A.N.: Thank you for all the reviews! I'm glad you're enjoying this - I'm having a fab time writing it!
Valyrian Steel
26
Glorious Victory
"Your Grace…"
"Ser Davos!" Jon grinned, and embraced the older man like any one of his brothers. "Well, you look no worse for wear. How was Storm's End?"
"The Stormlords could not agree between them that the ocean is wet," Ser Davos said, his beard twitching, but something glinted darkly in his eyes. "They bicker over who should take possession of Storm's End. The castellan holds it, and will not yield it. Ah, none of the Stormlords has the men to take the castle anyway."
"Taking a castle's simple enough, even without numbers," Theon muttered, looking shame-faced. "It's holding it."
"Who's that?" Jon asked, frowning. Winter was not alone in the bay; another ship, its sails emblazoned with the sigil of a shield-maiden wearing a winged helmet and wielding a sword, was new to the bay. "Er…House Barahir of…Val Hall?"
"I told you I'd do what I could, convince any who'd listen," Ser Davos said, looking disappointed nonetheless, even as Jon stared in surprise.
"He's pledged to fight?"
"Well, he didn't come all this way to propose marriage t'you, for all you're so pretty," Ser Davos quipped, and Jon smiled. "Shall we wait for him? And while we do, you can tell me all about this alleged ranging beyond the Wall seeking to kidnap dead men."
"How did you - ?!" Jon blurted, and then realised, frowning at Theon, who shrugged.
"Aye, Theon was here as Winter weighed anchor," Ser Davos nodded. "No greetings, just 'You've got to talk some sense into him'. Hopefully I'll have better luck than I did with the Stormlords."
Jon sighed heavily, and told Ser Davos everything. He listened, without interrupting, let Jon explain his reasoning, his plans.
"I told Jon it doesn't count as a plan if it takes you longer to say it than it does to think it up," Theon said, shaking his head.
"I agree, it's a reckless venture," Ser Davos frowned, staring at Jon, who remained grim and determined. Ser Davos sighed heavily, "But if all Jon says is true…it may be our only chance. We need armies. Real armies, if Queen Daenerys won't offer hers." Jon and Theon shared a look, and Ser Davos frowned. "What is it?"
"You've not heard?" Theon prompted, wincing.
Jon sighed heavily, talking himself up to telling Ser Davos, "Daenerys unleashed the Dothraki hordes upon the Lannister armies. She unleashed Drogon. She sent her Dothraki to ambush the Lannisters headed to the capital on the Gold Road… She burned every man, woman and child bearing the name Lannister."
Ser Davos blinked quickly. His beard twitched. He stared at Jon, and he knew in Ser Davos' mind, those children all had Princess Shireen's face. "All of them?"
"All but seven young girls. For the seven Tyrells safe on Dragonstone when Highgarden was sacked," Jon said, grimacing, glacial rage searing through him. "She called it justice."
"We received word of it last night," Theon said quietly. "And Daenerys is on her way back, with all the food from the Reach, and gold from Casterly Rock."
"And the little girls?" Ser Davos asked, looking aghast.
"They'll likely be her wards," Jon said coldly, and Ser Davos' beard twitched as his eyes narrowed. Sansa had been the ward of a Queen; Jon knew exactly what kindnesses lay in store for those girls. Ser Davos eyed Jon shrewdly, understood the quiet rage in Jon's voice.
"Your Grace, it sis my learned opinion that it's best we make our graceful departure from the Queen's court as soon as possible," Ser Davos said brusquely, and Jon nodded.
"I couldn't agree with you more, Ser Davos," Jon said grimly.
"If I may caution you," Ser Davos said, wincing, and he seemed to set aside his anger, or push it deep down. "If we do not wish the Queen to misconstrue your departure as you using the first opportunity to escape…it would be prudent to prolong our voyage back to White Harbour just long enough to see her return triumphant from her slaughter."
"Aye… I was thinking the same," Jon said, though he would love nothing more than to leave this wretched island and never return, never think of Daenerys Targaryen and her warped principles ever again. He wanted to bury his head in the snow, he'd freely admit it: And he'd rather go North to capture a wight than have to endure his presence in the Dragon Queen's court much longer. "I have to stay, anyway, if I have a chance of convincing Daenerys to agree to an armistice. Or at the very least, convince the Lord Hand to intercede on my behalf. Lord Varys has already offered his help in arranging things with Queen Cersei."
"You want the both of them there?"
"I need to show them what they should truly be fighting," Jon sighed, rubbing his face.
"You look tired," Ser Davos frowned, and Jon saw Theon's tiny smirk.
"He's been having a lot of late nights," Theon said, managing to keep a straight face as Jon shot him a warning glare. Oh, Theon knew about Nora alright. Ser Davos glanced between the two brothers, and gave Jon a look that said he could guess; he had been a young man once.
"Well, I'm glad at least you didn't spend your time pining in my absence, sick with worry that one of the Stormlords would clobber me to death with his drinking-horn," Ser Davos said, and Jon smiled.
"Were you in any real danger?"
"No, not really," Ser Davos chuckled. "Hot-tempered young men and old warriors who know better, just as I thought. I brought back the only one with good sense and a sizeable force at his command."
A small boat had just brought a group of men to the quay, the guards wearing the shield-maiden sigil proudly, a dark-haired, grim-faced man in leather-covered black armour and a heavy fur-trimmed cloak leading them as he strode toward Ser Davos.
"Jon Snow, this is Lord Marton Barahir," Ser Davos said, and the older man bowed humbly to Jon. "Lord Barahir, this is Jon Snow, King in the North."
"You have the look of the Starks," said Lord Barahir, "and from what Ser Davos tells me, you inherited your father's nature. I knew Ned; we became men together, fighting side-by-side in the Rebellion. He saved my life half a dozen times. It is right that I start to settle a debt that can never be repaid."
"Lord Barahir inherited Val Hall from his nephew, Your Grace," Ser Davos explained, "after King Stannis was defeated on the moors beyond Winterfell."
"I have only recently returned from Essos, Your Grace, where I fought with the Second Sons," Lord Barahir said regretfully. "I returned to find my lands in chaos, Val Hall in disarray. I have one hundred men with me; six hundred more I have instructed to sail directly to White Harbour, and make their way to Winterfell. I pledge my sword to you, and will be honoured to fight and die by your side."
Jon stood, stunned. He stared at the man. He had a not-unhandsome, earnest face, cropped dark hair and a few noticeable scars. His men stood tall and proud. "Ser Davos…told you what you're to face at Winterfell?"
"It matters not to me whether your enemies are creatures from myth or merely wildlings masquerading. I owe my life to Ned Stark," Lord Barahir said solidly. He unsheathed his sword, and placed the tip down in front of him, holding the hilt with both hands - as Ned Umber and Alys Karstark had, in the Great Hall at Winterfell so long ago. "If by my life or death I can protect you, I will."
Jon had never needed to learn how a king addressed a knight or lord who pledged his sword; he needed Sansa here for that sort of thing.
"Thank you, Lord Barahir," he said, and his simplicity and his earnestness shone through, and it was enough for Lord Barahir, who was a simple, earnest man himself, and remembered Ned Stark as a quiet man who chose his words carefully.
"Tell me…has the walkway up to the castle shortened in my absence?" Ser Davos asked, and Jon smiled.
"It's gotten longer, if anything," Jon said, turning to grimace up at the eerie castle. "But there will be stew and ale at the top."
"That's good enough for me," said Lord Barahir, sheathing his sword. His grim face broke into a smile, and they started the climb. Lord Barahir was quiet, but interested to hear news from other parts of Westeros: He was newly-returned to the Seven Kingdoms, uncertain about the invasion of Daenerys Targaryen, but curious about Jon's journey from the Wall to kingship. Jon wondered if everyone he ever met henceforth would be curious to hear that story. It was long and bloody, as he had told Lord Tyrion when he first arrived at Dragonstone - and he didn't much like telling it.
And in his turn, Lord Barahir told them about his time with the Second Sons. His perspective on the sacking of Astapor, Yunkai and Meereen. Some of his men had journeyed to Westeros with him, born in Essos but desiring a home, and a strong commander they could respect: Some of those men had fled from Meereen, leaving great pyramids smoking behind them, a civil war raging.
Jon didn't know how long ago that was: Daenerys had allegedly left Meereen in a state of détente with its neighbours, no more masked ambushes in the streets or the Fighting Pits. Lord Barahir's men had escaped a city tearing itself apart.
As they climbed, and talked, Jon added Lord Barahir's seven-hundred men to the Northmen, Valemen and Free Folk who could fight. It would not be enough to break the Night King's armies…but it was more men than he had woken up with this morning.
If Sam killing the first White Walker in millennia had taught Jon anything, it was that every man counted. It had taught people not to underestimate appearances.
Their army would be small, patchwork, and deathly afraid - but the Night King would underestimate them - how could he not? His army was unbeatable, his commanders implacable. But they would fight, regardless.
Jon was startled from his grim thoughts by the presence of Lady Olenna in the great dining-hall, ready to break her fast. It was the first time she had appeared outside her chambers in the Sea Dragon Tower, and she looked pale, but there was a steely glint in her eyes as she glanced away from Ellaria Sand at the sound of Jon's approach.
Jon couldn't help note the lack of Essosi in the hall: The servants were liveried with the Tyrell rose and the sun and spear of Dorne. There were no Dothraki present. The only person from Essos present in the hall was Lady Tisseia, Lord Tyrion's freed-slave companion and head of his household. Even Daenerys' young cupbearers Qezza and Zafiyah were absent, though they usually enjoyed dining with the Sandsnakes and the Tyrell girls.
"Lady Olenna… I'm glad to see you back at court," Jon said earnestly. Close by, Nora smiled and filled a plate for Amna, who stuck her tongue between her teeth in concentration as she carried the plate to the polished table.
"It must have been ponderously dull without my presence," Lady Olenna said mockingly, her lips twitching. "Hmph. The Onion Knight returns. How were the Stormlords?"
"Squabbling children in need of a firm hand," Ser Davos said, bowing to the majestic old lady. "I'm glad to see you, my lady."
"And who is this?" Lady Olenna asked, gazing shrewdly at Lord Barahir, who bowed low to Lay Olenna, and to the other ladies present.
"Tell me, Lord Barahir, you have a shield-maiden for your sigil…" This was Nymeria Sand, purring and sensual even before breaking her fast. "Are there women fighting in your army?"
"None, my lady," Lord Barahir said. "My ancestors, the First Men, had many shield-maidens and spear-wives who fought side-by-side with their fathers and brothers and sons. We honour them."
"You would honour them by training your women, no?" Obara Sand grunted.
"Please forgive these young girls their barbed tongues," Ellaria Sand smiled graciously, standing to curtsy to Lord Barahir. "They find it hard to reconcile their own privileged upbringing with the standards imposed on the rest of Westerosi women."
"The King has allowed women to fight for him," said Obara stoutly, her dark eyes - identical to each of her sisters' - flickering to Jon with a hint of respect. It was difficult to tell with Obara, who always seemed angry.
"I'm not brave enough to forbid those women from fighting," Jon said, and Ser Davos chuckled.
"Northwomen…are forces of Nature," he said, with his beard twitching in amusement. "They frighten me more than the men."
"With good reason," Jon grinned, and Ser Davos chuckled. They both adored Lady Mormont - but she was a terror.
"You have come a long way, Lord Barahir," Lady Olenna said, frowning. "I'm afraid Queen Daenerys is still on the mainland, roasting pregnant women and young boys alive."
Jon glanced sharply at Lady Olenna.
"I did not come for the Dragon Lady," said Lord Barahir solemnly.
"You call her lady," Nymeria Sand murmured. "She is a queen."
"No longer. Meereen has rejected her sovereignty. I returned from Essos when I learned that I had inherited Val Hall from my nephew. I fought with the Second Sons; some of my men had chosen to follow Daenerys Targaryen after Astapor…" Lord Barahir said, and everyone turned to stare at him, wary of the words that next poured from his lips. "When she set sail with the Dothraki and her Unsullied, she left vulnerable those she had sworn to protect… Some of my men were her lieutenants. They were given a choice: Surrender the city and flee, or die."
"So they abandoned it."
"A free Meereen was her vision, but she left others to see it born into a reality. Sell-swords who fight for gold in their purse, not ideas of a better world, and old men who did not wish to die so far from their home…" Lord Barahir said grimly. He shook his head, sighing, "Meereen is gripped by another civil war: But both sides agree, Daenerys Targaryen abandoned them. She is no longer their queen."
"I think it wise we keep such news between us for the present time," Lady Olenna said carefully, sliding her shrewd eyes over everyone.
"Jon mentioned something…in the West," Ser Davos hedged.
"A Lion Culling," Lady Olenna said, and Ellaria Sand sipped her tea, concealing her expression.
"Tell me," Ser Davos said, glancing at Jon.
"After we've broken our fast," Jon said heavily, clapping a hand on Ser Davos' shoulder. "You won't feel so hungry after I've told you."
Lady Olenna was grim, disappointed but unsurprised that Daenerys had resorted to unleashing Drogon, inflicting cruelty and vengeance - "and she did so in the name of avenging Highgarden! To have House Tyrell associated with such an act… To eradicate House Lannister is one thing; to make a show of sparing a chosen handful as the Queen's justice… It sits ill with me, I do not deny it. It feels absolutely wretched. She has besmirched our name."
"She has dishonoured her own," Jon muttered, and Lady Olenna gave him a dark, calculating look. "She's done more harm to her own cause than Cersei's."
"Agreed," Lord Varys sniffed, as Lord Barahir nodded solemnly, mopping up the gravy in his bowl with crusty bread, and Ellaria Sand muttered low with Nymeria, lolling sensuously on a chaise eyeing up Lord Barahir like choice steak, and Obara, who was glaring at Jon. He didn't mind that: She was always glaring.
"Impetuous youth…foolhardy," Lady Olenna sniffed, shaking her head. She was becoming more animated the more agitated she was over the Lion Culling - and its association with House Tyrell. Ser Davos was quiet in thought, and it was the quiet that worried Jon, knowing all too well his advisor's thoughts had turned to Princess Shireen. "I doubt she will live long enough to learn her lesson."
There was a shocked silence, more for the almost-treasonous talk than who had spoken: Lady Olenna was nothing if not punishingly honest and astute in her observations.
"You don't think she will win this war?" Ellaria Sand prompted.
"I think Cersei Lannister is an expert at waging emotional war on her enemies. She's just as short-sighted as our young queen, but she knows how to play people. And Daenerys Targaryen, whatever she thinks, is a slave to her emotions," Lady Olenna said, sighing. She shook her head. "As a young woman I knew I had to appear to indulge in my emotions but remain above them, if I wanted to survive, if I wanted my family to thrive… I was good…I was very good. Margaery was even better… And Cersei destroyed all that she was, all that I had taught her to be, in the work of a single morning… I am alive because Margaery risked everything to warn me to flee the city before that wretch came for me too… What for? To witness the destruction of my House, the last of them frightened little girls clinging to the skirts of a woman whose body is failing her?"
"You survived so those girls would have a future," Jon reminded her gently, and Lady Olenna gave him a fond smile that reminded him suddenly of Old Nan. "They need you. You're the Queen of Thorns and you're ferocious as any direwolf. They need you to protect them, and guide them. Endure for them, if you can't bear to keep going for yourself."
Lady Olenna eyed Jon shrewdly. "Who is it you endure for, Jon Snow? Not the North, no…you're too tired to be a true hero like the tales. You're here because you love someone so fiercely even Death cannot claim you."
A flicker of vibrant red hair, a hesitant smile, gentle hands - Jon swallowed, and frowned at Lady Olenna. The scars on his chest seemed to burn, as a reminder. "Death tried."
"Mm. With me also," Lady Olenna sighed.
"I don't imagine the Seven are quite ready for the Queen of Thorns," Jon said, and several people chuckled indulgently. "Not nearly enough time to prepare for that."
"Hm. I enjoy you," Lady Olenna declared, smiling fondly. "It's rare to find someone unabashedly kind, even when their tongue is sharp."
"You'd have liked my twin-sister Larra. She was stern…but she was lovely. Children adored her; they knew where they stood with her…" Jon said, and whatever humour had bubbled up inside him died. He sighed softly, and told Lady Olenna, "It's the same with you."
"Your grandfather was the same," Lady Olenna told him. People rarely spoke about Lord Rickard, even at Winterfell, where he was still in living memory. "I imagine Ned Stark was, too. You have more guile, though I can tell you detest the game."
"You can't just kill everyone you disagree with," Jon grumbled, and there was a touch of disappointment in his voice that made Lady Olenna smirk.
"No matter how tempting. She's made it that much harder for herself, now," Lady Olenna mused, and her eyes were sharp, ironic, when she muttered, "The Dragon Queen burns women and babies and brittle old men… People will obey her…they will endure her; but they will wait with baited breath for her demise. And plot to bring it about all the sooner."
"Do you remember her father?" asked Nymeria Sand, her eyes lowered almost coyly.
"I do. His reign started off promisingly enough. But there were always glimmers," Lady Olenna said after a moment, her face thoughtful, as if she was peering into the past. "And after Duskendale… He set the precedent at Duskendale, for how he would treat his enemies the rest of his reign… The Ash Meadow, the Lion Culling… I have seen it before. I did not desire the death of children: I desired Cersei's execution… It won't work, of course."
"What?"
"Burning all those Lannisters. Cersei proved the morning of the Sept that she did not care one whit about her kinfolk. Cersei cares about Cersei. Her sons are dead. Prince Doran wisely keeps the little lioness cloistered in the Water Gardens, and refuses to yield her to Daenerys for anything," Lady Olenna said, nodding respectfully toward the Sands, Prince Doran's emissaries. "What could Daenerys possibly do to Cersei that would ever hurt her, when Daenerys' own allies are both wise and cautious, and morally opposed to allowing the butchery of innocent princesses be the consequence of war." She eyed Jon sharply. "And what is this I hear of an expedition to hunt dead men?"
The Sands exchanged a look; Lord Barahir frowned softly. Ser Davos glanced up, and Theon sighed heavily.
"The only way to convince everyone is to show them. I intend to show Queen Daenerys and Queen Cersei the truth of the thing," Jon said. "This war of theirs is petty. The real war is in the North. And if we cannot fight, and are defeated…this quarrel between them will cause the world's ending."
"To risk being contrary - you have yet to convince the majority of us," Lady Olenna reminded him. "Lord Varys speaks of an armistice. I do believe I shall focus all my energies on shoring up the strength to attend. I've still a few thorns left in me with which to pierce Queen Cersei and make her bleed."
"Any armistice cannot be about wounding each other," Jon warned, and Lady Olenna glanced at him shrewdly, the iron tone in his voice making her eyes widen subtly.
"Young man…that is exactly what such an opportunity presents. It's what they were created for," Lady Olenna sighed, her smile ironic and tired. "Wounds inflicted with words, not weapons. You can be certain Queen Cersei will find a way to hook her claws under your skin."
"I've a tough pelt, my lady," Jon said, and Lady Olenna chuckled. "I'm a bastard of the North. I do not forget what I am." Lady Olenna stared back at him, thinly-veiled insinuation in her gaze: he remembered their conversation regarding the curious timing of Ned's return to Winterfell - with babies, and a pile of bones belonging to his sister.
"This…venture you speak of," Ellaria said, gazing at Jon, her dark eyes shrewd. "You will journey beyond the Wall? To snatch one of these…wights of the old legends…"
"Yes, my lady…"
Ellaria glanced over her shoulder at her lover's older daughters, sensual and elegant as ever. Ellaria was a nobleman's illegitimate daughter, had been Prince Oberyn's beloved paramour…had the ear of the Prince of Dorne, and his trust… She was one of his advisors, and agents. Jon was under no illusions that Ellaria and Nymeria weren't every bit as dangerous - if not more so - than the Red Viper had ever been. Obara was different: She was a warrior, angry and militant.
"Then Dorne will see it done."
Obara gave a sharp half-bow that managed to appear brutal, telling Jon stoutly, "My spear is yours, Your Grace."
Hours later, Jon climbed one of the great cliffs, the grey-green grass shivering and brittle underfoot, a tell-tale sign that winter was truly setting in on the island, no matter the warm mists of the Dragonmont. The volcano would best the gentlest frosts and the island's geography would protect it from the harsh snows of the mainland…but winter had come. One morning, all of Westeros would wake to a blanket of snow, a gleaming grey sky and a forgotten quiet that accompanied the very beginning of winter, when everything became restful, almost tranquil, when it was still new, and wondrous…
Today, there were few clouds, the sky pale blue, and when the wind died down, the sun was surprisingly hot. Instead of heading inside to dress for court, Jon had chosen to hike up the cliff-side for some air, and some much-needed light after so many hours in the mines. He was determined that when he left for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, his ships would set sail for White Harbour, taking with them the last of the obsidian they had managed to mine. All he could do was hope it was enough. Time was running out, and some was better than none; but he could not stay away too much longer.
Daenerys' return would mark Jon's departure.
He groaned and climbed up to the topmost part of the cliff, and stopped short, not wanting to startle anything…
A dragon rested, sunning its great wings.
It was the green dragon, smaller than Drogon the Dread but not by much. Its great wings, its armoured reptilian body and its terrifying horned head, were all shades of jade green; its wing-joints, horns and the great spikes that studded its back gleamed like dark-bronze in the sun, and in the light even its wings seemed veined with it.
Jon had never been this close, to any of the great winged beasts. Up close, it was even more monstrous than it appeared in the skies. And yet there was something…mesmerising about it, something deep in the pit of his stomach…a fondness, almost. He found himself close to smiling, awed. What Larra and Arya wouldn't have given to see this, he thought, not for the first time. Dragons…
What had the Queen named them? Drogon was the black one. She spoke rarely of the white-and-gold one, but Jon thought she had named him for her brother Viserys…Viserion. And the green-and-bronze…'I named him for my valiant brother, who died on the green banks of the Trident…"
Rhaegal opened his jaws, yawning, and shook his great head, sending a shiver down the spikes lining his spine - protecting his spine. Jon had never been close enough to hear the dragons, and was far too used to Ghost's silence: but Rhaegal made curious noises, cooing and snapping and purring - neither birdsong nor insects chirping, something reptilian and shrieking and entrancing. It was not a sound Jon had ever heard in nature. Because dragons had been thought lost from the world. Like giants. Like White Walkers.
He jumped, when suddenly Rhaegal turned his great head, and fixed molten gold eyes on him. Jaws still open, Jon saw Rhaegal's many layers of obsidian-black, dagger-sharp teeth…
Rhaegal stared at him, eyes dancing like embers, and Jon gazed back, shocked and utterly entranced.
Rhaegal flapped his wings, tucking them against his body, and made a soft, thoughtful, purring hum that gurgled almost playfully in the back of his throat. His neck extended, tucking his body in close - like a cat ready to pounce, he thought, his tail even lashing lazily - Jon heard Rhaegal sniff the air around him. Rhaegal purred, the sound so strangely gentle…a lullaby, almost, and he blinked its golden eyes lazily, before bumping his great leathery nose against Jon's chest.
Jon stumbled back, but caught his footing. Rhaegal nudged him again, making that strange, beautiful sound, and Jon realised he was smiling as he reached his hand out, slowly, to stroke down between Rhaegal's eyes, as he might give a horse affection. More of those soft, curious purrs, and Rhaegal seemed to sigh, his enormous armoured body relaxing, closing his eyes as if lulled by the barest of contact from Jon.
Lord Tyrion had told Jon the story of releasing Rhaegal and Viserion from the makeshift dragon-pit beneath the Great Pyramid in Meereen…how he believed, from extensive reading on the subject, that dragons were more intelligent than men… Lord Tyrion had talked to the terrifyingly beautiful beasts, gently telling them the story of his childhood heartbreak over discovering that the last dragons had died a century ago, and thus he would not likely be receiving a dragon for his name-day gift. Affection for their friends; fury for their enemies… The dragons had offered him the collars bolted around their necks, and he had freed them. Lord Tyrion believed they had understood every word.
"Hello, Rhaegal," Jon said softly, stroking his knuckles over the tough hide between his molten eyes. "What my sisters wouldn't give to meet you… They spent all their childhoods, dreaming they were soaring through the clouds on the back of a dragon, pretending they were Daemon the Rogue Prince and Baela Targaryen… They're gone now…and here you are… There's something excruciatingly ironic about that…"
Rhaegal purred, rustling his enormous wings. A screech shattered the air, and Rhaegal snapped his head around, watchful and tense, and Jon followed the dragon's gaze. The shriek had come from the white-and-gold Viserion, wheeling overhead; he shrieked and called, as Rhaegal cooed and grumbled and bumped his long neck against Jon, and the dragon snorted, flapping its great wings, and Jon ducked as he shot into the sky, buffeting Jon about.
Rhaegal took to the skies, soaring after his brother…
Because their mother had returned home.
Jon saw the ships nearing the bay; Rhaegal and Viserion soared through the air, to circle and bank and wheel overhead, falling into formation with the third, the largest of them, Drogon. And on his back he undoubtedly carried Daenerys.
She had returned.
Jon frowned, and watched the dragons swoop and soar through the air.
Her return meant several things. His departure, yes. But also, the end of his nights spent with Nora: They had both agreed. Jon did not like the risk to Alynore to let it continue under the Queen's nose, when she was…when the Queen was who she was, and would not react well to finding out Jon favoured another.
It meant Daenerys was now at Dragonstone, to coerce into an armistice with Queen Cersei. With Daenerys' return meant Lord Tyrion's, too. Jon was never quite sure whether he should trust Lord Varys, but Jon respected Lord Tyrion. Jon wondered very much how the Lord Hand felt about his queen burning his family alive, and if his feelings would hold any sway over Jon's proposal.
Was Daenerys any better than Cersei, after what Lady Olenna had dubbed the 'Lion Culling'?
Jon strode into his chambers, intending to strip and bathe, and prolong the inevitable - he could not avoid the Queen; she would be expecting everyone there…to congratulate her on her victory. He dreaded the Queen's outlook on it. Because how could she think it was anything but an atrocity? A barbarous war-crime.
"I saw the ships," Nora said gently. She was reclined on his bed, looking sad, but she gave him a soft smile that spoke of acceptance. He sighed, striding over to her, and she helped him out of his shirt. She trailed her fingers over his scars, pressed her lips to his skin, and sighed, leaning her brow against his chest. "I thought we'd have longer."
"So did I," Jon said softly, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. He reached up, to cup her face. She gazed up at him, miserable. The last few weeks had been…wonderful, Jon couldn't deny it: His time with Nora…intimate, gentle and companionable… He had relaxed with her, enjoyed her, and more importantly, he had allowed himself to be relaxed, to enjoy her, to embrace the strange, gentle intimacy that had cocooned them… He had relished…having someone. Not just someone with whom to share his bed: To greet him with a smile at the end of the day, to sift her hands through his hair when he was tired, who hummed gently as she sewed between bouts of their bed-play…who gently coaxed him to confide in her, without doing anything at all but listen… He had enjoyed being no-one but himself - flawed and tired. It was almost a strange relief to learn that someone could enjoy him when everything was stripped bare; when they were together, he wasn't the King in the North. He was Jon. Just Jon, and Nora didn't need him to be anyone else. When he was grumpy, she was patient; when she was upset, he quietly held her and let her cry, the only person in the world she could break down in front of, for whom she did not have to be strong, and composed and elegant.
Their time together, limited though it had been…it had been different than his time with Ygritte, but no less extraordinary, for different reasons. He had loved Ygritte. He adored Nora, knew he would care for her the rest of his life.
Nora reached up, cradling his cheek in her hand, gently stroking with her thumb, sorrowful but accepting. She leaned in, and kissed him, slow and torturous, and Jon tucked her close, savouring it. His tunic fell to the floor; Nora made quick work of his breeches, and they joined together one last time, slow and agonising, deeply passionate, not telling but showing just what they meant to each other, Nora's legs locked around his waist, her fingers tangled in his hair, as he cupped her breasts - she winced softly - and kissed her throat, capturing her mouth as she moaned deeply and arched her back, digging in her heels as he thrust into her, and gurgled a soft laugh of ecstasy as she came down from her orgasm, her thighs quivering, sweat shimmering delicately on her brow, her lips swollen, and Jon groaned, burying his head in her neck, the scent of her soft hair pushing him further as he came inside her.
For a few moments, they lingered, tangled and intimate, savouring the last time they would trail their fingers over warm skin, preening against each other, drawing each other close as they drifted off to sleep, warm and relaxed.
Jon sighed, as Nora slowly sat up. Her long hair tumbled down her back; he reached out to brush his fingers over it, sweeping it away from her face, over her shoulder. Her pale-green eyes were soft and sad as she gazed down at him, her lips still swollen from his kiss. She propped herself up on a taut arm, leaning down to give him a tender, most heart-breaking kiss. He reached out, wanting to hold her close, but ended up only trailing his fingers along her jaw, and she pushed back, climbing off the bed.
He followed, and helped her dress. They didn't speak: She left, pausing at the door only long enough to give Jon a look that emphasised her wish - that they had more time; that neither of them would be quite as lonely as they had been before… But they would, Jon knew it. He thought of the nights to come, alone in the interminable quiet, forever on his guard - even with Sansa…especially with Sansa. Her red her glimmered in his memory, the sweet smile on her lips as they stood gazing out over the godswood, and she had told him that a white raven had arrived from the Citadel, "Winter has come." "Father always promised, didn't he?"
Father. Their father.
Before she had appeared at Castle Black, grubby and cold, Jon hadn't truly thought about Sansa in years. And ever since she had appeared…he couldn't stop thinking about her. Every night, he went to bed sick with worry for her; and every morning, he woke hoping the day would be better than the last for her sake. They had never been close as children: and to go from famine to an oasis of Sansa, her vibrant hair, her delicate scent, her ferocity gentled by elegance…
Father.
Lady Olenna's words had wheedled their way into Jon's mind, and in quiet moments like this, Jon had found himself turning them over and over. He insinuation that Ned Stark…was possibly not his father by blood, but his uncle…that Jon was the child of Lyanna Stark by Rhaegar Targaryen…in which case, Robb and Sansa and Arya and Bran and Rickon had never been his brothers and sisters… They were his cousins. And that…was devastating, even as something in the back of his mind, and the pit of his hurt heart, sparked into an ember of warmth and something - not delight…eagerness.
To be, not Ned Stark's child…but the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna… It sounded impossible. Fanciful, even… And yet…and yet Jon had spent many nights - with Nora curled up against him, her warmth soothing and giving him a sense of protection from his own thoughts…and yet…it added up.
He hated that Lady Olenna had whispered that poison in his ear. That it was the only thing he could think about sometimes, especially when he was hacking away at the obsidian caves. Because if she was right, then Ned Stark was not his father by blood, and he had lied to Jon his entire life…had put Jon through torment - no. Ned Stark's wife had been sure to torment him all his life, punishing him for ever having the audacity to be born… And worse…Ned had known that Jon's mother, whom he and Larra had yearned to know since they were old enough to understand that Lady Catelyn was not their mother and considered it a stain on her honour that they had once wanted her to be…was dead. Had been dead all their lives.
Next time we see each other, I'll tell you about your mother…
You may not have my name, but you have my blood…
Jon scowled, and put thoughts of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar and Sansa and Nora out of his mind…he really tried…
But when he strode into the court a few hours later, he was in a dark mood.
It was not made better by what he found. The court was quiet, and Ser Davos caught Jon's eye with a scowl.
Before the jagged throne stood a line of Unsullied soldiers. Dothraki paced around the court, as they always did, but their eyes - as did everyone else's - constantly flicked back to the Unsullied… He strode over to Ser Davos, who stood near the chaise on which Lord Tyrion was drinking profusely, propped up against Lady Tisseia, his head resting against her breasts. Lord Tyrion raised his eyes to Jon over the rim of his wine-glass, and it was all Jon needed to know of Lord Tyrion's thoughts on all that had occurred since he left this castle.
The Unsullied guarded little girls, one for each.
They ranged from very young ladies to older toddlers. All of them were exceptionally beautiful, even at their young ages: Some had green eyes, some blue. Some had froths of natural curls that billowed like clouds around their shoulders, others had shimmering cascades of straight blonde locks. Some had soft baby-blonde hair, and others had hair nearly as pale as the Queen's. One, the youngest, had tightly coiled curls that bounced as she glanced around the hall, her eyes bright, curious, but not red-rimmed with tears like the others' were. She sucked her thumb, and swung gently where she stood, the hem of her dress whispering against the stone floor. Beside her, one of the middling girls had a stain on her golden dress; and each of them seemed cold, and grubby, their hair rather unkempt, their faces wan, smeared with ash and tear-stained. One of the older girls, the one with froths of pale-gold curls surrounding her slender face and clear amber eyes, was weeping silently. They all appeared to be shivering - with cold or dread, Jon could not say. Only one of them wore a cloak; one of them kept glancing at the platters of food laid out for the court to pick over, her lower-lip trembling, and she couldn't help a moan of hunger pass her lips.
How many days since the Lion Culling?
Lord Tyrion finished his glass; Tisseia was ready with the decanter to refill it, her dark eyes scanning the girls, her expression wary but discerning. She flicked her gaze up at Jon for a heartbeat, and he frowned, falling into place beside Ser Davos.
A musician plucked at his lute, filling the chamber with strange foreign music, and the soft whisper of silk and leather against stone made them alert to the new arrival.
Queen Daenerys had spent the hours since her return languishing in a bath, washing and brushing her hair until it shone like polished silver in the candlelight. She sat on her jagged throne, in a Qartheen gown of translucent sunset-orange silk glimmering with gold. The gown bared one of her breasts, as all her Qartheen gowns did; she wore her hair shimmering over her shoulders, tickling her bare nipple, and an extra braid had been added to her hairstyle, wrapped from ear to ear like a circlet and entwined with golden threads. Her arms glinted with gold; around her throat she wore a jewelled collar. Her smile was radiant, as she climbed the steps and settled on the jagged throne.
It happened in the space of a heartbeat.
One moment, the Queen was smiling down at the little Lannister lionesses…the next, one of the middle girls had flung herself away from her cousins and the Unsullied who guarded them, raced up the steps and launched herself at Daenerys, spitting and scratching, her screams becoming higher and more shrill, repeating, "THAT IS NOT YOURS! THAT IS MY MOTHER'S. MY MOTHER'S NECKLACE! GIVE IT BACK GIVE IT BACK GIVE. IT. BACK NOOOOOOW NOW noooooOOOOOOOOWWW!"
As one, the Unsullied engaged their weapons to protect their Queen.
No sooner had they aimed their spears at the girl than Jon had already climbed the steps toward the Queen - and turned, unsheathing Long Claw in a flash, to level at the throat of the nearest Unsullied commander that had dived forward, spear raised, expression horrifyingly neutral.
A few of the Lannister cousins whimpered, their eyes on their cousin. The baby glanced up uncertainly at the one in the red gown, the eldest of them. The amber-eyed girl continued to weep silently, as if she had no idea what was happening around her, numbed by her grief.
"You will not harm her," Jon warned, his men glaring, weapons in their hands - and those of Theon, and Lord Barahir, even elegant Nymeria Sand, a flash of silver in her palm, her sister's twin-bladed spear poised at the throat of a bloodrider who had raised his wicked barbed whip. Ellaria Sand shielded her young daughters, Nora stood rigid beside her grandmother, a hand on her cousin's shoulders, warning them to remain silent. The tension in the court was palpable, everyone waiting with baited breath to see what happened next - as the screams of the little girl and the grunts and cries of the Queen crumpling on her throne echoed off the unnerving black walls, throwing back eerie red-black light and echoing spine-tingling screams. "Lower your spears."
As Daenerys whimpered under the onslaught of a child's vicious punches and the slashes of her tiny, sharp fingernails, her ears nearly bleeding from the girl's shrieks - becoming more and more upset, more high-pitched, unintelligible, her voice brittle and heartbroken - the Unsullied cast black looks among themselves behind the shadows of their helmets, but did lower their spears.
Long Claw scratching at the throat of the Unsullied - Jon thought his name was Grey Worm - Jon slid his glance past the commander, to the line of Lannisters groaning with dread and grief. He caught the eye of the eldest, and asked gently, "What is your cousin's name?"
"Calanthe, Your Grace," the girl said hoarsely.
"Step back," Jon told Grey Worm, who glowered, and made a show of it, but took three steps back, until he was no longer on the steps. His hand twitched for the spear on the floor. Theon kicked it out of reach, and Jon sheathed Long Claw.
"Calanthe," he said, his voice low and gentle. He approached the throne, wrapping his hand around the little girl's tight fist. She had the other wrapped around the intricate gold collar Daenerys wore; there was evidence of her fingernails, scratching at Daenerys' neck to prise the collar away. "That's enough now. Let go." He reached out, and gently clasped her wrist, stroking the back of her hand. He leaned over them both, levelling his gaze on Calanthe. Her eyes were streaming, her face grimy with ash - the ash of her burned family - but her expression was warped with a seething, white-hot rage, and she sobbed as she let go of the necklace. Jon took her by the waist and lifted her off the queen, clamping her to his hip.
Daenerys slumped on her throne, utterly bewildered - bleeding, from Calanthe's claws, her sharp fangs puncturing Daenerys' arm where she had thrown it up to defend herself from the little girl's slaps and hits and gouges. Daenerys was shaking, staring at the girl in utter horror. She raised her purple eyes to Jon, relief oozing from them - and appreciation, that it was him who had come to her defence. Her expression faltered, as she saw the pitiless glare on Jon's face, his gentle but immovable hold on Calanthe's waist, hugging her to him…and behind him, the Unsullied commander frozen, his spear useless on the ground where he had dropped it, Greyjoys and Northmen and Sandsnakes baring their weapons against her commanders and kos.
"The collar," Jon said, his voice commanding. Daenerys blinked. She stared at him. After a few moments, she raised trembling white hands, unfastening the jewelled collar, and handed it to Jon.
It was exquisite, and heavy, made of bright gold, figured into a dozen intricate chrysanthemum flowers set with vibrant citrines, with delicate filigree and a fringe of small pale-gold pearls that gleamed in the candlelight, swaying with every movement. He weighed it in his hand, watched the candlelight gleam off the gold, the pearls, made the citrines glow like Rhaegal's eyes…
He handed it to Calanthe, and she tucked the jewel against her chest, her head dropping heavily against his shoulder as her entire body shook with silent sobs.
"Sshhh," Jon murmured, rubbing the little girl's back. He caught sight of the Queen's interpreter. "Lady Missandei…I trust the belongings of the girls' families will be returned to them?"
Missandei flicked a glance at the Queen, swallowed, and nodded. "At once, Your Grace."
"Lady Tisseia…would you be so good as to lead the ladies to Lord Tyrion's chambers?" Jon asked sombrely, aware of Lord Tyrion's eyes glinting in the candlelight, watching everything from behind his wine-glass. Lady Tisseia smiled at Jon, perhaps with relief, eyeing Calanthe in his arms. She disentangled herself from Lord Tyrion, and approached Jon; her smile was gentle and earnest as Jon transferred the sobbing girl into her arms. "I believe they're in need of a bath, some good hot soup and sleep." Jon sighed, and walked over to the other girls. The Unsullied saw the look on his face, and took two steps back. "My ladies, this is your uncle's companion, Lady Tisseia."
Calanthe crying in her arms, Tisseia pressed a soft kiss against her head, and offered one of the little girls her hand. "Come along, little ones," she said, her voice coaxing and soft. "Let's get you settled."
The eldest, holding the hand of the baby, fell into step behind Lady Tisseia, who started to sing softly in bastard Valyrian, gently rocking Calanthe in her arms, and the sound of her voice lingered on the air as the golden-haired girls disappeared into the shadowy corridors beyond.
Daenerys swiped her fingertips over her throat; she stared at the blood smeared on them. Barely more than a drop, but her lips parted, her eyes wide. "That child should be whipped."
Jon started, turned. Stared at the Queen, torn between incredulity and anger.
"You murder her mother and parade around in her jewels, and the child should be whipped?" he growled dangerously. "You mock their grief… What were you thinking?"
"What was I thinking?" Daenerys blinked, sitting up straighter, as maids fussed over her. "I have fewer enemies than I did a moon-turn ago."
Jon stared, his lips parting. And his tone was as blunt, humourless and accusatory as he meant it to be: "Which gave Drogon the most trouble? The young women heavy with child, the brittle old men or the infants?! This was not an act of war. This was an act of murder. You BURNED little children."
Everyone in the hall jumped at the sudden bellow. Jon's voice echoed off the black stone, fractured and amplified. People exchanged uneasy looks, glad they were not the one to have given voice to their thoughts, though relieved someone had. They were not alone in thinking it.
Daenerys looked taken aback for a moment, staring at Jon as if seeing him for the first time, curious, unsettled and intrigued by what she saw. And flustered, almost…abashed, as her purple eyes drifted around the room, found faces downturned, eyes avoiding hers. Grim faces. Hostility that reminded her of the Ash Meadow, her enemies on their knees glowering at her…
She raised her chin, but her voice wavered ever so slightly, as she repeated, "They were enemies."
Jon scoffed, his sneer a terrible blow to Daenerys as she gazed at him, horror settling into her face. Missandei lingered uncertainly, her face pinched and conflicted, glancing back at her Queen, flinching, and turning her gaze away to the floor…the way she always had when waiting for her Master's orders, eyes down, shoulders low, utterly submissive - dehumanised.
Missandei had never looked at her like that, with anything but admiration and respect in her dark eyes, warmth radiating from her smile. Appreciative, adoring.
"You burned them because your pride was wounded that brave men would rather die than bend to your will… You burned them because they were vulnerable…and because you could," Jon snarled. "Because you wanted to. And now you've given Cersei all the weapons she needs to defeat you. The Mad King's Daughter will burn Westeros - down to the last child - to become Queen of the ashes!"
His voice had risen: It was not normal for Jon Snow to raise his voice, especially in anger.
And it was for that reason it resonated with everyone, especially the Queen. "You've just become the single most reviled and feared person in Westeros," Jon told her coldly. He levelled his gaze on her, unflinching, cold and accusing. "And there's nothing like a common enemy to unite people."
Hours later, Jon groaned, pausing in the torch-lit corridor to knead the heels of his palms into his eyes.
"She won't forget you shaming her before her entire court," said a voice, and Jon glanced around. Lord Tyrion, drinking from a wine-skin, leaned against the wall, just inside the warm glow of the torchlight.
"Do you really think such a person as her could ever be shamed by what she thinks is the right course of action?" Jon asked grimly. They had spent hours going back and forth, arguing over Jon's intentions to go North and fetch a wight - and his expectations that Queen Daenerys would attend an armistice that her Lord Hand would take part in arranging on Jon's behalf.
He expected it.
Jon did not ask.
He was beyond that, now. He set expectations; and left it to Daenerys to meet them.
He was too angry with her remorselessness over the Lion Culling, her tasteless behaviour earlier, draped in the jewels of the dead girls' mothers...that she believed the child deserved a whipping - Jon flinched, and thought of Larra with her 'ruby ribbons' from Queen Cersei… The thought that Calanthe Lannister would likely have been skewered by the Unsullied commander, had Jon not stepped in.
That troubled him the most.
Could the Unsullied - could Daenerys - not distinguish between a grief-stricken, wrathful, hurting child, and a full-grown, adult, armed enemy?
Would Daenerys have even blinked if the Unsullied had skewered Calanthe before her very eyes?
Jon glared down at Lord Tyrion, who had chosen to support her, to not just follow but guide her way back to Westeros. "No, she won't forget it, but she will ignore everything I said."
Tyrion sighed heavily, shaking his head dolefully. "Those little girls are strangers to me…and I frighten them. The Imp. The monster who murdered the Old Lion, their great protector, Tywin Lannister, the dread of Westeros."
"Let them know you," Jon advised him gently. "You're all they have now."
"Poor dears."
"Privileged," Jon corrected, eyeing Tyrion sombrely. Even in the time Jon had been on Dragonstone, he had observed Lord Tyrion drinking more and more. That said a lot about Lord Tyrion's state of mind, that he would rather numb himself than go through his day sober. "Larra appreciated your quality within days of your arrival at Winterfell; I learned it at Castle Black; and Sansa grew to respect and admire you. You're so much better than what your family tried to convince the world you are."
"It's a good thing it's dark," Lord Tyrion said, his beard twitching. "I haven't blushed so much since my first brothel."
"I mean it," Jon said earnestly, and that probably made Lord Tyrion even more uncomfortable. "It's a crass thing to say but you're worth more than all those Lannisters combined."
"Especially as they're dead."
"Lord Tyrion…take the compliment for what it is."
"I'm not used to receiving them."
"I know. But I mean it. You're a clever man - but you also have empathy. You're not going to let those girls suffer. The same way you guarded Sansa," Jon reminded him, and Lord Tyrion's eyes glinted as he gazed up at Jon. "Because they're innocent, and it is in your power to protect them." Jon sighed, rubbing his face, exhausted. He could not wait to leave…even facing down wights and White Walkers was better than this. He gazed down at Lord Tyrion, and asked quietly, "How are you going to protect them from her?
Lord Tyrion sighed softly, shaking his head. He looked utterly despondent…lost.
As if he was in completely over his head, and had no idea how he had come to be. As if things had completely overtaken him, and he wasn't sure what was up or down anymore. He grimaced, and took a long draw from his wine-skin.
"They can't stay here."
A.N.: So a lot happened here. I hope I'm being subtle in hinting at future Jonsa! I don't want it to come out of the blue.
Also, Rhaegal! I have plans for Rhaegal. Criminally underutilised. And I've been watching waaaay too much How to Train Your Dragon.
And too much Return of the King (if there is such a thing). Does anyone have any thoughts about possible Stark ghosts, in the manner of the cursed, disembodied ancient army that eradicates the orcs on the Fields of the Pellenor, fighting to protect Winterfell?
Oh, I also have face-claims for the Lannister-girls (well, most of them, some for when they get older): In order of age: Narcisa - Amber Valetta; Crisantha - Taylor Nicole (a model; I've saved her to my Pinterest board under 'Tyrells & Lannister' section because otherwise she's hard to find!); Delphine - Doutzen Kroes; Calanthe - Freya Allen (of Princess Ciri/Witcher fame); Altheda - baby Elle Fanning; Rosamund - little Vivienne Jolie-Pitt (from Maleficent in her little yellow dress); Leona's too little too need one!