A.N.: So I've been thinking about the dragon has three heads. In this story, it will, but not the three people will expect. And it'll have two different meanings.
Valyrian Steel
42
Voices from the Past
Groaning, Gendry emptied deep inside her as she whipped her hips one last time, and she laughed breathlessly, pleasure rippling through her body, as he kissed her throat and jaw, his short beard tickling her sensitive skin. An attempt to climb out of bed early and dress had resulted in this; tangled in Gendry's lap, her hands exploring under his tunic, one of his hands clamped down on her thigh while the other teased between her legs. The sun sent shards of silver light through the frozen diamond-paned window and glinted off the embroidery on her dress, which was pooled around her waist, her chemises tugged low so Gendry could lavish her breasts with kisses. They throbbed, and she knew she would feel him all day – he was becoming an expert at making her body ache because of him, and for him. Their appetites were becoming voracious and Larra was never going to be caught complaining. She shivered and sighed, gasping softly as she twisted her hips and he pulled free from her.
"Now that's a way to start the day," he murmured teasingly against her throat, kissing her tenderly, and tucked himself into his breeches. He smiled and leaned up to kiss her lips as she sighed, gentling in his arms. She nodded in agreement.
Rhaegal had not yet returned, thanks to tremendous storms that had swept in from the coast, bringing with them ice-sleet and lightning that had felled three ageless trees in the godswood. Their destruction had made Larra weep. They had been stuck inside for days yet Larra was still happy. She and Gendry had been enjoying each other at every opportunity they could snatch in their busy days, between working on Valyrian steel, obsidian scorpions, reading lessons, writing The Princess Bride, raising the children, gentling fierce Briar, settling an anxious Calanthe, mediating between the maesters and the lords.
Legs trembling, Larra climbed off the bed and hissed as she pulled her chemises over her throbbing breasts, her nipples tender. Gendry grinned at her, his eyes filled with fire. He climbed off the bed, tucking his tunics into his breeches, and tugged his boots on before striding over to her, taking hold of her laces as her fingers trembled. He stole a kiss and smiled, utterly sated, as he tugged gently on the laces down the side of her bodice.
A soft knock echoed on the door, making Larra look over in surprise. The children burst in at all hours, unhindered by the guards – indeed, Larra had dismissed them as unnecessary, better off diverted to guarding Bran's chamber rather than her own. The only ones who came to their chamber were the children, and only the older ones knew to knock. Gendry abandoned her laces and strode across the room, tugging the door open. A soft sigh, and Gendry glanced over his shoulder. The look he gave her was at once mischievous and apologetic. He tugged the door open wider and ducked through it, smiling, leaving Larra to stare at Sansa, who lingered tentatively at the threshold.
"You can come in," she said drily, watching her sister. Sansa was dressed impeccably, as always, her hair rippling to her waist in a shining sheet of copper. Sansa entered the chamber – the last time she had been here, they had explored the trunks full of Larra's belongings which Maester Luwin had hidden away – and glanced around. There seemed to be more life in the chamber now. Larra's and Gendry's clothes tumbled from the trunk at the foot of the bed; books were piled beside the settle, which was draped with blankets and furs, and the great bed was still rumpled.
"Do you need help with your laces?" Sansa asked, and though she didn't, Larra nodded. Her sister approached almost timorously and neatly tied Larra's laces for her. Clearing her throat delicately, Sansa said softly, "I'm sorry I upset you. You rode a dragon. You flew. And my reaction ruined it."
Larra sighed heavily, shaking her head. Nothing could ever ruin the experience she had shared with Rhaegal. "It didn't ruin it."
Shame-faced, Sansa said, "I'm ashamed of how I reacted."
"I frightened everyone by taking off on Rhaegal. I frightened you," Larra said, acknowledging that she understood why Sansa had lashed out. "I should have been more frightened than I was. I know how dangerous it was for me to climb onto Rhaegal's back… Are people talking?"
"Yes," Sansa said simply. "They're grasping in the dark."
"Let them wonder. Until Jon…" She sighed, shaking her head. Gendry hadn't asked since that first time but she knew he was curious. "It doesn't matter if people learn the truth, but Jon should know first."
Sansa agreed, of course. She gazed at Larra. Curiously, softly, she asked, "What was it like?"
A smile split Larra's face, radiant. She breathed, "It was magnificent."
"How do you feel?"
"I felt…bonded. Not just to Rhaegal…to all of them," Larra said, glancing at her working table, where new paintings were drying. "Even though they've been dead for centuries, I feel…bound to them. I belong with them."
"Your family," Sansa said sadly.
"All the stories…the moment I climbed onto Rhaegal's back, I knew I was part of something, that I belonged," Larra said hoarsely. "They are a part of me, and I am…"
"You are the best of what remains of them," Sansa said gently, her eyes blazing. "You show them all up. You do them proud."
Larra smiled sadly. "Thank you, Sansa."
She set about straightening the linens and tucked in the quilts, tossing the furs over the end of the bed and straightening the pillows. Sansa, watching her tidy up the evidence of her lover, asked her quietly, "Do you love Gendry?"
The question didn't take her by surprise: it was the first open acknowledgement from Sansa that she had taken Gendry as a lover, that they lived together in this chamber.
"Ah. That…" She sighed thoughtfully, frowning. She shook her head, "Love would never be enough for me, it is too small, too limiting. I respect Gendry; I admire him; I enjoy him; I desire him."
Wistfully, as if she was somewhere else, Sansa said, "He's brave and gentle and strong."
"He is," Larra agreed.
"I heard what he said to Calanthe Lannister about you," Sansa said. "He respects and adores you too."
"I know."
"You are well-matched."
"Are we?"
"You both work harder than anyone I have ever met," Sansa said, almost rolling her eyes. "The impossible excites you. You know when to be stern and when to be gentle. You're decisive and shrewd. You're both charismatic. People respect and adore you."
"You almost sound as if you're giving your approval."
Sansa smiled almost mischievously, a twinkle of Arya, of the wolf-blood, of the North, glittering in her eyes. "You'd never need it. The True North is in you now."
"That's true."
Sansa gazed at her, tilting her head thoughtfully. "Does he know?"
"He suspects," Larra admitted. "The moment I mounted Rhaegal."
"Then he's cleverer than most in this castle."
"Oh, easily," Larra said.
"But you've not confirmed anything?"
"No. Not yet," Larra said, and Sansa nodded.
"You should. He should know what he's getting himself into," she said.
"As much as I should know what I'm getting myself into," Larra said, and realised Sansa didn't know. "He's Robert Baratheon's bastard."
Sansa's eyes widened, then she seemed to think back, and her lips parted. "His eyes."
"Some of the older lords say Gendry's the image of Robert when he was still young and strong," Larra said, shrugging. "I can believe it." Sansa started laughing softly. "What is it?"
"It's just – Robert's son and Rhaegar's daughter," Sansa said, her eyes glinting with amusement. "Out of all the people in the world, and all the two of you have lived through, you found each other."
The same way she and Rhaegal had found each other.
"Isn't that something?" Larra mused.
"Like it was meant to be."
Meant to be, Larra's mind repeated softly. She mused on that simple phrase as she followed Sansa out of her chamber and they went about their day's tasks.
Scowling at the ledgers, Larra sighed, set down her pen and kneaded her eyes. It was never a good sign when the number started swimming. She eyed the hourglass and realised the sand had run out; she had spent too long on the ledgers. She and Sansa had come up with a system to ensure they took breaks from their work, ensuring a day did not go by with them focused on only one thing without gaining progress. So they broke up their days with spurts of activity for the running of Winterfell and siege preparations for war with activities they found pleasure in. Sansa focused on her sewing. Larra turned to her crochet, her stories or her painting – or she went to the nursery and played with the children, the best way to bond with them and assess their learning.
Now, though, she stood and stretched and prepared a pot of liquorice and blackcurrant tea, smiling to herself as she brought out her Qartheen box of watercolours. She had finished her paintings of Aella Targaryen and Aeris the Armourer and was making progress rewriting The Princess Bride: Lady Nym had heard Larra telling the girls the story as they warmed themselves before the hearth in the baths. She had sighed wistfully that her youngest sisters would adore the story – especially Ozias Vollanar, the Braavosi water-dancer fuelled by vengeance, aching to avenge his murdered father, and the Dread Pirate Aeros, who had so brutally ripped apart the saccharine romance of Anemone and her sweet Wyman.
After discussing it with Sansa, Larra had decided to create various different versions of her story, each with unique illustrations she would paint herself. One where Anemone, the most beautiful woman in the world, was golden-haired and emerald-eyed and wore a crimson gown: one where she had soft brown hair and gentle blue eyes and wore a floaty blue gown: one where she was deeply tanned with lustrous dark eyes and wore silks the colour of the sun: and one last one, where she had a long pale face, curling dark hair and vivid violet eyes and wore a simple storm-grey dress and silver furs over her shoulders. One for the Lannisters: one for the Martells: one for the child of Princess Myrcella: and the last, to remain at Winterfell, the heroine radiant and beautiful with her pale solemn face. They were overtures, Sansa called them – gifts to the futures of the Great Houses from the King in the North's family, made personally by his own twin-sister, and made in likeness of the standards of beauty held by each House. Larra had to recreate each painting five times in total – the first for her own copy, and one for each of the books they would send out. She had been filling old cotton-paper sketchbooks with her drawings, taking likenesses of Lady Nym and of the Lannister girls; Bran had given her glimpses of Lady Alynore Tyrell and of her cousin, the deceased but beguiling-in-life Lady Margaery to model Anemone after.
She was stalling, however, on sketching her own likeness. Gendry laughed at her reluctance to turn herself into the heroine of the story.
Setting her sketching pencils aside, Larra smiled and prepared her paints, sitting up straighter and smiling at the prepared sheets of strong cotton paper from Qarth, measured and cut to size, each of them intricately sketched and ready to be painted, laid out in sequence to assess which scenes she should add.
A soft knock on the door made her glance up, pausing as she reached for her Qartheen watercolour paints.
"Come in," she called gently, and Samwell Tarly's round face appeared. He was smiling, but his eyes were pinched apprehensively. She glanced at her brother's most trusted advisor – his best friend, his brother – and tilted her head thoughtfully.
"Samwell," she said gently, noticing the lines of tension around his dark eyes. "Come in, come in."
"I hope I'm not disturbing you," Samwell fretted, but Larra smiled and coaxed him into the room with a wave. He carried with him a rather large wooden box – it was noteworthy because of how fine it was, polished to a high shine and inlaid with something she couldn't quite make out while Sam carried it.
"Never," she said warmly. She enjoyed Sam. She knew how much Jon loved him: he was not what he appeared to be. "Are you well, Sam? You look worried."
"Oh… I'm very well, Larra, thank you," Sam stammered, glancing at Larra with his small dark eyes.
"But?"
"You sound like Jon," Sam said, sighing heavily. He smiled. "He says everything before the word 'but' is –"
"Horseshit," Larra supplied, when Sam broke off, flushing. He laughed nervously. "Sam, whatever is the matter?"
"The maesters have been combing through the documents Edd brought down from Castle Black," Samwell said, eyeing the large box. "I…found this amongst them."
"What is it?" Larra asked curiously, and she noticed the pinch of his eyes as Samwell turned the box so that she could see what was inlaid on the front, beneath a glinting silver lock. Nestled seamlessly in the polished wood was a sigil: an ouroboros. A winged dragon with no beginning and no end, self-devouring, eternal. Not the Targaryen sigil. Larra knew whose it was, though: a locket burned in her mind, decorated with an ouroboros of a dragon and a direwolf sensuously intertwined for eternity. Rhaegar and Lyanna's sigil. The dragon ouroboros: Rhaegar's sigil. Her heart seized in her chest. She stared at the box, all too aware of Samwell hesitantly watching her reaction. Her voice calm, she asked, "You've opened it?"
"I have," Samwell said gently, almost apologetically. Larra glanced at him, unable to speak. Samwell nodded, understanding her silence. He explained: "There are letters…hundreds of them. Rhaegar Targaryen wrote to Maester Aemon since he was a young adolescent, from my calculations he was about thirteen years old when he sent the first letter by rider to Castle Black… Prince Rhaegar wrote to Maester Aemon for years, he called him Uncle Maester… The last letter he sent…was despatched from the Riverlands the night before the Battle of the Trident."
Larra's heart thundered in her chest. It was a large box, and her hands burned, aching to open it. She was surprised by that, by the instinct to seize the box, snatch the lid open and devour the contents. To know… Her father. Did he write about Lyanna? He had to, she thought.
"You've read them," Larra said, her voice now hoarse as she stared at the box.
Falteringly, Samwell admitted, "I have – some. I… I read one of the last ones, but… It felt such an intrusion."
Larra nodded, her eyes stinging. She inhaled sharply and glanced at Samwell, her eyes clearing. "Why did you bring me this?"
Sam's round face shone with earnestness. The love he had for Jon, the faith he had in Jon, shone through, the same way it had that night in the Nightfort, desperately trying to convince Larra to take her brother to Castle Black, not go beyond the Wall where Samwell knew best what lurked waiting for them there. "When I was in the Citadel, the Grand Maester gave me a punishment for treating Ser Jorah Mormont of his greyscale without permission, at great risk to myself and everyone else's safety… He had be transcribe ancient texts and scrolls… One of them was the personal diary of High Septon Maynard, who led the Faith of the Seven during the end of King Aerys' reign and into the Rebellion." Larra stared at Samwell waiting. Hesitantly, he proceeded. "Prince Rhaegar had petitioned the High Septon for a separation from Elia Martell and he granted it. Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia Martell's marriage was ended: they were no longer married in the eyes of the gods or by the laws of men." He faltered, almost flinching as Larra continue to stare. As gently as he could, Samwell said softly, "He travelled to the Isle of Faces…and married Prince Rhaegar to Lady Lyanna Stark in a ceremony at the centre of a grove of weirwood trees."
"Did he, then?" she said quietly.
"There were… Maynard wrote that there were witnesses. Brothers of the Kingsguard –"
"All of them dead," Larra interrupted delicately.
"- and two squires: Ser Myles Mooton and Ser Richard Lonmouth," Samwell said.
"Likely dead as well," Larra said softly. Samwell gazed at her, his dark eyes filled with sadness – and unbearable kindness.
"Larra…in his letters to Maester Aemon, Prince Rhaegar spoke of her, of Lyanna… He wrote about her pregnancy," he said apologetically. With utmost gentleness, Samwell said, "Your father – Ned Stark – returned from the Rebellion not with his bastards…but – "
He faltered, and she smiled sadly. "It's alright, Sam. You don't need to say it."
Samwell blinked quickly at her. Then he realised, "You…you know this already."
"I learned it months ago," she said softly, reaching out to caress her fingertips across the silky polished wood of the box. The keyhole glinted softly. She raised her eyes to Sam's face. "Jon doesn't know."
"It's true," Sam breathed, and Larra nodded.
"Thank you for bringing me these," she said quietly, her stomach doing strange things as she thought about what she would find, what she would read.
"Larra…"
"I'll tell him, Sam," Larra told him gently, and his entire body seemed to relax. Sam stared at her. She sighed heavily. "When I do… When he hears it from me, he won't want to listen to anything else. Jon loved and respected Father fiercely. He'll – he'll be upset. He'll need someone he trusts and respects to help him make sense of it."
"He trusts and respects you," Sam pointed out gently. "You're his sister."
Larra smiled sadly. "We've been parted too long, Sam. I don't know the man he's become…but you do. He trusts you; he values your insight. He'll need you."
"You remind me so much of him," Sam said gently, giving her a hesitant smile. "He always sells himself short, too."
"A good thing he has always had you by his side, championing him," Larra smiled.
Samwell flushed, delighted and embarrassed. "I'm the unlikeliest champion you'll ever see," he laughed softly. Larra smiled.
"You should read I Túrin i Cormaron," she said softly. "I think you'd appreciate it."
"You've read The Lord of the Rings?" Samwell said, his tone awed. Larra glanced up at him.
"Of course I have," Larra said, smiling softly as he goggled at her. "I take it by your expression that you have, and are surprised to learn that I too have read it."
"Jon said you liked Valyrian poetry but he never mentioned you'd read I Túrin i Cormaron," Samwell said, his eyes lighting up. "T'was the only story my Father ever allowed me to read to my younger brother Dickon."
"Because of the battles?" Larra asked, and Samwell nodded fervently.
"Mother used to sing the songs. She had ever such a pretty voice," Samwell beamed. He glanced at the box and his smile faltered. His face deeply earnest, he said, "I'm dreadfully sorry, Larra."
"Whatever for?" she asked.
"I know it weighs on Jon, not knowing who your mother was… But to find out, and to find out she's been gone all this time… I'm very sorry," Samwell said tenderly. Larra nodded.
"Thank you, Sam," she said softly.
"And I will be there, when Jon needs me," Sam assured her kindly. She smiled and nodded, and Samwell handed her a tiny silver key, making a gracious exit and leaving her with the box of letters.
She tucked the key into her pocket and turned away from the box, focusing on her paintings. She was…almost afraid to open the box and read those letters. Sam had said they began when Rhaegar was about thirteen years old, ending the night before he was killed in combat. Nearly twenty years' worth of correspondence. She wondered why he had written to Maester Aemon, yet instantly knew why: Maester Aemon was the only other living Targaryen…and he had taken the black. He was sworn to the Night's Watch and could not engage in the politics of the Seven Kingdoms. And, as a brother of the Night's Watch, it was easy to get correspondence to him: everywhere in Westeros, the black brothers were respected, feared, and left well enough alone. No letters addressed to the maester at Castle Black were ever going to go missing. She imagined black brothers like Yoren – perhaps even Yoren himself – had delivered the letters, or perhaps a loyal squire or even one of the Kingsguard themselves, or trusted knights escorting seventh sons to the Wall, as Lord Royce had his own younger son months before Father had executed the deserter who had claimed to have seen White Walkers.
Larra turned to her paintings, doing her utmost to ignore the box.
Huffing irritably, she tidied her paints away and shot the polished box a scathing look before stomping out of the solar, threw on the new furs Sansa had procured for her and slipped through the castle. It was snowing gently again, and the delicate flakes drifted against her skin like the sweetest of Gendry's kisses. She could hear the chorus of weirbirds even from the yard and cast her eyes over the people training, catching a glimmer of fiery gold – Calanthe, sparring with her wooden sword, her expression fierce and determined. So as not to distract her and throw off her lessons, Larra slipped through the yard and out of the North gate. Her breath plumed around her and she trudged through the snow, watching men digging and maesters muttering and wringing their hands as they measured and calculated.
She heard their startled cries and strangled yells as a shadow cast the entire meadow into gloom. She glanced up and grinned at the sight of green, of bronze ribbons glimmering in the sunlight they swallowed, casting them in shadow. A laugh rippled from her and Larra clutched Dark Sister at her side, the better to run. Her braid swung heavy behind her as she ran toward the dragon as they elegantly alighted on the frozen moor, their wings spread, sunning themselves. Rhaegal clicked and cooed and chuffed a breath of hot air over her as she darted to greet them.
Rhaegal played, bumping their head against her body, knocking her into the snow and nuzzling her, the same way the girls played with their new kittens, making a low, rich cooing and clicking noise.
"I've missed you, too," Larra laughed richly, stroking Rhaegal's muzzle, and the great dragon cooed, rubbing the side of their face against her. She smiled and sat up, stroking Rhaegal's face, pulling herself up by the great bronze horns spiked around the back of their head like a collar – like a crown, she thought – protecting their neck. Their eyes glowed like molten gold and Larra smiled as Rhaegal dipped their wing; she climbed onto their back without a second thought, settling along their back, glittering with bronze-tipped spines. The sun shimmered off their wings, making them sparkle and snap like seas of emerald grass golden-tipped by a rich summer sun. Those great wings unfurled, flapped once, and Larra was grinning from ear to ear as they shot into the air. The shouts of the maesters made her laugh aloud and she waved violently from Rhaegal's back as they scattered, fleeing for the castle.
The hours passed in a blur. Rhaegal took her over frozen seas of ice and soaring mountains snow-capped and teeming with snowcats and bearded goats, over the mist-shrouded wolfswood, past gushing waterfalls, frightening herds of moose. Tucked up snugly in her furs, Larra was deliciously warm and comfortable, her entire body alive with joy as she relaxed on Rhaegal's back and embraced the bond between them, learned through it. They learned each other, how Rhaegal worked, how Larra could adjust to the way Rhaegal moved, how they could play and learn and enjoy themselves, and as time wore on they became…daring. Remembering the tricks and displays of the adolescent dragonlords, Larra learned how to fly with Rhaegal, not just cling to their back. She learned the most comfortable, most secure way to mount Rhaegal and how to not only sit up easily for the best view but also how to stand on their back and balance as the wind snapped at her and the world danced below her, dizzyingly far away, a blur of whiteness speckled with occasional green but mostly stone-grey and frozen palest blue.
This time, she noticed, they were never far from Winterfell; Rhaegal kept them close. Perhaps because Rhaegal sensed Larra knew she had to remain close by: she had her duties, after all, and an evening with the ladies planned out. They were to design a wardrobe for Narcisa now that she had had her first blood, a time-honoured tradition among Northwomen.
Joy rippling through her, Larra sighed and settled comfortably on Rhaegal's back as they glided gently through the air, soaring over the Wolfswood. Flocks of dire-eagles rose from their barren perches at Rhaegal's approach but didn't dare attack; they settled back down as soon as Rhaegal had passed, instinctively knowing they were not being hunted. She smiled and knew it was their bond, perhaps, that had drawn Rhaegal to a particular spot in the Wolfswood, a wide open area where the thermal river was especially wide and a jutting rock provided a perfect outcrop for Rhaegal to alight. Spreading their wings to sun them, Larra climbed down off Rhaegal's back and smiled, stretching her legs and gazing at the view, down the rushing thermal waterfall where strange vibrant plants grew even in the heart of winter and salmon teemed and brown bears snuffled and feasted and disappeared to hibernate and deer gathered to strip the bark off of young trees. All around them, life teemed, as it always had…and hopefully always would. She remembered her journey south from the Wall, surrounded by the smallfolk and Jon's black brothers, accompanied by Little Jon and the injured Ragnar. It had not been so very long ago, yet she felt a different person entirely. A different person than the Larra who had dragged Bran to Castle Black, yet a different person again to the one who had turned her back on Maester Luwin in the godswood and led her weeping brothers away as Osha gave the gift of mercy. The girl who had laughed and danced and teased her brothers…she was still there, somewhere…she ached to tease and laugh and dance with her brothers again. That girl was gone, not because she did not wish to dance and tease…but because there were too few now to tease, even fewer to dance with. She was altered because her family was altered.
Rhaegal rumbled softly behind her, sighing, their breath pluming around them, warm and comforting. She reached out and patted the side of their great head. "You know this place?" she said softly, and Rhaegal clicked. "Aye, it's special… D'you like salmon?"
Perched precariously on the jutting outcrop of rock, head tilted with curiosity, Rhaegal watched her fish. She literally plucked the gaping salmon out of the warm water with her bare hands, there were so many of them, swimming so furiously, anxious to spawn. She plucked them out of the water and flung them high into the air: a short burst of flame and Rhaegal gulped them down in one, to the sound of Larra's laughter. She plucked out more and more, and went still, breathless, when she heard it. The sound of dozens of wolves. Direwolves. Her direwolf.
She grinned and watched Last Shadow emerge from the trees, surrounded by her pack.
A sound rumbled from Rhaegal, deep and dangerous, their wings flared in warning.
Last Shadow snorted, giving Rhaegal a look so disdainful it would make Sansa blush, and sauntered toward Larra, licking her ears and neck.
"Shadow," Larra hummed, and behind her, watching carefully, Rhaegal slowly relaxed. The direwolves joined her in the water, fishing. Unlike Rhaegal, the wolves feasted on their salmon raw. Larra fished one out for herself then frowned, realising it would take her an age to strike a fire. She stilled and turned to stare at Rhaegal, who rustled their wings importantly and let out a soft clicking, chortling noise. She smiled, gutted the salmon with ease and skewered it on a long stick she sharpened with her knife. As the direwolves feasted and fished, ignoring Rhaegal completely, Larra held the salmon out at arm's length. Carefully, Rhaegal opened their jaws and emitted a low, constant flame. Larra laughed as she roasted her salmon by dragonfire.
It was delicious. She settled down on one of the rocks, Shadow lolling beside her, sated and content, her heavy head resting in Larra's lap, and ate her dragonfire-roasted salmon. As she ate, she talked to Shadow, the way she always had when they hunted – when they came here, to this thermal waterfall, where the water was fine and Larra had taught Shadow to swim… All the time she talked, she was aware of Rhaegal…watching. Watching and listening. Their great golden eyes, their cunning mind, Larra knew it instinctively that Rhaegal was listening. Larra sighed, her belly full of roasted salmon, and nudged Shadow's head out of her lap so she could go and wash her hands and face in the water. She turned to see Shadow sauntering up to Rhaegal…and the great dragon clicking and cooing to her as she sniffed them and settled down, curling up beside them. Sharing the dragon's warmth, Larra realised, watching in quiet awe as the rest of the pack approached, some cautiously, the pups pouncing on Rhaegal's long tail as they swished it idly.
Larra settled herself amongst them, beside Shadow, propped up against Rhaegal's neck, sheltered by their wing as the snows started to swirl more heavily around them. As sunset approached, the wolves rose and melted into the shadows of the Wolfswood once again, only the sound of their song echoing on the wind.
In the lingering dark, Larra fished several more salmon from the river. "I found Shadow, you know… Years ago, my father was called to execute a deserter from the Night's Watch. Men who guard the Wall; you've been there. You've seen them for yourself…you've seen what's beyond. We didn't know, then… We thought he was a madman. But he had deserted his station and the punishment for desertion is death. Father had to execute him… On our way back to Winterfell, my brothers and I rode ahead of the party and we came to the woods… We found a she-wolf dead in the snow, a stag's antlers buried in her throat and her pups mewling and whimpering for milk. They'd been born after she died… We found five pups – one for each of my siblings. Robb, Sansa, Arya – she'd adore you – Bran and Rickon…" She sighed, shaking her head. "Direwolves have always been special to Starks… We convinced Father to let us keep the pups, else they'd have died on their own with no mother to nurse them…but there were no pups for me or Jon. We were about to leave when I heard it – the tiniest, most pathetic howl you'll ever hear! But it was Shadow. The only one of the pups on her feet – black as night and fierce already, standing over her brother, an albino with red eyes who'd been rejected by the rest and taken himself off. Jon claimed Ghost; they were so alike! But Shadow butted her head against my ankle and nipped at the hem of my dress and pulled me toward her brother and I knew…she was mine, and I was hers… She's been my friend, my sister, ever since."
Rhaegal purred deeply.
"She has her own pack now, her own family," Larra sighed. "She's where she's meant to be, with her own kind – free. She comes and goes as she chooses but she always comes when I need her the most."
Realising Rhaegal was listening, Larra talked. Just talked, about everything and anything. Her siblings, the War of the Five Kings, her father, Rhaegar: "You were named for him; people called him the Last Dragon. He was a great man. He was never a dragonrider, though…in fact, he was born the night most of his family were killed; his grandfather was trying to hatch petrified dragon-eggs… That's what you were. Petrified. The centuries had turned you to stone." She gazed at Rhaegal in awe, smiling. "Now look at you…flame and flesh. I wonder if you realise just how precious you are. Everyone believed dragons were gone from the world forever…like the giants, and the Children…" She sighed, shaking her head, sorrow filling her. "The Giants are gone, I've seen their rotting corpses marching among the Night King's army… If there are any Children of the Forest left, they keep themselves safe in utter secrecy… But you…" She bit her lip. "No-one could keep you secret if they tried. You're too…rare and too powerful. Everyone who ever learns of you will either wish to dominate you or destroy you." She stroked a hand down their muzzle. "So how do I keep you safe? You could live centuries…you could witness the birth of great dynasties that shape the world." She grunted, stringing several salmon together. "We have to survive the winter first…and the more that I think on it, the less wise it seems to unleash you on the Night King's army. You're too precious to lose, and too dangerous to lose to the Others. If we lose you, we are all lost. You are power…but you can be hurt. What happened to Viserion proved that."
Rhaegal snapped their head toward her, golden eyes pinned to hers, their entire body rigid. A soft, dangerous growl rumbled persistently inside their enormous chest. Yes, you're listening, she thought. Larra stared back at the dragon, their cunning, ever-changing eyes – liquid gold, forged fire – fixed on her, radiating tension, and she could feel it. Her lips parted, reaching out a gentle hand to press it against Rhaegal's enormous muzzle, still stunned by the intense heat radiating from his tough, leathery hide.
"Ssshh," she coaxed, gently running her palm over Rhaegal's muzzle. The great dragon moaned softly, the noise guttural and almost piteous. She knew that sound. And through the bond, the bond that had sparked something fierce and glorious in her heart, consuming and life-giving, she felt Rhaegal's uncertainty, their pain and their sorrow. She could feel the ferocity of the dragon's emotions. Just that one word, Viserion – they knew the name. Knew what it meant – and felt strongly because of it. Why did my ancestors never write about the bond this way, she wondered. That she could understand Rhaegal's emotions as her own, that Rhaegal understood her – her speech, even her relationships with other creatures.
"Viserion is hurt. I know what wounded him," Larra said quietly, and Rhaegal purred deeply, staring at her. "I too have a brother who will never truly heal." Beneath her palm, Rhaegal's body seemed to shiver. Black claws scraped against the wet ground, and Rhaegal shook their tremendous wings, making that low, piteous growling noise again. She could taste it through their bond, Rhaegal's concern. The great dragon…was worried. Larra stroked Rhaegal's long nose, marvelling at the heat that had stopped even the worst of the cold from nipping at her fingertips as they flew.
Rhaegal dipped a wing and Larra climbed onto their back. They soared above the Wolfswood and glided across the snowy moors as the clouds drifted away, revealing an endless velvet sky sprinkled with vibrant stars, the moon just a shade less full than it had been during their first flight, but no less bright.
Seeing the flickers of firelight from Winter's Town, she remembered the pinpricks of light she had seen during their first flight.
Later, when she found Sansa in the solar, frowning at the polished box and Larra's abandoned paintings, Larra told her, "During my first flight with Rhaegal, I saw a great party in the snows, coming from the south-east."
"South-east? From White Harbour," Sansa said, and Larra nodded.
"If the weather holds, they'll arrive in two days' time."
"But the weather hasn't held," Sansa said, glancing at the dark diamond-paned windows now reflecting the light of the fire roaring in the hearth. The last few days they'd had atrocious weather; she didn't envy those stuck outside in it – remembered it all too well. Sansa glanced at the polished box. "What's that?"
"Voices from the past," Larra said softly, and Sansa frowned.
"You and Bran are far too alike, you know," she chided.
"How so?"
"You're…ominous. I rather think you enjoy it," Sansa accused delicately, and Larra smiled.
"You're the one who says not to give everything away," she reminded her sister, who smiled.
"True," she acquiesced graciously. Her sapphire eyes glinted. "Whose voice is it, Larra?"
Larra sighed, glancing at the box. "The Last Dragon's."
Sansa's eyes widened as they fell on the box, her lips parting. She sat up slowly, turning her gaze on Larra. "Where did they come from?"
"Samwell found them among the papers brought from Castle Black," Larra said. "Maester Aemon was…he was a Targaryen. Aegon the Unlikely's older brother, who took the black to secure his brother's throne."
"Why would Rhaegar have written to him?"
"For the same reason Jon went to him for advice," Larra smiled. Father and son…and Maester Aemon had to know, she thought. "He was a very wise man. And he was the only Targaryen left outside of Rhaegar's immediate family. All the others had died the night Rhaegar was born."
"At the Tragedy of Summerhall," murmured Sansa, who remembered her songs far better than her histories. Jenny's song was one of her favourites – tragic and beautiful: Duncan Targaryen had cast aside his crown for one of the smallfolk, the lovely and strange Jenny of Oldstones. Larra remembered painting Duncan and Jenny, entitling it A kingdom for her kiss. Sansa had taken the painting and propped it on her dressing-table, praying to the Mother for a prince as romantic and gallant as the Prince of Dragonflies. Sansa glanced at the polished box. "The box is locked."
"Samwell gave me the key," Larra said quietly.
"Are you going to read them?" Sansa asked.
"I'm not sure," Larra said, though in her mind she knew the answer already. Yes. Her bond with Rhaegal had done something – as she had told Sansa earlier, she had felt connected, felt a part of something in a way Lady Catelyn had always forbidden her in this castle, within her own family. Of course, the members of her father's family were all dead (but one) and in no position to deny her place amongst them… She acknowledged that…
And she was genuinely curious about the nature of Rhaegar and Lyanna's relationship. It was easy to think of things in extremes – either he was a rapist, or she was a thoughtless romantic – but life was never truly so simple, so black and white. The world Larra knew existed in ever-changing shades of grey. She wanted to know… She had seen Rhaegar entranced by the sight of Lyanna at Harrenhall, but that was it. What had he truly felt about her? Had he truly set Elia aside as they had discussed at Harrenhall, watching Lyanna Stark dancing with Robert Baratheon and Jaime Lannister? Had Rickard Stark been privy to Rhaegar's plans to impose a regency on his father's rule? Had the Warden of the North been arranging to call the banners for his liege while the Dornish armed themselves, all to support Rhaegar's claim?
They all knew that whatever plans had been rumbling unseen, they had been thwarted when Brandon Stark flew down to King's Landing in a rage, demanding Rhaegar's head.
She scrubbed a hand down her face. "Oh," she remembered. "Rhaegal's worried about Viserion."
"I heard you'd been out again," Sansa said, giving Larra a curious look. She frowned. "How can you know that?"
"Because Rhaegal is cunning and clever, and I felt it when I mentioned Viserion's name," Larra sighed. "They're worried. Viserion was struck by a weapon forged by the Others… Rhaegal has every reason to be worried…as do we. When the time comes, I don't care how hard the other lords argue for it, we cannot allow the dragons to join the fray."
"You'll be hard-pressed to convince them it's a bad idea," Sansa said. "Dragons are an inextinguishable source of fire, and we need fire to defeat the armies of the dead."
"They're not inextinguishable," Larra said grimly, shaking her head. "And if they die, they can be commanded by the Night King."
"It's moot anyway. How shall the Targaryen girl command three dragons? She can only ride one," Sansa said. She was remembering everything Arya used to jabber on about, how no dragon ever had more than one rider at a time. No one person could control more than one dragon. She glanced at Larra. "Will you keep Rhaegal away?"
"Absolutely. If I can," Larra said firmly. She dreaded what the Night King could do with a dragon at his disposal. She thought of Rhaegal, daintily roasting her salmon for her, allowing the direwolves to cuddle against them and share their warmth, burbling and cooing as Larra told the story of finding the direwolves, the sorrowful sound they made when Larra faltered, her voice growing thick and hoarse as she talked about Robb and about Rickon. She had felt tendrils of grief and sorrow whisper through the bond they shared, just as she felt the anxiety rippling from Rhaegal at the mention of their brother who had been injured by the Night King's weapon.
Shivering, she put the image of the Night King out of her mind as best she could, but she was still haunted by the glacial blue eyes and utterly emotionless face she had seen morph into something predatory and harrowing as he lowered his palms and the Children's flames were extinguished…the utter calm and purpose as he strolled idly to the entrance of the cave as they fled, leaving everything behind – Summer and Hodor and Lord Bloodraven and Leif and all the rest. Hold the door…
She shuddered and staggered against her door, panting for breath, forcing the memory from her mind, focusing instead on naming as many wildflowers as she could – a strategy Maester Atten had suggested for Narcisa when she became irate, instead of lashing out. She named a flower for every letter of the alphabet before she opened her eyes and lugged the large polished box to her working table. There was no sign of Gendry yet; she was due to join Sansa downstairs with the ladies, planning Narcisa's new wardrobe – repurposing the gowns which had belonged to her mother and sisters, with Narcisa's especial permission, and fashioning new ones from thicker Northern textiles.
The box niggled at her all night, and when she finally staggered into her chamber, eyes smarting from the ladies' perfume and head aching from the noise of their chatter and singing and musical instruments and the exuberance of Narcisa planning her first adult wardrobe, she fumbled with the tiny silver key, unlocking the box, and slowly lifted the lid. Stripping down, she climbed into bed and unfurled the oldest letter – dated 274 A.C. She frowned and checked the dates of her own Targaryen history – Rhaegar had been born in 259 A.C. He would have been fifteen years old, writing this letter – she folded it and dug through the contents of the box until she found it, the oldest letter, dated 272 A.C.
Prince Rhaegar, thirteen years old, had thanked his Uncle Maester and the valiant men of the Night's Watch for the engraved horn they had sent for his nameday gift along with a collection of myths and legends about the Night's Watch compiled by Maester Aemon himself. Rhaegar wrote that he had wept bitterly for brave Danny Flint and had not slept for a week thinking of the Seventy-Nine Sentinels – the story that still made the hair on the back of Larra's neck stand on end. The letter had been delivered with a large shipment of steel, men to wield it and gold to repair Castle Black and feed their men. Prince Rhaegar, his handwriting neat and his tone young and almost innocent, had asked Uncle Maester whether there had ever been any news as to the fate of their distant uncle Lord Bryndn Rivers. Larra felt a pang in her chest and winced, folding the letter, and tucked it neatly aside, reaching for another.
She sighed and settled in, organising the letters by date before reading them. Rhaegar's life…was not a happy one, not an easy one. He had been young but had learned to see the world as it was from an early age, the same way Larra and her siblings had had the worst realities of their world thrust so brutally upon them at a young age. Rhaegar had written to Maester Aemon about his father's unpredictable behaviour and growing cruelty, his unbridled joy at the birth of two of Rhaegar's younger brothers – Aemon and Jaehaerys – and Rhaegar's growing fear and dread as his father's behaviour worsened, becoming cruel and vicious and controlling, torturing entire families to death after blaming them for Jaehaerys' death. He wrote of sitting with his mother, unable to stop her weeping.
The only joy in Rhaegar's life, besides his books, was his mother – and the Sword of the Morning. His best friend, whom he called his brother in his letters. Everyone knew of the bond between Rhaegar and Arthur – but to read how Rhaegar spoke of Arthur… It was heart-breaking. As devastating as how deeply Rhaegar loved his mother and desired nothing more than to see her happy, as tragic as how much he loved his father in spite of his growing cruelty, and his powerlessness to do anything to help either of his parents.
Rhaegar's letters became more numerous, more detailed as he approached sixteen, then seventeen; Larra wondered what advice Maester Aemon had sent to his great-nephew.
Larra knew what was coming, as Rhaegar reached his eighteenth name-day. The Defiance of Duskendale had occurred that year.
Gendry slumped into the chamber, groaning heavily as he sank onto the bed and tugged off his boots. Larra, eyes bleary from reading too long in the dim light, gathered up the letters, folded them neatly and locked them back inside the box. She wasn't ready to share them, not yet. Not until…Jon has to know first, she reminded herself, aching to share with Gendry the truth of it.
If Jon needed Samwell to help him make sense of things, Larra knew there was one person she trusted and respected above any others. That man was so exhausted, she realised, that he had fallen asleep in the act of unbuttoning his breeches. She smiled and reached over to help him; Gendry startled and blinked blearily up at her.
"You're exhausted," she said, and he grunted softly, sighing heavily. He just managed to pull his breeches and tunic off, tucking her against his body, before his gentle snores filled the chamber. Larra smiled against his chest. Sometimes she didn't need to talk; Gendry's mere presence was enough.
But she drifted off into an uneasy sleep, her heart aching and her mind in turmoil, overthinking everything Rhaegar had detailed in his letters, of life at court under his father's increasingly more volatile and violent rule, his mother's depression, the dead baby brothers he couldn't stop weeping over, his loneliness and isolation and desperate desire to help, having no idea how and no power to do so.
His life had not been happy, and as Larra finally drifted off, she imagined that Lyanna, a she-wolf with fierce brothers she loved dearly, must have appealed to the part of Rhaegar that still remembered the devastating loneliness of his childhood and the grief of losing his brothers before they even outgrew their cradles. A passionate she-wolf with rambunctious brothers, all of them fierce and healthy and strong, close-knit and fiercely loving… Lyanna had enjoyed the childhood Rhaegar had always yearned for.
Larra's had been somewhere in between.
She thought of Jon, who more than her had felt the sting of their bastard status and let it define his relationships with their brothers and sisters. More sensitive, more reclusive, more prone to taking himself off – not like Larra, who had always refused to be pushed out, who guarded her bonds with her siblings fiercely.
As much as they could be, raised by another, after all they had experienced in their lives to alter them, Jon was like Rhaegar, while Larra was like Lyanna.
She knew one thing for certain, and the thought gentled her agitated mind, allowing her to drift off: Rhaegar and Lyanna would both have been proud of how Ned Stark had raised their children, embraced and beloved by their siblings and fiercely loyal to them in turn.
She tucked herself against Gendry and fell into a deep sleep.
A.N.: Are you ready?