A.N.: Thank you all so much for the reviews! I hope you enjoy this chapter.

Valyrian Steel

47

Motivation

Her elephant stampeded and turned his trebuchet to dust as she cackled triumphantly.

"Not again!" he moaned, slamming his cup down on the arm of his chair.

"These are beginners' blunders," Larra clicked her tongue. "Whatever is the problem, Lord Tyrion?"

"I am entirely too sober, that is the problem," Tyrion grumbled, and Larra laughed softly as he examined his cup. She eyed the tiles and waited for Tyrion's next move.

"You're distracted," Larra accused, hiding her annoyance. She had little time to do as she wished and had wished to spend it playing a challenging game of cyvasse. "Is your lady giving you grief?"

"Which?" Tyrion asked petulantly. Larra raised an eyebrow.

"I can't imagine Tisseia giving you trouble," she said gently.

Tyrion exhaled slowly. "No. She is perfect," he said grumpily. "I am the terror of our chamber at the moment. Thank you, by the way."

"For what?"

"For putting me up with Tisseia in those charmingly cosy chambers," Tyrion said. What he meant to say was thank you for removing him from Daenerys' immediate vicinity. She had to work hard to find him: his private chamber with Tisseia was his one reprieve. The one place he relaxed: Tisseia was devoted to helping him relax.

"I remember how delicate you southerners are when it comes to the cold," Larra teased, and eyed the tiles before them.

They were playing cyvasse, yes, but Tyrion knew the Stark sisters had begun their own game in earnest the moment Daenerys stepped foot in Winterfell. He had noticed that the chamber he shared with Tisseia was close to the Starks' own rooms, to the nursery where his cousins were being raised by Larra. He was closer to beautiful, shrewd Lady Sansa than the Queen he served as Hand…

A queen no longer, except within her own mind, he reminded himself: Larra had chosen her moment carefully, delivering the news to Daenerys in public – to provoke a reaction that could not be hidden from anyone. Daenerys had been in a foul temper ever since. Meereen had rejected her. She said that the slaves she had freed had betrayed her. It did not occur to her that she had abandoned the slaves first. And it had not been taken kindly when Tyrion reminded Daenerys that she had left a city tearing itself apart to the care of sellswords who had no loyalty except to their coin-purses.

How Daenerys ached to return to Dragons' Bay and turn it all to ash. They were saved in that regard: Drogon had not been seen in weeks, since their journey north, Viserion had disappeared on Dragonstone and none could find him, nor spend the time to search…and Rhaegal… Rhaegal had bonded with another: they would never allow Daenerys to mount them – so long as Larra lived. Even if Daenerys got her wish and had Larra skewered by Unsullied for the theft of her dragon, there was no guarantee that Rhaegal would bond with Daenerys – something Tyrion had been quick to inform her.

He was glad to have brought ancient scrolls and texts from the library of Dragonstone, to further investigate historic writings on dragonlore, direct from the – well, the dragon's mouth, as it were. He had spent his childhood dreaming of dragons and his adolescence researching them and now in his adulthood he found himself observing them in person: his childhood dreams had come true. Tyrion knew that only those with Valyrian blood – with dragonlords' blood – with Targaryen blood – could claim dragons. The Dance of the Dragons had proven this: dragonseed had claimed the feral dragons of Dragonstone.

Larra Snow had bonded with Rhaegal. A motherless bastard from the North.

Who was the mother? He pondered the same question most had been asking of Ned Stark for years, ever since the most unlikely man ever to father bastards brought two to Winterfell when the Rebellion had ended. There was no Targaryen blood in the Stark family: they had never intermarried with the Targaryens, though history claimed promises of Targaryen brides had been made during the Dance – never fulfilled, of course.

So where did the bond come from?

There were the direwolves to consider, too: he knew from his last visit to Winterfell how fiercely bonded the Stark children were with their direwolves. And no matter their name, Jon and Larra Snow had Stark blood.

Tormund Giantsbane claimed that Jon – and the other Starks – had warg blood: the ability to skinchange. Tyrion didn't understand it, however, it sounded accurate to the bond between the Starks and their wolves…and if they could enter the minds of direwolves, one of the most cunning animals in the natural world, surely it was not a stretch to imagine they might be able to slip into the minds of dragons too?

He kept his thoughts to himself: the idea that Larra may have an innate power to enter the minds of her dragons might ignite Daenerys' wrath towards her – and Tyrion was desperate to avoid her anger. Larra, for her own reasons, was not. Tyrion gazed at her, ignoring their game completely, pondering what she thought to gain by antagonising Daenerys.

Jon.

It all came down to Jon. Remembering their historic conversations, Tyrion understood that Larra had been raised to look after her brothers: it was second-nature, and her instincts were fierce. She thought of her brothers first and herself rarely at all.

The wolves are circling, Tyrion thought. He had never seen wolves hunt but he had read about them. They hunted in packs: and they hunted enormous prey to feed the entire pack. They took the risk, knowing they were protected by their pack-mates. They stalked their chosen prey for miles before manoeuvring them away from their herd.

Tyrion was up near the nursery: Ser Jorah was housed near his Mormont relations: the Unsullied and Dothraki were garrisoned in Winter's Town, their weapons and horses removed from them: Drogon was inaccessible.

Power resides where men believe it resides, Varys' soft voice reminded him. The Stark sisters were doing their utmost to keep Daenerys isolated from those who gave her power. The Stark women were effectively stripping Daenerys of any power she believed she had – by denying she had any to begin with.

Tyrion moved his rabble, deep in his cup. "Oh, now you're not even trying, my lord!"

"What?" he blurted, wide-eyed, and she unveiled her hidden heavy horse, obliterating his largest army. "Oh, for the love of the gods!"

"You have not played this game before, my lord?" asked a deep voice, sensual and rich. Larra glanced over at another table set with cyvasse tiles, where Lady Nym played an idle game. Ser Gerold Dayne's vivid violet eyes seemed more curious than taunting as he examined their tiles, his gaze sharp and assessing.

Tyrion had been uncertain when the two Dornish sashayed so elegantly into the chamber: it would be the perfect opportunity to exact revenge for their fallen prince. No Varys, no Jaime, just Tyrion and a Queen who would not care that he had died, unless he died putting her on the Iron Throne.

Oberyn had been a man among millions. That's not a monster, I told Cersei…that's just a baby…

He knew the Dornish considered Tyrion's life inadequate to their loss. Yet they had to know, surely, that Prince Oberyn had been aching for a chance at revenge for decades. Tyrion's trial had given him that opportunity and the Red Viper had seized it.

"Something about me seems to have driven Lord Tyrion to distraction," Larra said, her tone softly teasing, but she watched Tyrion with some concern. She knew why he was distracted: she wasn't helping him sleep easier. "Last time he was at Winterfell, I thrashed him."

"You are not alone in this, my lord," Lady Nym purred, draped elegantly on a chair opposite Ser Gerold. She wore her silks, as always, but heavy velvets, jacquards and furs also swathed her elegant body, all in rich hues of gold, ochre, amber and decadent blood-orange shimmering with embroidery and beading. Her long braid glinted with copper wire.

"In fact, last time we met, Lord Tyrion promised me a delicious spanking over the cyvasse tiles," Larra mused, and a lascivious grin briefly illuminated Tyrion's face. Had Robb known the Imp had spoken to Larra thus, despite the saddle design for Bran, Robb's unsheathed sword would have been the least of Lord Tyrion's worries. "Dreaming of it kept me sane for many years. The rematch, not the promise of a spanking."

"Not from me, anyway," Lord Tyrion winked, and the two Dornishmen chuckled.

"You are truly so gifted in the game?" Ser Gerold asked curiously. "I hear Lord Tyrion's mind is sharp as the Old Lion's."

"Sharper – he keeps it well-honed," Larra said, smiling softly at Lord Tyrion. "Not like me. It was a pleasure to play him. I'd hoped his game had improved even more in the years since we last met."

"My heart is not in it," apologised Lord Tyrion. "Forgive me, dear Larra. I shall return when I may play a game worthy of you." He slid out of his chair and bowed to her, then to Lady Nym and Ser Gerold.

"Your tiles, my lord," Larra reminded him. He turned at the threshold of the chamber and gazed back at her, a smile in his eyes that had been lost throughout their game.

"Leave them. I shall return," he said softly. His eyes drifted over the chamber, where Lady Nym and Ser Gerold sat either side of a table closest to the hearth, and a third game was underway between one of the Knights of the Vale and Qhaero, sworn ko to Calanthe Lannister. "Winterfell has its first cyvasse parlour."

Larra smiled. Lady Nym and Ser Gerold spoke in low tones as Lord Tyrion disappeared. Lady Nym rose elegantly from her chair. She dipped a polite curtsey to Larra, who smiled softly and nodded as she passed, gliding out of the chamber and taking with her the scent of orange blossom and spice. Larra fiddled with some of her cyvasse pieces, disappointment settling over her like a cloak. She had invited Lord Tyrion to cyvasse because she had wanted his perspective on certain matters: he was tactful enough not to ask for specifics if she gave him hypotheticals, no matter how much he might wonder.

She could only talk to Sansa and her experiences were limited. They had had many war councils while Jon was away, all discussing how to shift battle plans in the moment if necessary…but what happened after? What happened when people discovered the truth? What did it matter, really, unless Jon and Larra chose to do something with the information? What if…what if others chose to use it against them?

Never forget what you are. Others will not. Wear it like armour and it can never be used against you, Lord Tyrion had once advised. Yet in donning that armour, in accepting their name and their blood, the tragic circumstances of their birth, they left themselves more open, more vulnerable to danger than ever before. Father had done well in maintaining the ruse that they were bastards: nobody had cared to look further than Father's tarnished honour. Yet as…as the trueborn children of Rhaegar and Lyanna…

It wasn't just Daenerys Targaryen they needed to be mindful of.

Half of Westeros would want them dead: the other half would seek to use them to get close to the Iron Throne. Jon would be the ideal: he was a tried and true warrior, a leader – and male. He could father children, heirs to the Iron Throne. After Jon, the best alternative choice was Larra: young, strong and raised all her life in Westeros. She had no interest in the Iron Throne, of perpetuating three centuries of war, manipulation and political intrigue that had ripped Westeros apart until it was no longer recognisable. The Iron Throne had bathed the continent in three centuries of fire and blood.

Perhaps they should rename the Targaryen dynasty, she mused miserably, fiddling with the tiny dragon piece Robb had once gifted her. The Reign of Terror. It's not quite over yet…

"Do you still wish to play, my lady?" Ser Gerold asked her, and Larra glanced over, eyeing him curiously. She had spoken with many of the knights and lords who had joined Jon on his journey north – the demanding Lord Tyrell and his lovely son Dickon, who shared his brother's decent nature, Ser Davos, Beric Dondarrion and even the gruff but decent Sandor Clegane. Ser Gerold had arrived with one hundred Dornish spears, led by Obara Sand: Larra didn't know him.

"If you would care to join me," she said politely, and the knight stood up. He was very tall – almost as tall as Gendry, she would guess. He had broad, flat soldiers that would make women sigh, and his pale gold hair glinted in the candlelight, all but that lock of dark hair which seemed to drink in the shadows of the chamber. When he sat before her, his focus on Tyrion's tiles, she sighed softly and leisurely examined his features. He was incredibly beautiful. Those lush lips and that perfect nose, dark-gold eyelashes that glittered in the candlelight, cheekbones sharper than Valyrian steel.

She had thought Ser Jaime was handsome when he first arrived at Winterfell – shining and golden and perfect, not at all what Larra found attractive, but even she acknowledged that he had been incredibly handsome. Darkstar's beauty made Ser Jaime's golden looks seem tarnished and dull by comparison. It was annoying how beautiful he was.

"When you have looked your fill, lady, perhaps you would care to set your tiles," he said, his accent rich and decadent, and Larra laughed.

"It must get irritating – people struck dumb by the sight of you," she said thoughtfully. "Perhaps that's why you're so angry."

"Am I angry?"

"Your eyes are angry," Larra said softly.

"Why do you think that is?"

"You'd rather they remarked upon your skills with a blade than your looks," Larra said, and Ser Gerold smirked.

"Perhaps," he agreed offhandedly. "What about you?"

"Me?"

"You must know men are in awe of you," Ser Gerold murmured.

"Perhaps they're easily impressed," Larra said quietly.

"I've been at Winterfell long enough to know this is not the case," Ser Gerold said softly.

"It irritated you when my sister mentioned Ser Arthur Dayne," Larra observed. "You envy your famous cousin?" Darkstar glanced up at her and she knew she had struck a nerve. She picked up some of her tiles, rearranging them precisely, never breaking eye-contact. "He was a great knight."

"He had a great sword," Ser Gerold said coolly. Larra raised an eyebrow.

"The sword does not make the man," Larra said thoughtfully. She smiled, thinking of Gendry. "It is the opposite: the man makes the sword."

"You think so?"

"How many famous swords do we know, their stories passed down – through the men and women who wielded them," Larra shrugged. "Their actions weren't always glorious and good but we remember them."

"And your sword?" Ser Gerold asked. It was propped up against the arm of her chair and his eyes lingered on the fat ruby nestled into the crossguard.

"Her story is long," Larra said quietly. "I've yet to add to it."

"You had no occasion to use it beyond the Wall?" he asked. She liked the way his accent seemed to pour lazily from his tongue like treacle.

"I didn't receive the sword until our return journey," Larra sighed, arranging her tiles and pieces meticulously. "Why did you come north, Ser Gerold?"

Darkstar paused. His eyes flicked to her face, deep purple and glowing. He was weighing, assessing his response – assessing her. He sighed heavily and set his pieces carefully. "My prince charged me with escorting Princess Myrcella to King's Landing."

"He must trust you a great deal," Larra said.

"Prince Doran does not trust anyone," Ser Gerold said darkly. He shook his head. "He does trust in his ability to use those around him to greatest effect… I am the most dangerous swordsman in Dorne." He said it without arrogance: it was a statement of fact. "I was sent to ensure Princess Myrcella survived her journey to King's Landing."

"That explains how you came to be in King's Landing," Larra prompted, "but not Winterfell."

Ser Gerold paused, turning a cyvasse piece over in his fingers. She noticed how large and handsome his hands were – he had long, clever fingers. She was reminded of Jon, somehow, though they were as alike as the sun and the moon. "I saw that monstrous creature your brother brought to the Lannisters' court. I took an oath, a little different to your brother but the intent is the same: To be brave, to be just and to defend the innocent… I would be ashamed to run from this fight."

"I wish more honoured their oaths so fiercely," Larra said quietly. She fiddled with her King and gazed at the tiny direwolf sigil etched neatly onto his cloak. If Robb had honoured his oaths… They wouldn't be here. Jon wouldn't be here to lead this fight. Still… He should have honoured his oaths.

Ser Gerold shrugged those broad shoulders nonchalantly.

"Perhaps more will come," he said softly. "There may yet be men of worth left in the world…but far too few."

"It is a shame we agree on that," Larra said, shaking her head. She smiled. "If Lady Nym had known you would be coming north, she would have requested you bring spices."

"Your food is not spicy, as we are used to," Ser Gerold smiled lazily, "but it is rich. I enjoy it."

"So does Nym. She worries for her waistline," Larra said.

"She will find ways to keep herself active enough that it will not matter," he said. His eyes twinkled: his smirk was delicious.

"She has made a lot of friends since her arrival," Larra conceded, smiling.

"Nym was blessed with her father's charisma," Ser Gerold said, though he did not smile.

"And his eyes," Larra replied, and he chuckled softly. "What about you?"

He thought for a moment. "The same, I am told," he said, holding her gaze. She wondered whether all Daynes had had the same vivid indigo eyes as Darkstar: she knew Lady Ashara Dayne had had purple eyes – she remembered seeing her dancing at Harrenhall.

"I am glad at least you could not inherit the Red Viper's lusts as Nym did," Larra smiled.

"Do not be so sure," Ser Gerold teased, and she laughed.

"I hope you're not going to cause me too much trouble," she said, and those beautiful lips of his twitched.

"My mother taught me better than to be a nuisance to a busy woman," he said softly, and she could hear the humour in his voice.

"Wise lady."

"You have no idea," Ser Gerold said softly, the first hint of a true smile in his eyes.

"Did she teach you cyvasse?" Larra asked, but Ser Gerold shook his head.

"I taught her," he said softly. "It has only just reached Old Town from Volantis. I am surprised to hear a Northern girl knows the game so well."

Larra sighed heavily. "We had a wonderful maester at Winterfell, before. He was well-travelled. When we studied geography, we didn't just learn the names of rivers and mountains. We learned languages, and local rhymes and stories and religions, cooked using foreign ingredients, grew exotic flowers in the hothouses… He brought Essos to life in our schoolroom. As we got older, he taught us cyvasse to teach us military strategy. My brothers and I spent weeks planning campaigns and longer playing them out."

"How often did you win?" Ser Gerold asked.

"Most often," Larra said. "Outlasting my brothers wasn't difficult. What came after was tricky."

Her face went slack, eyes glinting, and Ser Gerold watched her carefully. She looked…devastated.

Outlasting my brothers wasn't difficult.

"How so?" he prompted, and Lady Larra blinked, drawn back into the chamber: she focused on him.

"After we had wrecked the cyvasse board, Maester Luwin would make whoever survived rebuild, using only the resources left untouched," Larra said.

"Most would say they had won the war," Ser Gerold said.

"There are no winners in war. There are survivors," Larra said softly. "Battle is easy: rebuilding – that is hard."

"Building… They say you enjoy the hammer," said Ser Gerold, and Larra searched his face. His features were a gentle mask but his eyes seemed to simmer, his lips twitching into another delicious smirk.

"I prefer the armourer who wields it," Larra corrected bluntly. Darkstar smirked until her elephants trampled his light infantry.

"We…live more freely in the south," said Ser Gerold. "We acknowledge marriage for what it is, and live with our lovers without shame."

"The same as in the True North," Larra said quietly.

"The armourer is your lover, then?" Ser Gerold prompted, frowning. Larra watched him carefully.

"You're not turning your nose up at me having a bed-mate, are you?" She smiled at him, claiming his light cavalry. "Did you think I was a virgin?"

"I'd hoped not," Ser Gerold said, giving her a playful smile and Larra laughed. "We should all be free to love whom we choose."

"I didn't realise choice had anything to do with love," she said, laughing softly. "And I would rather have something more lasting than mere love."

"Love can shape empires," Ser Gerold mused. Larra glanced quickly at him, remembering Lyanna's locket.

"You've been reading too much High Valyrian poetry," Larra said, and Ser Gerold laughed softly. "Swords shape empires."

Ser Gerold blinked dazedly as her crossbowmen assassinated his King.

"How – ?" he blurted, his indigo eyes scanning the tiles, assessing the pieces he had lost and those Larra still had arranged neatly on her tiles. "I never lose."

"I like this game," she said gently, idly handing him back his King. He took it, examining the piece carefully.

"What else did your maester teach you?" he asked quietly.

"A lot," Larra smiled.

"Why did he make you rebuild after?" Ser Gerold asked, handing back the few pieces he had captured and assessing the pieces Larra had kept, how they were arranged – what she valued, assessing how fiercely she protected it and what she was willing to lose to do so.

"Maester Luwin wanted us to always be mindful of the consequences of war," Larra sighed. "He and Father instilled in us that war is the very last resort."

"Your father did?"

"You sound surprised," Larra said quietly. She watched Ser Gerold carefully. "I have never met a Dornishman before. There are some who view my father in the same light as Tywin Lannister." Ser Gerold's eyebrows rose again. "What do the Dornish think of Ned Stark?"

"They say his friends were unworthy of him," said Ser Gerold.

"His friends being Robert Baratheon."

"All know Eddard Stark left the sacked city in a cold rage when the Usurper smiled at the dead Targaryen babies presented to him by the Old Lion," Ser Gerold said coldly. "Eddard Stark built cairns for those who fell in the Red Mountains and returned Dawn to Starfall when my cousin was slain. He was a man of great honour."

"You wouldn't be saying that because you think it's what I want to hear, would you?" Larra asked, and Ser Gerold smiled.

"I wouldn't dream of it," he said. "Just as I am sure you would not tell me that the North sings songs of praise for Elia Martell."

"Father told us about the Rebellion. He never talked about Princess Elia," Larra said softly. "He thought about her, though. If we ever asked about the Sacking of King's Landing, he would become quiet and take himself off to the godswood. She haunted him, I think – Elia and her babies."

"Princess Elia and her babies haunt many dreams," Ser Gerold said grimly. After a little while, he asked, "How else did your cyvasse games differ?"

"We started each campaign with a scenario: we had to negotiate and avoid conflict for as long as possible… If it came to war, Maester Luwin would let us play out our planned campaigns up to a point then he would roll the dice to introduce unexpected obstacles. We had to adjust."

"There are no dice in cyvasse," Ser Gerold frowned.

"In Maester Luwin's version, there are," Larra smiled.

"What was on the dice?"

"Everything. Anything that could possibly go against you during a war," Larra smiled sadly. "Smallfolk uprisings, mutiny, weather disasters, religious interference, bankruptcy, treason, droughts and famines, plagues, assassinations. We had to adjust our planned campaigns at the spur of the moment."

"No wonder you won so easily," Ser Gerold sighed.

"Would you care to play again?"

Sighing, she curled up on the bed, listening to the crackle of the fire and watching her two kittens grooming each other before the hearth. She smiled as they cuddled up and dozed, and closed her own eyes, allowing the gentleness of the moment to drift through her. Today had been another full day, after far too many other long days.

It was yet another day Jon had evaded her. They had not discussed the information Larra had shared with him.

She worried about Jon much more than she felt bad about publically wounding Daenerys Targaryen. Since that meal in the Great Hall, Daenerys Targaryen had remained ensconced in her chambers. No-one had cared to check what she was up to.

After Larra had delivered the truth to Jon, he had panicked. Days later, Larra was fairly sure why it had hit him so particularly hard: Sansa had finally accepted him.

She had told him that he was a Stark. That was all Jon had ever desired: to be accepted as a Stark, someone honourable and worthy. Everything he had convinced himself he was not thanks to the enduring cruelties of Lady Catelyn. But Sansa had accepted Jon as he was, and given him a name and Father's sigil as his own.

All Jon had ever wanted was to be accepted as an honourable man. He had been lied to all their lives by the person he believed was the most honourable man he had ever met…

Jon had never been a bastard. Had never been unworthy or dishonourable the way every highborn had treated him ever since Father's one dishonourable deed. But there wasn't anyone who had mistreated Jon more for being a bastard than Jon himself: he had joined the Watch as penance for Father's only shameful act.

Larra knew her brother: she left him to stew until he was ready to talk.

It was too much to think about, especially when she was tired and warm and cosy after a long day. She had flown on Rhaegal, played with the children, researched tactical uses for wildfire as a siege weapon, ate one of her favourite meals, and now lay on the bed in a clean nightdress, calm and content while she watched her kittens, thinking of her upcoming cyvasse game against Ser Gerold while she waited for Gendry to return from the forge.

To ensure the scorpion was ready in as little time as possible, he had been working longer hours in the forges. The bed felt too big without him in it, and she couldn't sleep in the absence of his gentle snores, his hard body tucked around hers. She drifted, though, dozing peacefully, and smiled when the door finally opened, ever so quietly, and Gendry's familiar footsteps approached the bed, accompanied by the rustle of fabric and leather as Gendry undressed. She smiled and rolled over and sighed as Gendry tugged his tunics and undershirts off, revealing rippling muscles dusted with dark hair. When he saw she was awake, he gave her a tired grin.

"I feel as if I haven't seen you in days," she said, reaching for his breeches, deftly unfastening the buttons.

"And now that I'm here, there's only one thing you want," Gendry teased. Larra grinned breathlessly as he reached out, yanking at the hem of her nightdress, tugging it up and off. She tugged his breeches down over his backside and Gendry growled low as he leaned in for a deep kiss, entering her with one fierce thrust of his hips. She moaned loudly, the sound snatched by Gendry's lips as he kissed her fiercely. He dipped his head to kiss her breasts, sucking fiercely. She gasped at the sting, her breasts sore, but sighed and relaxed against the mattress as his hand found its way between them, his thumb circling ever so slowly. She drew up her knees, fingernails digging into Gendry's back as he thrust deep inside her, fierce and insistent. His kisses were sweet, gentle, savouring, and she smiled and reached up to caress his face, drawing him in for another kiss, deepening it, until he lowered himself onto her, his tremendous weight settling on her, heavy and delicious, his thrusts slower, deeper, making her toes curl as he tenderly kissed her face, her neck, her collarbones, wrapping himself around her and she knew nothing but his scent, his heat, his fierce thrusts that made her whimper and writhe, embers skittering through her body and catching alight with every deep thrust, the taste of his sweat and the tickle of his wild curls as he buried his head in her neck, stars twinkling in her eyes as he hit that spot they had discovered together, the one that made her keen and whimper and cling to him. She shattered, melting into his arms, and preened against him as he went still, giving a soft grunt of relief as he spilled inside her. Shuddering, he gave her a deep and lingering kiss.

After a long while, dozing in each other's arms, sated and content, Gendry groaned and stretched, before stretching out alongside her. His colour was high, his eyes bright, and he smiled adoringly at her as she shivered at the sudden loss of his heat, rolling over to get closer to him again.

"I've missed you," she sighed softly, and Gendry made a soft, thoughtful noise.

"How could you miss me, when you've got Arya and Jon?" he asked gently.

"It's different," she said softly, gazing up at him. She reached up and tenderly stroked his cheek with the backs of her fingers. She repeated, "I've missed you."

He nodded, leaning down to give her a tender kiss, cupping her cheek. When he broke away, his hand trailed down her neck to her breast, settling at her waist, tucking her closer to him. "You've been spending time with Jon."

"Less than I'd like," Larra sighed heavily, and he caught the sombre, thoughtful look on her face.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said sadly. "Nothing's wrong… I had a difficult conversation with Jon."

"About what?" Gendry asked gently. She gazed at him, tucking herself close against him. He stroked her waist and hip, making her shiver with the delicious warmth his touch spread across her skin.

"After I first flew Rhaegal, you wanted to ask me something," Larra said, gazing up into those shrewd sapphire eyes. "I wouldn't let you ask it. Do you remember what it was?"

"I said that only Targaryens can claim dragons," Gendry rumbled softly, and Larra gazed up at him. Slowly, she nodded. He frowned. She rolled over, picking up the locket from her bedside cabinet, then tucked herself against Gendry, missing his warmth. She opened the locket and handed it to him. Gendry stared at the miniature portraits, then frowned gently at Larra, searching her face. Eventually, he sighed sadly. "You look like them."

"Rhaegar and Lyanna," Larra said softly. "They loved each other. Lyanna eloped with Rhaegar on the Isle of Faces. Jon and I were born in Dorne mere weeks after the Battle of the Trident." The light in Gendry's eyes dimmed. He stared at the portrait of Rhaegar.

Pale and solemn, Gendry breathed, "My father murdered yours."

Larra sighed, reaching up to push his curls out of his face. "It's not considered murder when it happens in battle. Rhaegar was slain by Robert. Robert had every reason to believe Rhaegar had violated Lyanna. And Robert never stopped fighting for the idea of his Lyanna." She sighed, shaking her head, and took the locket from Gendry to gaze at the portrait of Lyanna. "Rhaegar saw who she truly was; that's why she chose him. It wasn't just love: they respected each other. They appreciated each other. They saw each other."

As they saw each other.

With a sad smile, Gendry caressed her cheek and leaned in, giving her a tender kiss. He gathered her up in his arms, and Larra rested her head against Gendry's enormous chest, gentled by the sound of his heart beating steadily.

"What are you thinking?" Larra asked, her voice muffled by his chest. He stroked her long braids – she never unwound them, not even when they were fucking: she said it wasn't worth the tangles.

"What does it mean?" he asked quietly. Larra…was the daughter of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, lawfully married. If they had been born after Rhaegar fell at the Trident…

"Nothing, really," Larra murmured.

"You're a princess." She lifted her face, resting her chin on his chest.

"I am Larra Snow."

"I'm a bastard. Gendry Waters," Gendry said firmly. "You've never been a Snow."

"I am what experience has made me," Larra said gently, shrugging. "My blood can never change that. I will always be Larra."

"You've told Jon this," he said slowly, and Larra nodded.

"He's the only one who has a right to know," Larra said, though she sighed heavily. "Father kept the truth secret for years. Too many people know, now, for it to remain a secret. Jon had to know. I couldn't tell you until he knew."

"You wanted me to know?"

"Yes. You're too clever not to realise the truth," Larra said, smiling fondly.

Gendry frowned. "So Rhaegal…"

"Rhaegal and I have bonded. Perhaps my mother's blood has something to do with our bond being so strong…I can feel Rhaegal and understand them. When I dream I have seen through Rhaegal's eyes…if I chose, I could enter Rhaegal's mind, now, and know exactly where they are… That is warg blood. Stark blood," Larra mused. "But Rhaegal recognising me as a dragonrider…that is my father's blood. Rhaegar's blood."

"They called him the Last Dragon," Gendry said, reaching up to cup her face tenderly in his hands. "You look just like your mother – except for your eyes. How can nobody have suspected the truth?"

"We believe what we want to believe," Larra said calmly. Gendry grew still.

"What about Daenerys?" he asked, and Larra's face darkened.

"She is our aunt through Rhaegar," Larra said quietly, and Gendry's lips parted. So Jon had been abused by their own aunt.

"That complicates things," Gendry said heavily.

"For us," Larra said. "Daenerys was raised a true Targaryen."

"What does that mean?" Gendry asked curiously, noting the curl of her lip.

"If she hadn't been traded to the Dothraki, she would likely have ended up married to her older brother Viserys," Larra said, shaking her head. "Incest was not only accepted but celebrated within the Targaryen family."

"So to find out that you and Jon are her relatives…"

"She wouldn't care that she raped her own nephew," Larra sighed. "Not that she would ever acknowledged it was rape… But as Rhaegar's only surviving son, Jon has the greatest claim to the Iron Throne…and she's convinced herself that it is her destiny to take the Iron Throne. That she alone is worthy of it."

"Jon's the heir to the Iron Throne."

"That depends," Larra said delicately.

"On what?"

"On whether he wants to be," Larra said, sighing softly. Gendry thought about what she said, stroking her long braids, tracing his fingers over her silky scars. She raised her hands to his chest and nestled her head on them, dozing gently.

"I can't imagine Jon going south to claim King's Landing," he said finally. "He's too…tired."

Larra laughed softly. She kissed his chest. "He doesn't need to rule the whole world: he'll be content to save it."

Gendry frowned softly, hugging her tighter to him, feeling suddenly cold. Worry flickered through his mind. Not worry for the Night King. "Larra…what does it mean that you are bonded with one of the dragons?" Larra smiled softly, and he glanced down at her. "Why the smile?"

"Because you said the dragons…not her dragons," Larra sighed softly.

"I've been with you long enough to know wild creatures are free," Gendry smiled, and Larra leaned in to kiss him.

"They are…they should be," Larra said.

"So? What does it mean? That you and Rhaegal have bonded?" Gendry asked.

"It means things will become more complicated," Larra sighed heavily. "Daenerys saw me mount Rhaegal and already considers it a betrayal…soon enough, the truth with reach her ears."

"That's why you shamed her in front of everyone," Gendry murmured.

"You heard about that?"

"In great detail," Gendry grunted. "Cade."

"Ah," Larra sighed.

"So, tell me."

"Her wrath was always going to be directed at me the moment she learned I'd bonded with Rhaegal," Larra sighed.

"And with what you know about her, you would never have pretended to be her friend," Gendry sighed. He smiled, realising, "You're doing what you've always done."

"What's that?"

"You're drawing her attention from Jon," Gendry said. "You're protecting your brother."

"It's what I'm best at," Larra said, and Gendry smiled.

"I can think of a few other things," he sighed, and she laughed softly. He hugged her and kissed the top of her head.

"All this worry may all be for nothing," Larra sighed. "We may all be dead soon… It might even be a relief not to have to worry about it."

"I don't think we're that lucky," Gendry said, and they both laughed softly. Sobering, Gendry stared at the ceiling, and again his arms tightened around her, afraid she'd slip through his grasp. "It can't be long now."

Larra kissed his chest delicately. "We've time yet."

"Time to do what?" Gendry asked softly. Larra smiled and leaned over to give him a kiss.

"Live," she said, gazing at him, her expression so tender his breath caught in his lungs. He reached up and caressed her cheek as she gazed at him with those entrancing amethyst eyes. She gave him a sweet kiss, and tilted her head as she gazed at him.

"What?" he smiled.

"Marry me."

Gendry stared, stunned. He gazed back at Larra, at the deeply earnest expression on her face, the deep love and respect and affection and admiration that glowed in her deep purple eyes. He leaned up and kissed her tenderly. Their kiss deepened, tongues entwining, and he cupped her head with his hand as her hands brushed delicately over his bare shoulders, his arms. Her hands rested over his heart, thudding inside his chest. They broke apart and Larra nuzzled her nose against his. She whispered, "Marry me."

Stunned, Gendry said what he thought: "I didn't think you'd believe in marriage…" The Free Folk made their own rules and decided to be married or not, with no thought to the gods. And Larra had lived among them.

Gendry sat up, Larra in his lap, and she gave him a gentle, almost heartbroken look. "I am yours, and you are mine. I don't want anyone to ever question that we've chosen each other, on purpose." Her eyes glowed fiercely. He reached up, stroking his thumb against her cheek. When she was like this – emotional, vulnerable – he was in absolute awe of her. To him she revealed the true Larra, the one who was emotional and devastated, who loved deeply and fiercely, who cared about everyone – but not about what they thought – who was playful and mischievous, studious, calm and unflappable, generous and courageous. He saw the Larra who was tender, emotionally open, vulnerable and gentle, who loved relentlessly.

He cupped her head and drew her in for a deep kiss.

"Ask me again," he murmured against her lips. She panted softly, and he smiled as she gave him the most tender look he had ever seen on her face, as if he had corralled the moon and decorated the sky with stars just for her.

"Marry me," she whispered against his lips, and he nuzzled her nose, stealing a deep and lingering kiss, rolling her to her back.

"Alright," he agreed, after they were spent once again. She shivered in his arms, panting for breath, and he grinned lazily at the sight of her overwhelmed by the pleasure he had wrought in her. "I'll marry you."

He caught her tiny, sweet smile as she burrowed against him, the way she always did when she couldn't get enough of his heat, his smell. He draped an arm over her and tucked her close.

Hours later, he still couldn't sleep. The fire had burned itself to embers: the kittens purred softly as they cuddled, and beside him Larra slept soundly. He gazed at her in the pale silver moonlight drifting weakly from the window. Slowly, he became aware of pinpricks of light – the moonlight trapped in Larra's eyes.

"What's keeping you awake?" she asked thickly, sighing heavily as she nestled her head in the crook of his arm.

"I can't stop thinking about them. Rhaegar and Lyanna. I don't know why…it makes me sad," Gendry said softly. Larra sighed.

"Because it is sad," she murmured, stretching and cuddling up again. "It's devastating. Rhaegar wanted to heal Westeros. He and Lyanna died because Rhaegar cared so much about his people that he couldn't bear to let them down, to have them think ill of him. He knew exactly what needed to be done; he was too slow in doing it." Gendry smiled sadly himself, chuckling. "What?"

"We've been left to fix what our fathers broke."

"I suppose we have," she sighed, and Gendry tucked her against him, tugging the quilts and furs higher over himself – she hated the stifling weight of the blankets but couldn't get enough of him. He smiled as she tucked herself against him.

Marry me…

He smiled. I am yours and you are mine.

He drifted off to a deep sleep, entwined with the woman who wanted to marry him.

A.N.: This chapter took forever!