avoid using titles. 'There's a force of men going South, to free Riverrun and kill the Freys. If we travel with them, we'll have an easier time of it.'

'And when do they leave?'

'I'm not sure. At some point within the month, I think.'

'That's not soon enough, Ser Davos! Every moment we wait is a moment in which he could die! Can you be ready to leave by dawn?'

'Robert, there is not such a rush that we need be hasty. You don't even know where Gendry is!'

The old king stopped to think for a moment. 'You said he was apprenticed to Tobho Mott, that he was a decent smith, aye?'

Davos nodded. 'Aye.'

'And from the sounds of things, you've met him, meaning that Stannis likely met him. Since he's not with you now, that means that he'd either be dead—which he's clearly not—or he's struck out on his own, most likely in the one place he's ever called home. He's in King's Landing, I'd wager, probably somewhere on the Street of Steel. Am I wrong, Ser Davos?'

'You…no, your grace.' Gods, maybe there was more than met the eye to Robert Baratheon.

'I'll leave at dawn, Onion Knight. You can come if you wish, or not—that's your prerogative. Still though, I'm sure that it would be easier were you there. The choice is yours.'

With that, the Demon of the Trident turned around and left the room, which suddenly felt so much larger without him in it. Davos looked down at Brandon.

'What a time you chose to leave us at, my lord.'

The breathing continued, and Davos sat down.

They left at dawn.

Aegon

The ship left at noon, cutting its way through the cold waters of the White Knife with brutal efficiency. There'd be time for comfort later, Aegon told himself, when they'd be on the best ship the Prince of Dorne had to offer. Still, that provided precious little comfort as another gust of wind battered him, causing him to pull his cloak on tighter as he leant on the bow of the ship.

Gods, he couldn't wait to get South.

'Uh, your grace?'

Aegon turned at the voice behind him, smiling as he saw Robb Stark. He liked the young Stark, even though he'd have killed him on the spot had he been alive during the conquest.

'Yes, Robb? Can I help you?'

'I was hoping that now we've left Winterfell, you'd be able to tell me what the actual plan is?'

'Of course.' In hindsight, he probably should've thought of that before, given that Robb would need to know what lay ahead of him. He'd always struggled with that—sure, he could plan to utter perfection, and there had never been a deadlier cyvasse player than he, but it had always been Rhae that reminded him that people weren't, in fact, cyvasse pieces.

Well, Rhae and Orys. By the gods, he missed Orys. He'd smack him round the head and tell him to stop feeling sorry for himself. The boy needs to learn the fucking plan, your grace. Get your head out your arse and tell him.

'Well, Robb,' Aegon said, prompted by Orys' imagined admonishment. 'We'll go to Sunspear first, where Prince Doran has men and ships. Then we're going to sail around Essos to Meereen, where Daenerys Targaryen has taken over with her dragons. Myself, you, Prince Oberyn, and Ser Arthur will lead the delegation in the hopes of winning her over to our side. Hopefully, it should be as simple as that—if not, I'm sure the four of us will be able to improvise sufficiently.' He paused, a knowing smirk beginning to show itself. 'You've never seen a dragon before, have you?'

'No, no I have not,' Robb replied. 'Always thought they were a myth, to be quite honest with you, over-embellished lizards or some such. I take it that I was wrong?'

Aegon laughed. 'That you were. There's no greater feeling than flying on the back of a dragon.' He'd scarcely thought of Balerion since he'd returned, and a wave of guilt washed over him. 'If Daenerys truly has been able to hatch dragons, they'll be an unbelievable boon for the battles to come. Your brother might even be able to fly one, should she permit it.'

'The lucky prick,' Robb said, a good-natured smile appearing. 'He deserves it, you know. There are maybe a dozen people in the seven kingdoms who are truly good, and I'd stake my life on the fact that Jon is one of them.'

'Very sullen though.'

'Aye, without a doubt. As a child, he could brood for days. There was one time when he…'

Aegon spent the better part of the day trading stories with Robb, about their families and homes, about growing up, sharing their deeds and how they'd ended up as they had. Darkness had fallen when Robb told him of the Red Wedding. Of course, he'd already heard much of what had happened, but this was the first he'd heard of it from Robb's mouth. His eyes were hollow and his words pained, as he relived what was undoubtedly the worst day of his life.

'We were unarmed as well, you see. Had we been armed we may have had a chance—after all, on a level field I doubt that any number of Freys could've taken the Greatjon with that massive sword of his.' Robb paused for a moment and looked at Aegon. 'That's what I wanted to ask you, actually.'

'What?'

'The second I didn't have a sword, I was next to useless. And then I saw you on Bear Island, taking out that huge fucker without breaking a sweat. So…I was wondering whether you might teach me? Just while we're on the ship? I promise I'll work hard at it.' This was not a command of the King in the North, but rather a question from a child who'd grown up idolising knights and now saw a chance to become one.

Aegon was suddenly reminded of Aenys, when he'd have some dream in the night and come looking for his mother. Maegor had been every inch Visenya's son, hard and unyielding from the moment he drew breath, but Aenys had always been soft and kind, the last remnant of his beloved Rhaenys. As such, when Robb asked him, Aegon was fairly sure his answer could've only been one thing.

'Of course.' He yawned and looked up at the sky. 'It's getting late. Get some sleep and I'll see you in the morning.'

'Thank you, Aegon. Good night.' Robb turned and walked away, opening the door to his quarters, a low hanging bunk above which currently lay Ser Arthur, the quiet snores fading in and out of earshot as the door opened and closed.

Aegon turned back to the bow, his elbows resting on the wooden planks as he became further lost in thought.

'Can you teach me, father?'

He'd been coming out of a small council meeting, Lord Celtigar and Grand Maester Gawen bickering behind him, when he was suddenly accosted by the skinny frame of his son barrelling into him.

'Apologies, your majesty,' Ser Corlys had said. 'The young prince has been on about it all morning. Wants to be a warrior just like his father, so that he might wield Blackfyre.'

'Is that so, Aenys?' the king asked bemusedly. 'Are you big and strong enough to wield Blackfyre?'

'Yes!' Almost as though to prove he was ready, Aenys stuck his arms out and flexed, the effort doing sadly little to cover up his frailty.

'Gods, so you are!' While he may have been otherwise truthful to a fault, Aegon could never quite bring himself to lie to his son, especially seeing the look of hope on his face. 'I'll tell you a secret though, son.' He crouched and put his mouth to Aenys' ear, as though they were taking part in some great conspiracy. 'Blackfyre,' he whispered, 'is a very special sword, a very special sword indeed. If you want to use it, you must work hard every day and do everything that Ser Corlys tells you.'

'I can do that!'

'Do you promise?' Aegon looked him deep in the eye. 'Remember, if you're to be king one day, you're not allowed to break any promises. So, do you promise you'll work hard?'

'Yes, I promise!' Aenys smiled widely, showing off a new gap in his teeth. 'Then can I use Blackfyre?'

'We'll see. Now, run along. I'm sure your teachers are wondering where you've got to.' With that, he shot Ser Corlys a wink and kept moving, his mind once again occupied by the contents of the letter he was clasping. After all, it wasn't every day he had a new son. Maegor, the letter had called him. The future of the Targaryen Dynasty was looking bright.

Gods, where had he gone wrong? Rhaenys dead half a world away on some fool's errand, Visenya not talking to him and—according to some maesters—actively working against his firstborn, Aenys wholly unprepared to rule, and Maegor by all accounts a tyrant, with Aegon returning all this time over to try and clean up their messes. Gods, if only Orys was here.

Still, there was no use brooding—this was the situation, and only a simpleton would get bogged down by its seemingly hopeless nature. He had work to do, and precious little time to do it.

He went inside and fell asleep, dreaming of better times.

Lyanna

They'd made decent progress down the Kingsroad, thousands of men and women inching their way down the map, each united in the singular aim to give Walder Frey three feet of cold steel up his arse. Or at least, that had been how Lyonel had put it between swigs of ale as he trotted beside Lyanna.

She'd grown used to her travelling companions from before the battle, and with Egg away with Robert and Ned in charge of all the men they were currently travelling with, the Laughing Storm had been a welcome respite from the monotony of the road. Lyanna loved the North, but even she could not truthfully describe it as having an interesting view, even as they reached the Neck.

They moved freely, vast columns of men bearing their true banners—after all, the North was secure, and there was no longer the need for such secrecy as there had been before. The Direwolf, the Giant, the White Sun and the Bear amongst a dozen others, proudly flapping in the wind. She'd been worried about leaving at first-Brandon was still unconscious, Jon was in charge of moving all the Free Folk to the Dreadfort, and Ned's children seemed far too young to be left in charge of such a vast region. But she'd seen the look in Ned's eyes when he'd asked her, and knew where she was needed.

Ned was at their head, to the major surprise of all. Given how he'd talked about the South, Lyanna—alongside everyone of note—had assumed that he'd die without ever setting foot in the South again. After all that had happened to him there—his father, brother, sister, household, and ultimately himself dying, and his family forced into war based on lies, and his wife and heir being brutally murdered—he'd have been well within his rights to remain in Winterfell and prepare for the coming war.

'Believe me, I'd love to,' he'd told her when she'd questioned his presence following their first day on the road. 'But the Tullys are kin, Lya, so I have to help free Riverrun. As for Walder Frey… he killed Cat. The bastard killed my wife, Lyanna.' His eyes began to brim with tears which were promptly wiped away. 'Since I came back, I've been holding it together, for Robb, for Rickon, for Sansa. For Jon. But the idea that that weasel is still sitting around in the same hall where he killed my Cat…it's eating away at me. I have to do this.'

Lyanna had taken his hand and smiled at him. 'I understand, Ned. You know I'll be with you every step of the way, don't you?'

'Aye, I know.'

So there she was, ambling along on her palfrey as Lyonel rambled on about whatever had entered his mind, with her turning in and out intermittently. '… All I'm saying, is that the immediate assumption that nobles are better suited than a commoner to anything that they put their mind to is inherently flawed, and is the reason that half the kingdoms are still living in their own muck.'

Huh. That was more eloquent than she'd come to expect from him. 'If that's all you're saying, Lyonel,' she told him, 'you'd have stopped talking days ago. Still, you make an interesting point.'

He scoffed. 'Of course I do, lady Lyanna. I'm a delight to be around. But look at Ser Duncan the Tall—given resources and the chance to shine, he rose as high as anyone possibly could, and he was a peasant from Flea Bottom. Fact is, the divides put in place by the nobles act solely for their benefit, while slowly trampling the common man.'

Lyanna nodded and was about to reply when shouts came from the head of the column. The two of them dismounted and ran over the commotion, pushing their way through the huddled mass to get a decent look at whatever it was.

It was a body, white and bloated and half-rotted from what must've been at least a week exposed to the elements, hanging from its neck from the branches of a tree. There was a plank hammered into his chest, the words scrawled upon it unclear until he was cut down. Two soldiers went to roll the body over, and Lyanna noticed as they did so that the corpse, whoever he was, was wearing a cloak emblazoned with the Towers of House Frey.

'The North remembers,' Ned murmured as he read the words on the plank. 'Well, it appears we're not alone, Lya. Whether they're a friend or an enemy, however, remains to be seen.'

'It appears they've seen our message, milady,' the man in the yellow cloak said. 'Should we do anything else?'

The lady said nothing, only shaking her head and absentmindedly fondling the scar that adorned her neck. They'd all pay, all of them, for what they did to her beautiful boy, and if these interlopers tried to interfere then they'd meet the same fate.

Gerion

As they sailed through Valyria once more, Gerion could scarcely bring himself to look over the edge for fear of vomiting . As such, he spent the week in which they sailed through the peninsula in the hold, in the company of wine, and wine alone.

Gods, he'd missed wine. Of course, given how he'd been shipwrecked for years without alcohol of any kind, his tolerance was currently at an all-time low—had he been forced to socialise at some ball or wedding, as Tywin had often made him before he'd left the Seven Kingdoms, he'd have been useless, like a teen who'd snuck into their father's supply. But for brooding beneath the deck of a ship, the feeling of numbness that it supplied was more than adequate.

Then the room rocked and he emptied his guts into a nearby bucket. Typical. He reached for the bottle again and raised it to his lips, only pausing when the room rocked again. This was not the ocean waves, he realised, remembering the events that had shipwrecked him in the first place.

We're being boarded.

'Kill them all!' The voice from above and the subsequent clash of steel confirmed his suspicions. Gerion rose, the drunken fog clearing as he grasped the hilt of Brightroar. This was the first fight he'd seen in a decade, and he'd be damned if he didn't rise to the occasion. After all, few could say that they'd trained with Visenya Targaryen.

He'd been on the deck, a day after leaving Volantis, slowly going through the motions with his sword so that he might become more used to wielding it—sure he'd never be Arthur Dayne, but there was no point in having a weapon as magnificent as his if he couldn't use it properly. And then, Visenya had arrived, her sunny disposition briefly pulling him from his daydream.

'Your form is shit.'

'I'm aware.' Gerion didn't spare her a glance, his eyes closing as Brightroar moved through the air once more.

'Then why is it still shit? Have you no pride?' Gods, would she ever let up?

'By all means, my lady. Tell me what I'm doing wrong.' What had been meant as a smug and flippant comment quickly snowballed into her tearing him apart, his body still aching as he went to bed that night. And then he'd awoken the next morning, and the next, and all those after that for the next month, to find her standing on the deck, sword in hand, and a smug smile on her face.

'Ready for more?' she'd always ask.

He always was.

Gerion cut his way to Visenya and Rhaenys, his sword dancing through the air, slicing in and out of all those in his path. They were back to back, stood next to the corpse of the man who'd been their captain, fighting in perfect synchronicity as their cleared a wide berth around them.

'Ah, Gerion! You've joined us at last!' Visenya shouted, her usually stony face etched with glee as she tore her blade from the stomach of an attacker.

'Hello, Ger!' Rhaenys shouted. 'Feeling any better? We could hear you from up here, you sounded dreadful!'

'Aye, my lady!' Gerion ducked, stabbing Brightroar into a man's knee. 'Most definitely.'

He joined up with them, back to back and shoulder to shoulder, his sword held out as more brigands surrounded them. He considered saying something to sound intimidating—Hear Me Roar! perhaps, or maybe a joke about Fire and Blood—but opted not to. Chances were, it wouldn't have been heard properly amongst the carnage, and even if it was there was a good chance it would make him sound like a simpleton rather than a mighty warrior that one should be scared to face.

With that in mind, he simply gave a shout as the fighting began once again.

The last body was overboard, meaning that he could finally rest his weary bones. His arse on the floor and his back to the mast, Gerion breathed slowly as he looked at the worrying amounts of water that were leaking into the ship. It was dawn now, the end of a night of bloodshed and death, but all he could think was that it had been for naught. As Rhaenys and Visenya sat down beside him, their words were drowned out by his thoughts while his mind wandered to his beloved Joy. Gods, he'd been so close to getting back after all this time, and now he was going to drown in the same place he'd been stuck for a decade on some leaking piece of shit.

'Gerion! Listen, you prick!' A rare instance of Rhaenys losing her cool brought him back to reality at the same moment her fist pummelled his arm.

'Gods, what!?'

'A boat, you simpleton! We're saved!'

Gods, she's right! I'll be seeing you soon, Joy.

The shape came out of the fog, grey and brown and rotting, but a boat all the same, its sateen sail billowing in the wind as it neared them. A rope was thrown over, which Gerion promptly grabbed and began to pull on, their heap of broken wood slowly making its way to the boat.

'Greetings! Rytsas! M'athchomaroon!' Gerion shouted every possible greeting in every possible language that he could think of, desperate not to give whoever they were an excuse to leave them behind. 'Valar Morghulis!'

'Valar Dohaeris.' A man's silhouette could be seen now, tall and broad-shouldered. 'Funny, I didn't take any of you for Braavosi.' As he got closer, Gerion could make out blue hair like he'd seen in Tyrosh, clashing with the red wolf skin that adorned his shoulders. 'Come aboard!'

That's strange, Gerion thought. There's no trace of a Tyroshi accent.

'Welcome to the Shy Maid,' the man said. 'My name is Griff. Now, who are you, and how have you come to be here?'

A/N: Another chapter done! I wasn't the happiest with this one, but still hope you enjoyed it and all that. Not much happened in this one, as it was setting up the next few story arcs-hopefully it'll speed up a bit more in the future. As always, feel free to favourite, follow, and review, and cheers to those of you who have. Again, I have no beta and am a very lazy person, so please excuse any mistakes-if you notice any, just know that I don't care.

Next chapter will be about Robert and his journey with Davos and Aegon, as they look to find everyone's favourite blacksmith.

Cheers again,

-Kinginthenorth1 xox

kingmanaena: Cheers!

Supremus85: We haven't met all the returned characters yet, so keep reading if you're concerned about that lot.

Force Smuggler: I'm just as glad as you are that he's dead-he's a dickhead and a pervert and deserves no better. I just made sure that he knew the truth about what he thought had happened with Catelyn before he died. As for Brandon, I wouldn't call him stupid (at least, not that stupid)-this is the wolf's blood coming out in full, the same kind of cockiness that made him think he'd be able to confront Aerys II and come out of it fine.

Mister LaGuardia: Cheers! I fully get that the basic premise is completely unrealistic and kind of plot-holey, but I appreciate you getting past it, and I intend to address how it happened at some point later in the fic. I will say, Jon and Daenerys won't be happening-in the show, for example, they were only in contact with each other as they were the most senior figures on either side, but since that's not necessarily the case any longer, that won't be happening (also, incest=grim). As for the Blackfyres, to keep it spoiler free I'll only say that we won't not be seeing any ;)

Minna Vipera: I have absolutely no idea what you're on about-any resemblance between the racist orange nonce and the racist orange nonce is purely coincidental. This use of italics also in no way implies me being sarcastic in any way. How dare you. ;)