A.N.: Thank you so much for the reviews! This week, I had my final observation to be signed off as a fully qualified teacher, otherwise I would have been updating more. But I have been signed off and can now party – and by party, that means sit at home alone drinking a mini bottle of prosecco and writing fanfiction!
So, remember when Gendry was clever and cunning and observant and can keep his mouth shut? That comes into play in this chapter.
So I was always adored Toothless and Hiccup's first flight in How to Train Your Dragon – the music is so joyous and majestic – and in Avatar when Jake Sully claims his Ikran.
Valyrian Steel
41
Across the Stars
His heart thundered in his chest, a grin spreading across his face as Larra's shout of sheer joy ripped through the air, as fierce and as warming as a dose of fiery Northern whisky. The sound echoed around the still courtyard long after Rhaegal's tremendous wings had carved through the billowing clouds dusting snow everywhere, soaring higher, his great spiked tail finally whipping out of sight.
Gendry knew Larra loved dragons: Arya used to tell them stories as they trudged through the Riverlands, stories about dragons that her sister Larra had told her by the hearth while they knitted. Even last night, he had seen the painting Larra had done of the beautiful, proud Aella Targaryen and her sleek lavender-silver dragon. He also knew Larra had had dreams of dragons since she was a girl – the beasts themselves, and the people who rode them. She had dreamed of Targaryens. She had dreamed of dragons: she had dreamed of flying. Larra had once told Gendry that galloping across the snowy moors was the closest she knew she would ever come to flying.
During the flight from the True North to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, Gendry had been so focused on keeping himself and Jon on Rhaegal's back – and keeping Jon alive – that he hadn't truly thought about the fact that he had flown on the back of a dragon. He remembered the heat and the indescribable power of Rhaegal's wings.
He smiled to himself; what he wouldn't give to be on Rhaegal's back with Larra now, to see her face and experience her joy with her.
It was something, he knew instinctively, that she had to do alone. That she and Rhaegal had to do alone.
He lowered his gaze to the courtyard, surprised to see so many people gathered. Not everyone had fled, it seemed; but those who had had spread the news. A dragon had come to Winterfell.
Shivering in her training gear was Calanthe, her jaw agape. Her wooden sparring sword drooped uselessly at her side. Beyond her, stood on one of the raised, covered walkways, was Lady Sansa. She looked ill, pale as the snow drifting lazily around them, her cheeks hollow. Behind her, some of the lords muttered amongst themselves. One of the maesters newly arrived at Winterfell, Maester Arys, a burly, good-humoured man who taught the children languages, stared with open-mouthed disbelief. He seemed to pull himself together, then gave Lady Sansa's stricken face a shrewd look, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. Samwell Tarly was blinking rapidly and seemed to be thinking very hard as he watched the skies. His dark eyes dropped to Lady Sansa and his lips parted as something sparked in his expression, a sudden realisation, and Gendry frowned, watching him, wondering what had him bustling away before anyone could say a word.
"He's going to eat Larra!" Calanthe burst into tears, her wooden sparring-sword clattering to the ground. So quiet was the courtyard that everyone heard her; Lady Sansa turned enormous deep-blue eyes on the girl, her lips pale.
Gendry strode across the yard to Calanthe, who was shaking like a leaf. Her long eyelashes were spiked together by the tears streaming silently down her face, and as he approached he noticed the wet patch on her breeches. She had lost control of her waters – and after what she had endured in the Westerlands, he wasn't surprised. In fact, seeing Calanthe put things in a new light. He had only ever witnessed the dragons unleashing their power upon the Night King's army, Rhaegal swooping in to rescue him and Jon both. He had seen Viserion's wrath at being injured, demolishing outbuildings at Eastwatch – but even then, they'd used the timber to keep the fires lit.
Calanthe had witnessed the very worst atrocities that a dragon-rider could commit: she was one of seven to have been chosen specifically to survive that atrocity.
In Calanthe's experience, dragons did not save: they destroyed.
He saw the dread in Calanthe's eyes, her cheeks pale, her pupils dilated, black swallowing the emerald-green. Her breath came in shallow pants, and her cheeks were stained with pink as she fidgeted, becoming more aware of her own body as the shock and terror of Rhaegal's appearance – and sudden disappearance with Larra – wore away.
"Larra will be alright," Gendry said gently, squatting down in front of her. He reached out and took her tiny hands in his, searching her face. "Calanthe…look at me… Larra will be perfectly alright."
"You don't know that!" Calanthe cried, her little face scrunching up.
"I do."
"How?" she sobbed, and for a rare moment, young Calanthe looked and sounded her age.
"Because if I was a dragon seeking a rider, I'd be looking for someone as brilliant and splendid and ferocious as I was," Gendry said softly, not smiling, because Calanthe was deathly afraid. He believed what he said but he wondered whether Calanthe could ever learn to see Rhaegal as anything but a monster. She sucked in a shuddering breath, her gaze fixated on him with a desperate sort of fury. He reached for the wooden sparring-sword and stood up, gently scooping Calanthe against his side, carrying her as she shuddered and sobbed silently into his chest. "Come, let's get you cleaned up and warmed."
As he carried Calanthe toward the great doors, Lady Sansa caught his eye, striding toward him: She had heard every word he had said to Calanthe. She stopped Gendry and laid a hand gently on his free arm, demanding, breathless with terror, "Why didn't you stop her?"
Even as he frowned at her, Gendry knew Lady Sansa's was a very different kind of fear than Calanthe's. Calanthe dreaded that Larra had been doomed to a gruesome fate: Lady Sansa, for whatever reason, seemed more afraid of the mutterings of her men.
Why didn't you stop her? How could he, was the better question. How could he have stopped Larra climbing onto Rhaegal's back – when the beast itself had cooed and coaxed her with a gentle lullaby and offered its wing, when Rhaegal had relaxed at the very sight of her and cooed, purring and clicking. When Larra had dreamed of dragons and yearned to fly from her earliest memories.
"How could I?" he asked heavily. He could no more have stopped Larra mounting Rhaegal than he could harness the moon. He frowned deeply at Lady Sansa, wondering…what had her so petrified. It wasn't like her to lose her composure, to let others see her emotions, or to give in to them, especially in front of an audience. He knew little enough of her yet Gendry knew that about Lady Sansa. She was composed, elegant and untouchable – not like stern, ferocious, deeply loving and charismatic Larra.
He doubted Lady Sansa had the same fears as Calanthe, but something about Larra flying off on Rhaegal's back had spooked her sister. And something about their men talking about it frightened Lady Sansa even more.
He'd always been told only Targaryens could ride dragons.
Only Targaryens…
Frowning intensely at Lady Sansa, reading the worry in her eyes, Gendry's eyes widened with a sudden thought. But it couldn't be! Yet…no-one knew who the Snows' mother was. Everyone in Westeros knew that Ned Stark had kept the name of his bastards' mother secret.
Yet she had to have had Targaryen blood, somehow. They were the only Dragonlords to survive the Doom of Valyria, whose blood held that unique ability to bond with dragons. Only dragonseed could claim a mount, like in the Dance of Dragons, the smallfolk with Targaryen blood had claimed feral dragons to help the Blacks. Gendry had a drop of it, they knew, to be able to forge Valyrian steel. Larra had realised that. But had she realised his potential because she, too, had that same potential? She had always dreamed of dragons. Was that her mind's way of telling her, all this time, that she had Targaryen blood?
Gendry frowned. Yet how could she? The only Targaryens alive around the time of her birth were King Aerys, Queen Rhaella and Prince Rhaegar…
Rhaegar who had kidnapped Lyanna Stark.
Lyanna Stark, whom the whitebeards – smallfolk and Northern lords alike – claimed Larra was the spitting image of, but for her eyes and her curls.
Everyone knew the story.
Ned Stark had gone to war against the Mad King and returned to Winterfell with his sister's bones: she had not survived the war. And Ned had brought two bastard children home with him, a boy and a girl with the Stark look… The daughter who had vivid Valyrian purple eyes and had mounted a dragon…
Gendry stared at Lady Sansa. Her dread seemed to seep into him, making his skin itch and his hands shake. Was Larra a Targaryen? The child of Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark, born during the Rebellion?
The Last Dragon's only surviving children, hidden safely in the snow with the only person who could ever have protected them from Robert Baratheon's infamous hatred of dragonspawn.
"Lady Sansa?" someone called, and she turned her gaze away, dropping her hand and smoothing her features. Nothing betrayed the dread Gendry had seen: her expression was mild and considerate as one of the maesters approached her. Unsettled, Gendry glanced down at Calanthe, who was frowning deeply at Lady Sansa, sharing his confusion. Her breathing was under control now; she started to hiccough as he led the way back to the Starks' private chambers. His mind raced and he itched for Larra to return, for a different reason than Calanthe did. Calanthe wished her surrogate mother to return, safe and whole. Gendry knew no harm would befall Larra while she was with Rhaegal: he wanted her to return so that he could ask her…
Could ask whether she was indeed the child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.
Only…did it matter? He asked himself the same question over and over. What did it matter if Larra was the child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark? If Jon was the son of Rhaegar? It mattered in the same way it mattered that Gendry had been sired by Robert Baratheon: not at all, really, except for the potential in their blood. King's blood, he thought, scowling, as he hammered away, folding and folding and folding…
Calming as the hours passed, cleaned and clothed in a fresh, warm woollen dress, Calanthe stopped watching the courtyard entrance to the forges; her attention turned instead to Gendry. He knew she was supposed to return to her cousins in the schoolroom for their afternoon lessons, but he also knew the girls well enough to know they'd get nothing out of Calanthe except mayhem until she was assured of Larra's safe return. So he had set her on a perch on a workbench in the forge, near enough to him that he could keep an eye on her, and she on the courtyard. Calanthe had her crochet with her, and an encyclopaedia of Essosi mammals, which she distractedly read aloud to him as he worked. Slowly the crochet, the book and the courtyard were forgotten as Calanthe inched closer to him, watching him work, eventually asking him questions about what he was doing.
"What are you making?"
"A hunting knife," Gendry grunted, hammering away.
"Does it usually take this long?" Calanthe asked candidly. Gendry smiled.
"No," he admitted. "See these ripples? How many are there?"
"Hundreds?" Calanthe said, glancing from the small blade to Gendry's face, biting her cheek thoughtfully. "They look like Qartheen lace."
"Each ripple is a fold in the steel," Gendry said, demonstrating with his hammer. "Each time I fold the steel, I must let it temper before I can forge another. That's what takes the time."
"Is the knife for Larra?" Calanthe asked, her emerald eyes clear and appreciative as she gazed at the hundreds of tiny folds in the rippling smoke-black steel. "It looks like Dark Shadow's fur in the firelight."
Gendry stared at the weapon. He had been so focused on the intricate folds of steel that he hadn't noticed but Calanthe was right: as dark and smoky as it was, the blade did seem to resemble the way the firelight shone on Last Shadow's impenetrable black fur – silver rapturously caressing obsidian.
"Does it have a handle?" Calanthe asked, and Gendry chuckled softly. He taught her the true names for the different parts of a weapon. She mused, "The hilt should be made of weirwood."
"Should it?"
"If it's for Larra, then yes," Calanthe said stoutly. "The weirwood is sacred to Larra. And she treasures Last Shadow. Larra lets Shadow be wild and free because she loves her so much."
"I'm not sure Larra would take kindly to us hacking bits off the great heart tree," Gendry said, smiling softly.
"Probably not," Calanthe sighed, then perked up. "I know! Maybe it dropped branches during the storms!"
"You could go and check," Gendry said thoughtfully, glancing at the entrance to the courtyard. The light had taken on a curious, fiery tone, and when they paused at the entrance Gendry saw a glorious sunset blazing fire everywhere, gilding the heavy blanket of black clouds that had settled across the sky. The courtyard seemed to glow with that strange orangey-pink glow of a deep sunset – a colour Gendry was so used to in the south, where the sun was harsh and the sunsets fiercely beautiful. In the North, it turned dripping icicles to rubies and seemed to soften the harshness everywhere around them, the icy, jagged stone walls and the sludge beneath their boots.
A sea of snow drifted beyond her, as far as the eye could see, great fluffy white meadows glinting and glimmering with silver, wisps of mist drifting idly like gentle waves, a dreamlike city of spires and gentle hills ever-changing and mesmerising. An endless sea of snow-clouds below her, and above her…eternity. Endless dark-blue, velvety and rich, beguiling in its calmness and its serenity. The boundless sky yielded its secrets, thousands upon thousands of stars glittering brilliantly like diamonds just out of reach.
Thighs clamped on Rhaegal's enormous back, Larra had long since ceased clinging to him; she sat straight-backed and proud, beguiled and tempted to stand and reach for those stars glinting so tauntingly. She sat up straight and gazed at the world around her – their world. Hers and Rhaegal's; this was theirs alone.
A gentle wind caressed her face and teasing her braids, and she felt it for the first time since…since perching precariously outside the cave: Freedom.
She could breathe.
They had left the day behind them; beneath the clouds, the sun hung low and stubborn, shining through the snows. But above the clouds…in the heart of winter, the moon had already risen, gliding higher in the sky, huge and heavy, enormous and aweing and turning everything to silver light. Above the clouds were snow-meadows and an endless velvety night scattered with stars winking flirtatiously. The cold sharp air filled her lungs and caressed her bare skin. She tasted the snow in the air and heard the windsong in her ears. If she closed her eyes, she knew she would have trouble discerning between the skies and the True North.
Flying, she had learned the moment she climbed on Rhaegal's back, was freedom.
Rhaegal's tremendous body, blistering hot and chasing away the worst of her discomfort at the cold – she was, after all, in a woollen dress and cloak, not her furs – was incredibly gentle as they glided through the air.
The moment she had seen Rhaegal, she had felt it, a whisper, as beguiling to her heart and mind as dragonsong was to her ears. A delicate ribbon of smoke and golden firelight sensuously intertwined, reaching for her, unfurling rapturously and embracing her. Embers sparked beneath her skin, simmering low, not painful but delicious, the embers growing to sparks and catching alight, searing and necessary, a throbbing ribbon of molten gold, smoke and flickering firelight, a blinding, breathless golden light that drenched everything, saturating her with unbridled ecstasy. She had felt it, tenuously at first, yet now that tether between them – a smoky, sensuous seam of shadow and firelight – seemed to sear through her, branding her, forever entwining them together, an aweing rope of lightning and molten gold, starlight and shadows, solid and fierce, unbreakable. Their bond. And at the other end of it, Rhaegal.
Smiling breathlessly, Larra closed her eyes and opened herself up to the bond. She felt Rhaegal inside her mind, knew Rhaegal was nestled deep in her heart now forever. She felt Rhaegal's frustrations tempered by a natural gentleness and compassion, the ferociousness buried deep just waiting to be brought forth to protect those they loved. She delved deeper into the bond and sighed, smiling, feeling Rhaegal's mind, as familiar to her as her own. She understood their intelligence, their boundless love and unfettered joy as they glided above the clouds, their wings caressed by the wind and by starlight, their fierce independence – and their frustration born of a fruitless desire to guard and protect and love, yearning to be free yet embrace something they could fiercely protect with all their strength and cunning.
Larra felt Rhaegal's cunning, clear and sharp. Shrewd, assessing and creative.
Rhaegal was fierce, cunning and, Larra believed, humorous.
She wondered what Rhaegal thought of her – didn't have to wonder; Rhaegal cooed and sighed and sent great waves of delight through the bond, pride and fierce joy, adoration, appreciation.
They were exquisitely well-matched.
Stern, ferocious and creative, vicious and compassionate, humorous and gentle unless provoked, with a latent potential for indescribable violence simmering deep beneath the surface. Sheer joy at their freedom, a deep appreciation and wonder for the world around them. Intuitive, frustrated and yearning. Deeply nurturing, protective to a fault and ferociously loyal.
She was Rhaegal's, and Rhaegal was hers.
All those times she had watched the dragons, from hatchlings to Drogon burning the khals… She had watched Rhaegal, frustrated and furious, independent and cunning, aching to be loved yet spurning the one who obviously favoured another. Aching for connection.
Now, Rhaegal had it. Rhaegal had found her. And Larra felt Rhaegal's unfettered rapture at finding her: tears blinded her as Rhaegal's fierce emotions swept over her, pure and consuming. She felt the rumble through Rhaegal's enormous body as they cooed and sang and clicked melodiously, talking to her.
Grinning, she sniffed and wiped her face, stroking her hand against Rhaegal's neck.
"You found me," she said hoarsely, smiling, and Rhaegal cooed, relief and joy sparkling through the bond. She felt calm sweep through Rhaegal, and a quiver of uncertainty; Rhaegal had lived so long in a state of frustration that calm was alien. Rhaegal luxuriated in it, in the calm and in the connection, their bond. Larra let it drift through her, consuming and good. She watched moonlight glimmering off Rhaegal's leathery wings, more like a bat's than a bird's, and smiled to herself, delight and excitement, curiosity, filling her body.
She had reared a wounded dire-eagle; and bats used to roost in the high chambers above the Library. On calm summer nights when the light lingered, she used to see the bats darting in and out, spiralling through the air, twisting and tumbling, their leathery wings carving through the air. Rhaegal's wings were designed for more than gentle gliding above the clouds. She was curious to learn how Rhaegal flew; and how she could fly with them. How, together, they could enjoy and explore the bond, and the freedom of the air.
"Shall we fly?" she murmured, and Rhaegal cooed, a ripple of delight shuddering through the bond. Larra grinned, adjusting her position, raising her backside up, planting her feet, balancing, keeping a hold of the spikes in front of her – the way she would rise from the saddle, preparing to gallop. Everything she knew about horses – even about guiding Bran's sledge – came rushing to the forefront of her mind, and Rhaegal chirped and trilled once, before angling their wings to catch an air-current, and Larra let out a great scream of delight as they rose, higher and higher in a great spiral.
Rhaegal flapped their wings with a sound light thunder, rumbling deep in their chest, amusement rippling through the bond, and dived, wingtips skimming the sea of clouds, scattering starlight. They broke through the clouds, diving into a world awash with red-gold light from the dying sun, and Rhaegal tucked their wings in tight, shooting faster than any arrow. Larra screamed with delight, excitement skittering across her skin and bubbling through her blood, as they plummeted. Rhaegal's wings snapped open, the veins of bronze glowing vividly, and caught another air-current, snatching them higher into the air, making Larra giggle raucously as exhilaration flooded her. With a roar of delight, Rhaegal flapped their wings and dived again, sweeping through enormous snowy valleys, darting between crags and towers of ancient stone, soaring over pristine snow-meadows and startling herds of wild buffalo and muskox, instantly melting frozen waterfalls with their nearness, the wind chilling Larra as they glided over frozen lakes. She grinned breathlessly, eyes blinded by tears – the wind snatched at her, and joy consumed her – and wiped them hastily, snatching her rebellious cloak around herself as the wool snapped and slashed in the wind with every movement. They soared over holdfasts and abandoned villages, frosted fields and copses, great valleys and winding idle rivers, frozen waterfalls and hot-springs busy with all manner of wildlife. Far off, barely bigger than the glinting stars, she saw flickers of firelight, torches lit in great number, a large cluster of them. The only signs of people she had seen since leaving Winterfell on Rhaegal's back, and before Rhaegal could bank and flap their wings and soar back among the clouds, she noted the landmarks, the direction of the sun. South-east, then; another party approaching Winterfell from White Harbour. She tucked the cloak tight around herself and grinned as Rhaegal plummeted, fog snatching long fingers toward them, enveloping them like a blanket as snow-capped evergreens tipped with gold in the dying sunlight rose up to meet them like thousands of glinting spears, the great unknowable Wolfswood shrouded by ancient mists, and Larra could have sworn she heard wolfsong echoing on the wind as they hurtled past. Rhaegal shrieked and roared and snapped their wings, darting effortlessly around ancient mountains and ageless towers of rock thrusting up among the trees, swathed in mists, and they broke out onto an endless plane of pure glass, an ice-lake frozen and gleaming beneath them.
Screaming with delight, Larra laughed and punched the air with both hands, thighs protesting as they gripped Rhaegal tight, her face stinging from tears and from the wind, the dying light blinding her, the wind tugging at her braids and her cloak, and beneath her, Rhaegal roared and cooed, rumbling and chortling.
They danced through the air for hours, playing. They learned how to fly together. Larra learned how Rhaegal's wings interacted with air-currents and how swiftly Rhaegal could change direction, darting and twirling and dancing in the air, astonishing for a creature of their size, elegant and powerful. Rhaegal was showing off, playful and delighted to have a companion to share their joy with. They learned each other.
That first flight was forever seared into their minds. Rapture and connection. Playful and free.
As darkness consumed the world below, Rhaegal flapped their great wings and climbed above the clouds. Endless seas of stars and silver greeted them, and Larra sighed, awed, brought to tears of awe as the lights flickered all about them – the Northern lights, a flickering, eerie, mesmerising display of colour, ever-changing. Exquisitely beautiful and unexplainable. One of the great natural wonders of the North. The Children sang of the lights; the Free Folk told tales of giants and gods. In the True North, they were visible in all seasons; below the Wall, it was only during winter that the lights were visible, and rarely at Winterfell. The Umbers told myths and legends of warrior-queens bearing the lights and summoning great warriors to their rest.
Stuck under the great weirwood, Larra had waited for the lights to flicker into life every night, had ached to hear the Children singing to them. The Children sang the songs of the earth but had their own special lullabies for the lights, and she sang them now as she watched the lights, almost as if in tribute to them, to her and Rhaegal and their first flight, flickering bronze and silver, violet and emerald, ever-changing, sensuous and mesmerising, eerie yet calming.
Soaring above the silver sea, Larra sighed and smiled, settling into Rhaegal and letting their warmth settle through her body. She missed riding across the moors around Winterfell; but she knew she would always ache for this. For flight – for freedom. She knew she would always be wondering when she could next mount Rhaegal and fly and play together.
Cooing and chortling, Rhaegal snapped their wings and Larra felt the question through the bond, almost asking her, was it time for her to return? She patted Rhaegal gently.
"I think so, Rhaegal," she sighed dreamily. "I wish we could stay. You must return me." Rhaegal cooed and clicked. She smiled at the brief dip of sorrow that trembled through the bond. She caressed Rhaegal's tough leathery hide. "Sssh, don't fret. We shall fly again." Rhaegal cooed warmly. Larra smiled. "Tomorrow. And the next day, and the next, for as long as you return to me."
That was the important thing, Larra thought. That Rhaegal returned to her, out of choice, out of delight at their time spent together. Like Last Shadow, Rhaegal was a wild creature; they were meant to be free. Larra could enjoy her bond with both creatures but she understood one crucial thing: they were wild. Bonded though they were, they belonged out there, embracing their natures, their instincts. Not shackled to her.
They were bonded – not bound.
Rhaegal cooed and chirped and sang, gliding above the clouds, seeming to understand that though Larra knew she had to return to Winterfell, she longed to remain where they were, where the world was silver and starlight and the Lights danced in celebration at them finding each other.
They had found each other.
It was a staggering thought.
One of three dragons in the world had found its rider.
She was a dragon-rider: Rhaegal had chosen her as their rider.
She knew the implications: during that first flight, Larra focused only on the pure joy and exhilaration of flight, of their connection, their freedom, the playfulness and rapture of Rhaegal as they twirled and danced through the air, showing off, learning each other. Pride in being chosen by Rhaegal swept through her, fiery and gentling and good.
They had found each other.
As miraculous as Rhaegal's birth was, it was more extraordinary still that Rhaegal had found her. Dragon-riders were just as rare as dragons themselves.
A dragon only ever had one rider.
Daenerys Targaryen could only ever have claimed one of the beasts for herself, and she had favoured Drogon from the beginning. Knowing that truth – that she could only ever truly control one – and appreciating the reality of it were two different things: they were her dragons in her mind, her children… Rhaegal claiming Larra as a rider went against everything Daenerys thought about herself as the Mother of Dragons.
Rhaegal would never again answer to Daenerys, if they ever had; they were bonded now to Larra. And that bond was everything.
Reluctantly, Rhaegal dipped back beneath the clouds, the world plunged into darkness, and Larra sighed, leaning down to stretch along Rhaegal's spine, feeling their warmth coaxing her and soothing her like a blanket. She closed her eyes, listened to the windsong and to Rhaegal's soft cooing and clicking of contentment, and trusted the dragon to fly her safely through the pitch-black night to Winterfell.
She knew they were near when Rhaegal started to slow, gently flapping their wings, soaring lower and lower, the wind louder as it tangled with the Wolfswood, washing across the unbroken moors, and she felt Rhaegal's sadness through the bond as they banked and soared in a gentle spiral, lower and slower with each turn above the great sprawling castle, torchlight flickering delicately in the courtyards, the unbroken snows of the godswood gleaming intermittently as the clouds drifted sluggishly past, moonlight spearing through and shining down upon the castle, illuminating plumes of smoke from Winter's Town and people the size of ants scurrying across the yards. Lower and slower, until Rhaegal clicked and cooed and their talons scraped delicately against the stone of the battlements, wings spread for balance, and finally stopped.
"Thank you, Rhaegal," Larra whispered, leaning along their long neck, and the dragon chirped and cooed as they lowered a wing, letting her elegantly descend the way she had once watched Aella Targaryen dismount. Larra sighed, her legs wobbling as her booted feet found themselves firmly planted on solid stone freshly gritted, and gazed up at Rhaegal's enormous head. Bronze eyes glimmered and snapped like firelight even in the dark and Larra smiled, leaning into the embrace as Rhaegal tucked their entire head against her body, gently chuffing out a breath of hot air, rustling their enormous wings. She smiled and returned the embrace, laughing softly to herself.
Throughout their exploration of Brandon's memories of Daenerys Targaryen's journey, Larra had seen Rhaegal agitated, vengeful, cunning, wrathful, joyous, grumpy, exhausted, hurt and despondent, furious and beguiling. She had never once seen them affectionate.
With Larra, they were. She felt it. She felt love flow through the bond, tremendous and unbreakable. Love, loyalty and trust – a shared understanding of each other, an appreciation and fondness. A ferocious desire to protect each other and to enjoy each other.
Smiling, she stroked her hand down Rhaegal's muzzle, felt the heat of their fire, and her heart soared and stuttered as Rhaegal cooed and crooned to her, serenading her with a lullaby.
"Goodnight," she sighed, smiling. "Until our next flight." Rhaegal cooed, rustled their wings and took off, gentler than they had when she rode them. Larra knew instinctively that Rhaegal did not wish to startle the people of Winterfell as they had earlier – that Larra had been concerned by the fear of her people, and Rhaegal understood it.
Even in the dark, the fire that burned within Rhaegal still flickered, the bronze of their eyes and wings shimmering and glowing softly. Larra stood and watched Rhaegal gain altitude, until the glowing ribbons of bronze shimmering in the onyx sky became little more than a whisper of memory.
She massaged her thighs, entered the castle and made her way through the torch-lit passages and halls to the Stark chambers. Exhilaration flowed through her veins, bright and fierce and good, and her face ached: she knew she was smiling because everyone who saw her seemed startled. It was a rare thing to see Larra Snow smiling, her vivid amethyst eyes shining and bright with delight. Larra strode to the solar, knowing her family would be there, and beamed breathlessly at Bran the moment she threw open the door and saw him sat by the hearth. He raised his dark eyes to her and little Bran's face shone through the wise, ancient greenseer's – the little boy she remembered grinned eagerly, excitement shining from his eyes, breathless with delight, eagerness in every line of his face.
"Where have you been?" a brittle voice snapped, and Larra glanced around. Sansa rose from the working desk.
"Sansa… I've been flying," Larra said breathlessly, smiling. Her eyes were brighter than Sansa had ever seen them – not just brighter, more full of life, radiant with joy, but the colour of them, more vivid than any amethyst jewels, deep and wondrous.
"How could you do it?" Sansa asked, and the smile drifted from Larra's exhilarated face. Her hair was windswept and tangled free from her braids and she didn't seem to care. She looked…unharmed, Sansa thought, her eyes narrowing on her older sister. Unharmed, yet utterly different somehow. The eyes, the joy…she had never seen her sister so rapturous before, and Sansa's heart stuttered, fear gripping it tight.
Larra blinked but did not answer. Her expression gentled and Sansa realised her mistake the moment Larra's smile faded, the usual expression of grim determination settling into the familiar lines of Larra's pale face. She realised it but did nothing to stop herself from picking the fight. Terror had clutched at her all day; this was the first time she had drawn breath. And in her relief, she attacked.
"They know, Larra!" Sansa blurted furiously, her eyes stinging.
"Know what?" Larra asked, lifting her chin delicately – stubbornly. Her vivid amethyst-violet eyes levelled on Sansa, simmering with emotion Sansa refused to name, lest shame consume her. Why are you picking this fight now? When have you ever seen her so joyous?
"They know that the only dragon-riders left in the world were Targaryens and you rode a dragon!" Sansa shrieked, emotion getting the better of her, her voice breaking. Her fear choked her and she glared at Larra for making her feel it. She dreaded what the lords would think and how they would use what they thought they knew to manipulate Jon and Larra.
"I did. I rode a dragon," Larra said calmly. Sansa glared at her, breathless with anger. She had noticed Larra did this – whenever anyone became enraged, Larra simply became calmer. She refused to engage. She was treating Sansa's anger the way she would have dealt with one of their lords. Her!
"You were smiling," Sansa hissed. "I've not seen you like that since…"
"Since I was a girl, learning to gallop over the moors as fast as I was able – because I could almost believe I was flying," Larra murmured. Bran remained silent in his wheeled chair beside the hearth, watching the two of them.
Sansa stared at her sister. Not your sister, she thought, for the first time. Not her sister by blood. Something else. Someone else. "You're a Targaryen," she breathed, stunned, staring at those strange, intense violet eyes. "Rhaegar Targaryen was your father."
Almost coldly, Larra reminded her, "You knew this."
"But to believe it, to truly believe everything…that everything we were ever told about the Rebellion was a lie," Sansa said shakily, her hands clenched in fury. "A lie Father told to protect you. No-one will be able to deny the truth of it. She won't be able to deny it. You've bonded with one of her dragons. What does that mean?"
At Sansa's voice rising, filled with fury – with fear – Larra remained infuriatingly calm. Gently, she said, "I don't know."
Sansa knew she did; Larra was the cleverest person Sansa had ever met. She was cunning. And the fact that she would not entertain the conversation infuriated Sansa further.
"You don't know?" Sansa repeated, hissing viciously.
"Stop it," Bran said gently. His gaze was gentle as he glanced at Sansa. "You have exhausted yourself. Larra has returned, unharmed. Go now and rest."
Sansa became aware that her hands were shaking, that she was panting for breath, her anger and her fear bubbling over. She had lashed out at Larra, she knew, out of fear. Fear that the truth would come out, that Jon and Larra would be endangered…that the situation with the Dragon Queen, already warped by her mistreatment of Jon, was now so much more complicated because Larra had claimed one of her dragons – her children, Sansa thought with a sneer.
Rippling with anger, cold dread making her tremble, Sansa stalked from the solar. She knew she had allowed her emotions to get the better of her in a way she never allowed them to. She never lost control.
She heard Bran's soft voice saying, "This is the first time Sansa has tasted true fear at the thought of losing you."
Her eyes stung, and she stalked to her chamber, bolting the door, allowing relief and shame to sweep over her – relief that Larra had returned safely, and shame that she had caused that rapturous smile, that joy, to disappear from her eyes. She had ruined what should have been a moment of tremendous joy and awe – their sister had become a dragon-rider!
Gasping and shuddering with sobs, Sansa choked and wiped her face and glanced at the small portrait on her dressing-table. She ached for Jon's return, now more than ever. He had always understood Larra in a way none of the rest of them ever had, ever could. She wanted him… She wanted him to tuck her into his embrace, calm and grim and tired as always, and gently kiss her brow as he stroked her hair, the way he had hundreds of times before. She wanted his heat and his scent and the feeling he always gave her – of absolute safety. She missed him; she needed him. She wanted him home, now. She wanted him home with her, cuddling on the settle, gentle and intimate and fierce, safe.
She cried herself out, then prepared for bed, undressing herself and cleansing her eyes with little cotton pads doused with lavender water to take away the sting and the swelling. She knew she shouldn't have lashed out: she knew she needed to apologise.
She had let her fear ruin something extraordinary.
Larra gazed at Bran, her eyes burning. He watched her lower-lip quiver violently, the fierce look on her face carved from marble. War is easier than sisters, he thought, and held his hand out to Larra. Not to coax her into memories: to hold his sister's hand because she was upset. Her euphoria had been brought crashing down, hurt and misery searing through her chest.
"I shouldn't have mounted Rhaegal," she said hoarsely.
"You were always meant to," Bran said, and Larra watched his gaze go out of focus, slowly drifting back. Ominously, he murmured, "Better now than later…" He smiled at her, a mixture of Bran's childlike innocence and Brandon's taunting wisdom. "Things have been set in motion now that cannot be undone." He reached up and brushed away the tears that had slipped from Larra's vivid eyes. It was strange, to be the one comforting, when all his life, it had been Larra comforting and caring for him. And he knew it. He stroked her chin delicately and gazed back at his beautiful, stern sister with her ferocious heart and unquenchable passion, her yearning for freedom and a breath-taking desire to build and to improve, to help everyone she met. Fiercely loyal, just and compassionate, her grit was mesmerising. Incredibly discerning, she was a fascinating blend of toughness, tenderness and gravitas coupled with a profound emotional intelligence born of a childhood where she had been made to feel less than she was. She responded to cruelty with incredible compassion.
Bran sighed, "My beautiful sister."
"I miss you, Bran," she said hoarsely, her eyes fierce.
"I'm here," he whispered back to her, his eyes burning. "I'm still here." She leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek, her lips trembling. Her eyes were bright, shining with tears, the only hint that Sansa had truly upset her. He smiled regretfully at her. "Gendry is waiting for you."
"Is he?" she asked softly, wiping her face and standing. She had always been tall to him; as a boy, she had seemed like a giant, untouchable, fierce and strong, a warrior-queen. He still knew that to be true now; but Sansa's words had made her buckle. He knew only Gendry could reignite that passion, that delight that Larra had been consumed by when she returned from her flight with Rhaegal – the first of many, Bran knew.
Bran sighed and watched Larra go, her unruly braids tangled down her back, and turned to stare into the hearth. He saw it all before them – Larra and Rhaegal, bonded forever, just as she and Gendry were forever intertwined. He knew what was to come, and smiled as he unfurled the raven-scroll he had received between the last storms, the golden sunspear seal glinting in the firelight as he read it again and again. Things are in motion, he thought, smiling. He called gently for a guard and asked them to invite Nymeria Sand to the solar.
Larra entered her chamber and found Gendry sprawled on the bed, scowling intensely, his lips moving as he formed the words on the page of the book before him. He glanced up, sapphire eyes glowing, and the sudden smile on his face disappeared, replaced instantly with a look of concern.
"You're upset," Gendry said softly.
Larra's hands shook. She muttered, "I rode a dragon."
Gendry smiled, laughing softly. "I saw."
"Sansa was so angry. So afraid," she said, her lip quivering, and Gendry gently set his book aside, sitting up straighter and opening his arms for her. Larra went into them without thinking, cuddling up against him, his enormous chest, his muscular arms, his thick thighs feeling like home to her as his scent swept over her, his heat teasing her. His short beard tickled her cheek as he kissed her, settling them both back against the pillows. He stroked her tangled curls, the closest he had ever come to seeing her hair unbound. "I frightened her."
"Yes," Gendry acknowledged. Larra's lip trembled and she burrowed her head against his shoulder. He unfastened her cloak and smoothed his hands down her back, soothing her. Curiously, Gendry asked, "What were you thinking?"
"I wasn't," Larra admitted. "There was no room for anything except how I felt."
Gendry smiled softly and asked, "How did you feel?"
Larra raised her face and stared at him. Her eyelashes fluttered closed and she breathed, "Free. I could breathe. I felt like I was born to do it. To fly. The wind in my ears and the cold, the quiet… I was free." Tears leaked down her face.
"Like the True North," Gendry said thoughtfully. "Seas of snow and stars as far as the eye can see." Larra sniffed, wiping her face, gazing at him as if enraptured. She nodded, and knew he understood. The rapture. The freedom.
"I dreamed of Rhaegal, for years. When I was a girl," she admitted. She rose from his lap to rummage around in one of her trunks, extracting some of her art books where she had practised sketching and painting. She climbed back into Gendry's lap and flipped the pages open, showing him studies she had made of dragons. She pointed at some of the bronze-and-green watercolours. "It is Rhaegal exactly, down to the scars on their legs where she chained them beneath the Great Pyramid." She gulped and glanced from the paintings to Gendry. "I was dreaming of Rhaegal before they even existed in the world. Rhaegal is mine; and I am Rhaegal's… I should never have climbed on Rhaegal's back."
"Why not?" Gendry asked gently.
"Because we are bonded. Rhaegal won't answer to anyone else – not even her," Larra breathed, horror spreading through her. She had not allowed herself to do anything but embrace the bond, the first flight she and Rhaegal had shared. It was theirs and theirs alone. No-one else was going to ruin it. Not Daenerys Targaryen…not Sansa. "I've made myself her enemy."
"You already were," Gendry reminded her, his voice dark, and she nodded.
"It's more than that," she murmured. "She believes she is the Mother of Dragons. She believes that she alone in the world is special and unique because she has the power to command them. The moment she realises she is not alone in that gift, that there are others who can challenge her, it threatens everything she has convinced herself of. It threatens everything she believes. That makes her incredibly dangerous."
"Another Dance of Dragons," Gendry said softly, clicking his tongue. "If it comes to that, at least you do have Rhaegal."
Larra shook her head, sighing. "Wild creatures should be free. Rhaegal is so much more than a weapon."
Gendry sighed heavily, nodding. He knew little of wild creatures, just that Arya and Larra were wild and untameable – they could be gentled but never broken or controlled. He was learning how to gentle Larra but she was still a wild creature – she still yearned to be free despite her joy at being home with her family. She would always ache to be free, he knew, yet she would always put her duty first. Always.
"You frightened the life out of Calanthe today," he told her, and Larra went still, her expression sorrowful, almost regretful. He didn't say it to punish her for flying Rhaegal, just to prepare her for Calanthe's reaction when she realised Larra was returned safely. "She feared Rhaegal had carried you off to eat you."
Larra sighed heavily, rubbing her face, and gave Gendry a careful, assessing look. "How did you settle her?"
"I told her that if she were a dragon, wouldn't she want a rider just as fierce and wily and extraordinary as she was?" Gendry said, and Larra's eyes widened as they rested on his. He reached up and caressed her face. He leaned in, placing a tender kiss against her lips. "There's nothing you couldn't do, even before Rhaegal bonded to you."
Gently, they stripped each other of their clothing, and Larra sighed as Gendry's immense weight settled over her; she cradled him between her thighs and his kiss snatched away her gasp as he entered her. She scraped her fingernails against his massive thighs as he thrust into her, slowly at first, then harder, fiercer, and she shuddered and writhed as he pinned her down and took her relentlessly, the ferocious thrusts of his hips tempered by the sweetest and most tender kisses on her face, her neck, her breasts, until she came, pleasure ripping through her body. Her toes curled and she clung on, grinning breathlessly, as he pounded deep inside her. He grunted, hooking a hand under her knee to lift her leg, adjusting the angle of his thrusts, until she whimpered and clawed at his back. As pleasure shuddered through her a second time, he gasped, startled, and came inside her. Cradling her face, he gave her long, deep kisses – savouring and sweet.
Panting and exhilarated from his lovemaking yet calmed in his embrace, Larra shivered and settled in his arms as he wrapped the quilts and furs over them. As she dozed, Gendry trailed his fingertips up and down her spine. The scars on her back were the oldest, now the faintest, and he gave them no mind, too preoccupied.
"Larra…"
"Mm?" she sighed, half-asleep against his chest. He absolutely adored the way she tucked herself into him, how she only ever seemed to sleep comfortably was draped across his enormous, muscular, hard body. He loved how dainty she was compared to his immense size. He hated to ruin it, considering how calm she was, but he wanted to ask... Yet she knew the truth about him, after all.
"They say only Targaryens can claim dragons," he said quietly, his voice rumbling gently around the quiet, fire-lit room. He felt Larra's sigh tickling his chest-hair and she leaned her chin on his chest. Her vivid amethyst eyes glowed at him.
Instead of deflecting the suggestion in his voice, or ignoring him, she said softly, "That's true." His lips parted, but she said, "I can't talk to you. Not yet."
He frowned, then realised, his eyes widening, "Jon."
She nodded. "I shall tell you all about it, but not yet."
Gendry realised, "He doesn't know."
Larra shook her head, her voice hoarse and her eyes bright as she repeated, "He doesn't know."
A.N.: We love a clever boy.