A.N.: Thank you so much for the amazing reviews - it makes a huge difference, and why I continue to enjoy writing and uploading this story. I write it for myself, and love that so many other people enjoy it too.
If you're not enjoying it, and there's one person who insists on sending aggressive messages detailing everything they think is wrong with my story, then you do not have to keep reading.
I can't remember if I've killed Myrcella in this… Someone with a good memory, confirm for me?
So my face-claim for Alynore Tyrell is Kristine Froseth, I think she is ethereally beautiful.
Valyrian Steel
22
Flowers in the Garden
"You look positively gleeful."
"Not at your leaving this island, I assure you," Jon smiled. "I'm just happy I don't have to get back in that boat yet."
"Ship," Ser Davos corrected, his beard twitching, eyes twinkling. "Got to take advantage of the fine weather. Shipbreaker Bay earned its name, after all."
"They'll all be there?"
"All of the Stormlords," Ser Davos sighed, grumbling slightly as he gazed out to sea. The sky was endless white today and the sea calm, pale grey, the water in the bay the clearest it had been in weeks: The day was bright - and brutally cold. There was a good breeze, coming down from the North, bringing with it the taste of ice - it was perfect weather for sailing, according to more experienced mariners than Jon. "Deciding what happens next. They have no leader; they'll be arguing amongst themselves over who to pledge their swords to - Cersei, or Daenerys… If we get through it without broken bones, shattered teeth and wounded pride, I'll eat my remaining fingers."
"Well, it's important you be there to represent your own interests," Jon said quietly. "At the very least, you'll be a voice of reason."
"I still can't change your mind?" Ser Davos prompted, and Jon sighed.
"As you said, the Stormlords have no leader," Jon said. "And it doesn't look like there'll be a Baratheon miraculously returning to Storm's End to unite them, if such a thing was possible after Stannis and Renly." Ser Davos frowned at him. Jon knew him well, now, and could practically see his mind working. The intensity of his gaze was tempered by a quiet awe, as if he had just realised something very important.
"What is it?" Jon asked.
"What if there was?"
"Was what?"
"A Baratheon to unite the Stormlands," Ser Davos said, with quiet urgency, and Jon just prevented himself from glancing to the left, where he knew Lord Varys lingered, hands tucked into the fur-trimmed folds of his robes, and who had just straightened almost imperceptibly - but just enough for a seasoned brother of the Night's Watch to notice it. Varys was listening intently, as he seemed always to be when Jon was around.
"Sansa told me a rumour that King Robert's bastards had all been butchered by Gold Cloaks in the early days after Father's execution," Jon said sombrely, wincing. Lady Catelyn had hated him from the moment she arrived at Winterfell with Robb, only to find Jon and Larra already installed in the nursery. But she had never harmed him, even if her thoughts had rarely been kind toward him. And Jon could never imagine Lady Catelyn vengefully murdering him or Larra, or sending cutthroats after them… "Either Joffrey or Cersei ordered it, she didn't know which."
"A few less than tasteful associates laughingly said at the time that the Stag's Seed had been washed away into the Blackwater," Ser Davos said grimly. "I remember the Red Woman regretting the waste; King's blood has power, you see." He bristled with suppressed rage, and Jon's mind turned to a young, scarred face - a beautiful child full of true kindness and innocence. "But to Cersei, Robert's bastards were a threat to her children - because they were his bastards; not hers."
"They had a more legitimate claim to the Iron Throne than Cersei's children - or Cersei herself," Jon said, nodding. One of Lady Catelyn's greatest lingering concerns had been that Jon may have become a threat to her sons' inheritance. The tragic irony was not lost on Jon… "Disregarding those who still claim Robert was a usurper, of course."
"Cersei and Daenerys can squabble over King's Landing," Ser Davos said offhandedly. Truth be told, neither of them had much faith in Daenerys Stormborn as being a ruler any better than the ones who had come before her. They needed only exchange a look to confirm each other's feelings on the matter; they had never needed to discuss their opinions on how Daenerys Targaryen ruled Dragonstone. Or rather, didn't. Ser Davos frowned thoughtfully at Jon, as if he was seeing someone else. "But Storm's End…that's the seat of House Baratheon. A Baratheon should claim it."
"You wouldn't bring this up if you thought such a thing could not be done," Jon said: Ser Davos was nothing if not a practical man.
"There was one…" Ser Davos sighed, shaking his head. "One of Robert's bastards, born in Flea Bottom; he managed to escape the Gold Cloaks."
"How?" Jon asked, surprised.
"His master sold him to the Night's Watch. According to him, he was on his way to the Wall with a wandering crow when they were attacked by Gold Cloaks…" Ser Davos glanced at Jon, who raised an eyebrow in surprise. Wandering crows were so named because they flew down from the Wall and drifted about the Seven Kingdoms, enlisting willing recruits and emptying castle dungeons. "And then captured by the Mountain and his men, during the early days of the War of the Five Kings. His trade saved him; an armourer's apprentice… Somehow he and a few friends escaped Harrenhall - only to fall in with the Brotherhood without Banners…who then sold him to the Red Woman, for the King's blood in his veins."
"She wanted to burn him," Jon said grimly.
"Among other things."
"His own nephew… If I didn't know what fate befell Princess Shireen, I might be shocked that King Stannis would ever have considered it…" Jon sighed, shaking his head. He may not have liked Stannis Baratheon, but Jon had respected him: He had set aside his plans to take the Iron Throne to lead his armies north. He had done his duty, to every man, woman and child in Westeros, though they would never know it.
And that was why it was so difficult to reconcile that the man who had set aside his claim for the crown and the man who had willingly burned his only daughter alive at the stake were one and the same.
Jon sighed, gazing at Ser Davos. "The boy lived?"
"Aye, he lived," Ser Davos said heavily. "Because I betrayed my King and smuggled the boy off this very island."
Jon smiled. "You forfeited your life to do what was right… That's why Stannis named you his Hand."
"I should have known…the moment he ordered me to Castle Black, I should have realised…"
Jon frowned at his adviser - his friend. "You may not have been able to stop her death, but you saved that boy's life. Believe me, I know the weight of it," he said softly, thinking of the Battle for Castle Black, and Hard Home after. The Watch had saved the North from an invasion of wildlings; but they had lost an army of those same wildlings to the Night King. Innocent children, old men, mothers. "Sometimes you can save one…rarely both. Sometimes neither… I didn't know the Princess well, just that…she was sweet and gentle and impossibly kind…but I do know she'd rather you saved an innocent boy's life than hers, if it came down to it."
After a moment, Ser Davos' beard twitched, and he sniffed roughly. "Aye, she would." His voice was hoarse when he said, "She was a good girl." Jon did not pretend not to see the way Ser Davos' eyes glimmered. Jon knew he had loved the princess as his own.
"Do they know?" Jon asked quietly, meaning the Stormlords.
"Not that I know of."
"What will you tell them, if it comes to it?"
"The royal family were killed by House Bolton. And if their bannermen hadn't still been squabbling amongst themselves like spoiled children, they could have avenged them during the Battle of the Bastards," Ser Davos said. He scoffed, "Never knew Stormlords to value velvet-covered armour and silks and Rainbow Guards over military strength and blood-right. The War of the Five Kings made a mockery of the Stormlords."
"So you're going to provoke them," Jon said, smirking slightly, and Ser Davos' eyes twinkled. "And what about Robert's bastard? Will you tell them about him?"
"If I knew where to find him," Ser Davos said, sensibly. "But we'd have so many pretenders, and we've far greater concerns. Besides, it'll be a lot of hot-headed young men eager to fight and prove their mettle - and old sceptics who know better."
"Don't worry… I'm not hoping for much," Jon said; they had discussed Ser Davos requesting men from the Stormlands to ally with them.
"I don't like leavin' you," Ser Davos said, frowning.
"It's important you be there," Jon said fairly.
"I'll see who's left. Some with sense, hopefully. Others too tired to carry on, keen to die gloriously in battle…" Ser Davos shook his head. The War of the Five Kings may have gutted the Riverlands, but the War had started as a rift between two brothers who had divided the Stormlands. Most of the fighting men had died at the Battle of the Blackwater: any survivors had been conscripted into service under King Stannis, and had died on the moors of Winterfell. "I'll do what I can to convince any who might listen…"
"Thank you, Ser Davos," Jon said sincerely. "I wish you a fair journey."
"I will return," Ser Davos assured him. "Until I do, take care of yourself."
"And you, Ser Davos."
"Look after yourself with her," Ser Davos said pointedly, and Jon nodded.
"I know what she's about," Jon said. The Queen was no Sansa: she couldn't disguise her emotions. She couldn't disguise her lust - her desire for Jon, his approval, his respect, his admiration. His presence in her bed, too, he did not doubt: Her gaze was always hungry.
He watched Ser Davos climb into the little dinghy. They rowed out to Jon's flagship, and Jon sighed. Ser Davos was leaving, but Jon did not feel vulnerable without his presence: just tired. At least with Ser Davos - as with Theon - Jon did not have to be anything but exactly who he was. A grim, tired warrior who wanted nothing more than to go home - even if that meant finally facing down an enemy he had been evading for far too long, and had no real hope of defeating.
The sails unfurled, rippling in the strong breeze that would hurry Winter south. His flagship - his… Robb had commissioned the fleet but never seen a single one of the ships: Lord Manderly had continued building, in secret, as he had done most things. In his own time, for his own reasons. Winter's direwolf figurehead was monstrous, but like most things in the North, the ship was strong, built to endure, with a focus on the practical rather than the pretty - certainly nothing to the grand and very beautiful ship Gallant that moored in the bay, gleaming like dark gold, its dark-green sails raised.
Movement flickered beside him, though Jon was used to Lord Varys' near-soundless approach by now.
"Lord Varys," he said quietly, turning to frown at the man as the brittle sun glowed above them.
"Your Grace," the Master of Whisperers said cordially, dipping into a semi-formal bow.
"Couldn't help but notice your interest in my conversation with Ser Davos," Jon said. Lord Varys was far too…southern, for all he was a foreigner; Jon disliked politics, though he would engage in them when necessary. With Lord Varys, he had found that conversations could get utterly too flowery for his taste, and take far too long to get to the heart of the thing. He'd rather be straightforward about it. "Which part in particular struck your fancy? I can't imagine it was Stormlords' gathering - considering it was you who told Ser Davos about it."
"Indeed, I did share pertinent information with your adviser," Lord Varys said, unapologetically.
"I do hope it was not your ultimate goal to separate me from my adviser in the hopes I could be swayed to reconsider the status of the North as a free and independent sovereign nation."
"I've been watching you for far too long, Your Grace, to believe Ser Davos has any true bearing on your decision-making. He may advise, but you know your own mind," Lord Varys said, his tone amiable. "And if he were to convince you of another course of action, I am quite certain it would be because you already questioned the wisdom of such decisions. Besides, while you remain on Dragonstone without your adviser, the council will be without its queen."
"She's leaving," Jon nodded: He'd seen the Dothraki preparing. He'd say it for them; they knew how to mobilise at a moment's notice. No Westerosi army could ever compete. He frowned to himself, wondering what that implied for the future…if they all lived long enough to have one…
"Taking the hordes to the mainland," Lord Varys said airily, nodding.
"Is that wise, to unleash them?" Jon asked: Part of his geography lessons with Maester Luwin had covered the migratory Dothraki with their single sacred city, their worship of horse-gods and their utterly brutal way of life, devastating city after city as they ravaged their way across Essos.
"Better them than dragons," Lord Varys said, and his tone was almost tart.
"She'll be taking them, too," Jon pointed out heavily.
"Drogon, yes," Lord Varys said. "What is a Great Khaleesi without her mount?"
"Most horses can't breathe fire to melt castles," Jon replied, holding Lord Varys' gaze. He looked as sombre as Jon felt about the prospect of Queen Daenerys moving her cavalry to the mainland. Unsullied were one thing; Dothraki were an entirely different sort of beast - one it was next to impossible to control once it had been unleashed. Jon had been around them long enough on Dragonstone to know it, even if he hadn't studied them as part of his history and military strategy lessons.
"Indeed not," Lord Varys agreed with a murmur. "And while she is gone, the lot of us shall just have to muddle on."
"You won't go with her?"
"No. The Lord Hand and Queen's trusted adviser and translator will accompany the armies," Lord Varys said, telling Jon more than anyone had yet let slip about Daenerys' campaign plans. "With bloodriders ready to kill each other for the honour of protecting their Queen and, indeed, the Lord Hand to guide military strategy, well…it would be laughable to even suggest I join the campaign. I am no soldier."
"But you are a strategist."
"I suppose I am," said Lord Varys thoughtfully.
"Did you help devise the Queen's strategy, or is she following her own advice?" Jon asked quietly. He knew the Queen had been advised until her councillors were blue in the face: She did not heed their warnings, hence her mobilising her armies to deal with what others had foreseen, and she had ignored in favour of her own petty vengeances, snatching Casterly Rock like a spoiled child who took toys off other children without ever wanting to play with them - just make sure no-one else did.
"In this matter, her first foray onto the mainland, which will surely set the tone for this war, the Queen has deigned to listen to the advice of her Council," Lord Varys said carefully. "Whether she remembers it, when the time comes, is another matter entirely."
"Unleashing Dothraki out in open field," Jon murmured. "It'll be over and done with before she can think too much on it."
"That is my thought exactly," said Lord Varys. "But what comes after the last sword falls to the ground in surrender?"
"If there are any left to drop them, you mean. You worry about her thirst for vengeance," Jon surmised.
"I do. Innocents were slaughtered…but someone must end the cycle," Lord Varys sighed, shaking his head subtly. "Her bloodthirstiness…concerns me. I had heard whispers…saw glimmers with my own eyes in Meereen; the Lord Hand and I did our utmost to curb those instincts then…guide the Queen toward a settlement both practical and merciful."
"She doesn't like diplomacy."
"Nor do you."
"I dislike politics. But I know they're necessary. I'm a soldier, my lord…if I can avoid senseless violence and death, I will," Jon said grimly and earnestly. Lord Varys nodded.
"I've heard many a song sung from the Wall. Their voices are chilled, but quite in awe," he said almost fondly. "The bastard who became a steward. The steward who became a warrior. The warrior who became a traitor. The traitor who became a commander. The commander who became king."
"Sounds simpler and far less gritty and gruesome than it truly was."
"The songs always are," Lord Varys smiled softly. "Lord Tyrion speaks of your time together at the Wall with high regard."
"He's too kind."
"Usually, unless the wine-skin is out of reach," Lord Varys quipped, and Jon's lips twitched at the light shining from Varys' eyes. He was fond of Lord Tyrion, too.
"My father taught me how to be a good man. Before he left the Wall, Lord Tyrion taught me my first lessons in how to be a good leader," Jon said honestly. "He'd be flustered to know how much of an influence he had on my life in so short a time."
"Our friend is not accustomed to genuine praise," Lord Varys said, and his voice was soft and almost wistful. He smiled at Jon. "And now you pass on the teachings of your father and of Lord Tyrion… The Queen listens to you. I know she appears…hostile, at worst, and ambivalent at best, but you are perhaps the only person on this island - which means the world - whose opinion and approval Daenerys Targaryen desires above almost everything."
"I've no time to teach her how to listen, if she wants to learn to lead," Jon told Varys simply.
"Quite," Lord Varys said. "And yet just your presence alone is enough: She emulates your behaviour…she is far more temperate in your presence."
"I'm not a dragon-tamer," Jon said, and Varys laughed.
"Perhaps as close to one as we shall ever find," he chuckled. "The armies will be ready to sail to the mainland in two days' time. I…humbly ask you to join us at court until the Queen's departure."
"You want her to go off to war in a pretty mood."
"If I thought it may affect the outcome… Any conflict involving either the Dothraki or Drogon will not last long. Then she will face her first test," Lord Varys said, looking unsettled. "How will she handle her enemies in their defeat? She wants to impress you."
"She wants to imprison me."
Lord Varys' lips twitched, not denying it. "She desires your respect and admiration. If she goes into battle thinking how best to earn your regard…"
"So far I've seen nothing worthy of my respect or my admiration, except perhaps the small-folk who toil through all weathers and the Dothraki's fine horses," Jon said honestly. "And there must be something very wrong if she's making decisions on the battlefield contrary to her nature in an attempt to try and win my favour…" He saw the Spider's wince. "Don't worry: I'll keep that opinion to myself, if you do the same."
Lord Varys sighed deeply, his long fur-trimmed sleeves rippling as he rocked on the balls of his feet. "Everywhere Daenerys Stormborn has gone, she has been wooed, admired, feared, beloved, yielded to, lusted after, adored… Until you. Northmen," Lord Varys said, his eyes alight with amusement as his lips twitched. "A very different breed entirely to any other in the world, and I can say that, having mingled with most kinds of people from all over the known world. Stubborn, tireless, resilient, and just. And not impressed simply by a pretty face and a self-aggrandising name… You are the first person in years whom she can neither seduce nor intimidate into giving her exactly what she wants. To someone like her, the challenge is as exhilarating as it is infuriating."
"I have a feeling she'd tell you there are no others like her."
"Very true."
"You want me there? And Lord Tyrion? Lady Ellaria? The Greyjoys?"
"Ironically, your presence at court goes a long way toward breaking the ice," Lord Varys said, and Jon scoffed, shaking his head. "You have felt the tension among the Queen's councillors."
"Tension's an interesting way of putting it," Jon muttered.
"How would you describe the atmosphere at court?" Lord Varys asked, eyeing Jon shrewdly. He gazed back at the Master of Whisperers.
Fearful," Jon said. He did not need to elaborate. "You agree. You just wanted to hear me say it aloud."
"Once, I could explain away to youth and inexperience and a fierce, impatient heart. But when every Council session devolves into convincing Queen Daenerys not to unleash the dragons on the fields and holdfasts of Westeros to claim the Iron Throne all the quicker…"
"You can only advise; ultimately you won't be able to make decisions for her. She's not accountable to you. Or anyone else, for that matter - certainly not me," Jon reminded the eunuch firmly. "You can only give advice; it's up to her what she does with it."
"That's what I used to tell myself about her father… I'm not the one doing it," Lord Varys murmured, his eyes faraway and haunted. "I found the traitors, but I wasn't the one burning them alive. I was only a purveyor of information. It's what I told myself when I watched them beg for mercy... I'm not the one doing it. When the pitch of their screams rose higher... I'm not the one doing it. When their hair caught fire and the smell of their burning flesh filled the throne room... I'm not the one doing it… I have a great many regrets in my life, Jon Snow. I have no wish to repeat my past, or for Daenerys to repeat her father's. I have no wish for you to follow the fate of your uncle and your grandfather - nor your own excellent father. Too many Starks have died already for the sake of House Targaryen."
"True. But I'm not a Stark," Jon reminded him. Lord Varys looked so despondent; there was no way to ease the pain of remembered horror - Jon knew all too well. Something flickered in Lord Varys' face, though, at the sound of Jon's voice, or perhaps the words, and his eyes turned, for the briefest moment, shrewd. They flickered again, when Jon prompted, "You were there when my grandfather and uncle were killed."
"I was."
"Father rarely talked about them."
"Lord Eddard was very like his father in looks, and indeed in temperament. Calm and grim, unfazed. And Brandon…handsome and fierce…and he died weeping as he watched his father's eyes melt down his face, and his skin blacken and blister, strangling himself to try and free his father - the first he knew of his father's presence in King's Landing since his own arrest…" Lord Varys' voice was soft, his eyes haunted. "He fought like a trapped direwolf to free himself - free his father…"
"They died for nothing," Jon said quietly. Like Father. And it fell to Jon to preserve the freedom of the North, hard-won and bitterly bought. Lord Varys sighed, then frowned at Jon, his brow creasing, his eyes vibrant with intensity. "What is it?"
"A fragment of song from the distant past…"
Jon didn't know what that meant; he raised an eyebrow, but shrugged it off. Winter had disappeared over the horizon, and Jon turned away from the quay. Lord Varys followed, somehow managing to look unruffled and unhurried as he kept pace with Jon, who slowed his strides. Lord Varys was quiet, and remained so as they started the long ascent. Jon was used to arduous climbs, but he couldn't quite get used to Dragonstone, wreathed in strange vapour created by the sea-air mingling with the heat of the volcano that seemed to protect everything with warmth. The same way Winterfell was protected by thermal rivers, Dragonstone's volcano radiated enough heat to stave off winter's harshest elements.
And the castle itself looked superbly eerie, braceleted with wreaths of heavy fog strangely warm to walk through, though salty and sulphuric at the same time, with a hint of perfume from the ancient Valyrian plants growing in Aegon's garden.
Jon and Lord Varys made their way toward the monstrous fortress, taking their time where the vapours had turned the stone walkways slick and precarious.
Jon saw her at the same time Lord Varys did.
A glimmer of shimmering rose-pink against the unbroken white sky. Silk skirts billowing in the wind that had picked up the higher they had climbed. She was bare-armed, wearing nothing but her pretty rose-pink dress of silk and jacquard, and the wind snatched at her hair, tangling the soft brown locks, as she stood in the shivering grass at the cliff's rocky, speckled edge, winter wildflowers open at her feet.
It was Lady Alynore Tyrell.
"Will she jump?" Lord Varys asked, his voice hushed and grim, his eyes fixed on the girl. Lord Varys looked grim but expectant, even resigned. Jon watched her. She stared out to sea, and did not appear to notice them, or anything else.
"No," Jon said, from experience with some of his brothers of the Watch. There was only one way out of a lifelong-oath: Flinging oneself from the top of the Wall often seemed like the only way out…until they reached the top of the Wall and saw just how high it was - and how long a fall it would be. Long enough to regret the decision… "If she'd wanted to jump, she would have done it by now." Jon did not take his eyes off her, just in case, as he asked Lord Varys, "Has there been some change with Lady Olenna?"
"We would have been flocked by little birds if there had," Lord Varys said softly. "What can she be thinking?"
"She's thinking that her entire family has been butchered," Jon said grimly, and Lord Varys winced. Jon sighed, watching the girl. She was perhaps Sansa's age, just barely. Grief-stricken and overwhelmed, the future of her House and the fate of her family suddenly thrust upon her.
Calmly and quietly, Jon climbed over the side of the walkway, climbing up to the cliff's edge, his heavy cloak - the one Sansa had made for him, and presented to him the day they left Castle Black - teased by the wind, too heavy to lift. Even he had worn his cloak to see Ser Davos off this morning; that said something about how brutally cold it was - and Lady Alynore stood with her bare arms and a low-cut neckline.
Her grief was horrifying.
Face pale, eyes haunting, a single tear fell as she turned her pale green gaze on him.
More followed, silent, and as painful to witness as a knife to the chest.
"Come away," he murmured, reaching out, shocked by how cold she was as he reached for her hands and gently gripped her forearms, guiding her away from the cliff's edge. She swayed, and blinked, dislodging more tears, blinding her - she broke, sobbing, and writhed, twisting away, likely having no idea why she resisted, or who it was she was resisting, but Jon held on, as she struggled and tried to fight, and he pulled her into his body, glad he had worn no gorget as she buried her face in his chest, butting her head against the leather of his brigandine, sobbing, and he released her, only to tug on his cloak and wrap it around them both.
It occurred to him, then…that no-one could had held her in her grief, since discovering her family had been slaughtered. He sighed heavily, and relaxed his hold on her, as she gentled and leaned into him, her sobs quieting to gasps and sniffles, exhausted and overwrought, cold and exhausted. He wrapped his arms around her, and held her for as long as she needed.
Only when she wrapped her arms loosely around his waist did he relinquish his hold - only so he could remove his cloak, and drape it around over her head. He wrapped the folds of it tightly around her: Alynore gazed up at him with damp eyelashes, her cheeks pink and lips shivering from the cold, looking exhausted.
Her lips moved, as if she was trying to speak, and then she whispered - more a moan of grief, of true heartache, "There's no-one to call me Nora now. No-one who knows me…or c-cares… Everything I was died with them… I don't know what t-to do. N-no-one taught m-me."
Jon sighed heavily, staring back into those pale-green eyes, so clear, so gentle and innocent and mournful. "Experience is a brutal teacher." She closed her eyes, tears trickling down her cheeks, and Jon sighed, tucking her close again. She didn't want to be told she had the strength to carry on, that she would learn, that everything would be okay: She wanted to be held, and allowed to weep for her dead family, and for the future that had been stolen from her - replaced by one she could never have imagined, and was thoroughly unprepared to embrace.
But she had to.
One day, soon, she would have to.
"Come, let's get you warmed up by the hearth," Jon said softly. Lady Alynore leaned against him for a moment, her face entirely drained of vitality. Slowly, half-guiding, half-carrying her, Jon led the way up the pathway. Lord Varys had waited for them: He exchanged one solemn look with Jon, and stepped ahead, setting their pace to a slow but purposeful amble as Lady Alynore sniffled and gradually became more animated, tucking Jon's heavy, almost suffocatingly-hot cloak around herself. All the way up to the spine-tingling entrance to the fortress, and inside: It always felt cool, walking into Dragonstone - unlike Winterfell, which became as hot as a glasshouse in summer, to Jon's mind, so used to the brittle cold of the Wall.
But it was no longer silent inside the halls of Dragonstone: The smallfolk were occupying it. And everyone had work to do - Jon, and then the Queen's Council, had made sure of that.
Most of the Queen's guests had rooms in the Sea Dragon Tower, including Jon himself: There were fewer bloodriders and Meereenese and far more Ironborn, more Northmen, more indolent-looking Dornishmen in deceptively sensual ochre sandsilks and elaborate longaxes, more knights from the Reach in their velvet-covered armour, etched pauldrons and pikes with long, carved handles, still standing guard outside the doors to the Tyrell suite. Jon rarely saw women from the Reach outside of the Tyrell ladies, and they had all been cloistered away since news of Highgarden - and Lady Olenna's collapse. Now, a lady's maid met them in the vestibule of the Tyrell suite, bobbing a dainty curtsy to Jon and gazing anxiously over the state of Lady Alynore, but dared not approach too familiarly.
Alynore was Lady Tyrell, now. Things were different, not just for her: The household that had come to Dragonstone with Lady Olenna had had to adjust itself to the practicalities that among them was the new Lady of Highgarden.
A heavy ebony door carved with scales opened: A continuous scream rent the air, unbelievably loud and so high-pitched only dogs were in danger of being able to hear it.
Jon's hand went to the hilt of his sword on instinct; he frowned, and strode past the maid, into a pretty drawing-room with a roaring hearth - and an irate septa bellowing and scolding, trying to physically overpower a little girl, who was screaming that piercing shriek and slashing her tiny hands, her face red, her eyes swollen, her cheeks sodden, tiny and overwrought. The other Tyrell cousins were upset by the sight of the septa trying to restrain the youngest of them, and Jon stopped short at the sound of a sharp slap.
The little one went silent, shocked, her cheek reddened from being struck.
"What is the meaning of this?" He didn't shout: He didn't need to. He was the only man in the chamber, and his deep voice cut through the noise of the Tyrell cousins' weeping, begging the septa to stop hurting the little one, and the septa's scolding. At the sound of his voice, the septa stood ramrod straight, seething, swelling with rage, one hand clenched at her side, the other clamped around the little Tyrell's arm like a vice. As the shock started to wear off, the little girl started wriggling, and wept silently.
When children cry aloud they do it for attention; when they cry silently, it's because they can't help it, murmured Larra in his ear, as Jon took in the septa's scarlet, fury-filled face, and the tear-streaked, miserable faces of the little Tyrell girls.
There were five of them, not one of them older than thirteen and the youngest just four years old. Their wan faces turned tearfully to Jon as he stood in the doorway, flanked on one side by the lady's maid, a respectful distance behind, and by Lady Alynore, whose shoulders slumped visibly, a curtain of anguish and exhaustion falling across her face as her little cousins turned to her with entreating expressions.
Jon glared at the septa.
"Septa Veda hit Amna!" one of the younger ones - of middling age, neither the eldest nor the youngest - burst out, puffing up in indignation, and for a heartbeat, Arya stood in the drawing-room in her pretty but serviceable wool dress and perpetually unkempt braids, fiercely righteous. Jon blinked, and the narrow, solemn face and dark eyebrows hovering expressively over intense eyes disappeared, replaced by a gentle beauty. Still dark-haired, like Arya, but her eyes were deep, warm brown and ringed with fine black lashes, her lips small and pretty - already hinting at beauty.
Jon stared down the septa. She had the sense to let go of the child, and lowered her gaze to the fine Qartheen carpet.
The tension in the Queen's court was nothing compared to the tension simmering in the drawing-room: Jon felt it. And he was reminded of fretful children and uncertainty, dread. He remembered Arya and Sansa squabbling over the prince, over Larra's new ribbons from Queen Cersei: He remembered Rickon alternately crying and raging - and Larra, still healing, absorbing the role of mother when Lady Catelyn refused to leave Bran's bedside, abandoning her other children, who were frightened, and anxious, and took it out on each other. Her back still healing from the flogging, and facing down their family's imminent separation, Larra had somehow found the strength to settle the girls' squabbles, to warmly and fairly discipline Rickon out of his wrathfulness, gentling him with cuddles and kisses, reaffirming that he was loved, and not abandoned, and support Robb, who knew rule of Winterfell was suddenly to be thrust upon him with Father's departure, and not break her heart that Jon was leaving her forever.
In those first hours and days after Bran's fall, and then weeks, Larra had held them all together. Had stopped them turning on each other - or been the balm to mend the wounds created when they did…
Let him wear himself out, Larra said, in his memory. Fresh air's the best thing for him. Ahead of them, he could see Rickon's soft blonde hair shining in the sunlight as he and Larra wandered hand-in-hand through the godswood, and their youngest, fraught little brother ran around, throwing stones into the pond by the weirwood, kicking patches of melting snow, fighting at tug-of-war with Shaggydog and a branch that had come down.
His wrath exhausted, Rickon had stumbled back an hour later, leaves in his unruly hair, hands grubby, scuffing the ground with his boot, and shyly and shamefully offered Larra a fistful of flowering heather in apology for hitting her, causing the back of her frock, with its triple-layered panel of linen sewn to protect it, to spot with blood from her still-healing whipping wounds.
Both of them holding his dimpled little hands, they had walked back to the castle, Larra carrying her little posy of flowering heather, sometimes lifting their little brother to swing him between them, laughing softly.
The sudden surge of memory, forgotten until now, caused Jon's heart to stutter and squeeze painfully.
He turned to the lady's maid wide-eyed behind him. "Could you fetch the girls' cloaks?" The maid nodded, dipped courteously, and disappeared in a delicate swish of fine skirts. Emboldened by his presence, and that of their older cousin, the little girls turned to Lady Alynore, beseeching - Jon remembered that look: Sansa and Rickon - and even self-assured Arya and Robb - had looked at Larra that way. With absolute confidence that she knew exactly what to do.
Because, somehow, she always had.
When Lady Catelyn had withdrawn to Bran's sickbed, Larra had understood better than anyone that Rickon, Arya, Sansa, even Robb, were desperately sore for a mother's love. It was the first time in their lives that Lady Catelyn had abandoned them. Jon and Larra knew what it meant to go without a mother's love: Larra had gone out of her way to ensure none of their brothers or sisters had ever felt anything less than loved and cherished.
Jon strode over to the septa, who was rigid, her face bleached of colour in shock and humiliation, but he merely leaned down and scooped up the youngest Tyrell. She was a little dumpling, with dimpled fingers, dove-grey eyes and long hair tangled around her face in bronze waves.
"Let's go for a walk," Jon said calmly, speaking to her as her lips quivered and tears welled, and he adjusted her in the crook of his elbow, clamped to his side, "and you can tell me all about it."
If it wasn't Larra, it was Jon their younger siblings had always run to - especially Arya, when the unfairness of the world had become too much for her to bear.
"And while we're all gone, Septa Veda can have a cup of tea and some time to herself," Jon suggested, glancing at the septa, remembering how hideous his siblings could be at times, and just how good Septa Mordane had always been about them. She had been sharp - but fair, always.
He caught Lady Alynore's slightly stunned but grateful gaze, as the maid returned, her arms laden with cloaks of varying sizes, each trimmed with velvet and golden-brown fur, and soft suede mittens lined with wool.
"Are we going outside?"
"We all are," Jon confirmed, as one of the older girls stepped forward, taking a small cloak and draping it over the head of the second-youngest - the one who had spoken up about Septa Veda - who squawked indignantly but was smiling when she resurfaced. The cloaks and mittens were divvied out amongst the girls, the older ones helping fasten elaborate clasps, and Jon tucked the dainty sky-blue cloak around the little girl still cradled in his arm, who was now gazing steadily at him as if uncertain whether she should start crying again or tuck herself against him for a cuddle. Jon glanced at the maid. "I'll bring them back in an hour or so. Can you see that some soup is sent up for when we return?"
"Yes, Your Grace," the maid smiled softly. It was always strange to be called that: Even stranger, by southerners. There was an innate sense of deference in southerners: Northerners were respectful, because they knew Jon had earned the title they had given him. Southerners…just knew he was a king and treated him how they thought kings expected to be treated. It was odd. Jon preferred the Northern way of doing things: It was more honest. When his bannermen were irritated by his decisions, he knew about it.
"Stay here," Jon told Lady Alynore quietly. She was gazing at him as if it was the first time seeing him. "Get warm, and rest a while." She just gazed at him, and nodded softly.
A little while later, Jon led the Tyrell cousins into Aegon's Garden.
There were five of them - Tyrells. The eldest was Alyssa, twelve years old and already a lady - very much like Sansa, as she had once been, though there was a sensibleness and patience to Lady Alyssa that Sansa, at the same age, had lacked. Next in age came Poppy, who appeared before Jon in her cloak with a smile on her face still streaked with tear-stains, her blue eyes glittering, and she reached for Jon's free hand, skipping along beside him as they made their way through the castle.
Poppy was a chatterbox, and reminded Jon so much of Arya in mere moments that it physically pained him. Not that he could show her that: He kept the grimace of grief and longing off his face, desperate to return to those days before their family had been divided. After Poppy came Cassia, who meandered outside, her arms cradling a book.
"What's that, then?" Jon asked her.
"It's The Dance of Dragons," said Cassia, her eyes lighting up. "I'm reading about Baela Targaryen; this is where she bonded with her dragon - and where Moondancer died."
"I know her," Jon told Cassia, whose eyes shone with anticipation as she gazed delightedly at her book. "During the Hour of the Wolf, when Lord Cregan Stark wanted to execute her rescuers, she threatened him with a sword. He laughed, and the men lived."
"Don't spoil the ending!"
"Sorry," Jon smiled softly.
"How do you know about Baela Targaryen?"
"My sisters. They liked to read about the Dance of Dragons, too. Baela was a favourite of my sister Arya. And Baela's father the Rogue Prince was a favourite of my twin-sister, Larra. Him, and the Dragon Knight, who came later. Both wielded Queen Visenya's sword Dark Sister," Jon said, sighing.
"Ren wants to be like Baela; I think Ren probably already is like Baela," Cassia mused, and the second-youngest Tyrell hummed as she ran past, her cloak fastened over her shoulder, dropping a mitten, eager to get outside. Jon smirked subtly at Cassia's succinct observation.
"Aye, I think you're right," he agreed, chuckling softly, as Cassia paused to pick up the mitten. In the crook of his arm, the youngest rosebud, Amna, sucked her thumb, still gazing at him. But she'd at least tucked an arm around his shoulder to hold on as he carried her, and she hadn't started screaming. Whatever had set her off, he didn't particularly care: He cared only to remove her from the situation that had seemed like it could only escalate.
Aegon's Garden was a strange place. There were no weirwoods, but everywhere Jon looked, the plants, trees and shrubs were queer shades of silver, pale-gold, blood-red and purplish-black among the greens, and there were hundreds of different hues and textures of green. Some plants were glossy spikes; wispy grasses glistened like molten gold; there were speckled purple-black bells; and vibrant scarlet dogwoods, the ground carpeted with blooming chickweed; spires of intricate and deceptively delicate orchids; great spears of decadently velvety, frilly blood-red flowers; black calla-lilies; the vivid scarlet 'Valyrian Paintbrush'… Jon sighed, and set Amna on her feet, to give a wobbly smile, coaxed to join the older girls by Ren, who was already breathless from running around the many flowerbeds, tempted to climb an ancient tree with silver bark and black foliage like obsidian spears, strangled by a purple creeper with delicate flowers of palest lavender.
Cassia peered curiously at one of the flowerbeds. "Shouldn't it all be dead?"
"It's the Dragonmont," Jon told her, sounding far more knowledgeable than he was about the subject. "The volcano heats the earth - and creates the warm fog. It keeps the winter at bay. These are likely the last of the autumn flowers."
"Did King Stannis plant the garden?" Cassia asked curiously, as she delicately sniffed at a large and ornamental flower with waxy white petals and a crimson throat. Jon startled, staring at her. Stannis, plant a flower-garden? The thought was so absurd it almost made him laugh.
"I don't think so," Jon said, his lips twitching. And even Princess Shireen - his hesitant smile faded - would not have been encouraged to come out here to Aegon's Garden. He frowned thoughtfully. "But this was Prince Rhaegar's home, before the Rebellion. And he lived here with his wife and children… The Water Gardens of Dorne are famous." He didn't mention Highgarden: he didn't need to.
"It's prettier than Highgarden," Cassia said softly, with a wistful sigh. She squinted up at Jon. "It's more…more. Like it's exactly as it should be, not pruned and forced to behave."
"Things have been left to grow as they please," Jon said. If it had been planted by Prince Rhaegar, the garden was nearly three decades old: It had been left to its own devices, and become established, and because of the microclimate of the volcanic island, and the sheltered garden itself, it had thrived. Aegon's Garden was spectacular.
And it made Jon's heart ache, thinking of those who would have adored to be here, to see it.
Here and there, Jon noticed splashes of soft, sunburned ochre - perhaps a nod from Prince Rhaegar to his wife, Elia Martell, taken from the desert-gardens of Dorne and left here on Dragonstone with her babies.
Speaking with Lord Varys earlier…it was easy to forget, because of the personal tragedies that had struck House Stark, that Rickard, Brandon and Lyanna Stark were not the only fatalities of the Rebellion. Prince Rhaegar, who had once lived on Dragonstone, and his wife Elia…their children - little more than babies. Princess Rhaenys had not even been as old as Amna when she was dragged out from under her father's bed and stabbed half a hundred times…
Jon glanced at Cassia, who dimpled when he offered to carry her book, so she could go exploring among the flowerbeds: He wondered just what atrocities had been committed at Highgarden, whether details would trickle across Westeros to the girls' ears, whether Lord Varys' little birds would bring songs of mutilation and rape… Would the Uprooting of Highgarden match the Sack of King's Landing?
The War of the Five Kings was over: He didn't know what this war would be called, or whether anyone would be alive to remember it… But if they did survive the Long Night, how would history remember the two Queens as they quarrelled over the ragged, war-torn remains of Westeros in winter?
Laughter drew him from his turbulent thoughts: The girls were playing. They were running around, playing a game of chase: Ren was trying to climb the silver tree. And Jon grimaced and strode forward, but little Amna just pushed herself off the brittle silver-green grass where she had fallen face-first, blinked, startled for a moment, then grinned at the sound of her name being called, and giggled as Alyssa tickled her with a long stem of feathery golden grass she had broken off.
Jon remembered his brothers and sisters, his heart aching just as badly as Lady Olenna's surely was in her chamber inside the Sea Dragon Tower.
He remembered their play. And, for an hour, maybe a little longer, Jon remembered what it was to be an older brother to younger sisters who loved to play.
Ren made flower-crowns for them all - including Jon, who taught curious Cassia the common Northern and 'proper' Valyrian names for some of the flowers, some of which were incredibly rare, a relic of Old Valyria and brought over before the Doom.
"How do you know about flowers?" Poppy asked, genuine curiosity on her face.
"My sister, Larra, she was…she was fond of flowers," Jon said heavily, sighing, and Poppy exchanged a glance with Cassia.
"Is she dead?" Poppy asked, not unkindly.
"She is," Jon confirmed, and the two girls exchanged a look.
"Our families are dead, too. That's why Grandmamma's heart broke," Poppy sighed softly, and drifted off to root around under the plants for slugs and snails to torment Alyssa with.
Cassia forgot about her book, happy to chat with Jon as they explored the flowerbeds, and Jon suggested Cassia seek out the maester to ask for books on botany. Alyssa, the eldest, gentlest and steadiest of the five girls, picked armfuls of flowers which Jon had to help trim with his knife, and carried back to the Tyrell suites for her, so she could arrange them in jugs for Grandmamma's delight, and so the girls could try and paint them - or embroider them, if the blooms lasted. And Amna tripped him up three times, giggling as she wound around his feet like an affectionate kitten, reaching up her little arms, the silent but utterly familiar signal of a little sibling begging to be lifted up and cuddled, as she started to yawn, and the girls' smiles and pink cheeks and bright eyes signalled that Larra's medicine was just as effective on dainty little southern ladies as wrathful Northern wolf-boys.
They returned to the Tyrell suite, laughing and happy, relaxed and eager for supper. It wasn't that Jon was invited to stay for a bowl of soup; it was that he wasn't actually allowed to leave. The girls had effectively taken him captive with their smiles and eagerness to enjoy their new friend. Forget that he was a king; he had taken them out to the garden and encouraged them to play.
He was surprised when Lady Alynore reappeared, dressed far more warmly, looking as calm and serene as she always had, and joined them at the dining-table. She gave Jon a soft look that was at once graceful and embarrassed, likely thinking back to the state in which Jon had found her. But her smile became indulgent as she listened to the girls telling her all about their playtime in Rhaegar's Garden, as Cassia had renamed it: They were eager to show her every single flower they had picked for their painting and embroidery lesson, but were stopped by the arrival of their luncheon.
Delicate porcelain dishes had steam drifting from them as each was set in place by a liveried footman in front of the girls, a dozen or so tiny parcels of dough encasing a smooth filling, folded intricately, steaming in each shallow dish: A rich, clear broth was ladled over them, and Ren jigged with anticipation as the glazed tureen came round to her, licking her lips. It was a simple dish, despite being served with such ceremony, the flavours wonderful - the chicken broth, and the creamy four-cheese filling of the tiny parcels. For a moment, there was quiet, and contentedness. Jon watched Lady Alynore's gentle gaze as she glanced from each of her cousins in turn, their pink cheeks and happy chatter, smiling.
Jon chose to make his goodbyes after the girls had been shuffled off by maids to bathe and dress for bed. "They always change into their nightclothes before their final lesson of the day; embroidery and singing. It's so much cosier," Lady Alynore told Jon, her smile soft and sad. "Grandmother started the tradition… Thank you for today. It's meant the world to them."
"It…reminded me…of when my family was whole," Jon told her, and her eyes widened subtly. She nodded, lowering her gaze: hers was not the only family to suffer at the hands of Lannisters. Jon had just had longer to live with it.
Taking the Tyrells to the garden had eaten up several hours of Jon's time; he found he didn't mind it. It was a welcome reprieve from the arduous daily routine he forced himself through. At dawn he sparred with weapons; and usually he spent a few hours in the mines, allowing some of the miners to take a welcome break; and after breaking his fast, he dealt with any ravens that were now hand-delivered to him by Maester Mallor, and any other paperwork that accumulated. How he amassed paperwork when this was not his castle, Jon did not understand - until he had gone through the first scrolls and realised that his men were inventorying the obsidian they managed to mine and crate up, ready for shipping. Maester Mallor had been helpful in providing some basic sums to work out the quantity of weapons that could potentially be forged from what they had already mined - how many men they could arm against the Night King's army.
After looking at the figures, it helped Jon to go into the mine and hit things with a pick-axe, until even his arms, so used to wielding Long Claw, started to ache.
Thinking of Lord Varys' request, Jon grumbled, and staggered to Dragonstone's baths. Some were sulphuric, which soothed his aching body; some were cold plunge baths, and others likely had a spring directly from the bowels of Dragonmont, the water bubbled so hot. He immersed himself in the hot water, washing the sweat from his hair, and grumbled that he should probably crop his hair short again - ever since Lady Melisandra had shorn him, he had come to realise just how long and distracting he had allowed his hair to grow out. A male Meereenese attendant bowed courteously when Jon caught his eye, and he came forward; cropped Jon's hair and beard just a little shorter, neatening him up.
Getting pretty for the Queen, he thought, reminded only too vividly of being sheared and shaved before the King's arrival at Winterfell. He felt the same sense of queer dread at the idea of attending court tonight: For the sake of potential allies in the Queen's Council, if not the Queen, Jon would suffer it…and try to hold his tongue. Little annoyed him more than the Queen's attitude. He was scowling at the prospect of attending court and having to pretend to enjoy the Queen's entertainers - gymnasts and musicians who made unnerving, alien music, dancers and performing monkeys - as he made his way through the halls, back to the suite of rooms set aside for the Stark host, in a fresh linen shirt and clean breeches, overly hot from the sultry moisture of the baths, and feeling entirely too clean and vulnerable because of it.
"Your Grace," one of his men stood to attention, his eyes flitting to Jon's face before focusing on the wall directly opposite him. "You've a visitor waiting within."
Jon groaned, rubbing his face with his hand, exhausted.
Please don't let it be her, he thought. He wasn't in the mood to be cornered by the Queen - not when he'd made up his mind to be civil for the sake of her courtiers. She had not yet sought him out, but he wasn't stupid: She wanted to conquer Westeros, yes - but she wanted to conquer him.
And for all her beauty, and her terrifying dragons, Jon had little to no respect for her.
He did wonder what it might mean - what it might come to - that the Queen desired him.
The Queen was no fool, though: He could not just pretend to fall helplessly in love with her, besotted and amenable to her every whim and desire. She'd see through it: He had to play a very careful, very cautious - very patient game. As long as she was still flirting on that precarious line between lust and wrath, Jon could do as he liked, could challenge her - and withstand every attempt to force him to submit to her without repercussions.
And nor was Jon a fool to believe that her desire to have him as her lover could protect him for much longer. She had come to Westeros to reclaim the Iron Throne - and that meant conquering all seven of the kingdoms. Jon was a diversion; and he stood in the way of her ultimate goal, no matter what she said about freedom and shattering wheels.
It wasn't the Queen, to Jon's relief.
To his surprise, it was Lady Alynore.
She sat on the elegant dragon-shaped chaise in front of the hearth, the firelight lovingly caressing her profile as she started to rise from the chaise.
And Jon drew to a stop, staring. Because she…was beautiful. And something had altered in her, in the last few hours since Jon had seen her, Jon could see it. It had little to do with how shiny and soft her hair looked in the firelight, tumbling in waves over her shoulders in a pretty style with soft twists and a delicate bun, or even how understatedly sensual and elegant her gown was, billowing skirts of chiffon so pale a pink they were almost white, pearlescent in the firelight, with sleeves that billowed from shoulder to wrist and trailed on the floor, the shoulders exquisitely embroidered with pale-pink and delicate rose-gold, the entire bodice - loose, with no corseting, Jon couldn't help but notice, and with a deep neckline that showed the mouth-watering swells of her little breasts - shimmering with the same intricate embroidery of open, evocative roses in palest-pink and rose-gold.
It wasn't that the firelight made love to her impossibly soft skin, caressing the curves of her breasts. It wasn't that she looked exquisite and untouchable, with her shimmering hair threaded with delicate white chickweed flowers instead of jewels.
It was that she seemed to radiate a tranquil strength.
There was a softness to her, still, a calmness - but the graceful resilience was utterly captivating.
She looked…absolutely delectable, and that wasn't a word grim soldier Jon Snow had much call to use.
Beside her on the chaise, a cloak had been tucked into neat, heavy folds. Jon's cloak. The one Sansa had made for him.
And he understood in that moment why he appreciated Lady Alynore so much more than he ever would Queen Daenerys: Lady Alynore reminded him of Sansa. The impossible elegance, the daintiness and seemingly infinite patience…the prettiness concealing a stern bite of strength and steel. And far cleverer than appearances suggested. Clever - with the wisdom to observe, and keep her own council, rather than blurt out the first thing that popped into her head, or let herself be swept up by emotion.
"Lady Alynore," he said softly, not hiding his surprise. The door closed stoutly behind him, and he was aware of the crackle of the flames, the soft pattering of a gentle rain, and Lady Alynore's chest rising and falling quickly - betraying her nerves, even as she stood so serenely.
"I…thought to return your cloak," Lady Alynore said, glancing down at it, folded on the chaise. "The stitching is very fine."
"My sister Sansa sewed it for me, when I left Castle Black," Jon said quietly, not sure why he was telling her that. He watched the young lady, who seemed to be working herself up to something. He frowned gently. "You have not been waiting long?"
"I - Yes, but…I'm quite glad of the reprieve. My cousins are wonderful…but they do consume all my attention," Lady Alynore said, with a soft wince of guilt. "I… I also wanted to ask you something, before I go to court. It…isn't something I desire anyone else to learn of."
"Oh?"
"When you told us about Highgarden…you said that if there was anything you could do for us, we had only to ask," Lady Alynore said, and somehow, though she hadn't moved, she stood before Jon, her eyes impossibly green, her gaze shy.
"I did," Jon confirmed with a murmur.
Lady Alynore took a breath, and swallowed. "What I wish to ask is…is hard for me…and I ask that you not…not give your answer immediately. Because I would like you to think…about all of the implications… And please, do not laugh."
"I promise," Jon said solemnly, and Lady Alynore nodded, almost to herself - as if she was talking herself into asking whatever it was. He was curious, more than wary. Lady Alynore was such a serene, perceptive person, and he had noticed that from his earliest days at Dragonstone.
"Highgarden has been sacked; the Reach is in disarray because of our bannermen's betrayal. And I am the future of my House," Lady Alynore said, faint lines creasing at the corners of her eyes that hadn't been there weeks ago, as she winced. "If House Tyrell can reclaim Highgarden…the lords of the Reach will be circling for the blood of my maidenhead…" Jon blinked, caught himself from gaping at her bluntness. "They will take my family's home, our lands and our wealth as their own. They will erase the name of Tyrell. And I have no men in my family to protect me from the kinds of abuses young wives too often endure when they are friendless and powerless." She raised her pale-green eyes to Jon's stormy dark-grey ones. "I'm not like your sister. I have no-one to fight for me. For us. And the bannermen of the Reach will fight over the chance to breed on me, as the key to the Reach. My children will become the true power in the Reach; the lords of the Reach will fight for the right to father them."
Jon frowned, completely thrown off. "What is it you would ask of me, Lady Alynore?"
Lady Alynore blushed hotly, but raised her eyes to his face, even as she gasped, "A child." Her hands shook, and she flushed, embarrassed - humiliated, Jon realised, not just uncomfortable; she was absolutely humiliated standing here, asking him to… "I would ask you to father a child."
He stared. Lady Alynore blushed.
She licked her lips delicately, rubbing her arms, obviously flustered.
"When we return to the Reach, I would return with a child, my heir… The only way to secure the future of my House without yielding it to one of our traitorous bannermen…is to return heavy with a child. My child - a Tyrell," Lady Alynore said, still pink-cheeked, embarrassed, but determined to hold Jon's gaze. "As a mother, I can secure the future of my House without surrendering anything."
Jon bit his tongue. It had cost her to come and ask him this, he understood. A lady, asking him…to stud her.
"As a widow, and mother to an infant, I would be within my rights to refuse marriage - for decades, if I so chose," Lady Alynore said, clearing her throat delicately. "It…it would provide me with time, to rebuild the Reach…"
"You wish me to father a bastard on you?" Jon clarified, his voice faint, still stunned.
Lady Alynore blushed again. "No…no, not a bastard. The child's father would be Willas Tyrell…Lord of the Reach, after Lord Mace Tyrell's death in the Sept of Baelor," Lady Alynore said.
"Your cousin," Jon said quietly, and Lady Alynore nodded sadly. Jon heard her tiny sigh, saw the way her shoulders fell slightly. "But he wasn't your husband, was he?"
Lady Alynore's eyes shimmered as she glanced up, and Jon saw just how difficult it was for her to come to him, to ask him this. How much she had truly had to take on, and work through, and set aside to do what was necessary to protect the future of her family. He saw the grief… "No. But there's no-one now to confirm or deny that our marriage took place…especially if it was in private, while our family was in mourning… My grandmother had decided that Willas and I would marry when we returned to Dragonstone… The intent never became a reality, but…the idea provides opportunity."
Jon frowned at her, finding her request bizarre and terribly sad at the same time.
"My family has been slaughtered…our bannermen have betrayed us," Lady Alynore said, her grief tangible as she gazed up at Jon, her eyes shimmering. She gasped softly, tearful, her voice choked as she said, "There's no-one. I have to do it alone…and this is the only way I could think how… The only way I can… I will not reward oath-breakers with anything but their lives." Her words became stronger, almost fierce; she drew herself up, elegant and resilient, and Jon would be lying if he said he was not, in that moment, in awe of Lady Tyrell.
Jon stared at her. His bannermen had called for House Karstark and House Umber to be wiped from the pages of history, their castles and holdfasts torn down, their children put to the sword: Jon had rewarded those men with death on the battlefield - and life for their families, in spite of their betrayal.
Did he respect Lady Alynore for her quiet determination, even as he was stunned by her request?
She cleared her throat delicately, glancing up into his eyes, bashful but softly defiant. "Please do not give me your answer tonight. I know…what it may mean to you, my asking you. You are a man of honour, and it goes against your nature to even consider such a thing. Know that I have thought long and hard about this, and do not make this request of you lightly."
She being Lady Tyrell and Jon the King in the North, she dipped Jon a pretty curtsy and left Jon stunned, listening to the whisper of her skirts against the carpeted stone floor, the sound of the door opening and closing, and the silence broken by crackle of flames, the log spitting embers, and the pattering of rain.
"Seven hells!" he blurted to himself finally, gaping.
War, politics, Jon was fully prepared to do what he had to when it came to battles and court intrigue.
Since arriving at Dragonstone, Lady Alynore's request was the first thing to unnerve him.
What in seven hells was he supposed to do? He thought of Ser Davos, of Sansa…of Sansa, who had endured everything Lady Alynore dreaded.
Would Jon do what he could to stop such atrocities being committed against the delicate, serene, strong Lady Alynore?
Could he…father a bastard?
It would be Lord Willas Tyrell's child, he thought, frowning, remembering Lady Alynore's words. Not a bastard; heir to the Reach. But still Jon's bastard child.
He didn't even want to consider the political implications, of the King in the North impregnating the young Lady of the Reach with a bastard - when she was so very young, and suffering such acute grief.
He remembered her quiet resolve as she had gazed up at him. She was no wilting flower, docile and submissive, wringing her hands - she had a steady strength and gentle charisma that was entrancing, and Jon couldn't deny…he found her very attractive, for all those qualities. So like Sansa, without the sharp bite of a direwolf's fangs; so like Sansa…before Ramsey, Jon imagined. Quiet, resolute and enduring - surviving the impossible through charm, political savviness and shrewd skills of observation and an unfailing intuition.
Jon drifted to the Queen's court an hour later, still stunned.
Queen Daenerys looked especially resplendent, all in black, something gauzy, diaphanous and glittering. The sheer black fabric showed tempting glimpses of her nipples, her navel and the tempting shadow at the apex of her thighs. Her hair had been brushed until it gleamed like crushed pearls in the candlelight, twisted and braided away from her face, cascading down her back as she reclined on her favourite chaise mounded with down pillows, luxurious silver furs and soft Qartheen shawls.
Jon couldn't focus on anything but the shit-storm stirred up inside his own mind. He was focused, not on the Dragon Queen, but on Lady Alynore, in her more modest but utterly sensual gown as she played cyvasse with Nymeria Sand - or rather, he was distracted by Lady Alynore's request.
He was courteous as he had been taught by strenuous lessons with Septa Mordane on etiquette, letting his gut instincts guide him through fifty tiny courses, fine Essosi wines and entertainments after every tenth course.
Situated beside Lord Tyrion, Jon found himself asking the Hand of the Queen to confirm that he was, indeed, venturing out with the Queen's armies.
"Indeed, I am," Lord Tyrion sighed, eyeing the sinuous wine-decanter in front of him with a satisfied smile. On his other side sat his companion Tisseia, who always had a sweet, dimpling smile for Jon, cheerful and sensible as ever - her dark eyes flitted to the Queen, ever watchful, deeply protective of Lord Tyrion.
Jon muttered, "And if you happen to meet your brother on the battlefield?"
"He saved my life, more times than even I know," Tyrion told Jon, taking a healthy gulp from his wine-glass. Lord Tryion's shrewd eyes flitted to Daenerys. "I will do what I must to ensure his life. Mayhap the Queen could be convinced to exile her defeated enemies to the Wall and join your brothers."
"My brothers at Winterfell? Sansa's last raven told me the Watch has retreated to Winterfell to join with our forces there," Jon told Lord Tyrion. "She'd send her enemies north to another kingdom she considers to be an aggressor against her claim to the Iron Throne?"
Throughout the interminable meal, which seemed far too much like a celebration of anticipated victory than a farewell, Jon sat grim and thoughtful, unless coaxed into conversation by one of the other ladies of the court. And every now and then, the firelight flickered and caught on Lady Alynore's palest-pink gown…she was radiant, by all appearances recovered from her embarrassment in Jon's chamber, charming but quiet and gentle as ever.
Perhaps Daenerys had grown impatient at being ignored: Perhaps she had noticed that Jon's gaze kept returning to Lady Alynore. Either way, she was peeved. And, to snare Jon's attention, she provoked an argument.
In the drawing-room, lounging on her favourite chaise, with a glass of clear sparkling wine in her hand and a Meereenese lute-player playing to her, Queen Daenerys spoke up. And when she spoke, the court tended to go silent to listen: She expected to be listened to.
"Since my earliest memories, I have known one thing: The fight to reclaim the Iron Throne. It is mine by blood-right, and I will not be diverted by clever words from men who are so small they cannot conceive of a world I desire to build," the Queen said, and the comment was intended as a slap in the face, not just to those small men she had come across on her journey to becoming the woman she was, but to her Hand, who was trying his utmost to curb her worst, most volatile instincts. "My Council believes I should use patience and tactic in this war, and outmanoeuvre Cersei, rather than unleash my armies and my dragons. Thus far I have followed their advice. And they have proven only that their combined strategic brilliance amounts to defeated allies. I am losing this war before it has begun."
She was looking steadily at Jon, though her accusations caused the court to bristle.
Jon sighed heavily. "Cersei drew first blood, is all," he said, shrugging. "Did you expect your invasion to be a bloodless surrender? People unfurling secret banners, raising toasts to your triumphant return?"
He scolded himself for his flippant tone, taunting her. The Queen looked…startled, staring at Jon. Her lips parted, her eyes glowing purple in the candlelight, and for a moment, she looked horrified - and faraway, lost in memory.
Strangely, for the Queen, she relented, just enough to quietly ask Jon, "What do you think I should do?"
He was too tired for this. Too consumed by thoughts of obsidian, and of pale-green eyes shimmering with tears, and an absurd, tempting request. He rubbed his face, showing just how exhausted he felt; it was far too late in the evening, the Queen's dinners always extending late into the Hour of the Wolf.
"I think that you helped make something impossible happen when those dragons were hatched. They were born into the world again for a reason… Personally, I don't believe they were reborn into the world for something as trifling as a human war for a throne…" Jon said, honestly. He sighed, glancing around at the members of Queen Daenerys' court - the Essosi who had come halfway across the world with her. "Maybe their impossible birth helps the people who follow you believe that you can make more impossibilities become real… You say you want to break the wheel, to destroy those who would oppose people without mercy… As long as you do as you please to get what you want - to sit on the Iron Throne your family built, which created the wheel you say you want to destroy… If you use those dragons to melt castles and burn cities, you're no different, no better than Cersei or anyone else who came before you. Just more of the same."
"And this is why you refuse to kneel," Queen Daenerys prompted, her voice like iron.
"I've seen nothing here on Dragonstone to convince me why I should, Your Grace."
The Queen's expression turned cold, her posture brittle even as she remained reclined on her chaise. "You came here for your people. Isn't their survival more important than your pride?"
"Fuck my pride," Jon bit out, scowling, and he had to bite down on a smile as he thought of a grim ice-bitten cell, a man he respected in shackles, eyes wide at the prospect of being burned alive for refusing to kneel. He addressed Daenerys, finally understanding Mance's words. "My pride's the last reason why I will never yield the North. If you can't understand why I won't give up the safety and survival of my people to a foreign invader who would enlist them to a cause not their own…there's no point me wasting my breath trying to explain."
He sighed heavily, climbing out of his seat. Annoyed by the Queen's arrogance, bewildered by Lady Alynore's request, exhausted, Jon nodded courteously to the court. He finally turned to Daenerys, telling her grimly, "I wish you good fortune, Your Grace, in the wars to come."
A.N.: What do you think of Lady Alynore's request? I know I've said one recurring theme will be mercy/justice, but I also want to contrast Daenerys, willing to destroy everything for what she wants, with the Starks who actively build for the future - and nothing symbolises the future more than children.
There was a lot going on in this chapter, I know! I didn't realise it was going to end up quite so long. But I'm so delighted with all the little dragon-eggs I've scattered throughout it. Jon thinking about Rhaegar and his children; talking about Larra's favourite Targaryens who wielded Dark Sister… Mance Rayder's final words to Jon.
I have face-claims for the adult Tyrell girls: Alyssa - Behati Prinsloo; Poppy - Barbra Pavlin; Cassia - Lenaya Grace; Ren - Alicia Vikander; and Amna - Dakota Johnson.
There's a picture of Alynore's gown on the Pinterest board I've made for this story, 'Larra Snow - Valyrian Steel' under the 'Tyrells & Lannisters' section.