A.N.: Thank you so much for all of your reviews – I'm not getting notifications, but I know you're still leaving them!
Valyrian Steel
45
Truth
Larra grimaced and cuddled up under the covers, burrowing closer to Gendry, his scent enveloping her, his warmth searing away the chill teasing the tips of her ears. His heart beat steadily against her ear and she sighed, drifting deeper into sleep, exhaustion plaguing her, all the while pale silvery light beckoned its long, sinuous fingers toward her, summoning her to wakefulness. The weight of Gendry's muscled arm pinned her in place and she had no strength in her to move it: she smiled, tucked herself against Gendry and sighed, drifting back to sleep.
The dull echo of a knock on the door made her crinkle her nose, flinching away from the noise, from the disturbance. Growing more and more aware of the light, of the birdsong in the godswood, of the voices in the corridor beyond, she fought to ignore it. Her body felt heavy, her eyes stinging with exhaustion. She had not slept for as long nor so well in years yet she seemed perpetually exhausted recently. Gendry told her she expected too much of herself: she should share the burden.
With whom?
Sansa had enough responsibilities of her own, even after they had shared them out equally.
Sansa… Jon! Her eyes burst open, her heart suddenly thundering in her chest. Jon!
While exhaustion still held its iron grip on her, she had almost forgotten. Jon has returned! And with him, Arya!
Bran hadn't said a word about Arya's decision to abandon her vengeance in King's Landing and return home: nor had he warned them about Jon's nearness. He had left it…a wonderful surprise. Reluctantly, Larra rolled away from Gendry. They had made arrangements to share a private family breakfast in the solar this morning. A family breakfast! They hadn't dined together since their nursery days – since before Bran's fall. Since before the King's visit, even. Jon and Larra had been effectively banished from the nursery to make way for Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella – they couldn't have bastards in their midst!
We have not dined together since before King Robert's visit, Larra thought, strangely awed by the thought.
Tired though she was, her back aching as she rolled to the edge of the bed and sat up, she pushed through the dizziness that rushed to her head, sitting so quickly after lying prone for so long without moving. She felt she hadn't moved as she slept in the stiffness of her limbs as she washed and dressed warmly. She watched Gendry sleeping – his curls tumbled about his head, and despite his wonderful, neatly trimmed beard he always looked so much younger when he slept. Perhaps they all did. She reached out, gently tucking a lock of hair away from his face, and leaned over him to kiss his brow. She tucked the covers higher – he could never be too warm, the opposite to Larra who couldn't abide feeling sweltered – and closed the door gently behind her, leaving him to sleep on.
In the solar, the maids had brought provisions for their private breakfast. Larra thanked the scullery maid preparing the fire in the hearth and sent her to the rest of her chores: Larra tended to the fire, building it up, and prepared the breakfast. She had to perch on the edge of the hearth, dizzy due to the intense, unfamiliar heat of the fire, and exhaled slowly as a wave of nausea churned from the pit of her belly, almost tasting it in her mouth as she cooked the bacon and sausages. It was too much rich food – everything was on ration but they had allowed themselves this small indulgence as a celebration: scrambled eggs, mushrooms, baked beans, bacon, sausages and black pudding with fried bread, cooked over the hearth in a heavy skillet the way Old Nan used to prepare their favourite breakfast before they had a long day out of doors.
She was resting her forehead against the cold stone mantelpiece for the calming chill it spread through her body when the door to the solar opened.
"Good morning," said Arya calmly. She was so softly-spoken now. Slim and shrewd and dangerous. Larra peeked her eyes open, shivering despite the heat of the fire, and gave her a soft smile. Distracting herself from the dizziness and nausea, Larra assessed Arya through her eyelashes.
"You didn't sleep," she said softly. Arya poured herself a large mug of stout, taking a healthy swig before sitting down on the settle before the hearth. She turned to examine the engravings.
"It's the mattress."
"It's too soft," Larra said quietly, and Arya nodded.
"It feels like I'm…"
"About to fall through clouds?" Larra smiled, and Arya nodded again, her eyes lighting up. "You and I, we will never be able to sleep in feather beds again: we're too used to the hard earth. Ask the carpenters to fix slats to your bed, beneath the feather mattress. It'll help. You'll be able to rest, at least. Trick your mind into believing you're still out there."
Arya sighed softly. "I had forgotten that I slept in a four-poster bed with a feather mattress," she said quietly, blinking her eerie grey eyes. "But I can remember every single flower I saw as we walked through the Riverlands. Isn't that odd?"
"We remember what we need," Larra said thoughtfully, sitting up straighter to watch Arya. Someone had already, thoughtfully, provided her with new clothing, neatly tailored to her slender figure: a long tunic that reached toward her knees, worn beneath a quilted jerkin, with suede breeches, fine leather boots and a thick woollen cowl that also functioned as a hood if she stepped out of doors. The only display of her allegiance was her sword – the sword Jon had had forged especially for her, and the sword-belt adorned with tiny obsidian direwolf heads. Otherwise she wore no ornaments, no declaration of her House. She didn't need anything else, Larra realised: the one thing that had always grounded Arya, always reminded her who she was in spite of all she had endured, was that sword. Jon's sword.
"What did I need to remember flowers for?" Arya asked sceptically, but her eyes turned wistful, almost mournful, as she gazed at Larra. "They reminded me of you… I used to talk about you to Hot Pie…and Gendry." Her eyes seemed to shimmer like an ice-lake darkened by storm-clouds. "Violets for your eyes…wood anemones for our rides in the wolfswood. Primroses for the posies you used to have me gather for Sansa when you caught me sheep-shifting her bed."
"There were ever so many posies," Larra said, and Arya smiled, her eyes twinkling mischievously. She looked more like the Arya of Larra's memory – passionate, boisterous and kind, mischievous and playful.
"I was starving but I kept picking flowers as if I would walk all the way to Winterfell and give them to you," Arya said softly. Her eyes suddenly glowed, her face alight with a smile. "The memory of you smacking Joffrey kept me warm."
Larra smiled wearily. "I'm glad."
"Not much kept you warm," Arya said softly. "Sansa said you went beyond the veil of light at the end of the world, into the Land of Always Winter."
"Yes."
A moment's pause, then Arya asked, her voice as soft and wondrous as it always had been when she was a girl, asking Larra to continue the story, "Were the lights as beautiful as Old Nan said?"
"More. On a fine night, you can see them from Winterfell."
"Can you?" Arya's eyes glinted with interest.
"Now that winter has come," Larra nodded. "When you see them, you realise why the Umbers have so many stories about them. Warrior-queens summoning great warriors to their halls to feast and fight and fuck gloriously until the battle that ends all battles."
"They sound like She-Wolves of Winterfell," Arya murmured, her eyes glowing with pride as she gazed at Larra. "Jon's worried the entire journey north about siege preparations. He had no doubt Sansa could manage Winterfell but she has no knowledge of war."
"She's a quick study," Larra said gently. "So are you." She shook her head and gazed at the hilt of Arya's little sword. "I can't believe after all that, you still have it."
"This is who I am," Arya said softly, her eyes more mercurial and emotional than Larra had yet seen as she gazed at the hilt of Needle.
"When he had Mikken forge it for you, Jon had no idea how important that little sword would become," Larra said honestly. She had been there that day at the forge when Jon requested Mikken forge a Braavosi-style sword fit for a slim young girl to wield.
"I thank God every day for Jon's foresight," Arya said, and Larra raised an eyebrow in surprise.
"God?"
"There is only one God," Arya said softly, and Larra watched her.
"And who is that?"
"Death," Arya said simply. "Do you know what you say to the God of Death?"
"Not today," said a gentle voice. The door to the solar opened and Bran wheeled himself into the chamber. Footsteps echoed in the corridor and a guard appeared, panting.
"Apologies, m'lady – Lord Brandon insisted – "
"It's quite alright," Larra said gently, watching Bran wheel himself toward the hearth. The flagstones were so worn in the Starks' private chambers that he could glide with ease over them in his wheeled chair. The busier chambers were more awkward, cumbersome, to manoeuvre with the chair, especially when it came to stairs. "Go and break your fast. Bran shall be fine with us for a few hours, although 'tis fine so he should go out and ride."
"Should I?"
"Yes, you should. You used to take such joy from riding after your fall," Larra said. "It will do you good to practise – and the maesters say it will strengthen your spine. Soon we shall have bars and all sorts built into the walls for you to pull yourself up and move about."
"You can ride?" Arya asked curiously, and Bran nodded.
"Lord Tyrion fashioned a saddle for him," Larra said. "On his return from the Wall, he stopped at Winterfell and gave it to Bran."
"Why would he do that?"
"He has a soft spot in his heart for cripples, bastards and broken things," Bran said, his eyes glinting delightedly, and Larra smiled, thinking of the little man who cast a tremendous shadow.
"And thank the gods he does," Larra said softly. "You, Jon, Sansa…even the smallest of his kindnesses had lasting impacts on you."
"Who's that?" Sansa asked, gliding into the solar, her hair rippling behind her like a waterfall of flame. She wore one of her warm day gowns, the fabric dark charcoal grey and patterned subtly with large leaves, two direwolves meeting at her throat and clasping her feathered collar about her neck. Since Littlefinger's execution she had dressed less rigidly – with fewer layers – and Larra had noticed her starting to relax. Today she looked the most content Larra had seen her and Larra knew that was owed to Jon's return.
"Lord Tyrion," Larra said, as Sansa gave her a kiss in greeting. "We were discussing his kindnesses."
"We are perhaps some of the few in the realm to know any of them," Sansa said.
"Or at least acknowledge them," Larra added, and Sansa nodded.
"I think I only ever heard one person praise Lord Tyrion for his defence of King's Landing during the Battle of the Blackwater," Sansa sighed, shaking her head.
"Who was that?" Larra asked curiously.
"Garlan the Gallant," Sansa said, a gentle smile on her lips.
"You mentioned him before," Larra said thoughtfully. "He spoke to you on your wedding-day."
"I imagine many did," Arya said.
"No; just he," said Sansa with a delicate sigh. "The rest hid their blushes after their failed attempt to marry me off to Willas Tyrell. But Ser Garlan and his wife Leonette… Ser Garlan saw Tyrion's worth and Lady Leonette saw my dread… They were kind people."
"The kind ones have all been killed off," Larra said, sighing heavily. "Now we're left with lesser men."
"There are still men of quality," Bran said gently, and Larra pulled a face. She busied herself at the hearth, turning the sausages and cracking eggs into a dish before beating them and adding them to a spot in the skillet, diligently moving them about so they would not stick and burn.
Belching softly, Arya wiped her mouth with her sleeve and smiled, setting down her now-empty cup. Sansa stared at her, eyebrows raised, a smile teasing her lips. As children, the septas had been hard-pressed to turn Arya into a lady: now, Sansa couldn't bring herself to bother. Arya was Arya: rough and rambunctious, just, passionate and…and wonderful. Sansa would not trade Arya for anyone.
"Would you care for another?" Sansa asked, her tone more amused than tart.
"Food first or I'll slide under the table," Arya said, smiling. Her voice was soft, now, less rambunctious than they remembered. Everything about her seemed softer: but in her stillness she had become infinitely more dangerous.
"Somehow I find that hard to believe," Sansa said, refilling Arya's cup from the jug on the table. The door to the solar opened and Jon tripped inside, rubbing his eyes blearily in the pale light streaming through the diamond-paned windows. He looked absolutely exhausted. When he glanced up, he stopped short. He blinked owlishly, and Larra laughed softly to herself.
"You forgot," Larra smiled. "Or perhaps you believed it a dream."
Jon's smile came slowly, shining from his eyes, and he kissed Sansa's head where she sat, then Arya's, before leaning in to kiss Larra's cheek as she stood, serving them all breakfast from a heavy skillet.
"I didn't dare believe it," he said honestly, sinking into a chair beside Bran, who was watching her ration out the black pudding with a hungry glint in his eyes.
"Sansa, put those away," Larra chided gently, catching the slightest movement from Sansa as she fiddled with something in her lap.
"I am sorry," she apologised with a sigh, cupping handfuls of raven-scrolls and setting them aside. "The ravens are relentless." Larra scoffed delicately, glancing at Bran.
"Anything of interest to report?" Larra asked, setting the heavy skillet on the hearth-stone, away from the heat so that a maid could return it to the kitchens. There was only one way to eat a rich Northern breakfast: blistering hot. She glanced at Sansa. "Anything from the Neck?"
"No; nothing," Sansa said apologetically, and Larra sighed softly, shaking her head. She had been expecting – hoping for – news from Meera. It never came. She wondered if Brandon would tell her if some tragic fate had befallen their friend. He was getting better, she acknowledged: the boy who had greeted Arya and Jon was the closest she had seen him to the Bran of her memory in years. "But there was a note from Sunspear. Lady Nym and Obara will like to hear it; possibly Darkstar too. He was ever so attractive, wasn't he!"
"Darkstar? Yes," Larra nodded. "If you like beautiful men."
"Gendry's handsome."
"Handsome. Fiercely handsome. Darkstar is beautiful," Larra said, smiling, as Arya turned wide eyes on Larra.
"It was Gendry I saw in the yard yesterday!" Arya breathed, and Larra nodded, smiling.
"You'll see a lot more of him," Sansa said delicately. "Though not nearly as much as Larra does."
Jon choked on his stout, hiding a sudden smirk. Arya raised her clear grey eyes to Larra's face and a smirk lingered in the corners of her mouth. Sansa gave Larra a look over the rim of her steaming teacup. Larra rolled her eyes.
"Gendry?" Arya asked quietly, her head tilted thoughtfully as she watched Larra, who glanced at her sister and nodded slowly.
"Yes. Gendry," she confirmed.
After a moment, Jon said quietly, "He's a good man."
Larra nodded her agreement. "He is."
"Father would have respected him," Arya said in her soft voice. It was the first time she had mentioned Father – the first time any of them had mentioned Father since their reunion. Sansa's eyelashes fluttered and Jon grew still. Larra's heart thudded painfully in her chest and Bran sighed softly, a wistful noise. Larra glanced at him and he gave her a sad, helpless smile. She remembered what the Bloodraven had once told Bran, 'I have my own ghosts, Bran. A brother that I loved, a brother that I hated, a woman I desired. Through the trees, I see them still, but no word of mine has ever reached them.' Bran would always be able to visit Father in his visions but Father would always be just out of reach. None of them would ever interact with Father again, hear his voice or feel his love enveloping them as he guided them.
"Gendry is the best thing King Robert ever did," Sansa said quietly. Larra was surprised to hear her say that: Sansa had very little to do with Gendry herself, though she knew how much time Larra spent with him, how closely they were bonded. Sansa glanced around at them, her eyes resting on Jon finally. "And we are the very best of Father." Her eyes shimmered and her voice was soft and hoarse as she continued, "He would be proud of us." Arya's eyes lingered on the table for a moment, uncertainty in her grey eyes, but she hitched a smile on her face, her eyes glinting, as Sansa raised her teacup in a toast to them. To their strength and their survival.
"Father will be glad we are together once again," Larra said sombrely, giving her brother and sisters a half-hearted smile. Half-hearted because she knew why it would have touched Ned Stark so deeply that they had found their way back to each other through war and worse. The gods had never smiled upon him the way they had his children.
Arya murmured, "In winter, we must protect one another, keep each other warm, share our strengths. If you must hate, hate those who would truly do us harm… It was one of the last things I remember Father telling me."
"I miss him," Sansa whispered, her lip quivering, and without even seeming to realise it, Jon reached over and cupped his hand over hers, his thumb gently stroking her fingers. She seemed strengthened by his touch, her back straightening, and she gave him a tender smile.
"What was the news from Sunspear?" Jon prompted gently.
"Oh. Princess Myrcella has delivered her baby," Sansa said, and Larra smiled; she had always liked Princess Myrcella, a gentle girl who had adored collecting wildflowers and learning Northern folk-dances, who had never looked down her nose at Larra for being a bastard. Larra didn't think there was a nasty bone in her body. "Prince Nymerios Martell. They are both in good health, apparently: she was seen reclining on a balcony to enjoy the sun with the babe at her breast. I wonder how hot the sun is in Dorne during winter."
"Has there been any news from the Reach?" Jon asked, frowning slightly as he tucked into his bacon.
"There was something about the Arbour," Larra remembered. "Tyrell ships were spotted sailing from there to Oldtown."
"Lady Olenna and Lady Alynore Tyrell sailed south from King's Landing," Jon said.
"Lady Alynore?" Sansa frowned.
"She's a younger cousin," Jon said softly. "Too young to attend court; she escaped the bombing of the Sept of Baelor."
"How do you know that?" Sansa asked, and Larra gave him a shrewd look.
"She was at Dragonstone," Jon explained. "She accompanied her grandmother to Daenerys' court. When the Uprooting of Highgarden occurred, she became the heir to the Reach." Bran made a thoughtful noise.
"Perhaps not," he said softly, and Larra gave him a careful look. They hadn't yet told Jon and Arya about what Brandon was – they had spent the day talking about Arya's adventures, the horrors Sansa had endured at court, Jon's journey from steward to King, but so far Larra had avoided talking about venturing beyond the Wall. She knew Jon would believe her, and after learning of Arya's training, well…Sansa would likely remain the most sceptical of them all, yet even she had accepted Brandon wholly for his unique new gifts.
"Brandon, do you care to share something?" Larra asked, rolling her eyes. His lips twitched.
"After I've had my black pudding," he said, smiling warmly. His eyes glowed the way they used to when he was a boy, excited for something as simple as bacon for breakfast or a ride on his pony. They tucked into their breakfasts, the only sound the fire crackling in the hearth and the delicate scrape of cutlery on plates. Larra eyed her plate, grimacing at the excess: moments later, she sat and stared at the now-empty plate, her stomach full, the taste of eggs and black pudding on her lips, warmth spreading through her, the heat of the fire coaxing her to curl up under blankets and doze.
They finished their breakfasts, not a morsel left between them, and sat in a strange sort of quiet as they glanced across the round table at each other. They didn't say a word: they didn't know what to say. It was the first time they had sat together since before King Robert's visit. After all they had each survived, and done so alone, where could they begin?
"This is awkward," noted Arya delicately.
Jon grinned.
They started to laugh.
Their laughter echoed around the solar. The guards standing beyond the thick Northern oak door heard it and smiled as the sound drifted down the corridor, strange and unfamiliar yet natural in this place, in their home.
The Starks had returned.
None of them were the children they had once been. They had each endured their own separate journeys, yet all of their paths had led them back to Winterfell. They were stronger, fiercer, wilier.
"We've changed," Sansa said softly.
Larra disagreed, shaking her head. "People don't change: they reveal who they've always been." Jon glanced at her sharply and Arya sighed softly to herself, her grey eyes shimmering as she worried her lip.
Sansa stared at Larra. She gave Jon a covert look out of the corner of her eye. Arya frowned as she watched the intense look passing between Sansa and Larra. Something concerning Jon.
"Arya…perhaps you would take a ride on the moors with me?" Bran asked gently, and Arya glanced at her brother. His face – a young man's face – shone with excitement and Arya smiled.
"And I must greet our guests," Sansa said.
"I should probably join you," Jon gritted, looking glum.
"No," Sansa smiled gently. "You travelled with them. You're exhausted: I can see it in your shoulders. Rest. Why don't you take a turn about the godswood while the weather is fine? Few will dare disturb you there."
"You want me out of the castle," Jon accused playfully, and Sansa smiled, her eyes sparkling.
"I wish you and Larra to have some time to yourselves," she said honestly, though Arya noticed Larra's harsh gaze on Sansa's face. She was unhappy about something but could not imagine what. "And the fine weather will not last long. Go and enjoy it."
"And what about you?" Jon asked. He frowned suddenly. "What do you mean, you'll greet our guests."
"We imagined Lady Targaryen would be exhausted from her journey and so sent guards to escort her to her chambers when she arrived," Sansa said, her tone almost airy. Jon went still.
His tone almost tart, disbelieving, Jon said, "And her Unsullied and her bloodriders just let Stark guards lead her away?"
"They were in no position to do anything," Larra said, smirking. Her eyes were alight with a furious sort of satisfaction as she said, "The Unsullied surrendered their weapons to the forges for refashioning with obsidian and the Dothraki allowed their horses to be stabled within the walls of Winterfell to ensure they outlive the snows. All are now garrisoned in Winter's Town."
"No Unsullied nor Dothraki bloodrider shall set foot within our walls until we are ready to face the Night King's hordes," Sansa said delicately. "The Lannister girls' sworn arakhs excluded." Jon stared at them, his grey eyes alive with emotion.
"You did what?"
"We separated Daenerys from her armies," Larra said plainly, "and gave her rooms the opposite end of Winterfell."
Jon stared grimly. "Why?"
"Because we do not trust her," Sansa said delicately. She glanced from Larra to Arya. "You travelled with her, Arya. What is your opinion?"
"Does it matter to you?"
"You saw Joffrey for what he was the instant you met him," Sansa said, sitting up a little straighter, her chin raised with pride – in Arya's intuition. "I would know what you think of Daenerys Targaryen."
Arya's eyes glowed, watching Jon carefully before she answered, softly, "I know a killer when I see one."
Sansa nodded. She glanced at Larra, then at Bran, then turned to Jon. "We know this Targaryen girl fancies herself Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. As long as she tries to bully you into ceding the Northern crown, refusing to acknowledge Northern independence, she is our enemy." Something flickered across Jon's face, and it was so close to dread that Larra's rage was kindled anew, remembering why Jon was so reluctant to displease Daenerys Targaryen. Gently, her voice still containing a bite, she assured him, "We shall treat her with the same respect we have every other bannermen or ally who has committed men to the war but she is a necessary ally."
Sansa added coldly, "She is certainly not our friend."
"She must learn she cannot treat people the way she does without consequence," Larra said darkly. Arya's eyes glowed and Bran smirked softly to himself. Jon, however, looked uncertain. Larra gentled at the worry in his grey eyes and smiled. "Come, let's walk. If I don't get outside, I'll fall asleep."
They wandered out of the castle, avoiding the busiest passages in a way only a Stark knew how. The godswood was bathed in bright sunlight, the snow glittering fiercely, and the weirbirds chirped and sang high in the boughs of the trees laden with snow. Here and there, great mounds of it had been dumped by overloaded branches, and Larra's keen eyes spotted the tracks of Northern shrews, stoats and snowshoe hares. Clumps of stubborn hellebores nodded idly as they passed, as if in greeting. Without a word, they made their way to the great weirwood. Larra watched her brother, who remained thoughtful and withdrawn, until they reached the steaming pond. He stopped and stared at the weirwood, and Larra watched his face. Something was bubbling up, something that made his eyes widen and his lips go pale and he shuddered, his broad shoulders rising and falling as he fought to catch his breath.
"Jon…are you alright?" she asked delicately.
He turned wide grey eyes on her, his cheeks wan. Shocked, he blurted, "I was murdered."
Larra gazed back at him solemnly. Edd had told her. She watched Jon raise a hand to his chest, where he kneaded the heel of his palm against his heart, which had to be thundering in his ears. He looked dazed, startled as if from a great blow to the head.
"Yes," she said calmly. "Now you're here. And so am I. And so is Bran. And so is Arya." She strode to him and gently touched his arm. He stilled, his eyes almost beseeching as they searched her face. "And Sansa's alive – because of you."
Panting, Jon grimaced, "I feel…different."
"How could you not?" Larra said gently, sombrely. She gazed up at her brother, taking in the scars over his eyes, how much the worries and cares he now carried seemed to have aged him. Perhaps it was the neatly trimmed beard he now wore, thicker than he the whiskers he had managed to grow before he left for the Wall. She reached up and cupped his cheek. "They killed you for your goodness. That goodness hasn't changed."
"How could you know that?" Jon asked glumly.
"Because you'll endure anything to uphold the oaths you've made…" she said, and he sighed, wandering off. She raised her voice and added, "Even rape."
That made him go still. His shoulders tightened. She sighed as he turned slowly toward her.
He glanced at her and seemed to buckle. "Gendry told you."
"He might never've…after they returned from the Wall, I saw his face when Karsi said you were unharmed," she explained gently. "I knew something was wrong. And he worried about you."
"He's a good man to have at your back," Jon mumbled, his shoulders drooping.
"You know, he was sold to the Watch," she said, walking over to him. "If things had been different, he would have been your brother at Castle Black. Perhaps I would have seen him fighting beside you beyond the Wall."
"Sam told me he'd shown you the way through the Wall but I didn't dare believe him," Jon said, glancing at her, his grey eyes searching her face. "The thought of you out there… You saw me?"
"Twice. We hid in a windmill… I saw you earn those scars, cutting down a warg," Larra said, and Jon's lips parted, his eyes widening. She gave him a sad look. "The second time, there was an eerie keep full of wailing women. Dead crows in the snow."
Jon stifled a shiver and Larra nodded in sympathy. She hated thinking of that keep, of those women. "Craster's Keep," he muttered, sighing. His eyes widened and he raised his face to stare at her, blinking quickly. "Shadow. It was Shadow I saw in the woods. Shadow with Ghost."
"Aye," Larra nodded, for she had seen Ghost that night, too.
"You were there. You were there," he repeated, his voice brittle, breaking. He stared at her, bewildered. "You didn't… You didn't find me."
"I walked away…I took Bran north beyond the end of the world. It nearly killed me to," she said hoarsely, her eyes burning. She reached up and vigorously rumpled his cropped curls. "I'm glad you cut your hair. You can finally see what you're fucking fighting!"
Jon burst out laughing, his grin gleaming in the sunlight. He looked suddenly much younger. "You always could make me laugh."
Larra's lips quivered, her eyes still burning. She went on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek, giving a tight embrace. Her voice was hoarse when she said, "Missed you, little brother."
"Missed you, too," Jon said gruffly, squeezing her. He did not release her for a long while, hugging her to him, his hand stroking her long braid. She sniffled and smiled, resting her cheek against his shoulder. When he finally released her, he looked startled.
"What is it?" she asked, smiling gently.
Awed, Jon gusted, "We're alive."
Larra smiled. "Wonderful, isn't it?"
"I've never been glad the Red Woman brought me back, 'til now," Jon admitted, blinking dazedly at her.
"It's not surprising," Larra said gently. She sighed heavily and cupped his cheek again. "You've suffered through more than most."
"Larra…you went north…to the True North," Jon said, and Larra nodded.
"Beyond the veil of light and beyond the edge of the world. Sounds poetic but there wasn't much there. Ice and snow and stars…and the great weirwood," Larra said, and Jon's face twitched with amusement. "Makes this one look like a sapling."
Quietly, almost hesitantly, Jon said, "You've seen them."
Larra corrected sternly, "I've killed them."
"And the Night King?" he asked. "Did… You can't have seen – "
"He came for Bran," Larra said simply, a bite in her voice that told Jon all he needed to know: she would not talk about it. "I left Summer and Hodor behind."
Jon stared at her, his face filled with sorrow. "I'm sorry."
She whispered a hoarse, "Me too."
"I'm sorry I couldn't save Rickon."
Larra gulped, wiping her face. "Neither of us ever could," she said stubbornly. "He was too wild. I couldn't take him with us because of it."
"The wolf-blood," Jon said, and Larra nodded.
"Stronger in him than any of us," she said sadly.
"Young and wilful and –"
"And dead before his time," Larra finished for him. She sighed heavily. "We can blame ourselves all we like, but it won't change anything. And I wouldn't change anything. Knowing what's to come…I wouldn't change it. Would you?"
Jon's eyes glittered with anger. "One thing."
"D'you remember why wolves hunt in packs?" Larra asked, clambering to the roots of the weirwood and finding a comfortable spot amongst the knots to sit.
"They protect each other," Jon said quietly, finding a spot close by.
"And?"
"And they can bring down larger and more dangerous prey than they could ever kill alone," Jon said, and Larra nodded.
Grimly, she told him, "The first thing they do is isolate it."
He gazed back at her and said sombrely, "Be careful."
"She hurt you. I took Bran beyond the edge of the world because he asked me. I protected him from the unimaginable. Bran," Larra exclaimed. She frowned at Jon. "What d'you think I wouldn't do for you? You're afraid of her."
"Not her: her dragons," Jon admitted. "I'm afraid she'll burn Winterfell to the ground because I won't fuck her."
"She'll burn Winterfell no matter what you do…" Larra told him, shaking her head. There was only Daenerys Targaryen to hold accountable for her choices. They sat in silence, listening to the weirbirds singing, enjoying the sun on their faces. After a while, Larra said, "Tell me about Alynore Tyrell."
Jon sighed. "For fuck's sake. I ask one question about the Reach," he said indignantly. "How d'you do that?"
"She's the one with the pretty eyes and exquisite breasts," she said, and Jon gave her a strange look – she shouldn't know what Alynore Tyrell looked like, after all. "Not your usual type."
"I have a type?" Jon asked, raising his eyebrows.
"Kissed by fire and feisty."
"She doesn't have fangs, it's true," Jon conceded.
"But she may grow thorns. She's young enough yet that the Queen of Thorns may shape her," Larra shrugged, wondering. "Why did you ask about her?"
"She's alone: I just want to know she's not…" He shrugged in an attempt at nonchalance that she saw through instantly. "I want to know she's safe."
"You love her," she smiled.
"I'll always care for her," Jon said sadly.
"She's that important to you?"
"Aye."
"Tell me about her," she said gently, curious about this girl whom her brother loved.
"It was…easy," Jon sighed, looking more relaxed just thinking of her. "Natural as if we were always meant to find each other and care for each other, to be companions."
"But not lovers," Larra clarified.
"I love Alynore but I am not in love with her," Jon said. "Are you going to tell me about Gendry now?"
"What can I tell you that you don't already know, except what goes on in our bedchamber?"
Jon stifled a shiver. He smiled and said thoughtfully, "He's brave and gentle and strong. That, I know already. He broke the ice to stop the hordes and pulled me out of it when I fell… He rode a dragon without fear. After she – He knew what had happened just by looking at me. Said I wasn't the one who should feel shame."
"But you still do."
"Not shame. Rage. I've been put in positions where I've no choice before…Qhorin Halfhand, Ygritte, Hardhome… Everything that happened, I'd do it all over again. I know what's coming… But her…" He trailed off and for a long while they sat listening to the weirbirds and watched the spires of steam drifting off the pond. His voice simmered with pent-up rage when he finally said, "I'm so angry I could throttle her… There are too many people I must protect and she would see them butchered by the Night King without batting an eyelash if she doesn't get what she wants."
"Jon…you're home now, with us," she reminded him gently. "What did Father used to say? When the snows fall and the white winds blow…"
"The lone wolf dies but the pack survives."
"You're still troubled," she winced, watching her brother's face, his distracted grey eyes. "What's going on in there?"
"There are things I've done –"
"You're too hard on yourself. So you've fucked a few women! What of it?" Larra said, and Jon gave her a smile. "We've had very little joy the last few years… We're lucky we have such a deep well to draw from. Where we can, we've snatched life back for ourselves. And both with wildlings!"
"And Gendry."
"Gendry's different. Gendry's my partner," Larra admitted. "If I know nothing else in the world, I know that as truth. It's not that he completes me; he compliments me, and I him – I think."
"He's a good man."
"You are both good men. Good," she said, clicking her tongue. "You remember what Maester Luwin used to say about nice and good."
Jon made a soft noise, smiling grimly. "Goodness does what is right for the sake of it. Niceness will always expect its due."
"Who does that remind you of? Jon… You are a good man. You fight – you have always fought and acted in the interests of those who cannot defend themselves, regardless of the personal cost – sometimes in blatant disregard to the personal cost… The goal is always the same – you're blindfolded in the dark but you still know the way. You're a man of great integrity and goodness. Father would be proud."
Jon gazed unseeingly at the pond. "Not about Alynore."
"Forget Father: he had his secrets," Larra said grimly. "Can you live with it?"
After a long moment, Jon sighed and nodded. "Yes."
"Then stop punishing yourself for it," Larra beseeched him. "Jon…"
She trailed off as they heard the soft crunching of footsteps in snow. A moment later, spears glinted in the sunlight. Beetle-like armour glimmered in the sunlight. Two Unsullied soldiers flanked a short woman in an ermine surcoat striding through the snow. Larra's predatory stillness made the hair on the back of Jon's neck stand on end. In a swift and pointed movement Larra unsheathed the fine hand-and-a-half sword at her belt, resting the tip in the snow at her feet, turning to Jon as if to ask him something.
The threat was unmissable.
Daenerys Targaryen, in her ermine surcoat and complicated braids, suddenly stopped. She eyed the bared blade and the fierce woman who wielded it.
The King and his twin-sister sat nestled in the roots of a bone-white tree.
She felt, suddenly, as if this place was sacred. That it was deathly dangerous to disturb the tranquillity of the ancient frozen wood…and more dangerous still to impose herself upon the King and his sister, who sat, amethyst-eyed and so hostile Daenerys shivered at the look on her face.
"You're going to have to talk to her eventually," Jon muttered.
Larra arched an eyebrow. "She assaulted you. What is there to say?"
Jon lowered his eyes to the blade, his lips parting as he recognised the intricate folding ripples, the lacework in steel. "This is Valyrian steel…and that – that's the Targaryen sigil." He blinked at the fat ruby set into the crossguard, etched with a sigil.
"Dark Sister," Larra said lovingly, smiling as she examined her sword. Jon's own Valyrian steel sword remained sheathed at his waist. Out of the corner of her eye, Daenerys wavered and attempted to appear nonchalant as she changed direction, wandering toward a towering oak.
"It was lost!" breathed Jon, who remembered his stories. "Wherever did you find it?"
Larra licked her lips and examined the blade, sadness suffusing her. Had she known the Three-Eyed Raven was Brynden Rivers, she would have asked him a lot more questions. She glanced at Jon and said, "Tell me about the maester at Castle Black…" He did: he told her everything. When it was her turn, she told Jon, "Beyond the Wall, we found the last greenseer. The Three-Eyed Raven…Bran became his apprentice, learning how to see through the trees. After years beneath the great weirwood beyond the edge of the world, we learned that the Three-Eyed Raven was once called Brynden Rivers."
"D'you mean the Bloodraven?"
"Aye. He was forced to take the black after the Blackfyre Rebellions. Maester Aemon went with him to the Wall, so that he couldn't be used to supplant his brother Aegon," Larra said, and Jon nodded. "Bloodraven became Lord Commander…then he was lost in a great Ranging beyond the Wall. He was gifted this sword by the brother he loved. He kept it safe. He knew I'd need it to protect my own brothers."
A great shadow shot over them and Larra jerked her gaze upwards. Jon saw her smile, bright and beautiful. The girl he remembered shone from her vivid purple eyes. They heard the cooing and clicking noise of dragonsong – Jon was not quite as familiar as Larra but dragons made unique sounds in the world. He caught a glimmer of vivid green and slowly stood up, striding away from the shelter of the weirwood's everlasting ruby leaves.
"Is that Rhaegal?" he asked, going still as he spotted the great green-and-bronze dragon carefully descending from the tip of a coast redwood older than Winterfell itself, carefully climbing down, using its tail for balance and its claws to grip strong branches, delicately, almost nimbly, descending onto a larger swathe of untouched snow.
"They've been visiting whenever the weather is fine," Larra beamed, sheathing Dark Sister and walking to stand by Jon's side. She noticed his hand lingering at the hilt of Long Claw out of habit. "Even before the sun shines, Rhaegal appears in the snows… Some of the smallfolk in the castle have come to think of Rhaegal's presence as an omen of fine weather." She smirked, her eyes glittering. "Not the terrifying, awe-inspiring legacy Valyrians intended."
"Rhaegal's been here before?" Jon blinked, staring at her.
"Oh, yes, very often. We've become friends, Rhaegal and me," Larra said, and the great dragon crooned and cooed and sang to her as she approached. Jon stared in awe as she wandered over to the great dragon with no more heed than she would give Last Shadow. She reached out to stroke Rhaegal's spiked head and smiled. She waved Jon over, and, stunned, Jon's legs carried him without conscious thought to stand beside her sister as she cooed and praised the dragon, scratching her fingertips at a tender spot beneath the dragon's great horned jaw. The dragon purred and Larra…Larra laughed, smiling. Jon watched his twin-sister. She had always loved animals – cats, injured dire-eagles, orphaned stoats, cantankerous goats, direwolves – but to see her practically cooing as she petted a dragon… She cooed to the dragon, "You've already met Jon, haven't you?"
Rhaegal seemed to know who she meant: molten bronze-gold eyes fixed on Jon and he felt an absurd compulsion to bow as a sign of respect. Rhaegal clicked and cooed.
"Rhaegal saved my life in King's Landing," Jon said softly. He had never been this close to one of the dragons – not consciously, at least: Now that he thought of it, it had been Rhaegal who had flown him and Gendry back to Eastwatch.
"Did you?" Larra asked the dragon, who clicked and cooed and purred as Larra stroked her hands over the dragon's enormous muzzle.
"Turned the Mountain to ash when he charged at me, ready to cleave me in two," Jon said dazedly, staring at Rhaegal – at his sister who was petting the dragon, talking to them as she used to Visenya, the ill-tempered goat, or the dire-eagle she had nursed and coaxed back to flight.
"Did you?" Larra smiled at Rhaegal. She blinked and turned back to Jon. "The Mountain? Ah, no wonder Lady Nym's been so delighted since Obara arrived; she'll have told her sister about the Mountain's death. Dorne's been writhing for vengeance since Princess Elia and her children were brutalised."
"That's why Lord Tyrion laughed," Jon said softly. He was aware of footsteps behind him, and knew Larra was too by the way her shoulders tensed. Her eyes darted almost imperceptibly past his shoulder and her expression turned hostile. "He said the dragon named for Rhaegar brought about vengeance for Princess Elia and her babies when none others could…" Larra was staring at him, frowning fiercely. She stroked Rhaegal's neck almost unconsciously. "Are you alright?"
Eventually, Larra sighed heavily. She glanced from him to Rhaegal, searching one of the dragon's fiery bronze-gold eyes. She seemed to come to a decision, calming somewhat despite the nearness of Daenerys Targaryen watching their every move.
Rhaegal dipped a glimmering green wing tipped with lethal bronze claws. With practised ease, Larra used the beast's tough, knobbly wing-joint to climb, levering herself, and settled on the dragon's back. Rhaegal clicked and cooed happily and she smiled, patting the dragon's neck fondly. She reached down her scarred, calloused hand and Jon stared up at her, something like dread settling in the pit of his stomach even as his heart soared at the sight of her – Larra on a dragon!
"Climb up!" she laughed softly, and Jon did as he was told. He gripped her hand, climbed up on Rhaegal's wing-joint, and settled behind Larra, careful of the bronze spines all the way down Rhaegal's back to the tip of their lethal tail. Larra smiled over her shoulder and wrapped his arms around her waist, patting his hand almost soothingly as she settled herself more comfortably. "Hold on!"
They shot into the air. Jon grimaced and held on tightly to his sister. Something soared in the pit of his stomach and he couldn't fight the grin that teased at his lips as he heard Larra's rich laugh of delight. The wind snatched at them and he was aware of great speed and a gentle quiet but little else.
Larra's laugh rippled on a gentle wind. She called, "Open your eyes!"
Reluctantly, he did. He didn't know whether to regret it or be struck dumb with awe as he did so: the world spread out before them, the sun bathing endless meadows with sunlight, casting shadows in ancient canyons and crevasses, making everything glitter. The world was turned to silver and snow, to the great endless pale-blue sky and the soft, billowing clouds that tumbled lazily by as enormous wings beat steadily either side of them. Patting his hand, Larra sat up straighter; he had to do the same, and the tension in his back and shoulders relaxed as he saw the smile on Larra's face, the way her eyes glowed with sheer joy. The wind tangled in his hair and seemed to caress her curls lovingly.
They did not fly for long, but they covered a great distance in little time at all. Through their bond, Larra guided Rhaegal, who found their way to a secluded and beautiful spot Larra had always wished to see more of when she was a girl, but it was too far away by horse to return before dinner. In the midst of gentle hills turned silver with glimmering snow, a small lake had frozen, the ice as clear and bright as a mirror; jutting into it, at the end of a sinuous causeway, were the crumbled remains of a holdfast, isolated and once proud. Uncle Benjen had brought her here, once, and told her stories of ancient Kings of Winter, curses and bears and fierce maidens. She had often wondered why Benjen had chosen this place…what this place had meant to him. She had wished this was his holdfast, that instead of taking the black he had claimed this place and built a home for them here, away from Lady Catelyn's cruel glares.
Rhaegal touched down on their favourite perch, the highest, crumbling wall of the holdfast: she and Jon climbed down using handholds and the disturbed stones to help their way. When they reached the bottom, Jon stared up at Rhaegal, now sunning their great wings, eyes closed as they raised their face to the sun, the only source of heat to be had.
He gasped at Larra, "You've flown Rhaegal before."
"Many times," Larra smiled, her cheeks flushed. "Flying brings us joy." Her smile faded, however, at the grim look on Jon's face. "What is it, Jon?"
"At Dragonstone, Lady Olenna said something…"
"The Queen of Thorns give you a prick in the balls, did she?" she asked archly.
"She told me she believed Father sacrificed his honour for his sister's virtue. For Lyanna's virtue. To protect us. Father went in search of his sister and returned to Winterfell with her body and twin babies," Jon said, watching Larra's reaction. She did not seem shocked or even intrigued. He kept speaking, each word like a death-knell to all he thought he knew. "Lady Olenna knew Rhaegar Targaryen…she said it would have gone against his principles to abuse and dishonour Lyanna… She said he was a grim warrior with the heart of a poet. She said…he believed in love…" Larra sighed heavily, and after a moment she reached into the neck of her leather armour. A golden chain glinted in the sunlight, something heavy dangling from it. She unfastened the clasp and handed the jewel to Jon. "What's this?"
It was a locket, exquisite and intricate and more valuable than the entire contents of the Northern treasuries, Jon thought. A hellebore rose was painted in enamel on one side, surrounded by a never-ending ouroboros, a platinum direwolf and a dragon with red-gold wings locked in sinuous, sensuous embrace. The dragon had eyes of the tiniest rubies: he recognised the glint of obsidian for the direwolf's eyes. The jewel hung from a sinuous chain made of fine strands of platinum-silver and delicate pale-gold interwoven into an intricate love-knot.
"Benjen gave it to me," Larra said, her eyes wide and earnest. She reached over and opened the locket. A straight-haired Larra smiled up at him from one side of the locket. He was stunned by the portrait of the man. Not the palest-gold hair…but his resemblance to Jon in his jaw and the shape of his eyes. He knew who they were, without ever having met them. Rhaegar and Lyanna. Larra sighed heavily, her expression tragic. "It's true. All of it. He was hers and she was his. They wed on the Isle of Faces. She gave birth to us…" Jon flinched, his heart stuttering. "They were all dead – Rickard and Brandon and Arthur and Rhaegar… She was dying when Father found her. She forced him to swear an oath to protect us. She told him our names…and when he swore his oath, she let go. She joined them. Our mother was in the crypts the whole time."
Dazedly, Jon murmured, "You used to kick her statue."
"When the bitter unfairness of having no mother who loved us overwhelmed me…I went and thrashed her statue – for all the good it did me," Larra said, her tone grim and accepting and terrible because of her acceptance. "You can't punish the dead."
Jon whispered, "She was our mother."
"She was."
He gulped. Olenna was right. "Ned Stark was not our father."
Larra paused. Carefully, she said, "He didn't sire us. It doesn't matter. From the moment he swore that oath to Lyanna, we were his to protect and raise. He kept her secret: he kept us safe. He loved her more than anything – he protected us over everything." Her eyes glimmered and Jon felt his burn. He wiped his face and handed her the locket back. He didn't need to know why Benjen had had it, or even how Larra had taken it from him – that could wait…
"Does Sansa know?" he asked hoarsely.
"She does," Larra said delicately.
Jon's breath gusted from him, a great cloud that billowed before him and drifted away on an idle breeze. She knows… She knows I am not her brother… I am not her brother… He gulped. "I never was her brother… After all that, we're all that's left of them."
It was a devastating thought. Larra's eyes glittered, and she said fiercely, "We were wanted. They chose each other: they wanted us."
Dazed, Jon asked, "What did she name us?"
He could not begin to comprehend it all… Not her brother… He did not know where to begin. Lyanna and Rhaegar… Not her brother… He panted and stared at Larra, his chest aching. Larra's lips quivered. "Aella Alarra…"
"That's pretty," Jon gasped, his eyes wide. Larra watched him carefully, concern flickering across her face as he kneaded his chest over his heart. Not her brother.
"You, she named Aegon Torrhen," Larra said softly, almost apologetically, and Jon gave a stunned laugh.
"Torrhen?" he repeated, stunned. Aegon Torrhen. Not her brother…
"The king who sacrificed his crown for his people," Larra said solemnly. She cupped his face and the warmth of her skin was grounding, soothing. He calmed under her touch and realised his hands shook as he reached up to grip her arms as if afraid the wind would snatch her away. "The King Who Knelt… You are the King who rose."
A.N.: I hope I managed to convey Jon's panic at the end there. The rug's been pulled out from under him – at least Olenna whispered that little nugget in his ear to get him thinking about it before he learned the truth. It had to be Larra, though.
And fret not, a scene with Daenerys is close at hand. Not the next chapter, though – that'll be something else.