Valyrian Steel

by mellowenglishgal

'She was ashamed to have let them down. She was supposed to look after them, after Brandon and Rickon. She was not a Stark; but Robb had entrusted Winterfell to her, to her and Luwin and Bran… She had sent Rickon off with Osha and Shaggydog and knew she would never see them again; she felt it in her marrow. She had Bran alone; and he was forgetting who he was.' ALSO ON AO3.

33. Rhaegar's Revenge

A.N.: A week since an update! Hold onto your butts, you're going to love this one.

So I remembered in Marvel where the Avengers/Tony goes through a lot of trouble to make Thanos bleed - calling back to Iron Man 2 when the baddie (honestly can't remember his name) tries to destroy the illusion of the Iron Man by forcing people to see him bleed, see that he's vulnerable and therefore can ultimately be beaten… I thought I'd bring a little of that into the dynamic between Jon and Daenerys: He knows the Unsullied were slaughtered at Casterly Rock, and he has seen Viserion wounded with his own eyes, he knows Daenerys is not invulnerable - and that goes a long way to reigniting Jon's self-confidence about the power-dynamics…

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Valyrian Steel

33

Rhaegar's Revenge

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"How many people live here?"

"A million, or nearabouts," Ser Davos said, and Jon exhaled a stunned breath, grimacing.

"More than the entire population of the North, crammed into a place smaller than Winterfell," he said with a grim look. "When I was a boy, Maester Luwin taught us architecture and economics. Winter's Town has been successful for millennia because it was planned, and expansions were carried out during the spring and summer years to prepare for the next winter when the North converged on Winterfell… Maester Luwin had visited King's Landing; he said the city saw an explosion of population-growth as the Red Keep was completed, but no-one had thought to plan for where people would live outside of the castle."

Jon frowned up at the Red Keep, thinking. It sounded very like Daenerys' occupation of Dragonstone - she had claimed the castle and planted herself firmly on the jagged throne, and no-one thought of her followers until Jon had tasked Lord Tyrion with designing a Winter Town for the Dothraki, Meereenese and other freed-slaves who had followed Daenerys to Westeros - and been left to fend for themselves, the Queen having forgotten all her promises of a better world she intended to create for them.

The sails rippled in the wind, and Jon glanced up at them. The Stark sigil was bared proudly today, and they sailed into the harbour of Blackwater Bay, the direwolf figurehead of Winter snarling dangerously as they swept through the choppy dark-grey waters.

It was perhaps only the appearance of safety in numbers, but Jon was glad of even this fraction of the Northern fleet accompanying him, with the Greyjoys and the Tyrells, and several choice ships from the Targaryen fleet bringing Lord Tyrion to the mainland. Lord Tyrion was still in rather a state of agitation: Daenerys had, after all, gone inexplicably missing on the back of her dragons, and returned a week later on a ship with the King in the North, a wight, and one of her dragons injured.

Things on Dragonstone had been…tense upon their return.

Ironically, in their lady's absence, the Queen's Council had been able to work with efficiency and focus: They had gotten along far better without her, not that they would say so to her face. They didn't need to, though: Jon saw it.

And he did his utmost to stay away from the Queen, remembering Gendry's simple words that continued to bolster him: "It's not you who should be feeling ashamed. And the only way to stop a bully is to stand up to them."

Well, he could start standing up to the bully - after this summit.

On the return journey to Dragonstone, Daenerys had been given the captain's cabin. And Jon had slept - tried to sleep - in one of the hammocks with the other men.

He had given the Queen no further opportunities to climb into bed and take what she wanted from him, and even though the air was cool, Jon flushed - with shame… It was one thing for Gendry to say it was not they who should be ashamed, because Jon felt ashamed.

That he did not have the freedom to deny her. Jon understood exactly what the dynamics were between them. He was in a precarious position: He needed Daenerys' armies.

But he did not want her. Nor did he want her to believe this tentative alliance meant he would be in any way moved to bend the knee to her out of gratitude or obligation because she had committed her troops to a cause that served to protect not just his people but all people - including those she intended to conquer.

He frowned up at the Red Keep. This was where her family's legacy had begun. King's Landing - Aegon's city. The throne he had created with dragonfire and the swords of those he conquered, thousands of them. Sansa had told Jon it was an ugly, unwieldy thing, the Iron Throne. Impractical, she had sneered, and Jon teased her, reminding her that she had once desired to perch beside it with little golden-haired babies cooing in her lap, the beloved Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Queen Sansa. It even sounded right.

She would hate that Jon was here. He knew, sending the letter with Rhysand, that Sansa would be furious. That she would…would be afraid - for him.

Uncle Brandon and their grandfather had tortured and tormented and mutilated before death had blessedly claimed them. Summoned south by the Dragon Queen's mad father.

The last man in their family to come south had died with his head on the executioner's block - in front of Sansa.

Sansa had spent years navigating the treacherous political mire that was the royal court, and now that she had escaped it, Sansa was adamant about keeping the Northmen away from it by any means necessary.

To say relations between the Iron Throne and the North were hostile was underselling it.

But Jon was not Ned: And he had had to do his fair share of political manoeuvring. He was glad, though, that he did not arrive at King's Landing alone. He was even more gratified that among the ships already moored were several from the Stormlands, the Arbour and the Westerlands. The ravens that had been sent out had gained traction, it seemed; there was even a ship from Oldtown, he thought, the figurehead of the ship nothing more or less than a maester's chain, coiled and knotted, made of many dozens of different materials that glinted or shimmered in the light reflecting off the water as they passed. One gorgeous ship bore a figurehead of a beautiful woman with a long spear in one hand and a sun cradled in her other palm, both gilded. The Dornish. Their flagship was named Nymeria, and the name painted in gold sent a pang through Jon's heart worse than any knife.

Arya, he thought, with a sigh, gazing up at the Red Keep. Sansa's prison, for so many years. Not Arya's, though: She had endured a very different fate - she had become a wanderer, just like her hero Nymeria. The last Gendry had seen of Arya, they had been in the Riverlands: But they had met here in King's Landing, the day they took Father's head.

Jon had one of his black brothers to thank for her escape from this city, though Jon had barely any recollection of the man Yoren, beyond him having a hearty laugh and a sensible if rough demeanour. He had been a good friend of Uncle Benjen's, Jon remembered. What Gendry could recall of Yoren fit Jon's limited memories of the man: He had been tough as old boots and dangerous enough to survive wandering the Seven Kingdoms the last twenty years recruiting for the Watch.

"Where's the summit being held?" Jon asked quietly. He was acutely aware that the ravens sent out had named Jon, the King in the North, as the one who had called an armistice and invited the lords of Westeros to King's Landing for a meeting of dire significance.

"According to Lord Tyrion, in the Dragonpit," Ser Davos said, and his beard twitched as he added, his tone dripping with irony, "Fitting."

"Cersei will have chosen the Pit as a perfect place to jibe Daenerys," Jon said heavily, and Ser Davos nodded.

"Undoubtedly. You know this isn't going to be about the wight so much as everyone airing their grievances and blaming each other for every wrong committed the last fifty years," Ser Davos grunted, sounding tired already. Jon nodded.

"I know it," he said quietly. "I'm just glad so many have responded to the ravens."

"A chance to see the White Wolf and the Dragon Queen?" Ser Davos chuckled, and Jon gave him a look. Ser Davos gave him a measuring frown. "Are you alright?"

"Better, now that there's some distance," Jon admitted, sighing heavily, reaching up to rub his face in exhaustion. It was just past dawn, and he could hear the noise of the city drifting over the water as they approached the harbour. Ser Davos frowned steadily at him; Jon shrugged it off. "She got what she wanted; we have her armies."

Ser Davos said nothing, just frowned steadily at him.

"What you gave her is not nearly all she wants, though, is it?" he said quietly. "Nor was it hers to just take."

"You've been speaking with Gendry," Jon said darkly.

"He thought it was something I might need to know about, as your advisor - and your friend," Ser Davos said, and a look passed over his face that startled Jon - for a moment, Ned Stark was staring at him, his face full of anguish and concern. "Jon…you don't have to do this."

"That's what Gendry said… But I do," Jon said grimly, gazing back at Ser Davos. "Maester Aemon once asked me, if the day ever came when my father had to choose between honour and those he loved, what would he do."

"And how did you answer?"

"I said my father would do what was right… Maester Aemon told me that love is the death of duty," Jon said, Ygritte's face flashing in his mind - but she looked more like Sansa than ever, and he winced. "I don't quite agree. My duty is to those I love - it's because I love them that I'll do my duty by them. By everyone."

Jon never forgot that he had ripped off the Lord Commander's heavy cloak and was set to leave the Wall and the North forever, the day that Sansa had appeared at Castle Black. Regardless of all he knew, all he had done, everything he knew was coming, Jon had…had had enough. He was tired…so tired…

Jon's love for Sansa had bolstered him - had strengthened his commitment to his duty.

His love had not been the death-knell for his duty. It had been a lightning-bolt striking him to remind him of what that duty was - and to whom.

Sansa had burned through his exhaustion, his…his despair. She had relit the embers; the Battle of the Bastards had seen the spark catch into a fury, burning through him - he had fought. He had not merely woken to endure every day: He had realised…no matter how often he questioned that he did, Jon lived. He was alive. He should be dead. He was going to fight for every stolen dawn.

He had been ready to give up. To give in.

Sansa hadn't let him.

Her love - his love for her - had only strengthened his devotion to his duty.

Maester Aemon had been partially right. Ygritte had died because he had chosen his duty as a brother of the Night's Watch over her: But it was because of his love for Sansa that Jon had not abandoned his duty to the North, to everyone.

She was the reason he was here today.

And she would be the reason he left this city alive. He had her guiding him; he had her to return home to.

Jon sighed. "How many Ironborn ships do you count?"

"Too many," Ser Davos said grimly, his clever eyes flitting across the bay. The Iron Fleet - led by Euron Greyjoy, self-proclaimed King of the Iron Islands - littered the bay, and Jon felt the tension building between his shoulder-blades. "I've known this city under siege before. Their presence gives me the same feeling."

"I do not understand Cersei allying with Euron Greyjoy," Jon admitted. "Why ally for his ships if she's not going to utilise their strength properly?"

"How so?"

"If I was Cersei, and had the Iron Fleet at my disposal," Jon thought - and a warg to be my spy - "I would have found a way to provoke Daenerys to dispatching her armies to the mainland - and had the Iron Fleet waiting, to stop them. The Dothraki are out of their elements on the sea. As fierce as they are, the Ironborn are second-to-none when it comes to sea-warfare. I would have ensure the majority of Daenerys' forces never made it to shore."

"And her dragon?"

"Cersei is ruthless," Jon mused. "She proved that with the Sept of Baelor. Her own kin were acceptable collateral when it came to destroying her enemies… She would sacrifice the Iron Fleet in a heartbeat if it split open a wound Daenerys could not easily heal."

"She'd still have those dragons," Ser Davos said, and Jon grunted. He felt that Daenerys would be more dangerous without her two armies - without the Unsullied and Dothraki to unleash, leaving nothing but her three dragons, all Aegon and his sisters had when they brought Westeros to its knees.

And yet…and yet Viserion was still healing. The Night King's spear of ice had wounded Viserion - and though the ice had melted…Viserion was not healing. Not as he would from a normal spear-wound - not nearly as quickly as Drogon was healing from the wounds inflicted at the Ash Meadow. Viserion, the smallest and least vicious of the dragons - though that did not say much - was still suffering from lingering pain.

They could hurt: They could be killed.

And Jon imagined Cersei already planned to exploit that fact.

He glanced behind him. In the distance, some of the Targaryen fleet was just sailing into the Blackwater Bay. The Queen had decided she would arrive by air rather than by sea.

In spite of the injuries to two of her dragons, Daenerys had declared all three would accompany her to King's Landing. As would her Dothraki screamers, and her Unsullied.

Larra used to love playing cards with Jon: She would spend hours painting them, filling each miniature picture with exquisite details, clues and hints at jokes only they understood. She invented games. And through their cyvasse campaigns with Maester Luwin's guidance, they had both learned - never to show all their cards.

Her Dothraki, her remaining Unsullied, her three dragons - two of them injured, one visibly struggling to fly great distances, or at speed. All Daenerys had, put on display as a show of her strength.

And yet Jon knew the very great vulnerability of her armies. Her Unsullied were depleted; her Dothraki were undisciplined; and her dragons were wounded.

They could bleed.

It was…a relief, to Jon. Horrifying as the image was at the time, now, Jon could look back at Viserion's injury by the Night King's spear and know…the dragons were not invulnerable.

Therefore the Queen was not invincible. She was not a god. Not a horrifying figure from legend, implacable and immortal.

Just a girl, with two armies she had no idea how to truly command, and three dragons that were living creatures just as any other - and like every other creature in the world, could be killed.

She had wagered her entire conquest on them.

Take them away…what was Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains left with?

A self-aggrandising name.

Strip it all away…Jon could breathe a little more easily. He appreciated that her armies could be destroyed, that her dragons could bleed - and that without them, she was nothing but a name.

She was just a person.

Jon felt lighter than he had in days, as they trudged toward the Dragonpit, turning over the details of his epiphany about Daenerys' power. The illusion of her power over him.

She only had power over him if he yielded it to her.

He hated that she had crawled into his bed, and put him in that position of utter vulnerability - to have no choice. Jon found it extraordinary that a person who named herself the Breaker of Chains so easily exerted her own power over another who was in a position seemingly more vulnerable than her own…

Of everything he had heard of Daenerys Targaryen's exploits in Essos, what he had witnessed at Dragonstone, and how she had conducted herself in the Ash Meadow the day of the Lion Culling, her climbing into his bed to force him to bed her - knowing full well the underlying political tensions, asserting herself over him while he was powerless to deny her - had cemented Jon's understanding of her true nature. Even though she lied to herself about who she was, Jon saw it with punishing clarity.

---

He sighed grimly, frowning up at the Dragonpit looming above them, casting shadows across the city as the pale, hot sun beat down, whipping a cold wind off the Blackwater that brought noisome odours from the slums when the breeze blew the wrong way - the city's foul stench was so thick, Jon could almost chew it, and he didn't wonder about the wealth of heavily-scented plants and shrubs lining the gravel walkways through the gardens that led up the hill on which the Dragonpit stood like a broken crown, and he wandered between unfamiliar olive trees, their leaves glimmering silver-green in the sunlight, noticing more and more of the city's higher-ranking nobility and merchant lords lingering among the terraced gardens full of white lavender, purple sage, myrtle trees and nodding penstemons. The sun-baked red roofs of the city grew smaller as he strode up Rhaenys' Hill, and the air became cooler, crisper and free of the stench of the city below.

It certainly smelled like a million people were crammed into the tiny space, and when Jon paused to turn and take in the view, he could see the great manses with their cultivated gardens giving way to winding streets choked with buildings piling on top of each other, and the slums tumbling toward the gates, and stretching beyond them. A million people, forced to live on top of each other… He cast a scornful look at the Red Keep. Aegon may not have planned for the city to erupt around his castle, but his successors had certainly had the time to invest in designing a city worthy of its people.

He glanced ahead up the gravel path, and back behind him - toward Obara Sand, whose angry eyes had focused on the rich ochre silks and glimmering golden sunspears emblazoned on the banners and cloaks of the guards marching ahead. Four of them carried a fine litter, also emblazoned with the sunspear of Dorne.

The Dragonpit had been largely left untouched since the Dance of Dragons: The sandy floor, the fire-blasted walls, the broken domed ceiling. A decrepit ruin, all that was left of a legacy of fearsome power.

Cersei had chosen well for the summit's location, Jon thought. She had chosen the place that at once represented the might of the Targaryen dynasty - and its ultimate downfall. The same reason for both: Dragons.

The Dragonpit had been prepared for a summit, with the sandy floor cleared of debris and swept, with raised pavilions newly-built, decorated fit for royalty, draped in House colours and clustered with potted plants, all to disguise the lingering scent of the city. His own pavilion was draped not with a banner of white with the grey Stark direwolf emblazoned on it, but rather the other way around - pale-grey silk on which a snow-white direwolf was stitched, a nod both to Jon's nickname and a snide reminder that he was forbidden his father's sigil due to his birth as a bastard - and Cersei remembered. There were several chairs set aside, all high-backed and unadorned.

He could not help notice, however, that the pavilion draped in his colours was somewhat larger than the one dedicated to Daenerys' court, which was draped in black silk emblazoned with a ruby-red three-headed dragon. There were also no chairs beneath the Targaryen awning.

There was also no pavilion for House Tyrell, nor any of the Lords of the Reach, the Stormlands, the Vale or the Riverlands. Only House Lannister, House Stark, House Martell and House Targaryen.

The grandest pavilion was drenched with Lannister gold - though the traditional red of their sigil was now a deep, blood-red closer to black, perhaps as a show of the Queen's continued mourning, and as for the lion…it seemed abstract, now, its mane twisted into a representation of the Iron Throne on which Cersei now sat. It was interesting, Jon thought, frowning at the strange design, that the Queen would have had her new sigil embroidered in silver, with only a few wisps of gold chased through it. Beneath the awning were several comfortable, leather-upholstered chairs, spindly tables overflowing with exotic fruits and glinting carafes of expensive wine and pastries and carved joints of meat, liveried servants already standing attendance. A great chaise rested in the centre of the pavilion on a dais that raised the sitter above everyone else, richly upholstered with shimmering gold fabric, cushions and furs arranged neatly. Braziers either side of the chaise made cleverly into the shape of roaring lions were already lit, and would shed further warmth over the person who reclined there.

It was not cold - not by Jon's standards - but for King's Landing, there was a distinctive chill in the air that, to Jon's well-trained nose, smelled like the threat of snow. He glanced up, past the crooked remains of the Dragonpit's domed ceiling - which looked like jagged broken teeth - to the skies, which were mostly clear, allowing the sun to shine down, but beyond the hills heavy white clouds lumbered past on a sluggish wind.

Before the people of King's Landing would realise it, winter would be upon them.

The small litter ahead of them stopped at the Martell pavilion, where several high-backed, leather-upholstered chairs were arranged beneath an awning of shimmering ochre velvet embroidered with sunspears, and a young woman was assisted out of it.

Jon had to hand it to Cersei, she knew how to make her feelings known, without having to say a word. Hard, unforgiving wooden chairs for Jon; leather-upholstered ones for the Dornish; and none at all for Daenerys and her court.

The reason for the leather-upholstered chairs in the Dornish pavilion was apparent; the envoy from the Water Gardens was a glorious blonde young-woman Jon vaguely recognised.

Vaguely - because he had seen her many years ago, when she had been but a young girl.

Jon glanced over his shoulder at his own company, and they exchanged a look, heading for the pavilion set aside for the King in the North.

Lady Ellaria had given Jon prior warning that the envoy from Dorne would be the Princess Myrcella, freshly wed to Prince Doran's son Prince Trystane.

The Princess looked very heavily pregnant for a girl freshly married, and she sighed as she climbed out of the litter, her jewelled hands lingering on her huge belly, her lower-back. She glimmered in gold, an elaborately embroidered dress of gold lace and silk trimmed with velvet, with a long filigree belt and matching necklace, and a heavy cloak of ivory-and-gold velvet brocade trimmed with sleek, shimmering pale-gold furs, with a gold chain and jewelled clasp. Her golden hair, more vibrant even than her dress, glimmered in tumbling waves to her waist, and on her head she wore a simple circlet of gold set with citrines, each of them carved with a sunspear motif.

Ellaria Sand, and her two youngest daughters, had seen the princess, and with the exception of Obara Sand, who gave him a terse but respectful bow, the ladies all curtsied to Jon before making their way to their new princess and kinswoman-by-marriage, who greeted them with beauteous smiles and a glimmer in her eyes as she was enveloped in a fierce embrace by Lady Ellaria, whose gaze dipped down to the Princess's swollen belly, and started to croon her delight, tenderly and familiarly stroking the Princess's chin before kissing her on the lips. The little girls both curtsied to their princess, who took their hands and walked with them to the pavilion, the youngest chatting happily about her adventures terrorising the servants of Dragonstone.

Jon glanced over his shoulder at the rest of his company - Ser Davos, Lord Randyll and Dickon Tarly, Lord Barahir and his men, Lord Beric Dondarrion, and Jon's guards - and they made their way to the pavilion marked for the King in the North. Sandor Clegane remained behind, gently stroking the neck of the donkey harnessed to the wagon in which they had transported the crated and chained wight from the ship. Reaching into the wagon, Jon withdrew one of the small parcels he had brought ashore. A small box, safely wrapped inside a pocket of velvet.

Remembering that certain things were expected of him as a sovereign engaging in politics, Jon had visited Daenerys' jeweller before they had disembarked from Dragonstone.

The gift was not what it should have been, but it was all Jon could offer. The North was not a wealthy country - recently beleaguered by war and disunity - and never had been. Its strength had never come from its wealth, but from its people. Let the Lannisters have their gold, Jon thought: He had the respect of his people.

Lady Ellaria smiled as he approached the Martell pavilion. The Princess sat on the upholstered chair in the centre of the pavilion, stroking the hair of Ellaria's older daughter, and she started and smiled as Jon approached, giving her a respectful half-bow.

"Princess Myrcella. May I offer my best wishes on your marriage," Jon said formally, remembering what Septa Mordane had drilled into him. He was to extend best wishes to the bride, and congratulate the groom on coaxing his bride to accept his offer of marriage. In the back of his memory, Larra scoffed: As if the girl had any choice in the matter!

Princess Myrcella was radiant with joy, however. If she was unhappy in her arranged marriage, she was an expert actress to conceal her true feelings.

The Princess stood, and somehow, despite her bulging belly, managed to sweep an elegant curtsy. "Your Grace," she smiled, glowing more brightly than the sun above. It startled Jon - not just to be recognised as a King, but without hesitation, by someone born and raised a princess…even if the circumstances of her birth were questionable at best. She had been born and raised what she was; a princess. And yet she had not hesitated to address Jon as someone who now outranked her.

For Jon, banished to the farthest part of the hall during feasts, it was a strange feeling.

"It is not what it should be, Princess," he said softly, solemnly offering Princess Myrcella the box. "But a small token from the Northern kingdom on your marriage."

The Princess looked surprised and a little flattered, her eyes taking in Jon's freshly-cropped curls, his neatly trimmed beard, his brigandine and his polished gorget and boots. It was too hot for the cloak Sansa had given him; he had already slung it over the wagon. And it felt hotter still under the Princess's gaze, for he never had been at ease when women took notice of him.

She drew the small box from the velvet sleeve. It was made of weirwood, polished until it glowed like pearl, and had been inlaid with obsidian and gold, combining two sigils - the Lannister roaring lion's head and the Martell sunspear. The box had cost more than the obsidian it contained: Queen Daenerys' jeweller, formerly of Qarth, had inlaid the weirwood box himself, purchased in White Harbour on their return journey from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, and had cut and polished a chunk of obsidian into small, multi-faceted gems. Princess Myrcella ran her jewelled fingers over the surface of the box, her beautiful lips tilting at the corners into an appreciative smile, and she opened the box, the sound of the obsidian gems slinking and clicking against each other as she sifted her fingers through them strange and oddly pretty.

"It's obsidian, or dragonglass. Had I more time, I would have had them set in silver, but… I don't know the fashions," Jon admitted, and the princess smiled sweetly, her eyes crinkling. He glanced into the princess's beautiful face, and said, wincing slightly, "The colour may be too harsh for you."

"My child shall be a salty Dornishmen, like their father," she said softly, her voice gentle and kind. "Dark hair and dark eyes, I've no doubt. If it is a girl, I shall have the stones set into a circlet; and if I give birth to a son, I shall have the armourers craft a sword for him, and embed the obsidian into the hilt. A gift from the King in the North. Thank you for the gift, Your Grace…you are as thoughtful as your sister."

"Lady Sansa has always adored fine things," Jon admitted, with a slightly rueful smile, happy that Sansa had at least outgrown that passion. The Northern coffers could not afford to sustain the passion for Qartheen silk she had developed in her time at court.

Princess Myrcella dimpled. "Your Grace, I meant your twin-sister. Alarra."

Jon blinked, and stared. Larra?!

The Princess smiled again, and it was so beautiful other men would have fallen on their swords for her favour. Jon felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach by the mule pulling the wagon. "I remember you, Your Grace. From my time as a guest of your family at Winterfell. We danced together, at the welcome feast - though you blushed and mumbled; your sister had shoved you in my way so you had to. Alarra, with the violet eyes…" Jon stared at her, and perhaps it was the withdrawn, harrowed look in Jon's eyes, his sudden paleness, that made the princess glance uncertainly at him, and dip her chin, gazing sadly through her lashes at him. "Sometimes…when I am wandering the Water Gardens, I am reminded of picking flowers in the godswood. I still have the book of Northern wildflowers Lady Larra taught me to press - and the portrait she painted of me…. I cried when we learned she had been killed."

Mouth dry, Jon all but croaked, "I had forgotten about the painting."

Princess Myrcella's smile was tremulous as she caressed her swollen belly. Her voice was hoarse as she admitted, "I keep it on my dressing-table. I think about her all the time…"

Jon gulped. "I do remember the port, and the heavy cake, though," he told her, and Princess Myrcella gasped, a pretty blush colouring her cheeks.

"No! You mustn't tell - Uncle promised it was our secret!" she laughed giddily, her eyes dancing.

"Who d'you think carried you to your chamber? Lord Tyrion?" Jon smirked playfully, remembering the day when Lord Tyrion and Larra had polished off a heavy fruitcake topped with plum jam and a bottle of rich Arbour port, and accidentally got Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen drunk on the stuff while they played games with their uncle, and their new favourite playmate Larra, who had indeed coaxed the royal children on walks through the godswood - to Sansa's benefit and delight, befriending the princess - and flattered the queen (before the dreadfulness with the flogging) by requesting to paint the royal children's portraits. That afternoon, Larra had carried a sleeping Prince Tommen to the royal nursery via the servants' passages to ensure they were not caught by the Queen; Jon had carried Princess Myrcella, and Lord Tyrion had giggled as he had smoothed the children's golden curls after Jon and Larra had tucked them into bed, tenderly kissed them on the brow, and proceeded to lose the contents of his coin-purse to Larra in a game of cyvasse.

"Oh dear," Princess Myrcella gasped, one hand over her smiling lips. "What must you have thought of me?"

"Port and heavy cake's the ruin of many strong Northmen," Jon smiled. "A dainty little waif from the South stood no chance."

"Do you know, I've never since tasted port so velvety rich - or cake so moist and good… We walked through the godswood for hours, and sat about the fire warming our toes, cuddling with Tommen," Princess Myrcella said, and her smile slowly faded. She blinked several times, and Jon saw her glance across the city…to the crater that had once been the Sept of Baelor…to the Red Keep, from where her younger-brother had thrown himself to his death. Jon vaguely remembered the little prince - swaddled in so many pillows in the training-yard that a blow would never land on him.

"I am sorry for his death," Jon said earnestly.

"So am I," Princess Myrcella said throatily. She blinked several times, her eyes no longer shimmering. "I was glad to hear that Lady Sansa has returned home. Your Grace… Would it be impertinent of me to ask a favour?"

"Of course not," Jon said, frowning softly.

"I…had anticipated that perhaps Lady Sansa would be attending this summit," she said, with a slight wince of disappointment: Sansa would never set foot in King's Landing again. "And…then I realised she would likely never leave her home again, after all she endured… My own experiences as guest in a strange court have illuminated some of the unkindnesses Lady Sansa endured. I was not the sister or friend she deserved."

"You were both children," Jon said gently. And he was stunned to realise that Princess Myrcella was in every way the opposite of what Sansa knew Cersei to be - and by extension, what Jon also believed her to be.

"I have no such excuse now," Princess Myrcella said, and she reached into a deep pocket inside her cloak, withdrawing an envelope sealed with ochre wax shimmering with gold. She used the Martell sunspear sigil, rather than her mother's Lannister lion. "I wrote this letter. I would be honoured if you would deliver it to Lady Sansa. It shall be some time before I ever see her again, I know…it is my small way of apologising. And perhaps…perhaps building on what should have been a loyal friendship where I protected Lady Sansa… Your sister is Regent to the Northern crown while you are abroad; I shall also be sister to a sovereign, when the day comes that Princess Arianne takes up her father's position as ruler of Dorne… I should…like us to be friends."

"I should like that very much," Jon said solemnly, giving her a small bow, and understanding absolutely the implications. He took the envelope from Princess Myrcella. "I'll deliver your letter. Sansa said you were always very kind."

"Not as kind as she deserved," Princess Myrcella said; she seemed set to punish herself for the abuse Sansa had endured at her mother's and brother's hands - because she was now highly aware of what had truly transpired at court while she was still a girl.

She was excellent, Jon thought. Gracefully navigating political waters. She was very like Sansa - elegant, dignified, eloquent - and yet she lacked the bite of steel that Sansa had acquired. Sansa had always had a sharper tongue, though, less genuine sweetness than Princess Myrcella radiated: Sansa could never have walked on air the way Princess Myrcella did. Because despite her childish obsession with songs and knights and her naïveté, Sansa had always had it in her to be a fierce, strong Northern she-wolf.

He gave Myrcella a respectful half-bow, kissed Lady Ellaria's hand, rumpled her daughters' hair playfully - they squawked protests but grinned - nodded to Obara Sand, and made her way over to the pavilion under which his men were resting, waiting.

Jon sat down, arms folded over his chest, legs spread out, and didn't realise he was scowling until Ser Davos murmured, "Are you alright?"

"Hm?" Jon blinked, startled, staring at Ser Davos. He nodded hastily and cleared his throat.

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine. Princess Myrcella just…reminded me of her family's visit to Winterfell…my sister Larra taught her the names of all the Northern wildflowers, and painted her portrait," Jon said, and Ser Davos gave him a pinched look of understanding.

He did a very good job of not remembering Larra, until something like this happened - until one of the Lannister or Tyrell girls reminded him vividly of something his twin used to do, or Princess Myrcella shared her own memories of his sister…the things that had made her extraordinary, and very much missed. He was jarred that Larra's name had been mentioned - and by Princess Myrcella, the least-likely person imaginable. And for a moment, Jon's grief was agonising - overwhelming.

Then Sandor Clegane set the crate down, far enough from the pavilions that the wight could not reach them without them all having fair warning if it escaped.

And then a second, larger litter arrived, one Jon recognised. It was gilded with lattices heavy with roses, and behind the gold overlay, the wooden panelling concealing the reinforced steel walls had been painted teal-green. Tyrell guards in their velvet-covered armour stood sentry as servants carried the litter, and Jon heard the snappish tone of the Queen of Thorns before she appeared, ill-tempered and exhausted from her journey, but absolutely determined. Thinner than Jon's memory of her, Lady Olenna still wore her mourning clothes, though still with her brilliant gold belt of thorny vines and an elaborate rose. Her weight loss was not the most remarkable thing about the old lady; she now walked with a polished rosewood cane - and Jon could not help but feel that, in spite of her ongoing recovery, the old lady was more dangerous now because of that walking-stick.

She grumbled and scowled as she climbed awkwardly out of the litter, snapping at one of the servants, who jumped to help her. Behind her, her granddaughter appeared, her hand outstretched to rest on Lady Olenna's arm, her tone soothing and soft. Nora looked beautiful in a deep emerald-green velvet brocade gown, her belt a more delicate and intricate interpretation of her grandmother's, a wide criss-crossing of delicate thorny vines bedecked with dainty golden blossoms, some of them set with tiny pearls, climbing up toward her breasts and down over her hips like the caresses of a lover, and over her shoulders she wore a stole of glossy black fur. She looked vibrant and powerful, in a way she never had before. It was her gown, Jon thought, the rich colour bold and eye-catching, mature - and the way she held herself, no longer the fragile wallflower in the jagged throne-room of Dragonstone, nor the fractured girl broken by grief on the clifftop. This was the Lady of Highgarden, in all her glory, straight-backed, clever and proud. Jon noticed her glance across to the Martell pavilion, where Princess Myrcella sat, her belly proudly on display.

The two Tyrells - Nora's cousins had been loaded onto their flagship, and Jon, if no-one else, knew that the Tyrells were already planning to head south to their Redwyne cousins in the Arbour - made their way to the Martell pavilion, and Jon watched introductions being made by Lady Ellaria. Of course, Jon had heard from Lady Olenna herself that certain tracts of land in the south-eastern parts of the Reach may be used to entice Dornish lords to aid in the Tyrell recovery of Highgarden - and simultaneously punish those bannermen who had betrayed House Tyrell.

After a few moments' quiet conversation with the Princess, Alynore dipped a polite curtsy, her eyes on Myrcella's bulging belly as she turned away. Nora's gaze landed on Jon, who had been watching with mild interest: Her face radiated pure delight for a moment, unguarded - and Lady Olenna, using her cane to aid her to her granddaughter's side, saw Jon watching and gave a blatant, conspiratorial wink before she said, in a voice loud enough to hear if one wanted to listen, "We must sit you down my dear…all this lurching about is no good - I must take care of you, in your delicate state."

Another kick to the gut.

Jon watched Nora closely; she did not look his way, but she was still smiling - even if a blush had blossomed high in her cheeks… Delicate state… Nora was expecting a baby.

It was a good thing Jon was seated, as his head grew light. He gazed mournfully at Nora: He had given her what she asked, though he knew he would miss her cruelly. Her companionship had been…wonderful…

Then he remembered what Lady Olenna sharply observed: there was no pavilion for House Tyrell.

"Hmph," Lady Olenna grunted, then her thin lips twitched to a smirk, and she made a very good show of ambling over to the main pavilion, leaning heavily on her cane, and on her granddaughter. To the comfortable chaise laden with cushions and furs.

"We had heard you suffered an illness at Dragonstone, Lady Olenna," said the Princess gently, watching the old woman mount the steps up the dais to the chaise. It was quiet enough in the Dragonpit, above the noise of the city, that her voice was clearly audible. "You are not still recovering?"

"I shall endure yet, Princess," Lady Olenna promised, as she groaned and sank down onto the chaise with her granddaughter's help. Nora perched at the end of the chaise, looking wonderfully elegant, still blushing delicately. Lady Olenna propped her cane against the chaise. "Still, best not to tempt the gods. I must rest. Such a thoughtful gesture of your mother, to provide for an ailing old woman."

Princess Myrcella smiled graciously, but no-one believed Lady Olenna to be ignorant that the chaise had been set aside for anyone but Cersei. Lady Olenna's illness had weakened her heart, not her wits. She knew exactly what she was doing.

It was some time before the next party arrived, Zafiyah and Qezza leading the way bearing the standards of House Targaryen, Daenerys' three-headed silver dragon ouroboros emblazoned on black silk. Both girls were beautifully dressed for cooler weather, emulating the sharp-shouldered fashions set by the Queen, adapted to their shimmering, jewel-fringed tokars over the top of sharp-shouldered long-sleeved gowns of thick wool-lined silk trimmed with fur. Behind them marched Unsullied, escorting Daenerys' court: Ser Jorah, in new Westerosi clothing, his armour covered in leather and emblazoned with the standing bear sigil of House Mormont that Jon knew so well; Missandei; several of the dosh khaleen who had followed Daenerys from Vaes Dothrak; her fiercest Dothraki bloodriders; Theon and Yara Greyjoy and several of their men; and Lord Tyrion Lannister, who wore his golden Hand of the Queen pin proudly on his handsome black leather jerkin, his expression rather anxious.

Then he realised that each pavilion had been claimed, and a wicked grin spread across his scarred face. His eyes glinted as he beheld Lady Olenna, smirking upon Cersei's chaise. Then his gaze slid to the Martell pavilion - to his niece, resplendent there, and Jon saw it, Lord Tyrion's stunned disbelief and joy. True, genuine love poured from his face, as he hastened over to the pavilion, the princess rising from her seat to awkwardly try and embrace her smaller uncle, manoeuvring around her giant belly.

Lord Tyrion cooed at his niece, "My dearest one, get any larger and I shall not be able to see your lovely face. Come, sit, so that I may kiss you." Princess Myrcella beamed, and reclaimed her seat; Lord Tyrion did indeed lean in to kiss her cheeks, his smile almost tremulous as his eyes glinted. "You've become a woman… And more radiant than ever! Dorne agrees with you."

"I have you to thank for my happiness, Uncle, for I know that it was you who sent me to Dorne," Myrcella smiled, her hand cradled over her belly. "How I wept the day I left… Such joy awaiting me there, I could have had no idea."

"I am glad you are happy, dearest," Lord Tyrion said earnestly, and Princess Myrcella's smile faded slightly.

"I never believed it, Uncle," she said softly. "I know you loved us, more than anyone. I know you never would have hurt us."

"You're a good girl," Lord Tyrion sighed, gazing at her with a sad smile tugging at his lips. "If you are the last of your siblings left… I am glad. Truth be told, you were always my favourite."

"I know," Princess Myrcella dimpled, and Lord Tyrion chuckled. He reached out to playfully flick her nose, and the princess giggled softly. Perched on one of the chairs, Lord Tyrion remained by his niece's side as she told him of her life in Dorne, and they waited. While they did so, Daenerys' courtiers grew impatient, and the Dothraki laughed as they dragged the empty chairs from under Cersei's pavilion to Daenerys', sprawling on them - one of the prettier dosh khaleen sitting in one of the bloodrider's laps, playing fondly with his braid, while Qezza Galare and Zafiyah played a game of hopscotch in the sand, chasing each other around the chairs occupied by Missandei and Ser Jorah.

Cersei's court was far larger, of course, and the first they heard of the Queen's arrival was her courtiers assembling: They circled the pavilions, and Jon watched on grimly as they vied for the best view. There were not only Westerosi lords but emissaries from foreign courts: Qartheen and Pentoshi merchants; exquisite Lyseni who reminded Jon of little Neva; princes and princesses from the Summer Isles, wearing vivid colours Jon had never seen outside of Larra's paintings, bedecked in fierce jewels and vibrant feathers and gold; small Braavosi in strange velvet robes; Volantene nobles; and of course, lesser nobles and the merchant princes of King's Landing who had managed to sneak into the Dragonpit thanks to its sheer size, and the relative few guards in attendance - they were dotted around the Dragonpit at intervals, though Lord Tyrion had informed them that most of the exits had been blocked a century ago. The only way out was the way they had come.

The level of noise rose as Cersei's courtiers gossiped amongst themselves - pointing out Princess Myrcella, the Queen's daughter, heavy with child; the grim-faced King in the North, unimpressed; the kinslayer the Imp; the Queen of Thorns and her new champion, the new Lady of Highgarden - an unknown who was attracting a lot of attention with her beautiful gown and her even more exquisite looks.

Daenerys Targaryen's absence was noted, and Jon knew the great crowd had little to do with the summit as it did the rumours of the attendance of the Dragon Queen. They wanted to get a look at her, the Mad King's daughter - and her alleged dragons.

The chatter died, and Jon heard the tell-tale rattle of armour moments before Lannister soldiers appeared, protecting their Queen from all sides, while a dedicated Queensguard in simpler steel armour without a trace of gold flanked Cersei Lannister.

She wasn't how Jon remembered her, in her shimmering silks and billowing sleeves and long, flowing golden hair.

Cersei was severe, now. Her long hair, shorn for her Walk of Shame, was growing out, reaching to her chin in simple, slightly tousled waves, and as Jon frowned and looked around, he noticed several other ladies wearing a similar cut - following the Queen's example, they had trimmed their long locks of hair off too. A physical display of their loyalty. On her glimmering golden hair - darker than her daughter's - was set a simple circlet that glinted silver in the light, as did the pauldrons on her shoulders, connected by a sinuous silver chain. Her gown was of leather with thousands of tiny cutouts revealing glimmers of silver fabric beneath.

There was no pretence, Jon understood. Sansa had known Cersei as the wife of a king, and then the mother of another king. She was Queen in her own right now, and on her own terms.

Following behind her was a monstrous man. If Jon had never met and fought beside giants, he might have thought the man shadowing Cersei Lannister was a giant himself. The Mountain, he thought, remembering Lord Tyrion's trial, and Gendry's stories of Harrenhall, and glancing at Lord Beric, with his new leather eyepatch, his remaining eye fixed on the monstrous man. Behind the Mountain trailed a squirrely-looking man in a cowl but no maester's chain; he wore a small golden hand pinned to his robes. More courtiers, armoured commanders of her armies - what was left of them - and Gold Cloaks of the City Watch escorted her, and a man in battered Ironborn armour grinned, a mad glint in his eyes, as he swaggered behind Cersei - to the blatant irritation of Ser Jaime Lannister, who looked as different now than Jon remembered him as Cersei did.

Cersei stopped dead before the Martell pavilion, as Princess Myrcella rose with a breathless gasp and a delighted cry, "Mother!"

The Queen stared at the Princess. Her daughter. Resplendent in gold, radiant as the sun, heavy with child, the most beautiful woman anyone had ever seen.

The most beautiful woman anyone had ever seen.

No longer a girl.

A woman. And an unforgiven reminder that Cersei…was ageing.

They all saw it. Something fractured between the Queen and her daughter as the Queen swept her sneering expression up and down Myrcella's body - Myrcella, who still had her arms open to embrace, or be embraced by her mother. They had not seen each other in years. Slowly, Myrcella lowered her arms, as Queen Cersei made no move to embrace her; the smile faded from Myrcella's beautiful face.

"Mother?" she said softly, her tone uncertain. "Will you not embrace me? Do I not still have your love?"

"You will address me as Your Grace," Queen Cersei said coldly, her lip curling as she sneered at Myrcella's growing belly. "I see no daughter of mine before me; only the whore of the Water Gardens as rumour named you."

Gasps echoed around the Dragonpit: Ellaria laid her hand on Obara Sand's arm as she jerked forward, fury written on her face. Lord Tyrion's face was dark with fury as Princess Myrcella gasped, her eyes glimmering with tears. Genuine hurt and confusion coloured her features, and she glanced uncertainly at her uncle.

"Sweet sister, those who live in glass whorehouses would be wiser not to throw stones," he growled, for a moment a vicious smirk illuminating his face as he looked pointedly at his handsome, scarred brother. "Come, sweetling, sit down. Your mother cannot forgive your beauty - she has suffered deliciously for her shame." He gave Cersei a vicious smile, tenderly and pointedly stroking Myrcella's long golden hair as she sat herself down. "Nor can she forgive the reminder that she is in fact old. And nothing has yet reinforced that fact more vividly than the child thriving in your womb. Hm…the Queen is to be a grandmother."

They watched Myrcella accept her mother's rejection with a natural poise that was breath-taking to behold - and as Cersei turned away from her daughter, the courtiers gossiped even more furiously, sympathetic looks cast to Princess Myrcella as Lady Ellaria rested her hand gently on Princess Myrcella's clasped ones, her dark eyes on Cersei Lannister.

Ser Jaime, in his polished but battle-dented armour, his gilded-steel hand glinting in the sunlight, approached his niece - his daughter - to give her a chivalrous bow, take her hand in his, kiss it, and lean in to murmur something in her ear that made Myrcella's lips twitch toward a tremulous smile. Ser Jaime Lannister kissed the girl's brow and withdrew from the shade of the ochre pavilion.

The Queen strode on, chin raised, expression cold and twisting with a strange fury, her focus turning to the grandest pavilion…and Lady Olenna smirking as she rested comfortably on the chaise. Cersei's chaise.

Lady Olenna just smiled blithely down at her.

The Mountain rested his hand on the hilt of his sword; the squirrelly man muttered something to him, his shrewd eyes scanning the crowds.

For several long, tense moments, Lady Olenna stared down Queen Cersei, who stood in the dust, her crown glinting…powerless.

Jon sighed, stood, stifled his smile, and lifted his own chair easily, carrying it over to the great pavilion. There were now no chairs there; Daenerys' people had taken them all, sprawling about their pavilion with great ease. He carried the heavy, straight-backed chair over to the Lannister pavilion, and tucked it under the shade of the awning. Lady Olenna smirked at him, her eyes glinting, and Nora gave him a private expression he knew so well - at once amused and apologetic. He settled the chair down, reached down to dust the seat, and approached Cersei, nodding courteously, "Your Grace."

Her lip curled, taking in the direwolves on his gorget.

"The King in the North, is it?" Cersei said coolly, sweeping her eyes over him. Jon stared back at her, bracing himself for whatever comment she could fling at him. He'd had a lifetime of this. Cersei narrowed her eyes, recognition sparking in her malevolent green eyes. "You… T'was your twin-sister that Robert was so enamoured of, at Winterfell… I remember, now. The two of you, dark-haired…those violet eyes of hers…I'd wager Robert died regretting he did not mount her when he had the chance - he regretted that he could not claim Lyanna Stark."

"Yes, King Robert was struck by my sister's resemblance to Father's sister," Jon said politely, his tone glacial, ignoring the not-so-veiled insinuation. "She had the look."

"Had?" Cersei blinked, and a nasty smirk curled her lips. Her voice was silken as she said, "Yes…that's right. The krakens rose up and killed the wolf-girl." Her eyes slid over to the Greyjoys sitting beneath Daenerys' banner.

"No. The wolf-girl killed the krakens, defending her brothers. She fled into the wilds," Jon said quietly.

"From what I remember of that girl, the wilds was where she belonged," Cersei said softly. "Half a beast herself - like that young wild creature, what was her name…Ariana?"

"Arya," Jon corrected, and he gave her a nasty smile. "Aye, they were wild girls…and every man who ever met them preferred them to any other, no matter how beautiful, just as they did my aunt."

The Queen gave him a scathing sneer that showed his barb had struck true.

"I did wonder the King did not set you aside to wed her and make her his queen, sister," Lord Tyrion mused, wandering over from the Martell pavilion, heading back to the Targaryen court, and his smile was cutting as he paused to gaze at Cersei. "She would have been magnificent. Could you imagine their children - fierce purple eyes and violent black curls!"

Jon stifled a shudder at the very thought.

"I do wonder that Robert did not try to father a bastard on her," Cersei said caustically, glaring at her brother. She said, silkily, "Perhaps he tried."

Jon stared long and hard at the Queen, until her smirk faded and she swallowed, averting her eyes, regretting her tartness and insinuation. Jon said merely, "Whether by a King or by krakens, Larra was never to be made sport of."

The shrieking of dragons pierced the air, and Ser Jaime Lannister noticeably jolted, his armour rattling, hand going to his sword. His expression was stricken, wary as he gazed at the skies.

Screams and gasps erupted as Viserion and Rhaegal swooped and dipped low, soaring past the jagged teeth of the broken crown that was the Dragonpit's ancient crumbling domed ceiling. Cersei squinted, throwing up a hand to protect her eyes as the sand eddied around them, and Jon braced himself against the force of the wind created by the dragons' wings. Swooping and shrieking, the dragons…seemed to be toying with the courtiers, some of whom pelted toward the only exit as guards gaped in horror. Jon watched Viserion, gleaming cream-and-gold in the sunlight, circle overhead, screech, and disappear; a tell-tale thud echoed from the gardens, screams echoing off the still air, and the sound…it was almost like…laughter. A reptilian chortle. Rhaegal answered with a cooing song, wheeling and circling overhead, elegant as any dancer.

A roar shattered the air, and Drogon soared overhead, disturbing everything - whipping at the awnings, tearing at the elaborate hairstyles of the courtiers, whirling dust everywhere, making the braziers either side of Lady Olenna splutter and choke, and the dragon screamed as he landed high on the broken domed roof, his enormous clawed feet finding purchase on the benches that descended toward the sandy floor of the pit, and he flapped his great wings once for balance and to settle, knocking people off their feet, roaring again, so loudly Jon's ears ached, and people whimpered and cried in the silence that followed, watching with mingled awe and a deathly terror as Drogon slowly, almost gently, lowered one of his wings. A tiny figure in black descended, standing complacently on his wing, unruffled.

Daenerys was stunning, in a caped black gown trimmed with vivid blood-red scaled embroidery and a fringe dripping with rubies. Her silver-blonde hair was braided and coiled and arranged artfully in tumbling curls over her breasts and down her back, held in place by the weight of a magnificent crown Jon had seen her wear several times at court in Dragonstone. Wrought into the shape of a three-headed dragon, the coils were made of a deep red-gold, the wings of silver and pale yellow-gold, and three heads were intricately carved from jade, ivory and onyx, inlaid with gold and silver filigree, and citrine, ruby and gold beads for glimmering, curiously sentient eyes. The crown had been a gift from the Tourmaline Brotherhood of Qarth, the only gift Daenerys received in that great city that she had not sold to fund her campaign - and several of the Qartheen ambassadors to Queen Cersei's court knew it.

They had seen the Dragon Queen when her children were mere hatchlings. They resented her destruction of the House of Undying when she had wielded her hatchlings as weapons for the very first time… So far, she had evaded every assassination attempt the Qartheen could send her way: And there had been many.

Next to Drogon, Daenerys looked diminutive: As she walked to the pavilions, she looked regal and composed, almost dainty except for her expression. To Jon, she appeared…brutally neutral, even as people whimpered and children cried in shock and terror at the appearance of the dragons. Others eyed the Dragon Queen, her unruffled black caped gown, her magnificent crown, her gleaming pale-silver braids. She was young, and looked very beautiful.

Cersei by comparison looked like a bitter shrew.

"I see that it is true; the Dothraki have no concept of punctuality - or of politeness," Cersei said coldly. "You have done well in terrifying half my court."

"I thank you for the preparations," Daenerys said, not pausing to acknowledge Cersei as she elegantly gathered her skirt, and Missandei dusted a chair for her queen. Daenerys arranged herself on her seat as if it was a throne, straight-backed, expression bland, her purple eyes glimmering with veiled hostility and contempt as she eyed Cersei. "I hope you were not put into discomfort."

"More comfortable than the last Targaryen who came here, I'd wager," Cersei said, her expression snide. Her eyes glinted evilly as she glared at her younger brother. "You know the story well, brother. It is a relic, now, of when the Targaryens tore the Seven Kingdoms apart. I say when…one of so many times people had sought to overthrow their tyranny… Which of Queen Rhaenyra's sons was it who fell to his death over the Dragonpit?"

Lord Tyrion sighed heavily, drinking from a wine-skin. He stoppered it before answering, "It was Joffrey Velaryon."

"That's right. Joffrey… A brave boy, who gave his life to further her claim to the Iron Throne," Cersei said, reflectively - her tone almost wistful. She raised her emerald eyes to Daenerys, smirking horribly. "In fact…he died defending her dragons, the source of her power. How many were there? You always knew your dragon-tales far better, brother. None of the rest of us cared." She smirked at Lord Tyrion, a scoffing little laugh twisting her lips.

"There were four dragons chained in the Dragonpit when it was stormed by tens of thousands of smallfolk," Lord Tyrion said, picking at a thread on his sleeve. "Shrykos, Morghul, Tyraxes and Dreamfyre."

"And how many of them died?"

"All of them, as well as Rhaenyra's dragon Syrax," Lord Tyrion sniffed, "with her son Joffrey Velaryon, and thousands of the smallfolk."

"It speaks volumes of the people's love for the Targaryens - centuries before my husband's righteous rebellion," Cersei mused, her face soft and thoughtful.

"Your son plummeted to his death, too, did he not?" said Daenerys, and Jon glanced sharply at her, frowning. Daenerys' expression was bland, though her tone had been cool. "I was spared a great fall not so long ago, when one of my children suffered an attack…" Her eyes drifted to Ser Jaime Lannister, standing behind Cersei. "Dragons are far more durable than little boys. Drogon recovered quickly… But I remember my fear as I fell…" There was something unpleasant about her mouth as she said it, Jon frowned, something glimmering in her eyes - not hostility… He could not think of the word to describe it, only that he was disgusted she was alluding to what Cersei's son would have thought and felt as he plunged to his death, to deliver Cersei yet more pain. Daenerys' looks seemed to gentle. "I also lost a son, the child of my first husband. I offer my condolences, on the death of your son Tommen."

For a heartbeat, Lord Tyrion's hand faltered as he raised his wine-skin to his lips. He seemed to bolster himself, and took a swig from the wine-skin. Cersei barely acknowledged Daenerys' words, just a brusque nod of the head.

"He was a sweet boy," said Lady Olenna, and Jon tensed, his eyes on the old woman. He enjoyed her, liked her bluntness and flavourful delivery of shrewd observations - but what had she warned him, before this summit had even been arranged? 'Wounds inflicted with words, not weapons.' Cersei's subtle allusions to the people being tired of Targaryens and their dragons centuries before Deanerys' return to Westerosi shores, and their willingness to fight to the death to destroy them; hinting at the suicide of Cersei's younger son; insinuations against Larra's virtue… "He would have made a wonderful king...and with Margaery as his queen…Jaehaerys and Alysanne, come again… He was utterly entranced by his beautiful, kind bride…utterly captivated…to take his own life, out of grief at her death… A tragedy no-one could have accounted for."

Lady Olenna's eyes slid to Cersei, cunning and sharp as a blade, glittering with a snide smile.

Tommen's suicide was not a fatality Cersei had anticipated when she hatched her plan to blow up the Sept of Baelor with wildfire.

"Yes…many died needlessly that day," Queen Cersei said softly. "Who could have known there were caches of wildfire beneath the Sept - except, of course…the man who had them planted there? There were rumours, of course, the Mad King…" She blinked, demurring to Daenerys with a twisted smirk. "Pardon me, King Aerys II…he littered the city with the stuff. They say, in the last days of the Rebellion, the King threatened that Robert Baratheon should have naught from him but ash." Cersei's malicious green eyes rested on Daenerys, a soft smirk on her lips. "Incredibly volatile, wildfire; I remember my brother Tyrion speaking of it as he planned the defence of this city so many years ago. Tragic, that something sparked it ablaze that dreadful day… I sometimes wake from nightmares, thinking about it…their deaths. My uncle Kevan, my kinsmen… How long did it take them to burn? My brother Jaime used to tell me stories, about people being burned alive, when he was Kingsguard to King Aerys. Great lords…and their sons and heirs…" Her eyes lingered on Jon, who leaned against one of the columns of his pavilion, arms folded across his chest, and frowned back at her grimly. Everyone knew who Cersei was alluding to: Rickard and Brandon Stark, and a soft hiss of whispers swept through the courtiers. "They died gruesomely…and slowly, their skin blistering and charring, their eyes dripping down their faces, as their hair caught alight and started to smoke… At least the wildfire…the explosion was quick. It took no longer than a heartbeat."

"Yes… It would have been quick," Lady Olenna sniffed brusquely, smoothing her skirts. "Far quicker than the butchery at Highgarden." She adjusted herself on the chaise, turning to face Cersei fully, Lady Alynore perched elegantly between them, and for a brief moment, Nora raised her eyes to Jon's face, sharing a look of dread and anticipation. Lady Olenna's smile was soft and lethal as she said quietly, "Still, I would not have liked any of my family to die…the way that monstrous boy of yours did, clawing at their necks, foam and bile spilling from their mouths, eyes blood-red, skin purple…" Her lips were twitching into a deliciously nasty smirk. "Must have been horrible for you, as a mother…it was horrible enough for me. A shocking scene… Not at all what I had intended."

Nora glanced sharply at her grandmother, who was smiling down at Cersei from the Queen's chaise. "You see…I'd never seen the poison work before…" Lady Olenna took great pains, while the impact of what she had said sank in, to hobble down the steps of the dais, leaning heavily on her granddaughter and her cane, so that when she stood beside Cersei, neither Ser Jaime nor the Mountain hulking behind her reached for their swords. A decrepit old woman - wielding words that cut sharper than Valyrian steel. "I wanted you to know it was me."

Lady Olenna smiled, adjusted Cersei's circlet as a doting grandmamma might her favourite, and walked out of the Dragonpit arm-in-arm with a shocked Lady Alynore, guarded by their men. They disappeared into their litter, and descended from the Dragonpit, all the way to the harbour unencumbered, to join their cousins in the Tyrell flagship - and sailed away, south, to join the forces of the Arbour already sailing to Oldtown, to march upon Highgarden and reclaim it.

Cersei looked ready to burst into flame, and her twin-brother beside her looked stunned and despondent, but not at all upset. Ser Jaime glanced across the pavilion to Lord Tyrion, who had been staring at Lady Olenna in awe and sudden realisation, and his twitching lips now hid behind his wine-skin.

Cersei inhales sharply, glaring at Lord Tyrion and Daenerys. "And this is how you would begin peace-talks? Encouraging that old cunt to spread vicious lies meant to cut me open - when your guilt was pronounced before all by the will of the gods when the Mountain shattered the Red Viper's head like a melon."

Ellaria Sand hold a firm hand on Obara's spear as she bristled, her expression lethal. The armoured giant near Cersei rests his hand on the hilt of his sword, which is almost as tall as Obara herself.

"I am beyond trying to convince you of my innocence, sister," Lord Tyrion said, shrugging. "Since I had the foul luck to kill Mother as she pushed me out between her legs, you have been convinced I was sent by the gods to ruin our House."

"The death of my sons and the murder of our father would suggest you have had the utmost success in that regard," Cersei hissed. "Not to mention the Lion Culling in the Ash Meadow."

"That was not my Lord Hand's doing," Daenerys said coolly, her eyes level on Cersei. "It was my decision and mine alone. I alone have the power to command my dragons, and I commanded them to destroy your armies and eradicate your House, as so many others have been destroyed at your family's command… I do not know the truth of Lady Olenna's being complicit in your older son's death, but I do know this meeting provided the perfect place for her to injure you… On her behalf, I apologise for her conduct. Please believe I came to King's Landing in good faith."

Cersei's bristling anger turned to incredulity, laughing.

"Good faith? You burn babies in their mothers' wombs, char brittle old men with dragonfire, steal away orphaned daughters for your savages to rape and breed upon, good faith?" Cersei sneered, and Daenerys' jaw flickered, Jon noticed, as she tried not to show her reaction, how those words had wounded her. The courtiers bristled and muttered, hateful glares cast Daenerys' way - and she saw them. She saw their hate, their dread - and their sneers of disrespect, and the warning of the King in the North resounded in her head…'single most reviled person in Westeros…'

"We did not come here to burn cities and murder innocents," Lord Tyrion asserted. He tucked the stopper in his wine-skin and slipped off his seat. "We are all facing a unique - "

"I see you've found new friends, Theon!" One of the men amid Cersei's courtiers swaggered to the front of the group clustered around Cersei's pavilion, shouldering knights and ladies out of his way. He crowed over Theon, grinning like a madman. "Did your sister decide you were no more use to her, and sell you to the Unsullied? You fit the criteria, ever since they took your favourite toy… I heard you cried when it was taken from you."

Lord Tyrion cast a questioning look at his brother, who answered him with another look: No words were exchanged, but they did not need to speak. They understood each other.

"We have larger concerns than the fate of Theon Greyjoy," Lord Tyrion said, with a respectful nod toward Theon.

"Then why are you talking?" the man asked. "You're the smallest concern here."

"Do you remember, when last we saw each other at Winterfell, we discussed dwarf jokes?" Lord Tyrion said, turning to exchange a look with Theon Greyjoy.

"His wasn't even good," Theon said bluntly, his expression utterly familiar to Jon.

"He explained it at the end," Tyrion chided, tutting. "Never explain it; it ruins it."

"We don't even let your kind live in the Iron Islands, you know," said the man. "We kill you at birth. A mercy for the parents."

"No wonder you've befriended my sweet sister," Lord Tyrion quipped, giving Cersei a snarling, vicious little smile. "She would have done the same, though certainly not as a mercy."

Jon glanced at Ser Davos. This is going to go on forever, Jon thought. All of them, trying to wound and one-up each other. He strode forward, as Ser Jaime and Cersei snarled at the man in black, and he was vaguely aware of Daenerys' voice and that of Lord Tarly, as he unbolted the lid of the crate, and slid it off, heaving a great kick at the side of the crate, upturning it.

The wight screamed, tumbling out, and hurtled at full speed toward the great pavilion. Screaming and snarling, scratching its decomposing fingers through the air, it hissed and shrieked and fought against the chain wrapped around it, mere feet from Lord Tyrion and Euron Greyjoy and Queen Cersei - on her feet, snarling at Tyrion again - at Daenerys, who was flanked by two bloodriders, and Ser Jaime, who jolted, stunned, his gleaming hand moving in reflex to his sword-hilt - his golden hand was useless, and he struggled to unsheathe the sword belted at his right, true shock and horror mingling on his face as he attempted to comprehend what thrashed and screamed before him.

Jon perched on the edge of the upturned crate, long legs spread before him, arms folded across his chest, and watched patiently. They scattered and shrank back, horrified. The chain held, but Jon could feel the crate vibrate with the force of the wight's tugs and straining against its bonds. They were regular steel, not dragonglass, and he was taken back to his first ever wight, in the Lord Commander's chambers - how silent Ghost had howled, and snarled at the Lord Commander's door until Jon broke it down… His hand smarted, at the memory of the burn he had received, flinging a flaming torch-bracket at the wight when no weapon could deter it.

He watched the Lannister soldiers react - the Mountain lurching forward - all their weapons unsheathed, on the attack.

Yet nothing they could do to the wight stopped it in its tracks. Nothing. Not even the Mountain.

From his spot perched on the crate, Jon watched, ignoring the pain in his ears from the noise of the wight's screaming. He stood, finally, as the soldiers retreated, appalled, the wight still hissing and screaming on the ground in writhing pieces. Stifled screams echoed around the Dragonpit as courtiers looked on in horror. Jon approached, slowly, as Ser Davos joined him, carrying a torch and tinder; Jon unsheathed his obsidian dagger. "They can be destroyed by fire…" He lit the lower torso still kicking and writhing on the ground, and the dismembered limbs, "Or with weapons of obsidian."

Staring baldly at Ser Jaime Lannister, e stabbed the wight through the crumbling, rotting skull. The creature collapsed. For good measure, Ser Davos lit the remains.

"You were right, Ser Jaime, it has been thrilling to serve in the Night's Watch, guarding you from wildlings and White Walkers and all the perils beyond the Wall," Jon said tartly. "Don't worry…they're nothing more than sacks of meat, blood…a little bone to keep it all standing… That was a soldier of the Night King's army. Just one of thousands. That is the fate of every person in the world if we do not stop him… Winter has come, Your Grace. And with it, the White Walkers."

"I didn't believe it until I saw them," Daenerys said calmly, though her eyes were wide. She had been severely ill, clinging to Drogon's back, with only vague impressions of the frozen lake. Seeking a wight up close… "I saw them all."

Lord Tarly stood, stifling a sneer in Daenerys' direction as he joined Jon, addressing Ser Jaime. "I was with His Grace beyond the Wall when we captured the foul creature. They have fifteen legions, no fewer. And that is only their infantry. Giants and mammoths, shadow-cats and bears. And their commanders…" He clenched his jaw, his eyes searing Ser Jaime's face. "Their commanders would make your father cower, and that is not a thing I say lightly of the Old Lion."

"You've seen them?" Ser Jaime breathed.

"I have."

"This is why I am asking you both to set aside your war," Jon said, glancing from Cersei to Daenerys, giving them both the same stern, implacable look, "just long enough to defeat the Night King's armies. Because if you do not…then that will be the fate of every person in this world. There is only one war that matters, Your Grace." He glanced at Queen Cersei. "The Great War. And it is here."

For a moment, Cersei said nothing. She was still staring at the burning wight, her eyes wide, a hand clamped over her stomach, shock plain on her face.

But as Jon roused her attention by speaking directly to her, she slowly raised her face, and as she did so her expression twisted nastily. "You have overplayed your hand," she seethed at Daenerys, at her younger brother. "You conspire with this treasonous bastard who calls himself King in the North, and use black magic to assassinate me! KILL THEM."

"Cersei - !" Ser Jaime blurted.

"Stay your blades!" Jon bellowed, as everyone reached for the swords, glaring at the Queen. "Do not engage!"

A bone-chilling scream shattered the air, a shriek so loud and so high, it pained their ears, and sand blinded them as monstrous wings flapped like the clap of thunder. They were buffeted off their feet, knocked backwards into the sand, weapons falling from their grip as they shielded their stinging eyes. All but one, and he thundered towards Jon, his sword raised.

The great green-and-bronze dragon shrieked, and vomited fire.

A Mountain crumbled to ash, drifting in the breeze like dead leaves.

The dragon rumbled softly, flapping its wings delicately, cooing softly over the flames to Jon, who staggered to his feet, Long Claw gripped tightly in his hand, the rippling smoky blade coming to life in the firelight, as the dust settled. Over the flames, Rhaegal poked his nose at Jon, who felt something twinge in the pit of his stomach, his heart leaping with a strange and unfamiliar joy, and he reached out his hand, a soft and uncertain smile on his face, to press his palm against the dragon's snout. His heat seared Jon's hand, but it did not hurt; it felt heartening, like a dose of hard liquor after a shock. Rhaegal snorted softly, blinking his great bronze eyes, and flapped his wings, churning the embers that had once been a Mountain.

In the quiet, a Hound barked.

Sandor Clegane's laughter echoed off the dilapidated, soot-blackened walls of the ancient Dragonpit, loud and clear and hearty, as if he had never laughed before, and had no idea how to stop - or any desire to. He sat in the sand, watching the ashes of the Mountain swirl in the air as Rhaegal raised his head and screamed once, as if in warning, before taking to careen around the Dragonpit, and Sandor Clegane laughed.

Lord Tyrion was grinning, "Rhaegar's revenge…"

"What?" Queen Cersei snapped, her twin-brother helping her off the floor, covered in dust. They all were. Jon dusted the ash off his brigandine, wrinkling his nose in distaste to realise they were the ashes of the dead…and Rhaegal had burned the Mountain to protect him.

Daenerys had not commanded him to: Rhaegal had acted on his own.

"That dragon, the green-and-bronze…he was named for Rhaegar. Fascinating that it should be him that finally killed the one who mutilated Rhaegar's children, and brutalised Rhaegar's wife," Lord Tyrion said, grinning, as he raised his wine-skin in salute to House Martell: Lady Ellaria's dark eyes were gleaming with triumph, Obara's face finally split into a satisfied grin. Rhaegal had given them the justice that had been stolen from them. "Yes…curious indeed… The Mountain is naught but ash…" Lord Tyrion giggled softly, and shook the dust from his dark gold curls. He sighed, and fixed Cersei with a sharp and implacable look that reminded Cersei absurdly of her father. Ser Jaime looked at his little brother, and acknowledged what no-one ever had: That Tyrion was far more Tywin than any of his children. "We are not here to assassinate you, Cersei, and the only reason Rhaegal attacked was because you commanded your men to murder us, as he was ready to do the moment you stepped foot inside this pit."

"That wight was not a trick, or black magic wielded by Daenerys - it is a soldier of the Night King," Jon said gravely, sheathing Long Claw after eyeing the guards, who stood trembling. "If we do not work together, we are all dead… Queen Daenerys graciously allowed me to mine obsidian on Dragonstone, to arm my men for the coming war. And she did so, in spite of the fact that I would not kneel. I shall never yield the North to the Iron Throne, no matter who sits upon it: We shall remain a free and independent kingdom. Moreover, the North shall remain neutral in the conflict between Dragonstone and the Iron Throne…"

"And why should I believe that?"

"Because Winterfell is now a safe haven to the last of your family. Queen Daenerys…spared seven daughters of Casterly Rock," Jon said, and beneath her black awning, Daenerys shifted ever so slightly in her seat. "The closest of their kin at her court, Lord Tyrion, has asked me to take the girls as wards of Winterfell, for the duration of the winter and your war."

"Seven little girls?" Cersei scoffed, smirking and shaking her head.

"Which little girls?" Ser Jaime frowned, his eyes widening slightly, even as Queen Cersei continued to smirk. Jon held a glare long enough that she grew uncomfortable under his quelling gaze, then turned to Ser Jaime.

"Lady Narcisa Lannister, eldest daughter of Lord Tytan and Lady Lovisa Lannister. Lady Crisantha, only daughter of Lord Jason and Lady Merinda," Jon said, recounting all the details, the names, the little golden faces tearstained and exhausted. "Lady Delphine, youngest daughter of Lord Teobald and Lady Leila. Calanthe the Lioness, daughter of Lord Loreon and Lady Louella. Lady Altheda, daughter of Lord Hagon and Lady Lyra. Lady Rosamund, daughter of Lord Lyman and Lady Jacquetta. And Lady Leona, daughter of Lord Leovar and Lady Rohanne."

"Aunt Genna chose them herself," Lord Tyrion said quietly, glancing at his siblings. Ser Jaime's lips parted, but the Queen's eyes narrowed.

"They will remain at Winterfell, educated and protected," Jon said earnestly.

"And why should we trust you to keep them safe?" the Queen sneered. Jon levelled his stare on her again: It was more effective than shouting.

"Trust my sister Sansa to do better than the example shown her," Jon said harshly, and Queen Cersei glanced back at him, shrinking under the strength of the quiet rage in Jon's face. Her eyelashes fluttered as she glanced away from his unyielding gaze. Jon sighed, and shook off his anger, the reminder of Sansa's mistreatment. "Your armies have suffered a defeat, I know, and with things as they are, the likelihood of calling your banners to aid the North is slim…but long have the dungeons of King's Landing been emptied to man the Wall. I would ask that you do so now, Your Grace, and send north your criminals to defend the Seven Kingdoms."

"That's all you want?" The Queen seemed surprised.

"That's the best I can hope for from you," Jon said, subtle accusation lacing his tone.

"It seems a strange joke…dungeons full of the worst kinds of criminals…in exchange for the safety of seven little orphans," Cersei said, with a tittering laugh.

"The girls' safety is not conditional, Your Grace," Jon glowered. "Those girls are daughters of the North for all intents and purposes, and shall be treated as such."

"Why?" Ser Jaime asked, staring at Jon.

"Why not?" Jon said grimly, scowling at the handsome knight. He looked very different to the man Jon remembered being so snide to him in the courtyard at Winterfell. He seemed…more tangible now, more real - as if this was the man he had always been, beneath the gilded front he put on. Jon was aware that there was…something between Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne, that a bond had formed during their journey together after he had been quested by Lady Catelyn to bring her daughters home…

"How long?" the little man, Queen Cersei's Hand, turned to Jon. "Your Grace, how long until the dead march south?"

"If they breach the Wall…months," Jon said grimly. "And it's only a matter of time, now, until they do."

"If I may, Your Grace…a quiet word…"

The Queen turned to her Hand, giving him a cool look; she turned, walking away, regal and unfazed by the violence, by the ash, by the dragons circling overhead. Jon frowned as they went, hoping against hope that the Queen's Hand was shrewd and cunning and clever enough to realise the advantages this presented them. And help Cersei realise them.

A little voice inside Jon's head, one that sounded suspiciously like Larra, told him that an armistice, however temporary, could only be to Cersei's benefit. The little voice mused that while Daenerys' forces were committed in the North, Cersei would have time to recover from her losses in the south, to consolidate her power over the kingdoms…to weaponise her cities and motivate and mobilise her population to fight for her.

Jon was relieved Daenerys had committed her armies to fighting the Night King.

He still did not believe that Daenerys would be a better ruler on the Iron Throne than any who had come before her, even if she managed to claim it.

Perhaps, in time, she could learn how to be a ruler, to lead…but all her thoughts - all her experience - were turned toward conquest, not what came after. He had seen it on Dragonstone.

He had seen it in the rare vulnerability she had shown him at Eastwatch, her uncertainty, her confusion. He wondered if she actually knew how to remain still…how to live, without something in the back of her mind spurring her ever onwards, striving and straining… What would she do, when she finally got what she wanted?

What would she do, if she didn't get it?

Jon was happy for the North to remain neutral. He was not convinced, and for all her promises and self-reflection that night she had forced herself upon him, that Daenerys had truly thought it through, the idea versus the reality of committing her armies. Of sacrificing them to defeat the Night King.

Cersei returned. Her Hand dusted her chair for her, and the Queen sat. "If my brother Jaime informs me correctly, you're asking for a truce."

"Yes," said Daenerys simply. "That's all."

"That's all?" Cersei blinked, her expression dangerously benign. "Pull back my armies and stand down while you go on your monster-hunt. Or while you solidify and expand your position, hard for me to know which it is…with my armies pulled back."

"Which armies would those be?" Lord Tyrion quipped: Cersei ignored him.

"Then you would return and march on my capital with four times the men," Cersei snarled.

"I could take King's Landing in a fraction of an hour," Daenerys said coldly, her eyes alight with a self-righteous fury. "And yet my children circle this…ruin, protecting me from harm, so that we may discuss terms. King's Landing will remain safe until the Northern threat has been dealt with. You have my word."

"The word of the Mad King's daughter?" Cersei sneered.

"When your father summoned Lord Rickard Stark to King's Landing, the King gave his word that until Lord Stark arrived at the capital, no harm would come to his son and heir… Lord Stark came south," said Ser Jaime Lannister, directly addressing Daenerys for the first time. He looked like he was supremely aware that before him sat the daughter of the man whose throat he had opened, whose back he had shoved a sword through. "The King had his Warden of the North burned alive while his son watched, strapped in a torture device that strangled him as he struggled to free himself and put an end to his father's gruesome, slow death…"

"You like to burn people, too, don't you," said Cersei silkily. "Wise Masters, Dothraki khals, pregnant women and children…"

"You informed my commanders who surrendered at the Ash Meadow that you did not come to Westeros to destroy our cities, burn down our homes, murder us and orphan our children… You told them that, after you had burned their armies - before you went on, to burn women and babies… Your word accounts for nothing."

"Mine, then?" Lord Tyrion said, ending a brittle silence that had Daenerys fuming where she sat, glaring with wide eyes at Ser Jaime Lannister. At the sound of her Hand's voice, Daenerys lowered her gaze, her expression gentling, as if she was tucking away her rage, the story of her father's maliciousness, the value of his word… "Did I not do everything in my power to defend this city, and all those who live within it, did I not give mine own blood defending it, when Stannis Baratheon laid siege to King's Landing? I did not suffer any harm to come to any of its peoples then, no matter who they were - no matter what they deserved," he glanced meaningfully at Cersei "- and I will not suffer to let it happen now."

After a few moments, Cersei sighed softly, and her expression relented. "The Crown accepts your truce, until the dead are defeated. They are the true enemy."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Jon said, giving her a respectful, formal half-bow.

"My Lord Hand shall see to it that the dungeons of the Red Keep are emptied, the able-bodied men sent north…"

"We'll ferry them north," said Yara Greyjoy, the first time she had spoken, and beside her, Theon nodded.

The Queen glanced at her Hand, who nodded, bowing slightly to Lady Greyjoy. Cersei gazed at Jon. "May they be more honourable in their deaths than they ever were in life."

---

"Well…that could have been far worse."

"I anticipated it would be."

"One death, and one confession of regicide," Ser Davos said rather cheerfully. "Can't say I'm sorry to see the Mountain reduced to cinders - or surprised, that Lady Olenna had the nerve to claim she'd poisoned the boy-king."

"Nor I," Jon agreed. They strode through the harbour, Jon itching to get on-board his ship. Unless Cersei launched flaming debris from trebuchets, his fleet was safe - he was safe to depart King's Landing and never look back.

He could already see chained men being herded onto Yara Greyjoy's ships: Queen Cersei had been true to her word about that, at least. She had given him exactly what Daenerys had: Nothing. They had both given him something without yielding anything. Obsidian and criminals, it made no matter; they were both the same.

And yet, even a thousand more men helped.

And Princess Myrcella had brought one thousand spearmen with her: They were to accompany Obara Sand to Winterfell, where her sister Nymeria already waited as Dornish emissary at the Northern court. The spearmen were Prince Doran's contribution to Jon's war-effort.

A thousand Dornish spearmen; the bowels of the Red Keep emptied onto Greyjoy ships.

More soldiers than he'd had when he woke up this morning.

"Your Grace?" Crimson glimmered, and Lannister soldiers marched forward, escorting Ser Jaime Lannister, who looked sombre and somewhat shaken. He stopped, the soldiers froze, and he bowed low to Jon.

"Ser Jaime," Jon said quietly.

"I had hoped to catch you. You are leaving now?"

"As soon as the last of the supplies are loaded," Jon nodded. "I am anxious to return to the North. Please pass on my thanks to Her Grace for the men."

"I made certain those who showed symptoms of sickness were prevented from boarding the ships," Ser Jaime said, his eyes dancing, his smile rather rueful. "My sister has a way of giving poisoned gifts."

"I appreciate that," Jon said, startled by the knight's candour. "What can I do for you, Ser?"

"It's…what I can do for you," Ser Jaime said, with a slight wince, glancing around the bustling quay as if abashed. He glanced over his shoulder, summoning someone with a gesture. A cluster of wizened old men in robes shuffled forward, squinting as if the sunlight pained them. "You said obsidian and fire can destroy the wights?"

"They do," Jon confirmed.

"These men are what remains of King Aerys' Guild of Pyromancers. These men are the only men in Westeros who can create wildfire," Ser Jaime said, and Jon stared, his gaze falling quickly to the small nervous-looking men. "During the siege of King's Landing, my brother put them to use to safeguard Blackwater Bay against Stannis Baratheon's fleet - to great effect."

"I well remember," Ser Davos said grimly, glancing at Jon.

"With Queen Daenerys allying with you to fight against the Night King, I am sure my brother will be present at Winterfell to aid the siege preparations," Ser Jaime said. "Tyrion has a mind for strategy, and wielded wildfire in such a way that it was the advancing army, and not the innocents living within the city walls, who were caught up in the explosions… The Pyromancers' Guild has endured this long for a reason - I know it is for something far less petty than setting alight the Sept of Baelor." He condemned his sister's actions as well as giving his damning opinion of the Pyromancers' Guild in one sentence.

Jon's mind was racing. Pyromancers - wildfire. With that… Sansa had told Jon what she had glimpsed from the castle windows as Stannis Baratheon's fleet advanced…and was obliterated into nothing more than splinters and embers, the entire Bay glowing emerald-green… With wildfire…

"Thank you, Ser Jaime," Jon said, his voice rich with earnestness. The knight nodded.

"You will know, of course, that the Lannister armies are severely depleted," Ser Jaime said, frowning. "There were many witnesses today to what lies in store for us through the winter. And there are still brave, honourable men in the south, though it is understandable that you would not believe it…" Jon said nothing: Many of his black brothers were from the south. He couldn't blame the brothers he had loved and lost because they came from the same places as Janos Slynt and Alliser Thorne. Ser Jaime raised his emerald-green eyes to Jon's: They looked sombre and haunted, a far cry from the arrogant man with dancing eyes glittering with irony who had taunted Jon that day at Winterfell. "I will do my utmost to assemble as many men as I can."

Jon understood what Ser Jaime was implying: He was willing to commit treason and usurp his sister's command of her armies to take men north to fight against the Night King.

Just the act of putting the Pyromancers' Guild at Jon's disposal - when Cersei was undoubtedly already planning her next moves while Daenerys headed north, and would likely desire to wield wildfire against Daenerys' armies - was treasonous in itself.

Strange, to see the Kingslayer in such a way. Willing to defy his queen to do what was right.

Jon remembered what Tyrion had said, so long ago, in the throne room at Dragonstone. That the Mad King had littered King's Landing with secret caches of wildfire to burn the city to the ground, rather than yield it to Robert Baratheon's advancing forces… That Ser Jaime had plunged the sword into Aerys' back and slit his throat for good measure - so the Mad King could not give the order to burn hundreds of thousands of people alive.

The King in the North stared at the Kingslayer, and wondered why he had never made the truth widely known.

People would have believed him: After all, it was Aerys' cruelty the Seven Kingdoms had rebelled against. Lord Rickard and Brandon's gruesome executions, and Lord Arryn raising his banners when King Aerys demanded both Ned Stark and the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands Robert Baratheon, had ignited the rebellion.

"Thank you, Ser Jaime," Jon said sombrely.

The knight nodded, and the little pyromancers scuttled up the gangway to board Winter, wringing their hands and muttering amongst themselves in agitation. Ser Davos caught Jon's eye, raising his eyebrows, but Jon…was overwhelmed by the brief sensation of…relief. It was utterly foreign to him - and very welcome, no matter how fragile and temporary it was.

"Now we'll have other options if the Queen decides to throw a tantrum," Ser Davos muttered low, his beard twitching, and Jon nodded, some sharp pain in his chest easing. Yes…he hadn't even thought of that, just of the practical applications of wildfire for warfare - but, yes, that did mean that if Daenerys threatened to withdraw support, at least they now had the means to make fire of their own without having to cut down the wolfswood in its entirety to burn it.

"This is much more than I dared hope for," Jon murmured, and Ser Davos nodded his agreement: Truth be told, both of them had anticipated the summit to end with exactly what Cersei had done - thrown a fit and set her guards upon them after screaming about conspiracies and assassinations. Thankfully - thanks to Rhaegal - the destruction of the Mountain had afforded them precious moments in which Jon had taken advantage of the Queen's shock…

One thousand Dornish spears. The black cells emptied to fight in the North. And pyromancers to create wildfire…

More than he had had when he woke up this morning.

"I wish you good fortune," Ser Jaime said earnestly, "in the wars to come."

"And you, Ser," Jon said quietly. Ser Jaime stepped back with his guards, watching Ser Davos and Jon approaching the gangway, cleared now of the last of the supplies and equipment Jon had had the foresight to send people to purchase while they were in the capital.

He turned toward the ship, and Jon's eyes glanced over a diminutive figure in grubby clothing, who sat perched on a barrel beside the gangway, dark hair twisted into a neat plaited knot, heavy eyebrows hovering over strange eyes, a small Braavosi sword at their belt.

Jon froze. Stared straight ahead, feeling as if the wind had been knocked from him.

He turned sharply, eyes wide, not daring to believe it - he gaped, stunned and winded.

The young woman on the barrel gazed back at him, her unusual eyes glimmering. Her gloved hand was wrapped around the hilt of Needle.

Jon stumbled down the gangway, his arms wide.

And, as she had the last time he saw her, Arya leapt into them. She clung on as if for dear life.

Jon's eyes burned; Arya whimpered a soft sob, and he squeezed her tighter, gasping and shocked.

Arya!

Eventually, she wriggled - as she always had - and Jon reluctantly set her down on her feet, realising he had been holding her dangling two feet off the ground. She was still just as little.

"I worried you wouldn't recognise me," she said, her voice softer than Jon ever remembered it. She had always been vibrant, irrepressible - she had been so like Larra that way, wild and free, and good.

His breath was stolen from his lungs as he gazed down at her, grief and disbelief warring on his face as he swiped at his burning eyes. She wasn't a little girl anymore. She had grown up. And her unusual eyes were drenched in sorrow and far too much understanding for someone so young. There was a calm to her now, a stillness, but when she gazed up at Jon, her eyes glinted with tears, her voice shook, and she dived in for another, briefer hug that knocked the breath from Jon's lungs again.

"Arya!" he breathed, leaning down to kiss her head, his eyes burning with tears. As she straightened, he blinked furiously, shaking his head, uncomprehending, "Arya."

"Do I have to call you King Jon now?"

"And curtsey."

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A.N.: Anyone bawling? Anyone screaming? Both?! Told you, you'd love it!

So…I've just started reading Throne of Glass - without realising there are eight books in the series. And I'm undecided whether I'm annoyed enough about the characterisation to rewrite the whole thing with my own OC as main character replacing Celaena/Aelin, or if I care to invest in all those eight books when I really dislike the characterisation of the heroine (I keep getting whiplash, and think maybe Maas was writing two characters and accidentally mushed them together)… Same issue I have with Feyre in ACoTaR - loved the world, loved the men, hated every female character except Amren! A rewrite may be required for that, too (for a more mature readership!) - but I just…let me know, anyone who's read the books and was dissatisfied with the portrayal of a teenage 'assassin' who took every opportunity to act more like Serena van der Woodsen: Arya Stark and the flirtatious but lethal Natasha Romanov have ruined me for portrayals of female assassins of any age. Also, my OC would not be a blue-eyed blonde: I'm tired of blondes being the standard for ethereal, otherworldly beauty! (cough, *Daenerys* cough)