A.N.: I should probably mention this'll be a Gendry/Larra fic! Gendry and Arya, in this story at least, view each other as brother and sister - the only family Gendry ever had, and a surrogate-brother for Arya, missing Jon and Robb and Bran and Rickon (mostly Jon!)
Valyrian Steel
29
Look After One Another
The ship glided into the bay, the sails filled by a helpful wind. As they swept past, Rhysand stood with Neva carefully balanced in his arms, leaning over the side, speaking in bastard Valyrian as he pointed out various unique features of the different kinds of ships gathered in the bay. And it was full of ships - battered Greyjoy longships; newly-built cogs and carracks, and the great war-galley Winter, all belonging to the fledgling Northern fleet; Queen Daenerys' beautiful flagship, a swan-ship from the Summer Isles, modified with one hundred oars and a figurehead of a three-headed dragon; and the gorgeous Tyrell fleet. Gendry watched them, with a contented smile on his face, passing a wine-skin back to Tyrion.
With nothing else to do, and no-one else to talk to but the ship's rather recalcitrant Northern crew, Tyrion had decided on making a study of Gendry and his children, to entertain himself through the brief journey. He had spent quite some time with Gendry, enough to understand that Gendry was once prisoner of Lord Tywin at Harrenhall, saved from torture to work in the forges, and that Gendry was indeed Robert Baratheon's bastard son. Tyrion needed little confirmation - it was there in Gendry's fierce, handsome face for all to see, and Tyrion couldn't help smirking to himself at Cersei's audacity, thinking to pass off her own bastards as Robert's offspring - one glimpse of Gendry and Robert's Hands had known the truth of the thing. And here they all were.
Tyrion had also discerned that Gendry, despite being uneducated, was a shrewd, clever man with integrity, wit and charisma, gentle and strong and loyal with good instincts, a natural way with people and adaptable. He also did not seem to possess Robert's notorious wrath, or his infamous lusts. Tyrion thought the son was much more thoughtful than the father ever was, considerate and showing great empathy, but with a heaping of good sense. Gendry wasn't a natural sailor, and neither was Tyrion, and they got along well, while Gendry's adopted son Rhysand scampered around like a monkey, flinging himself up masts, hanging out of the crow's nest, his laughter echoing on the wind, his face alight with joy - "Freedom," he sighed lustily, "that's what a ship is. It's not just a keel and a hull and a deck and sails, that's what a ship needs. What a ship is…is freedom."
The boy seemed to come alive on the ship, and Tyrion noticed the slightly pained way Gendry watched the boy. He was apprenticed to Gendry in the armoury, but Tyrion believed Gendry was shrewd enough to understand that this was where Rhysand truly felt alive. If Rhysand finished his apprenticeship, he would not long labour in a forge: It was the sea, for him. That beguiling, treacherous mistress.
Tyrion was just glad he had not had to make the journey in a crate. They had been discussing Gendry's journey from Dragonstone as they swept into the harbour, and his handsome face pinched with something close to anger, or more accurately, distrust, as the great eerie fortress loomed into view, shrouded by mist, the great dragon-shaped towers coiled ready to pounce.
"Never saw it in the light," Gendry said, frowning. "It has the feel of Harrenhall."
A curious observation, Tyrion felt. One had been forged and crafted by dragonfire; the other had been destroyed by it.
Dragonstone and Harrenhall. Two sides of the same coin.
"Er… Dragon?!" Rhysand blurted, gaping up at the skies, and a heartbeat later, a piercing shriek and rumbling, gurgling call shattered the tranquil air, and a great green-and-bronze dragon swooped down out of the air not fifty feet from the starboard side, created a tremendous splash, and screamed again, his great wings beating swiftly and threatening to knock them over, as they stood, and gaped, and watched the dragon pluck a dolphin from the water with ease, each beat of its wings like thunderclaps as it rose higher into the air, tossed the dolphin from its claws, to roast it with a swift blast of fire, and in another heartbeat, opened its gullet to swallow the charred creature whole.
"Ah… Feeding-time," Tyrion said drily, as Gendry suddenly found himself at the starboard side, gaping in awe. A dragon. A real, live dragon… "We've interrupted the hunt. The green is Rhaegal. His brothers will be along swiftly, they do quarrel over dinner…"
Sure enough, Viserion the white-and-gold dragon, and Drogon the Dread, black glowing with blood-red veined through his wings, appeared moments later, and as the ship sailed through the bay toward the harbour, they watched the dragons fishing for their supper. Every time they made a catch, they soared into the air, and repeated the same process Rhaegal had - catch, fling, roast, consume.
"Dragons and men are the only creatures in the world to cook their meat," Tyrion mused, glancing up at Gendry, but his eyes were still on Rhaegal, awe and terror warring on his fiercely handsome face. For a heartbeat, Tyrion wondered what Robert might have looked like, had he met Rhaegar on the Trident - riding a dragon! Without even seeming to see her, Gendry picked up little Neva, who had her arms raised to be carried: She climbed up, and settled on his shoulders, the better to gaze up at the dragons as they soared above them, circling for their prey.
It was quite something, Tyrion thought, to watch the exquisite beauty of a Lyseni child, the last blood of Old Valyria, gazing in rapture at the dragons, dragons that had once filled the skies, dragons that her ancestors had once ridden.
Rhysand was the bolder, no doubt, he was a force of nature, irrepressible: He scowled up at the dragons in suspicion and dread. Not so the gentlest creature Tyrion might ever have met, sweet Neva who hummed when she was content - and she seemed to be always content, whether it was skipping to and fro along the deck, playing hopscotch, or cuddled up in her adopted-father's arms, tucked warm and safe against his enormous chest, his scarred, skilled hands tender as he held her close and she dozed. Neva, delicate, gentle and easily content, gazed up into the skies as if in thrall to the great beasts, her exquisite lavender eyes, pale, radiant and gentle, wide with reverence, not fear.
The dragons called to her, or so it seemed. They ignited in her the memories of a lost race, the memories of a people forgotten to the Doom. Tyrion smiled fondly at her, understanding her completely.
"The first time I ever saw a dragon," Tyrion said softly, "we were sailing a little boat through the Doom of Valyria…I thought, for a moment, it was my mind's trick - the memories of a thousand years, the ghosts of dragons long dead… Not a ghost. Not a memory… Flesh and fire, reborn into the world… Magnificent beautiful creatures, are they not?" He smiled fondly, for though they were harrowing when they were enraged, they were entrancingly beautiful.
"They are," Gendry said, his voice faraway, disbelieving - but he was frowning softly, bemused. He blinked several times, then turned to Tyrion. "I saw what they're capable of with my own eyes, at Harrenhall. Stone melted like all heard about the ash meadow and the Lion Culling… They would be more beautiful if they were less deadly."
"Some would disagree," Tyrion said, gazing thoughtfully at Gendry, whose eyes had returned to Rhaegal, the great green-and-bronze, named for the man his father had killed in single-combat. A flicker of unease whispered through Tyrion at the thought of what awaited them at the castle - who awaited them. Were she to find out the truth of Gendry's paternity… "To some…the more power they display, the more deadly they are, the more attractive they become."
"Sounds familiar," grunted Ser Davos, and Tyrion glanced at him. The tone in his voice, the grim distrust and thinly veiled repugnance emanating from the Onion Knight as he watched the dragons, his eyes flicking to the eerie castle, Tyrion knew he had inadvertently described…well…Daenerys. He sighed.
"That's what their fire is for," Gendry remarked, as Drogon dived, a dolphin in each clawed foot. "To feed themselves. Not to burn little children." Tyrion winced at Gendry, who was watching shrewdly as Drogon tossed the dolphins into the air, and gave a spurt of flame that roasted both, consuming them before Viserion could screech and circle and dive upon him from above. The two brothers fought, and Tyrion noted that Viserion went for the tender skin of Drogon's neck, still healing. Strange…Rhaegal and Viserion, fractionally smaller than Drogon, had never attacked their vicious brother before. Rhaegal was the more vicious of the two, anyway. It was strange to see Viserion attacking.
They are still animals, he thought. They sense weakness and attack. And Drogon, no matter how monstrous, was still a creature that bled like any other when he was wounded. Viserion slashed out at Drogon's neck with his talons: Rhaegal swooped in out of nowhere, butting all his considerable weight against Viserion, sending the white-and-gold dragon hurtling into the water with a wrathful bellow. Rhaegal shrieked, and Drogon purred, both rising away from the water, soaring over the shivering green swells of the island with its jagged cliffs and small, treacherous beaches and coves.
They sailed into the shelter of the harbour, and Tyrion almost groaned with ecstasy at the thought of disembarking the ship…until he remembered the walk that awaited him, and the fact that he would have to consider very carefully how to present Lord Varys' disappearance to the Queen, even as he confirmed that his brother Jaime had agreed to peace-talks on his Queen's behalf.
Did he tell Daenerys the reason why Jaime had agreed? Because he had been one of the few survivors of Ash Meadow, and Jaime dreaded Daenerys' use of all three of her dragons to burn Westeros to claim the ashes.
How Tyrion had coaxed, wheeled, threatened, begged and entreated Jaime to do all in his power to convince Cersei it was in her interests to meet, because Tyrion dreaded Daenerys' use of all three of her dragons to burn Westeros and claim the ashes.
Neva beside him as they descended the ramp onto the quay, Tyrion was reminded of the seven little Lannisters locked up in the castle. He had left them in the care of Tisseia, who had a wonderful sort of practical motherliness to her. Truth be told, she seemed far more intuitive about the girls' needs than Tyrion had expected. She was unfazed by anything that came her way - a good thing, for a whore. Former whore, he thought. She was his companion now, sworn to him alone and paid well for the privilege. But he had learned from prior mistakes: and Tisseia was not…her…she was practical and cheerful, not purring with sensuality, somewhat startled as much as she was delighted by the finery he lavished upon her, as his companion, as his advisor and she who massaged his lower-back to soothe his aching legs, who listened if he needed her to, and offered her solid wisdom when asked.
Tyrion had to admit, he had unknowingly unearthed a treasure when he sought her out in that brothel on the Long Bridge on their return journey. She was adaptable and clever, and he had spent many pleasurable evenings on their voyage from Volantis, teaching her how to read. She was clever, astute and a quick study - and she had somehow managed to take over the organisation of his household and his work as Hand, so that everything ran smoothly, though he had never asked her, and had no idea how she knew exactly what he needed before he knew what he needed.
Plus, she had the most magnificent breasts he loved to bury his face in as she rode him, writhing and doing the most glorious thing with her hips that made him regret not fucking her that first day he had seen her. He had thought her pretty then, in her way, dark-eyed and cautious. She was all those things; but she was also far more beautiful than he had realised, radiating softness and warmth, steadiness and empathy. And she suckled his cock as if the gods had crafted it for her alone to enjoy, bringing him to come with his eyes rolling so hard he feared temporary blindness. The more time they spent together, the more he saw of the true Tisseia, who was emboldened to ask for what she liked, so that they both reached their pleasure, and it was a wondrous thing to watch blossom, in a girl whose face still bore the mark of her enslavement. She had never known what it was to be treated as a person, much less an equal in their bed-sport: She had endured what men paid her master for, with a smile on her face - or a whimper, if that's what they wanted most. But to be asked what she liked, and to devote his time to helping her discover what it was that made her writhe in ecstasy, and ache for his touch…that was a heady thing to observe, this slave-girl becoming her own woman unafraid to first ask for and then take what she wanted.
Best of all, he thought, trying to ignore the flicker of anticipation at the thought of her warm, dimpled smile and glittering dark eyes, when he had asked her to forsake all other men while she was his, she had claimed she would rather have none at all, if it were up to her. She could happily do without being pestered, she had told him: Tisseia was just so blunt and earnest, it was truly refreshing. She was…almost Northern in her outlook, and at times, she seemed unimpressed by his status or wealth or whatever - she just liked that he was kind, and enjoyed cuddling up to her under their furs at night, enjoying the rarest and simplest of intimacies.
Tisseia fucked him because he was a considerate lover, and the gods had given him one blessing - two, if one counted his enormous, throbbing intellect - and he made certain she enjoyed every moment of their time together. Yet, she had told him, she would be happy to take no other man, even when he tired of her. She did not luxuriate in her whoredom, as others had: It was a thing necessary for her survival. And yet she had found something else that made her…almost irreplaceable to him, Tyrion thought. She was kind and affectionate, but he was under no illusions that she had fallen madly in love with the idea of him; they were…friends, Tyrion thought, marvelling. They were companions, who fucked when he wanted to, and talked when she didn't. And she took care of him. Not just in bed, but in all aspects of his life. She was earnest, shrewd and attentive.
Tyrion was not in love with her: But he did adore her. He did love her, and it was a calm and steady sort of love rooted in their companionship, in a mutual respect and appreciation. No, they were not lovers in the traditional sense; they were companions.
If that was the best he could hope for, Tyrion thought, then he realised he was a very privileged man.
Perhaps that was where it had all gone wrong before.
He had tried to take care of too many people who did not appreciate it, who had betrayed him in spite of it: Tisseia…took care of him, without him ever having asked her. Not because of the gold - she was utterly unfamiliar with payment - but because it was her nature, to be gentle and restrained and considerate.
He was in a high mood, in spite of the winding stone stair, as they approached Dragonstone, anticipating climbing under the furs and drifting off to sleep with his head nestled against her glorious breasts with his hand tucked between her thighs.
Tyrion practically skipped up the stone steps, for the first time not envious of Gendry's long strides, and his ease as he carried Neva on his shoulders, so that she could better watch the three dragons circling and wheeling overhead.
Jon met them in the monstrous entrance hall, with Rhysand shrinking into Gendry, his eyes suspicious and filled with dread, the cavernous black walls glistening and shimmering with eerie iridescence, the entire hall crafted by ancient magic and dragonfire to resemble the inside of a dragon's mouth, the walls jagged high above and along the floor to mimic dragon's teeth long and sharp as swords…
The King in the North saw his advisor back safe and sound, grinned briefly, and embraced him like a brother.
"Saw the harbour," Ser Davos said, in greeting. "It's looking busy. You're prepared?"
"A few more days, we should be ready for the return voyage," Jon said, nodding, and he heaved a sigh, kneading his eyes. The young man did look tired, and Tyrion wondered how court had been - wondered how the Queen had been.
"Days?" Tyrion blurted, staring up at Jon, almost aghast. Lord Varys disappeared, the arrival of Robert Baratheon's bastard, the King's departure, anticipating a summit in King's Landing - Tyrion stifled a groan.
"I'm anxious to see the thing done," Jon said grimly, and eyed the giant hulking behind Ser Davos, his two children, dark and fair, tucked against him, one spooked by the massive, menacing hall, the other shy by nature.
"Ah, Your Grace, this is Gendry Waters," Ser Davos said, and Tyrion shot him a thoughtful look. Gendry was staring at Jon, who was staring right back with a shrewd expression. His eyes drifted to Ser Davos for a heartbeat, a question in his dark grey eyes.
"You don't much look like him, but you're exactly as she described," Gendry said, and Jon raised his eyebrows, staring at Gendry, who, Tyrion realised, was taller even than the King. They were both very tall, but Gendry more so, and where Gendry was broad and rippled with muscle, sturdy and immovable, Jon was lean and graceful. They were both handsome, Tyrion noted miserably, as well as monstrously tall…
If he didn't know the men, and the lives they had led, Tyrion might have thought the gods had blessed them. He knew better.
"Excuse me?" Jon blinked, bemused.
"Your father, Lord Stark. I met him, once, in King's Landing, when he was Hand of the King," Gendry explained. "He came to my shop."
"Your shop?"
"Gendry is an armourer, Your Grace," Ser Davos smiled.
"But you won't be needing one, with a sword like that," Gendry said, his eyes dipping to Jon's waist, where Long Claw was belted. "It's an old blade, but sharp as the day it was forged - a new pommel?"
"Aye. The original was shaped as a bear, when it was held by House Mormont," Jon said. "But it was damaged by fire. The pommel was remade before the blade was given to me." Jon frowned, and a flicker of something close to guilt crossed his face, as he glanced over his shoulder; the Queen's men approached.
"She didn't say you had a Valryian steel sword," Gendry said, his eyes on the blade that was becoming almost as famous as the man who wielded it.
"Who?"
"Arya."
For a moment, Tyrion truly believed Jon's heart had stopped. Even he turned to gape at the young armourer.
"Arya Stark? No word has been heard of her since they arrested her father," Tyrion said, startled. Even Varys' little birds could sing no songs of her - and Tyrion had ensured every effort went into finding the younger Stark girl.
"Who's Arya?" the boy Rhysand frowned. He stared at Jon. "Who are you?"
"Rhysand, this is Jon Snow, the King in the North," Ser Davos said, his beard twitching. Rhysand stared at Ser Davos. Stared at Jon Snow. Stared at Tyrion.
Ser Davos chuckled. Jon Snow was still staring at Gendry.
"You've seen Arya?" he breathed.
"It was a few years ago now, Your Grace, but, yes, I did. I travelled the Riverlands with her," Gendry told him.
"How?!"
"Another time," Ser Davos said cautiously, eyes shrewd as he watched the Queen's men approaching. He nodded at Jon. "Let's get Gendry and the children settled, and we can share a bowl of soup and a few good stories."
Jon glanced from Ser Davos to Gendry, and nodded. Tyrion stifled a sigh; as the Queen's Hand, he knew he would not be privy to those stories, the information that they granted. And information…was currency, he thought, reminded of Lord Varys. Influence… He had to break the news that Lord Varys had not returned to Dragonstone, though Tyrion had the wit to inspire Daenerys' confidence in her Master of Whisperers; Lord Varys was better served on the mainland than on this godsforsaken island surrounded by Daenerys' supporters - he needed to be out there, gathering information on her enemies by any means necessary.
Rhysand was muttering quietly to Neva in bastard Valyrian, his bright, sharp eyes dancing from Jon Snow to Ser Davos and Tyrion himself: Finally, as the Stark men led the way through the gaping entrance hall, Rhysand turned to his young, adopted-father, as if he had never seen Gendry before, and blurted, "Who are you?"
How many bastard armourers rubbed elbows with Kings, notorious smuggler-knights and dead girls?
Who, indeed? Tyrion thought, as the Stark party disappeared up one of the grand obsidian staircases, and Missandei appeared, escorted by two Unsullied guards. She was smiling benignly.
"Her Radiance the Queen welcomes you back to Dragonstone, my Lord Hand," Missandei said formally. "After you have dined and rested, she bids you join her in the Chamber of the Painted Table. She would know the triumphs of your journey to King's Landing."
"Triumphs?" Tyrion scoffed. "I made it out with my head on my shoulders, at least. But I shall dine and rest, and thank the Queen for the opportunity."
"You still dislike the water, my lord?" Missandei smiled knowingly.
"The water dislikes me, my dear Missandei," Tyrion grunted, his legs aching at the prospect of climbing more stairs. He had a mind to outfit the steep ascent with a funicular as they had at the Rock. It would be armoured, he thought, of course, with steel plate between varnished wood for durability - and inside, oh, decadence! Leather upholstery and polished wood. Furs, hot bricks and mulled wine for the winter; and a lithe, bare-breasted girl to fan him in the summer and feed him iced blueberries. He glanced at Missandei. "How has court been in my absence?"
"We have missed you, my lord," Missandei said. "The Queen most of all."
"Miss me, did she? No," Tyrion smiled shrewdly. "With Ser Jorah so attentive to her?"
"It is the Queen's hope, my lord, that you will be able to dissuade Ser Jorah the Andal from joining the King in the North on his expedition beyond the Wall," Missandei said, and Tyrion blinked. "For he is quite resistant to her pleas to stay by her side."
"Ser Jorah wants to go North?" Tyrion blurted, then pulled a face. For all his knighthood and fluency in Dothraki and bastard Valyrian, Ser Jorah was no Andal: He was of the North, born to an ancient family descended from the First Men. He wants to go home, Tyrion thought. Winter had come; he wondered when Ser Jorah had last seen snow, for there was certainly none in Vaes Dothrak, nor any settling on the Great Pyramids of Meereen.
"As the Queen's representative during this expedition, my lord," Missandei nodded. "Obara Sand shall accompany the King as representative of Dorne."
"And when shall this expedition be under way?" Tyrion asked.
"As soon as the King's ships are outfitted, my lord," said Missandei.
"I would speak with the King before he departs on his great expedition, on a matter of some urgency," Tyrion said. Little Neva had reminded him - watching Gendry with his adopted daughter had reminded him. It was easy to forget them, the little lion-cubs, somewhere in the bowels of this monstrous fortress. They were out of sight, and therefore, sadly, out of his mind. Until sweet Neva, Tyrion had scarcely spared a thought for the little Lannisters, and that filled him with a sense of shame - and reminded him of their precarious position, and his duty to them. Yes, things had gone wrong in King's Landing for him, when he tried to take care of too many who did not deserve or appreciate it - but it was not wrong that he had; only foolish for him to become so emotionally invested in earning their appreciation, their love, their respect.
"Might I ask, Lord Lannister," said Missandei, and it shocked Tyrion to hear her address him that way. Lord Lannister was his lord father Tywin, and let no-one forget it. "Where is Lord Varys?"
"Doing what he does best," said Tyrion with gusto, as he waddled down the hall. The big fish eat the little fish, and I keep on paddling…
Yes, Varys was doing what he did best, and Tyrion only had to keep up with him - and ensure that big fishes and little fishes alike weren't roasted alive by a dragon.
"Why don't we settle the children in the nursery with the others?" Jon said, glancing at little Neva and Rhysand, who was eyeing the White Wolf, the King in the North, with wariness and a quiet sort of respect. "They'll be more comfortable there, while we talk."
"How are the girls?" Ser Davos asked. He winked at Neva. "The little lady Neva helped me pick out a little treat for each of them, didn't you?"
"They're settling in," Jon said heavily, shaking his head. "Though they'll carry that horror for the rest of their lives."
"Which children…er, Your Grace?"
"You don't have to call me that," said Jon, looking uncomfortable. He sighed. "The Lannister girls. They've had their innocence burned away. Some of them weep; some of them rage and run feral. The others are quiet, and just seem to be getting on with things. They squabble, like any family."
They reached the nursery, which had become prettier since the Queen's people had decorated it, outfitting it with chirping exotic birds, fine cushions and toys from far away. Ser Davos had told Lady Tisseia where the Princess Shireen's chamber had been located, and within it her collection of books and carved animals and her miniature castle where tiny dolls lived cheerfully drinking tea and reading before the hearth most days. The castle featured a carved stag and a fine doe and several little fawns on the approach; Ser Davos had carved the great stag for the Princess while in the North, to replace the one she had left here on Dragonstone, and his mind was on that blackened, broken stag as he entered the nursery with Jon, Gendry and his two adopted children.
A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, and though there were handsome carved chairs and large, stuffed cushions on the floor with fine carpets and rugs and furs to lounge upon, none of the children went near it. Crisantha sat beneath a window, an embroidery hoop in her lap, her hands limp as she raised her face unseeingly at the sound of their entry; her amber eyes dripped with silent tears, as they had since they arrived. Tiny Leona was humming and sucking her thumb, somehow managing to chatter happily around it, her eyes vibrant with delight as she and Rosamund with her sweet rounded cheeks and plump lips played with the doll-castle.
There was music playing, and shards of light danced over the golden curls of quiet Altheda, whose dainty fingers danced lovingly across the polished black keys of a pianoforte, a new invention all the way from Lys, made of a beautiful golden wood polished to a high shine, with curlicues and stylised lions engraved and painted in gold among bouquets of flowers in vibrant Myrish colours on the lid, which was propped up and open to show the strings and dozens of tiny hammers, jigging away happily to create a beautiful melody.
Altheda played very prettily, but not nearly loudly enough to conceal the sound of quarrelling voices. The eldest, Narcisa, her long hair gleaming and magnificent, and the bold girl Calanthe, were almost nose-to-nose and snarling at each other, and for a moment, eight-year-old Calanthe seemed the taller and more terrifying of the two. She had her little fist curled around the hilt of a gilded dagger, and Lady Tisseia stood with her around a pink-cheeked Delphine's shoulders as she sniffled, the lady with her tattooed face trying valiantly to settle whatever dispute had cropped up.
There was nowhere in the Seven Kingdoms more fractious or prone to civil wars than the nursery. Jon could remember the squabbles amongst his own siblings - and yet they would be forgotten within the hour, playing together fiercely, every hurt forgotten, as they made up a new game, or clustered around Old Nan eagerly for another story.
"What's all this?" Jon asked, sighing, and the girls glanced up. Calanthe tried to hide the dagger behind her skirts, but her delicate face was a mask of guilt. Lord Tyrion waddled up beside Jon, still holding a wine-skin, likely seeking his companion, and he glanced around the room and grimaced up at Jon as they lingered. Jon raised an eyebrow at Calanthe, who relented; Narcisa seemed to deflate, flustered and abashed by the arrival of Jon, her eyes lingering with curious appreciation on Gendry before drifting to Lord Tyrion, and she stood a little straighter, pushing her shoulders back and her chin level to the floor - a superbly elegant posture, mature. In front of the adults she respected, she wished to be seen as a young lady, and Jon knew it: She was very like the girl he remembered Sansa being at the same age. Eager to please and devoted to the idea of being a lady. Jon sighed, and glanced down at Lord Tyrion.
"My father used to say war was easier than daughters," he said grimly, and Tyrion's beard twitch.
"What's going on here?" Lord Tyrion asked, peering around at the little faces.
"They've been squabbling again. Calanthe trying to trim Delphine's hair - without asking," Lady Tisseia said patiently, giving the younger girl a chiding look as Jon strode over, and reached for the stiletto blade held by Calanthe. The little lioness' gaze was unyielding, as Jon sighed and sat down on one of the nearby chairs.
"Where did you get this?" Jon asked curiously. It was a Braavosi stiletto blade, the handle of golden wood inlaid with gold and mother-of-pearl, the small pommel a lion's head with a great mane. Calanthe raised her dainty little chin. She was the middle girl, and more delicate than Narcisa's magnificent beauty, yet she was stubborn, and her personality was fierce. That was why they clashed, Tisseia had mused often, and Jon couldn't help but agree. Calanthe was a force of nature; and haughty, shy, sweet Narcisa thought herself leader of their little family as the eldest. She led Crisantha and Delphine, a trio of incomparable beauties; while Calanthe dominated the babies, ferocious about protecting them. In the absence of Lords Tyrion and Varys and Ser Davos, Jon had spent a good bit of time with Lady Tisseia at court, and she spent most of her time with the girls: Tisseia was sensible and approachable, and Jon found that he liked her company.
"It was my father's," Calanthe said, a challenge in her gaze as she raised her emerald-green eyes to Jon's. Jon realised she must have taken it from the trunks full of their families' belongings, which had been returned to them.
"Do you know the first thing about wielding a weapon?" Jon asked, and Calanthe drifted nearer. She raised her chin, her delicately beautiful features stubborn.
"Of course I do! You use the pointy end!" she responded with great asperity, and for a second, Jon stared, and then he grinned. The others saw it; they heard his gruff laugh.
"Aye, that's the essence of it," he agreed with a sigh, turning the blade over in his hand. "And who were you planning to pierce full of holes with this? Narcisa?"
"No." Calanthe scowled, and Jon exchanged a quick glance with Lord Tyrion when Calanthe declared, "The Queen."
Jon sighed, and held out his hand to her; she took it, and gently, he drew her closer, until she was curled up at his side, his arm loosely around her waist holding her close. The King's expression was open and earnest, and anxious.
"I understand how you feel…but you're smarter than to let anger and vengeance consume you," Jon said softly. "Those Unsullied were ready to skewer you when you attacked the Queen, and for what?"
"It was my mother's necklace," Calanthe said, wildfire burning in her eyes.
"And I'll bet she couldn't care less about a necklace - but the thought of you at the end of an Unsullied spear?" Jon said, a muscle in his jaw ticking. He exhaled heavily, shaking his head. "I'm not going to lie to you…and I know there's no frightening you more than you already are - "
"I am not frightened."
"Yes, you are. You're terrified, and that makes you furious," Jon said succinctly, and Calanthe scowled at him. Jon nodded, for the little girl could not deny it. It was her fear that fuelled her rage. She was a seething ball of vengeful wrath wrapped inside a little girl's vulnerable body. "Fear makes you quick - but anger, that makes you stupid. Stupid gets you killed." Calanthe's eyelashes fluttered, and he knew his words had struck home with the girl, for her shoulders loosened and her expression became softer. Jon sighed. "You and your cousins are in a dangerous position. You cannot fight amongst yourselves." He reached up to stroke the hair out of her face, which had fallen out of its dainty twists, and for a moment, it was Arya with her sloppy braids and tough linen dress and dirt on her chin from wrestling with Brandon in the training yard for telling her to go back to her needlework. "Do you know the Stark words?"
Calanthe nodded, and said fiercely, "Winter is coming."
"Well, winter has finally come," Jon said grimly. "In winter, we must protect ourselves, look after one another…that means no more trying to cut your cousins' hair - or they'll make ribbons of you."
"I wouldn't really have done it," Calanthe sighed, glancing across the chamber at her cousin, who was stood beside Ser Davos, with the little silver-haired girl beside him, divvying out hair-ribbons. "I'm not jealous of Delphine's hair like they said. But my hair is my one beauty…Delphine has lots."
"You think your hair and your looks make you beautiful?" Jon shook his head slowly, holding Calanthe's gaze. "You could be the most radiant beauty in the world, and have the sourest, ugliest heart. Yours is fierce and righteous and good. That goodness will shine from your face all your life, and you will always be beautiful."
"Oh, then…" Calanthe said, mollified and secretly pleased. She searched Jon's face, and sighed, her shoulders falling a little. "I should apologise to Delphine."
"I think so… Calanthe…" Jon said softly, handing back the stiletto blade. In a quiet murmur, he told her, "Never let anyone know you want them dead, not 'til your blade's tucked safe between their ribs." He took her hand, and curled it around the hilt of the dagger. "This is how you hold it, so you don't end up hurting yourself."
Little Neva approached them, at some encouragement from Ser Davos, a length of crimson velvet ribbon coiled in her palm. She offered it shyly to Calanthe, who blinked, smiled in delighted surprise, and accepted the gift. Neva gave Jon a bashful smile, and darted back to her new friend Ser Davos, who was sat before the hearth with each of the girls fiddling with their new ribbons, fussing over which girl should have their hair braided first.
"What are you doing?" Calanthe asked, as Jon took the crimson velvet ribbon from Calanthe. He adjusted her grip on the stiletto blade, now sheathed, and wound the ribbon around and around her hand so that the blade was tied to her hand.
"Carry it until it feels unnatural to be without it," Jon said, and Calanthe frowned, shaking her hand as if trying to loosen her grip on the dagger; the ribbons held firm, and Calanthe gave Jon a curious look.
"You're letting me keep it?"
"If you're determined to carry it, you should know how to use it properly so you don't hurt yourself," Jon said, thinking of Sansa, who had balked when he had presented her with the dagger she now wore concealed beneath her skirts, but had taken it because it reassured him that she had some last, desperate defence.
"That should reduce the trouble she can make by half," Lord Tyrion remarked, appearing at Jon's side as the little girl wandered off, almost shyly approaching lovely Delphine.
"Don't you believe it!" Jon scoffed. "I could tell you stories about Arya and Larra and the mischief they got up to…"
His eyes flicked to Gendry, who was sat before the hearth, frowning in consternation as he tried to follow Narcisa, beautifully braiding Delphine's long hair. Neva sat, her face absolutely radiant with the purest delight, cradling a plum velvet ribbon in her hands as if it was the most precious jewel in the world. To her, it was: She had never owned anything so dainty.
Lord Tyrion settled in a chair beside Jon.
"Arya Stark," Tyrion muttered, and Jon glanced away from Gendry, who was brushing Neva's hair to section it into a simple braid, some of the Lannister girls clustering around to lend their support. It did not escape Jon that Gendry was incredibly handsome. Neva sat before him on a little footstool, sucking her thumb and smiling shyly as tiny Leona toddled over to share her dollies, which she thrust at Ser Davos for kisses. He took them and cradled them and asked them if they had missed him. "When I was Hand of the King, I had Varys' little birds seeking out even the faintest whisper of her whereabouts. Nothing…"
"I'd be very interested to hear what he has to say about her," Jon said, watching the concentration on Gendry's face as he tenderly braided Neva's long shimmering hair.
"You've spent some time with these girls?" Jon asked.
"A little. The Tyrell girls are usually in here, too, with their septas and maids," Jon said. "They like to invite me to have tea with them. I enjoy talking with Lady Tisseia."
"Wonderful, isn't she?" Lord Tyrion observed fondly, gazing at the tattooed girl with her glittering Volantene robes and sensible dark eyes. "Jon… I would ask you to foster the girls at Winterfell."
It took a second to register; then Jon Snow turned to Tyrion, his eyebrows raised in quiet alarm.
"You know why I came here? Why I'm mining obsidian? Why I've united Free Folk with Northmen for the first time since the Wall went up? Winterfell's about to become the least-safe place in the world, and you want to send innocent girls there?" Jon blurted, his tone exasperated but no longer surprised by Tyrion's disbelief. "Why?!"
Tyrion frowned at him, as if willing him to understand through the look alone. "Jon. Just how safe do you imagine the girls are here? As long as they are young, unmarried, with no friends and no armies, they are utterly vulnerable. If they survive Daenerys, you can bet Cersei will find a way to get to them, if only to prove that Daenerys is incapable of protecting the innocents she has deigned to spare," Lord Tyrion said, his voice shrewd and stern, unyielding. "They are worthless to Cersei, except as a tool against Daenerys. Jon…" He repeated, gazing urgently at the King in the North. "They cannot stay here. Even if Daenerys refuses to allow them to be mistreated, to be imprisoned, or given to her bloodriders…they have no family, no mothers, they have no place. They are little girls. What use are they beyond ornaments in the Queen's court - a reminder of her people's loss of faith in her decisions? As they grow older and more beautiful and more beloved, sought after by those who wish to marry them for their lands and loyalties, she will come to resent them… I have seen it before. With your sister."
Jon sighed heavily. "I know."
Tyrion sniffed, and told him, "I will pay the Northern kingdom for the privilege of taking the girls on as wards of Winterfell."
"Lord Tyrion, that's not -"
"Jon. Gold from the Rock, and food from the Reach," Tyrion said firmly. "You will need both to survive the winter, even after you survive this battle you prepare for with such single-minded purpose. It is foretold to be the worst winter in a century."
"Aye, and I know what it brings. Lord Tyrion -"
"Please," Tyrion begged. "They are the last of my family…and innocent… And they will have no lives worth living if they stay here. They will be lost. I would send the girls to Sansa. I trust Sansa, and you, to raise the girls, to educate them, and embrace them, not just endure them, punish them for their very presence… I trust Sansa to be far kinder to them than my sister ever was to her…"
"That's not saying much…" said Jon darkly. He sighed, gazing across the room at the girls, now clustered around Ser Davos and Gendry as he knotted the plum velvet ribbon at the end of Neva's simple braid. Rhysand was stretched out along the hearth, hands clasped loosely over his belly as he dozed, his head resting on an embroidered cushion. He seemed to be asleep, but the glow of the fire betrayed him in the glitter of his narrowed eyes, as he gazed through his lashes at Narcisa with a furious, annoyed sort of longing. "They're already frightened, you think sending them to Winterfell is going to help?"
"Yes, I do. I've seen the way you are with them," Tyrion said. Even before he had left for King's Landing, Tyrion had seen it with his own eyes, the concern Jon had for the girls, the time he devoted to them, the thought that he put toward their happiness and their protection. "They're frightened of me, but they respect and admire you. And you are gentle with them, and stern. With you…they know exactly where they stand. That fills me with confidence about how they will be treated at Winterfell, and the kind of people they may yet have the chance to grow up to be… Please, Jon…I would not have them lost, as your sister Arya was lost…"
But she wasn't, Jon learned later. Arya hadn't been lost. She had been hiding in plain sight.
But his heart broke, listening to Gendry's stories, the truth of Arya's fate when they had arrested Father and executed him. He was grateful beyond belief to the wandering crow Yoren, who had recognised and protected her, out of fierce loyalty undoubtedly to his black brother, Benjen. He was horrified, and grief-stricken, that Arya had witnessed torture and worse as captive at Harrenhall. Devastated, that the last time Gendry had seen her was several years ago; there was no accounting for what had happened to her since.
"I know two things for certain. The only person who needs protecting is the one who gets in Arya's way," said Gendry firmly, as he refilled Jon's cup with strong beer. "And if Arya thought I knew you were about to do something as brave and stupid as heading beyond the Wall to capture a dead man, and didn't go with you to protect you, she'd murder me. Ser Davos told me where you're going, and why: I'm coming with you."
"Er…"
"I'm not a trained soldier, I know," Gendry said, brushing aside Jon's misgivings. "But I'm good in a fight and strong. When your father came to my shop all those years ago, he said if I ever wanted to learn to wield a sword instead of making them, I should go to him. If I come with you, I want Rhysand and Neva to go to Winterfell. Rhys has been my apprentice in the armoury, he'll work hard in the forge; and Neva's quiet and gentle and would make a good lady's maid with some training. I'm not asking for a future for myself; Ser Davos gave me that years ago. I'm asking you to give them a future."
"Most people I tell don't believe what's coming," Jon said, sighing.
"Ser Davos believes you; Arya would believe you - so I believe you," Gendry said simply.
"And you'd risk your children by sending them where it's the most dangerous?"
Gendry frowned heavily, saying, "Winter has come; it'll be a fight for our survival anywhere."
Jon sighed heavily, and at length, he nodded. He agreed. "The Lannister girls are going North too. They're to be wards of Winterfell, until the war in the south is over."
"The Queens' war?" Gendry frowned, and Jon nodded.
"The North is staying out of it," Jon said. "Lord Tyrion wants the girls at Winterfell for their protection. It's the most dangerous place in the world…"
"Maybe he thinks, the closer they are to danger, the farther they are from true harm," Gendry suggested thoughtfully, and Jon shrugged. "Ser Davos says the two Queens will tear Westeros apart to snatch whatever's left from each other's claws. I've no love for Lannisters but those girls are innocent; it's good they'll be tucked safe out of the reach of either of the queens."
"I wish I could make people understand…" He sighed, shaking his head.
"That's why we're going beyond the Wall, isn't it?" Gendry prompted. "To show people what they should actually be afraid of, so they stop acting like spoiled children?"
"Aye," Jon nodded.
He thought of Cersei. Jon thought of Daenerys.
After what he had done, allowing wildings beyond the Wall for the first time since the black brothers began their long vigil, could Jon just sit back and watch as innocent children were left vulnerable to cruelty when he could ensure it did not happen?
Were the girls truly any safer at Winterfell, with an invasion imminent, than they would be at Dragonstone, with an invasion imminent?
The armies of the dead could only kill them.
The armies of the living historically did far worse to beautiful, defenceless little girls like them.
It was in Jon's power to ensure that was not the fate of the last Lannisters.
It was because of his sisters that Jon had agreed, not because of Lord Tyrion's offers of gold and food to pay for the privilege of taking the girls on as wards of Winterfell.
He sat at his desk, his gaze flicking mournfully to his empty bed where once Nora had coaxed him so sweetly to join her, and started writing a letter to Sansa. It had to be done: She needed to be informed one way or another about the truth of the armistice being organised. He regretted she would learn about this expedition by letter, but, as he explained, he could not waste the time. He had to be North beyond the Wall and back south again as quickly as possible.
In the meantime, Lord Tyrion prepared his kin for their journey. Jon did not concern himself with the politics of whether or not the Queen would allow Jon to take the Lannisters, her hostages, as his wards, or if Lord Tyrion had even asked her permission. He just organised things as if it was already set in stone that the girls were going North.
Kneading his tired eyes, he heard a soft knock on the door, a guard telling him, "Lady Missandei, Your Grace."
"Show her in," Jon called, setting down his quill and standing from his desk. The pretty Summer Islander, the Queen's most trusted advisor but for Ser Jorah, entered the room, but she was not alone; several servants carried crates of books and scrolls.
"Lady Missandei," he said, aware how exhausted his voice sounded. "How can I help you?"
"Your Grace, I have spent many weeks exploring the texts and scrolls in the library," Missandei said softly. "There are some of the rarest manuscripts in the world here, and most are written in High Valyrian. At my Queen's behest, I have been searching the ancient writings for mention of obsidian and of White Walkers."
Jon glanced at the small crates, five of them, filled with books and scrolls and parchment manuscripts, clasped and illuminated. "You found something?"
"Quite a lot, I am delighted to say," Missandei said softly. "The writings on the White Walkers are…ancient and…obscure, even for High Valyrian odes, and had I not heard of your experiences beyond the Wall I would have discounted them as fanciful myth, embellished by the authors. The Valyrians of old were renowned for aggrandising their sagas. My Queen would bequeath these ancient writings to you; I supervised a team of scholars who have translated them into the common tongue for ease - though the beauty of the prose is somewhat damaged in the change."
"This…this is more than I could have asked for," Jon said, gazing at her and rushing out an earnest, "Thank you."
"It was my pleasure, Your Grace, truly… There is one particular manuscript which I believe may be of particular importance to you," Lady Missandei said, and she gestured to a servant, who carried forward a large, old wooden box. He set it on Jon's desk, opened the creaking lid, and unfolded swathes of velvet, samite, sealskin and thick waxed parchment. The manuscript he lifted out - wearing gloves of softest kid - was bound with weirwood, banded by bronze, the cover carved…with a White Walker…and one of the First Men, a spear in his hand, a direwolf snarling at his side. "It is not written in High Valyrian, Your Grace, though a translation was found with it, a sister, made in likeness of the first. The original, to the best of my knowledge, is written in the runes of the First Men. It lays out the legend of the Long Night, and the war for the dawn fought between two brothers."
"Two brothers?" Jon breathed, stunned, as the servant carefully unclasped the manuscript.
"One, taken captive by the Children of the Forest and created as a weapon by them with harrowing magics, and his brother, who united the First Men to stop him when the Children's hold over him failed," Missandei said softly, her gaze uncertain as she glanced at Jon. "This manuscript…is thousands of years older than the Valyrian Freehold, even. Generations have maintained its integrity - there is a record of it. The manuscript belonged at Winterfell, Your Grace, for many thousands of years. There is a note written in it, preserved with wax, from a Lady Alarra Stark, daughter of Lord Alaric Stark, Warden of the North, who gifted the manuscript to Queen Alysanne Targaryen. She was very well-read, and had enjoyed the rich culture of stories and legends of the North during her progress through the Northern kingdom."
Jon's heart seized at the name. Alarra. Larra, his heart moaned sorrowfully.
His breath gusted out. It was a point of pride that Good Queen Alysanne had journeyed throughout the North, hosting her women's courts and strengthening support for the Night's Watch. She had been coldly received at Winterfell, the stories claimed, but even Lord Alaric had not been strong enough to withstand the Queen's charms.
"I have also had a translation written," Lady Missandei said softly, her smile gentle. "Though we have not had the time to turn it into a manuscript of such superior quality as these."
"Thank you," Jon wheezed, disbelieving, as Lady Missandei produced a stack of gatherings, a collection of parchment pages sewn together with thick linen thread - Jon knew the word because Maester Luwin had taught Larra how to make manuscripts, from treating the skins to make parchment to painting illuminations and decorating the covers and bindings. The handwriting was clear and elegant, written in the common tongue.
"Your Grace…when you became King in the North…did you swear an oath?"
"Aye," Jon said, nodding. He had exchanged one vow for another, the Night's Watch for the entirety of the North and all who lived there. There was little difference in it.
"Might I ask, what was it?" Missandei asked curiously.
"'Winter is coming, and so begins my reign. I shall defend my realm and all those who live within it. I shall fight for their freedom, never for mine own glory. I shall live and die for the good of the North. At Winterfell the fire burns against the cold, and the light brings the dawn. It is my blood that wakes the sleepers. Mine shall be the sword in the darkness. I am the shield that guards this Realm of Men. I pledge my loyalty to the North. In my life and death I pledge to fight for Winterfell and the North, for winter is coming. Winter is coming'," he recited grimly. Missandei's dark eyes glimmered, and she gazed at him.
"The first Oath," she said softly.
"Pardon?"
"That oath, Your Grace…it is recorded in the manuscript as the First Oath. The oath sworn by Bracken the Stark…his son Brandon became the Builder who united the First Men with the Children and drove the Others away… The oath every King of Winter has sworn for thousands of generations…and you," Missandei said softly. "The oath Bracken swore…to defend the North even in death, to stop his brother whom he had lost, even if it meant plunging a knife through his heart by his own hand."
Jon stared at the translator. Her face - which seemed tired, to Jon - was alight with the fascination of legends recorded in a dying language. Only the Free Folk and the giants spoke it, and the last of the giants was dead.
"Show me," he breathed, and for a little while, Jon and Missandei pored over the translated text. Jon had never heard the story; it had never been one that Old Nan had ever told them.
The Night King…was a Stark. The war for the dawn was a battle between brothers, one twisted and warped into an unrecognisable thing devoted to one cause - the destruction of every living creature. He had been mis-created by the Children, so said the ancient manuscript, their captive, and their weapon. But his power had grown beyond them, and he had turned on them, too, until the Children and the First Men had had no choice but to unite, if they had any chance of surviving.
The manuscript said that ancient magic wielded by the Children and the First Men, combined, had been enough to beat the Others back, long enough to raise the Wall, beyond which the Others had slumbered for thousands of years, waiting…
Jon read the First Oath, a chill going down his spine, but he didn't focus on that. What drew him back were the words Bracken had sworn: To stop the Others, even if it meant plunging a knife through his brother's heart…
"Thank you for this, Missandei," Jon said softly. "Truly. It…is a priceless relic."
"It belongs at Winterfell," Missandei said softly. She hesitated. "You spent many years away from your home, Your Grace?"
"I did."
"And…did you think of it often?"
"Always," Jon said, with a soft, gruff, tired laugh. He glanced at Missandei, who looked drawn and suddenly pale. "Missandei? Are you ill? Sit down." He pulled his chair out for her, settling her down. "Shall I get you something to eat, or hot tea?"
"I… I am quite well, thank you, Your Grace," Missandei said shakily.
"You're not," Jon frowned. Missandei glanced around the chamber almost desperately. Her dark eyes settled on Jon.
"I…have not been sleeping well, Your Grace. It is how I found the manuscript; I have been…retreating to the library at all hours, because I can find no rest…the words drown it out," Missandei said hoarsely.
Jon frowned, and gently asked, "Drown what out, my lady?"
"Screaming… I remember… I remember, screaming for my mother, as they carried me away," Missandei said shakily, her eyes gleaming and faraway.
Missandei stared at the King in the North, whose dark eyes flickered with concern, his grim, bearded face full of empathy. He sighed heavily, and nodded. "When they took you from Naath."
"Everything was burning," Missandei whispered, staring in remembered horror at Jon, though in her mind she was far away, white shores growing smaller, great palm-trees catching alight as the island choked on black smoke, the screams of the dying carrying on the gentle air with the smell of flowers, great flocks of colourful birds exploding into the skies, the waves frothing with the blood of the dead cast overboard, and the hand that clamped on her shoulder, nails biting into her skin, and the vicious smile leering down at her as a collar was clamped around her throat.
The Lion Culling was the first time Missandei had thought about that day in a very long time: What came after was truly more horrifying.
She had watched the pale girls with their golden hair sobbing and crying for their mothers as they were manhandled into a wheelhouse, locked away, heard their whimpers and saw the fear in their eyes as they watched the bloodriders, and the flames, and Missandei…could not forget her own enslavement.
She could not shake the unsettling feeling…that what Queen Daenerys had done…was wrong, that it put her on the same level as those who had stolen Missandei from the glittering white beaches of Naath, stripping her of her freedoms and her innocence, all that she was and all that she ever could be.
Missandei sniffed, wiping her eyes, as the King in the North looked on grimly. He did not ask her to explain, and Missandei offered nothing else: He didn't seem to need to ask, he read it in her face, in her tears.
She had not cried about her enslavement since that first sea-voyage: She was almost shocked to be weeping now, for seven little golden girls whose names she barely knew.
"The Lord Hand has made arrangements for the Ladies of Lannister to live as wards at Winterfell," Missandei sniffed delicately, and the King nodded solemnly, though a tiny line appeared between his brows as his eyes seemed to pinch in distrust - or at least, wariness. "I am glad they will be safe under your care, Your Grace."
The hard part was not in getting the Lannister girls onto a Northern ship.
It was Gendry's adopted children. Specifically, getting Neva to stop clinging to Gendry's leg long enough for Lady Tisseia or Zharanni, both of whom were accompanying them North, to coax her onto the ship, and Rhysand, who was stubborn as an aurochs and seemed to grow as large as his adopted father in his anger at the threat of their separation.
"We're a family!" Rhysand raged. "A family. We're supposed to stay together."
"We are a family. We will always be a family," Gendry asserted, his voice deep and solemn and fierce. His blue eyes glowed; he looked ferocious, and those who watched pretended not to see the tears glinting in Rhysand's eyes as he glared at his father. "It's my job to keep you safe; and safe is where the Starks will keep you. At Winterfell."
"We need good men like you," Jon said, and Ser Davos smiled warmly in approval, as Jon said, "to look after the girls. They're deathly frightened and have no menfolk to protect them but the Queen's men." In her beneficence, the Queen had granted each of the seven Lannister girls a bloodrider sworn to their protection, to ride down any who tried to harm them, and an Unsullied soldier - to cut down any of the bloodriders who might be tempted to abuse their positions.
Rhysand sighed heavily, glaring at the Lannister girls - specifically Narcisa, though his eyes lingered a second too long, and he rolled his eyes, scoffing, when she caught him staring and blushed, frowning - then turned his vivid pale-blue eyes on Jon. "What about Gendry? Who's going to look after him?"
"I will," Jon promised him. "The two of us, we'll return to Winterfell. I've my sister to return to; Gendry has you two to fight for. You'll not be parted long. I give you my word."
Rhysand scowled. "You can't promise that. Your family was ripped apart, everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knows it - and in Essos too!"
"Aye. It was. If you trust nothing else, believe that I will do all I can, with all the strength I have in my body, to make sure Gendry survives this expedition," Jon said quietly, leaning down to meet Rhysand's eyes. "I have no desire to lose any more brothers."
Rhysand sighed heavily, still scowling.
"I've another task for you, not just looking after the girls…I've a letter that must reach my sister, Lady Stark. She won't be happy to read it, but it must reach her," Jon said, and he produced the thick letter he had spent hours wording and rewording in his head before he could write a single sentence, too anxious about what Sansa would read, and how she, specifically, would read between the lines, interpreting what he left unsaid.
All he wanted was to go home and just talk with her, relaxing in the carved settle while she sewed, and he rested his tired eyes. Sometimes she'd accidentally rouse him from his doze, spreading a fur over him; he was a light sleeper, but he always appreciated the thoughtfulness of the gesture, and they'd usually cuddle up under the furs when that happened, luxuriating in their time together, in their home.
That was all he wanted. He didn't want to be going beyond the Wall, for the sake of two spoiled queens who needed to be shocked out of their conceit.
He was so tired of fighting.
Jon just wanted to rest.
"How will I know who she is to give it to her?" Rhysand frowned.
"You'll know Sansa. She's tall and beautiful, with hair kissed by fire," Jon said. "And she'll probably terrify you."
"I'm not scared of girls," Rhysand scoffed.
"Well, she scares me," Jon said, and Ser Davos chuckled, his beard twitching, at the look on Rhysand's face. As if it was incomprehensible that a hard Northern warrior who was becoming a legend even as far south as King's Landing was afraid of his sister. Rhysand would learn.
"She's not going to throw me in a dungeon for what's written in the letter, is she?" Rhysand asked shrewdly.
Jon chuckled. "No. She may put you in the forge, and you'll spar daily in the training-yard with all the other children."
"Learn to fight?"
"Spears, shields, bows, knives -"
"I know how to use a knife," Rhysand said dismissively, and though Jon could not see one on the boy did not mean he was not armed.
"I hope you reach Winterfell without having to use one," Jon said earnestly.
It was Rhysand who peeled Neva off Gendry, kissing and cooing to her as she silently wept, her eyes utterly accusing, devastated - she believed Gendry was giving her away. Gendry kissed her and murmured reassurances, but it was Lady Tisseia who took the little girl into her arms with a cheerful smile, coaxing Neva to wave to Gendry, and speaking bastard Valyrian to her.
As Winter navigated its way out of the harbour, Gendry sighed heavily, his face tortured, his shoulders slumping. He ran his hands through his curly black hair in evident frustration, as guilt warred across his face.
An hour later, they followed Winter's course aboard Storm Crow, the last of the three vessels bound to the Night's Watch, and the hardiest. They were headed north, finally, and Jon felt freedom as the island of Dragonstone disappeared on the horizon, as if he could breathe again.
They headed ever northward, until the choppy waves gave way to angry black seas and skies heavy with sleet-rain that punished anyone unfortunate enough to be stuck above-deck. It was miserable: It was also the most relieved Jon had felt in months - his time spent with Nora the exception to the rule, his general agitation and barely-leashed frustration and anger toward the Dragon Queen.
They spent the journey discussing the Night King's armies, the threat to all of Westeros - and the danger they were headed into, a last, desperate move.
Gendry said it simplest, and said it best: "All this for two spoiled queens."
A.N.: So…the parallels with Ned and Arya…it hurt my heart to write them, but I loved it at the same time!
UPDATE 03/11/2020: APPARENTLY THERE'S A GLITCH ON SO PEOPLE ARE HAVING TROUBLE ACCESSING CHAPTERS 30 AND 31. I HAVE POSTED THIS ENTIRE STORY TO MY ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN ACCOUNT, 'MELLOWENGLISHGAL' - SAME STORY TITLE.
I COULDN'T THINK OF ANOTHER WAY TO LET PEOPLE KNOW, HOPEFULLY YOU CAN SEE THIS MESSAGE AND GO AND FIND 'VALYRIAN STEEL' ON AO3!