A.N.: Thank you so much for all the reviews!
I need to hear Ramin Djawadi's score for HotD so I can 'borrow' one of the Targaryen's themes for Larra. I'd love her to share Rhaenys or Daemon's theme!
Okay, so there are a lot of face-claims for this chapter! I've also taken knights and lords from ASOIAF who have not really been expanded on in the books and made them my own. Ser Jorian Gower and Ser Arthur Wylde's appearances and personalities were inspired by Josh Brolin and Jason Momoa's characters in Dune. Winston Duke's M'Baku and Danai Gurira's Okoye from Black Panther inspired Lord Carys and Lady Calista Velaryon, with Jessica Chastain inspiring Carys' Lysene wife Vialle and their children inspired by Dolores, Camilo and Antonio Madrigal from Encanto. Lord Ivar Dondarrion is modelled after Ivar the Boneless from Vikings and Ser Rey Musgood and Dag Storm were inspired by Bors and Dagonet from the 2004 King Arthur. Mads Mikkelsen in Clash of the Titans inspired the appearance of Lord Richard Lonmouth. Sia's face-claim is Gemma Ward: Noor's is Madalina Ghenea. Lord Yomer Lantel is obviously heavily inspired by Karl Urban's excellent Eomer, and Lady Rohanne Lantel's face-claim is Claire Holt. Joy Hill's face-claim is Blake Lively.
Valyrian Steel
49
Perspective
Larra watched as Ser Jaime carefully accepted bread and salt from a trencher. She flicked her eyes over the rest of the lords and knights gathered in the hall. "Tell me, Ser Jaime, have you emptied the south of its lordlings?"
Ser Jaime's eyes shone with something like irony. "These men were present at the Dragon Pit," he said softly. His voice carried across the hall, everyone silent to hear their conversation. "We all saw what your brother – what His Grace has been fighting." Ser Jaime's eyes flicked to Jon. There was something sorrowful and earnest in his face, his voice, when he added, "There is still honour and courage among the southern Houses."
"I'm certain there is," Larra said, thinking of Samwell, of Yaskier and Edd and all Jon's southern brothers, of Stannis who had abandoned his thoughts of the Iron Throne to stop the invasion of the Free Folk and liberate the North. She cast her eyes over the crowd. "Would you be so good as to introduce your companions?"
"It would be my honour," Ser Jaime said gallantly, giving her a subtle bow. She stepped back, sheathing her knife and dagger, perching on the edge of the high table and glanced back at Sansa as she settled more comfortably into her chair. Sansa gazed imperiously down the hall as several men moved through the crowds to stand alongside Ser Jaime. The knight was no longer trapped inside ostentatious armour, the obnoxious red and gold of House Lannister emblazoned on his chest. He had shed the weight of that inheritance. He looked…like one of them: just one of the many honourable men who had seen the true horrors they were to face and, far from fleeing, had run toward them.
Larra had never before looked upon the Kingslayer with respect: she did so now.
First to be introduced were Lord Bryndn Cole, Lord Ivar Dondarrion and Ser Mateu Morrigen of the Stormlands. They were all younger men – about Larra's age – and battle-lust seemed to glint in their eyes, especially Lord Ivar, who had glacial blue eyes and a handsome, somewhat insane grin.
Next to be introduced was Ser Rey Musgood, a shorter, broadly built man with a shaved head who kept his thickly muscled arms bare despite the cold. The children that teemed around the hall all seemed to belong to him, and he carried two in one arm as he wrangled one of his sons out of a brawl with his sister, who was thrashing him soundly. Entertaining some of the other children was the scarred man with the handsome dirk in his greaves: he was introduced by Ser Rey as "Dag" – Dagonet Storm, the half-brother of Ser Arthur Wylde, who was an olive-skinned giant of a man with wild dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard, an attractive smirk and a soft, rumbling voice.
Ser Arthur was a supremely confident man who oozed charisma and had already caught the attention of the majority of the women in the hall: he seemed to enjoy taunting one of his companions, Ser Jorian Gower, an older warrior with a close-shaved head, a silver-and-salt trimmed goatee that brought out his strong anvil of a jaw and piercing ice-blue eyes that saw everything. Ser Jorian wore incredibly plain armour and roughspun clothing beneath it: his only adornment seemed to be a small seven-pointed star carved from wood and hanging from a leather cord around his neck. He bowed low to each of the Starks and gave Lady Sansa, the only Stark rumoured to have anything to do with the southern gods, a blessing.
"Thank you, Ser," Sansa responded demurely. "May the Warrior give your sword-arm strength and the Father wisdom to guide it." Gentle approval seemed to flicker across Ser Jorian's handsome face as he bowed and withdrew. Larra tried not to bristle or roll her eyes: she despised the Andals' gods – because the only person she had ever known to worship them had despised her. It said a lot about the southern gods that a woman who wished death upon innocent children was considered to be godly.
Larra stared as Lord Carys Velaryon approached. Not because his skin was dark as midnight and as lustrous as velvet, and she had never seen anyone from or descended from the Summer Isles, but because he was taller than the Greatjon. The only person she had ever met taller than the Greatjon was – well…giants. Lord Carys had cropped dark hair and a short beard swathing his strong jaw, and Larra thought he was incredibly handsome. He was accompanied by a dazzling redhead with creamy skin and sapphire eyes, children surrounding them: their skin was not as dark as Lord Carys' but there was no mistaking that they were his children, from the elegant young woman standing taller than the redhead, her tight curls piled high on her head, to the older boy with an easy grin and sparkling hazel eyes, the younger boy with a shy smile and wild black curls, and the twin toddlers clinging to the redhead's skirts. The entire family wore rich furs and the details in their clothing were all in varying hues of teal. Larra glanced across the hall to the hearth, where Darkstar caught her eye and winked, smirking. It gave the immediate impression of togetherness, of belonging – of strength. The Velaryon seahorse was worked into the embroidery on the ladies' gowns, the eldest son's cloak and studded on the pauldrons of Lord Velaryon's thick leather armour.
"Your Grace," Lord Carys said, his voice deep and attractive. "May I introduce my wife, Lady Vialle of Lys, and my sister, Lady Calista of Driftmark."
Larra sat up a little straighter, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips, and she hoped Calanthe had a good view of Lady Calista Velaryon as she strode forward confidently, her dark eyes full of challenge. She shared her brother's decadent dark skin: her head was shaved shorter even than her brother's yet Larra thought she was undeniably beautiful, possibly even more so because her shorn head threw her features into relief. Strong, fierce and beautiful. Much shorter than her brother, there was a ferocity in Lady Calista's eyes that made up for the height difference. Lady Calista wore vibrant Essosi garb – richly embroidered, patterned textiles and beadwork in hues of teal, faded by sunlight – under scarred Dornish-style leather armour and carried a simple spear. Looking at them both, Larra knew instantly that Lady Calista was far more dangerous than her brother, who exuded an air of calm and warmth, smiling as he lifted one of his twin daughters into his arms, carrying her easily on his hip. Gesturing to the willowy young woman with deep, warm skin and tight curls piled high on her head, tumbling around her temples, Lord Carys said, "This is our eldest daughter, Lady Viana, our sons Callan and Cosimo, and our youngest daughters, Caryna and Cora."
"You are very welcome at Winterfell," Sansa said warmly, and Larra smiled at the little girl hiding behind her mother's skirts. Lady Viana seemed close to Larra's age and her elegant features blossomed into a smile full of warmth when she caught Larra's eye.
"We bring five hundred heavy horse and a thousand spearmen and archers," Lord Carys said. "And my sister is worth more than a dozen Unsullied on her worst day."
"I can believe it," Jon said, eyeing the lady's scarred armour and determined scowl. Lady Calista's chin rose, her scowl softening, and several men behind her chuckled softly.
Ser Crissofer Caron and Ser Cassander Swann came next, bowing low. Larra glanced subtly over her shoulder as she heard Sansa rustle her gown, and saw her sister's gaze resting with barely disguised mistrust on Ser Cassander Swann. She reached out and touched Sansa's hand: Larra tilted her head curiously but Sansa just smiled blandly back at her.
"Ser Cassander, have you met my sister Lady Sansa before?" Larra asked, as the knight rose.
"No, my lady, I am sorry to say that I have not yet had the honour," he answered politely. "My brother Balon serves in the Kingsguard and knew Lady Sansa at court."
"Ah," Larra said softly, nodding, and noticed Ser Cassander looking rather contrite, his gaze flicking to Sansa. He had not been at court but the whispers of Sansa's mistreatment at the hands of King Joffrey's vicious pet Kingsguards had spread far. Ser Balon was no Meryn Trant, Sansa had told Larra, but he had done his duty by the King, no matter that chivalry should have demanded he protect Sansa instead.
"Ser Balon is a man of duty and valour," Sansa said quietly. "Our Dornish guests tell me that Princess Myrcella could ask for no finer protector." Ser Cassander bowed graciously, giving Lady Nym and Darkstar a sidelong glance. Darkstar glowered back.
Next came four men who resembled each other fiercely, all of them good-looking and scarred and as tall as the steeples of a sept. Their fur-lined cloaks were stitched with white quills over the breast, and their armour was dented and scratched but well-made. Ser Cadmian, Ser Castor, Ser Cormac and Ser Cedric were brothers from the Parchments.
"House Penrose?" Jon frowned subtly, glancing over at Ser Davos.
"Their brother Ser Cortnay remains castellan of Storm's End, Your Grace," Ser Davos reminded him. "He refused to yield the castle to Stannis."
"And he holds it still," said Ser Cadmian stoutly – or was it Ser Castor? There were too many Penroses, and they looked far too similar thanks to their beards. "Until a true heir returns."
"He'll have a long wait," someone muttered, but Larra noticed Ser Davos' beard twitch as he glanced surreptitiously at Gendry. Gendry caught Larra's eye, his expression solemn.
After the Penroses came Ser Yomer Lantel, a tall man wearing traditional plate-armour of the Westerlands, covered with leather for the winter yet still emblazoned with two snarling lions rampant. Chain-mail glittered beneath the red-dyed leather embellished with gilded-steel details. Ser Yomer had very long blonde hair and dark brows drawn in almost perpetual anger over dark, cunning eyes.
Offhandedly, he introduced his sister, Lady Rohanne. She wore a fine dress of red wool twill, delicate gold jewellery and a simple golden braid entwined with sinuous gold chains and ribbons, and dipped a pretty curtsy, her braid falling over her shoulder. Despite their long journey, her crystalline pale-green eyes were bright as she said, as if she had been holding it in for too long, "Your Grace, you train your women to fight?"
Her brother interrupted before Jon could answer.
"Rohanne, war is the province of men," he scolded her.
"What is province?" Karsi muttered to a Knight of the Vale, frowning. His response got an angry scoff from the fierce Karsi.
"In the North," Larra interjected with a bite, as Karsi narrowed her eyes on Lord Yomer, muttering quietly to her companions, "we acknowledge that those without swords are the first to die upon them. And we need every able-bodied person to fight if we have a hope of surviving the battle to come."
"Have you ever fought, my lady?" Lord Yomer said coolly. Larra held his gaze.
"More often than you, by the state of your armour," Larra responded coldly. The Northern lords laughed richly; the Valemen looked as if they wished to but honour demanded they respect a fellow knight – even a Lannister knight. He was a Lantel, a cadet branch, not a true Lannister, but that was close enough. From her perch, little Lady Lyanna Mormont gave Ser Yomer such a chilling look that it was a wonder he did not expire from frostbite.
Ser Yomer barely managed to rein in his disdain as he swept his dark eyes over her. She gazed past him, to a young woman with billows of curling blonde hair the colour of ripe wheat in the sunshine, a pretty nose and sparkling dark-emerald eyes. She wore a wool gown similar to Lady Rohanne's, but where Lady Rohanne's was dyed a vibrant blood-red, the bodice and sleeves richly embroidered with gold-work, the dye on her dress was less striking, and the only embroidery was a hint around the cuffs and at the high collar.
"Who is your companion?" Larra asked, and it was Ser Jaime rather than Lady Rohanne who answered.
He stepped forward, and Larra noticed that he gestured to the young woman with an affectionate smile, a lightness in his eyes as he glanced at her. "My lady, this is my cousin – "
"Joy!" The young voice rippled through the quiet of the hall, and a heartbeat later there was a banging and scraping of benches and the Lannister girls flung themselves at the young woman, wrapping their arms around her waist and tugging on her skirts, gripping her hand.
"Careful, girls," Larra admonished gently. "You'll rip her to shreds if you're not careful."
"My lady, this is my cousin, Joy Hill," Ser Jaime said, and his gaze drifted to the Lannister girls.
"We believed the bowels of Casterly Rock had been emptied of Lannisters," Larra said quietly, and the hall chuckled at her use of words.
"It would seem not," Ser Jaime said, watching the Lannister girls carefully. He glanced at Larra, a question in his gaze.
"Girls," she called gently, and they stopped chatting animatedly with Joy Hill to peer at her. She had rarely seen the girls so excited. "You've forgotten your manners. Introduce yourselves to your cousin." She nodded at Ser Jaime.
Narcisa, ever the lady and their leader, swept an elegant curtsy. "Seven blessings on you, cousin. I am Lady Narcisa Lannister. This is Lady Delphine and Lady Crisantha." The two girls curtseyed; Crisantha did not raise her eyes off the floor. "This is Lady Altheda and Rosamund and the baby is Leona."
"And I'm Calanthe," declared the girl, striding forward in her leathers. She did not curtsey. Instead, she boldly strode up to Ser Jaime and said, "I wish to see the stump."
Larra laughed.
"Calanthe!" Narcisa hissed.
"What?" Calanthe asked, wide-eyed.
"Your cousin Calanthe remains untamed," Larra told Ser Jaime, whose eyes glittered with humour.
"How refreshing," Ser Jaime said, his lips twitching.
"We are constantly reviewing tact," Larra told him. "Calanthe…" Calanthe sighed heavily, rolling her eyes in annoyance.
"Fine," she huffed, then frowned at Ser Jaime. Firmly, she vowed, "Later."
Ser Jaime glanced at Larra, who smirked. "You dare not refuse her," she said richly, and Ser Jaime smiled.
Joy Hill curtseyed prettily to the high table and allowed her cousins to lead her eagerly away, Delphine resting her head on her cousin's shoulder, Rosamund climbing into her lap for a cuddle. Larra felt a sharp pang in her chest as she watched, a sudden sadness gripping her – as if she was losing them. Leona glanced over at her, her curls bouncing about her ears, and smiled around the thumb she was sucking: she waved a hand eagerly at Larra. The tension in her gut eased, and Larra smiled back. Ser Jaime watched her carefully.
Lord Tarly failed to conceal his reaction when the last of the lords and knights stepped forward to bow deeply at the high table. He was an older man, and gazing at him, Larra was struck by how handsome he was, even in his later years. He was richly tanned, with icy grey eyes and steel-grey hair braided messily down his back. His trimmed steel-grey beard had two fierce streaks of silver-white from the corners of his firm lips that brought a long-toothed snowcat to Larra's mind. He was broad-shouldered and muscular still, and he wore battered Westerosi armour over Essosi style robes, the sigil over his breast scarred with many deep gouges and scratches. She noticed that knights and lords stepped away silently to make way for him and he moved through the crowds as if he was used to being minded whenever he entered a room. Larra managed to discern lips and skulls on his battered armour and her lips parted.
"Your Grace," he said softly, bowing deeply to Jon. Then he turned to Sansa and Larra, bowing deeply to them, and gave a third bow to Brandon. "I am Lord Richard Lonmouth."
He gazed unabashedly at Jon, then at Larra, holding her gaze confidently. Beside him, Ser Jaime watched Jon and Larra carefully, flitting his gaze to Lord Lonmouth.
"These are my wives," he said, gesturing behind him: two ladies – two Essosi ladies of surpassing beauty, dressed in their traditional garb under heavy, lustrous furs – stepped forward. They were light and dark. "Sia of Lys and Noor of the Old Blood of Valyria." Sia was a willowy, ethereal beauty with a sheet of shimmering pearl-gold hair that fell straight to her bottom – glorious proof of her Valyrian ancestry – and wide sky-blue eyes that gave her an air of absolute innocence. Her opposite was Noor, an exotically beautiful woman with delicious olive skin and sultry dark eyes enhanced with kohl. She had incredibly full lips and a figure that could stop a dragon in its tracks.
Larra couldn't help wonder if she in any way resembled Robb's Volantene wife.
"Wives?" Larra smiled. Sia and Noor had to be half Lord Lonmouth's age at least, closer to her own. "My lord, you must be fond of ear-ache."
Lord Lonmouth chuckled, though his humour did little to thaw the iciness in his pale eyes. "I would like to introduce my son by my deceased wife…Ser Rhaegar." A good-looking man a few years younger than Larra stepped forward and bowed.
At the sound of his name, a hush seemed to fall over the hall, which then rippled with whispers.
There were likely many men across Westeros named for the Last Dragon: before the Rebellion, he had been the most famous man in the seven kingdoms, respected and praised, admired and lusted after by everyone. Larra had just never met one.
"You fought for Prince Rhaegar during the Rebellion," Jon said. Larra glanced over her shoulder at him. He had yet to approach her to discuss the awful truth but she was not yet running out of patience. She knew Jon better than anyone: it would do more harm to force the issue.
"And I would do so again, if history were to repeat itself. Ser Rey, Ser Jorian, Lord Carys and I fought for Prince Rhaegar," Lord Lonmouth said, without any shame. "Lord Carys, Dagonet and Ser Arthur Wylde over there were all young squires who had their first blood fighting beside the Last Dragon."
"You have been in Essos ever since?" Larra asked.
"Under the Usurper's rule we were branded traitors," Ser Rey said, pulling a face. He seemed easy-going and good-humoured, but the stain against his honour stung.
"Ever since the Usurper's death, Westeros has called us home," Ser Jorian said, his voice rich with barely suppressed emotion.
"You could not have long reclaimed your homes when the armistice was called," Larra said solemnly. To make it home, after so long, only to leave it? "I know how much you sacrificed to leave them again."
"If we did not, we would not long hold our lands as our own," Lord Lonmouth said simply. "For our children, and their children, we must fight. If we shall live, we shall live, but if we must die, it shall be an honour to die beside you, fighting for what is right and good."
Dry paper rustled and Larra jerked her head up, blinking blearily as the firelight flickered, logs crackling merrily in the hearth. Disoriented, Larra glanced around, sitting up straight. She had sat down with her crochet: it rested in her lap, fingers tangled with yarn. The papers she had been reading through had tumbled to the flagstones.
"You're sleeping more than you used to," Sansa said, and Larra moaned softly, rubbing her face, and glanced around. Her sister sat in her fur cloak, hair glimmering copper in the candlelight. Larra eyed the fine leather gloves Sansa always wore. The panelled walls of the library made it far warmer than most of the halls and chambers yet Sansa still wasn't quite used to the bitter cold of the North after so long in the capital. "The bruises under your eyes are finally fading."
"How long was I asleep?" Larra sighed.
"Not long," Sansa said, smiling softly, the corners of her eyes rather pinched. "You obviously needed it."
"What are you doing?" Larra prompted, untangling the yarn from her fingers and leaning over to gather the papers she had dropped. Her head spun with momentary dizziness and she moaned, settling back in her high-backed armed chair. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw several maesters rummaging in the stacks and sitting at tables beneath hammered bronze sconces, candlelight illuminating them and shedding more light on their parchment as they worked.
"Ravens finally made it through the storms," Sansa sighed heavily.
"Dark wings, dark words," Larra muttered grimly, pinching her eyes.
"Not all," Sansa said.
"Truly? People rarely send ravens to share delightful news," Larra said. She frowned. "I suppose all news may be delightful from a certain perspective."
"Shall I start with something delightful first?"
"No, chase the sour with a little sweetness," Larra grumbled. She heard Sansa tapping one of the raven-scrolls against the table and glanced over. "You look worried."
"Some of the Riverlords have sent word that the Kingsroad is littered with bodies. The horde is travelling north," Sansa said quietly.
Larra went still at her tone. "They're raping and enslaving their way north?"
"No," Sansa said. "They are…behaving, by all accounts."
"So why do you look so grim?"
"The maesters say the pale mare rides with the Dothraki." The rustling of the maesters was stifled by the crackling of the fire in the hearth.
Immediately, Larra's stomach burned with dread. The pale mare. Dysentery. The only force in the world powerful enough to wipe out entire armies – besides dragons. And the Dothraki were riding along the Kingsroad, at the end of which the entirety of the North was confined in Winterfell.
If the diseased Dothraki reached Winterfell, all the living the North would be wiped out in days. If she attempted to take the North from them, Daenerys would be queen not of ashes but of corpses. She and the Night King would have else something in common – beyond the burning desire to dominate all life and turn it to their will.
"Have they reached Moat Cailin?" Larra asked.
"Not yet," Sansa said, checking the scrolls.
"I'll ask Bran to keep an eye on them. Hopefully they'll take opportunity to shelter at Moat Cailin," Larra said.
"And if not? If they continue north, spreading disease as they go?"
"Happily the entire North has already emptied to Winterfell," Larra said. "That is both blessing and curse. Our people are safe from the spread of disease as the Dothraki journey through our lands… But if they reach Winterfell, they risk every man, woman and child confined here."
"So what do we do?" Sansa asked. She gazed at Larra with wide blue eyes, her entire body turned to Larra. She wasn't asking as an offhand comment: Sansa was looking to Larra for answers because she had no idea what to do.
"Maester Luwin always separated us when we suffered sicknesses," Larra mused. "He burned our linens and clothes, kept us bathed and clean and prevented us from joining the nursery even for days after we recovered… In the True North, the Free Folk know that cleanliness prevents sickness… There's a reason the south is riddled with plagues while the North rarely suffers such devastation."
"There aren't enough people to spread it," Sansa said, and Larra nodded.
"I am no maester but continuing to keep ourselves clean and segregating any who suffer sickness seems the most sensible way forward," Larra said.
"And when the Dothraki arrive?"
"If they arrive," Larra said, sighing heavily. "Dysentery is the dread of armies all over the world… With Lady Targaryen's screamers travelling as one horde, they are incredibly vulnerable to disease. Not to mention, she burned any provisions they might have claimed. Their resources will be spread too thin. The weakest will fall to sickness first and it will spread like wildfire through the rest." She sighed heavily, rubbing her face and trying to remember all she had learned from Maester Luwin about the Dothraki, and all she had learned from observing them during Bran's memories of Daenerys Stormborn's life since her marriage to Khal Drogo. "Saying that, though, the Dothraki are brutally efficient when it comes to dealing with threats against the horde. They will eliminate any threat at the first signs of sickness."
"What if their loyalty to Lady Targaryen overpowers their better sense?" Sansa asked.
Larra pondered this for a moment. "The Dothraki follow strength: Lady Targaryen is nowhere to be seen, let alone follow. The horde is led by her chosen commanders: they will make the decisions to protect the horde."
"Maester Luwin burned our things," Sansa said softly, gazing at the fire, and Larra nodded, frowning at her. "Daenerys would never entertain the idea, no matter how many lives it would save."
"What idea would that be?"
"The Dothraki spread disease throughout the Riverlands and threaten the North," Sansa said. "If the Dothraki have not done what is necessary, it may fall to us to eliminate the threat they pose before they can reach Winterfell."
"You're not in the capital any more, Sansa," Larra reminded her. "Say what you mean."
"If the horde threatens to bring disease to Winterfell, you may need to use Rhaegal to burn them before they can infect us all."
Larra stared at Sansa, unable to form a response. The faint scratching of quills had gone silent.
Sansa had never been in the schoolroom with them – with Larra, Jon, Robb and Theon. She had never engaged in the fiery debates Larra and her brothers had had about the Targaryens and their moral responsibilities to the people they ruled over as dragonriders – and their failings, most clearly highlighted in their actions during the Dance of the Dragons. Sansa had cared only what the Queen Who Never Was had worn to her wedding, how Queen Alicent wore her hair in the sept, what the court fashions had been under the influence of the Realm's Delight, whether Queen Helaena had preferred embroidery or music as her hobby. Arya had been the one enthralled by the strategies adopted by the Blacks, wept furiously at the deaths of Vermithor and Seasmoke, Sunfyre and Vhagar, had listened with wide eyes to Larra and Robb debating what might have happened had Aemond One-Eye sided with the Blacks, or had Princess Rhaenyra never abandoned court but rather built political alliances and strengthened her position to take the throne once King Viserys had died. Arya had listened to Larra and Theon arguing themselves hoarse over the moral implications of unleashing dragons on human armies, and Robb and Larra arguing about why no Westerosi lord had ever dared bare swords against the Targaryens, for the simple fact that the Valyrians had used their dragons to enslave millions of people in the most fearsome empire known to history.
Larra had always believed that it was morally abhorrent to use dragons as weapons to destroy and terrorise people into subservience. As a girl, she had believed – believed even more strongly now – that dragons had been rare and precious creatures after the Doom, that for millennia they had been yoked to the wills and whims of humans and forced to go against natures. But they were wild creatures and now, more than ever before, thanks to her bond with Last Shadow and her time in the True North, she was firm in her conviction that wild creatures should be free.
She was bonded with Rhaegal, as she was with Last Shadow, but that bond did not mean ownership. Last Shadow had been her companion and protector, sometimes her provider, her guide and her last ember of hope. Though the bond with Rhaegal was newer, they were no different. Rhaegal was a wild creature born to live free, to soar high above the tallest mountain, sailing through the clouds, nothing but stars above them, diving to the ground only to hunt and to sleep. They were as wild as Last Shadow and the more time Larra spent with them, the more she knew that Rhaegal was just as cunning and clever as the direwolf, as intuitive and loyal, their bond as deep and abiding as hers with Last Shadow's.
Larra would no sooner force Last Shadow to fight for her than she would Rhaegal. To force an animal to do what she was perfectly capable of doing herself – hunting, killing…
Staring at Sansa, her voice as solemn as she had ever heard Father's, Larra said quietly, "Those who pass the sentence should swing the sword. Those are Father's words, why he always executed deserters and traitors… If you are to take a person's life, you owe it to them to look them in the eye and hear their last words. If you cannot – "
"Perhaps they don't deserve to die after all," Sansa said, clearing her throat awkwardly. She had heard Father's words from her before: Larra should have realised Sansa would remember them.
"It should never be easy, to take another person's life from them," Larra said grimly, suppressing a flinch as memories of her time in the True North clawed and clamoured inside her mind. "Dragons… Even in our own lifetime, we have seen how easy it is to unleash a dragon's wrath upon armies. She never gave it a second thought, except to congratulate herself on her easy victory. She never looked those men in the eye to see their terror, their fury, their desperation to return home, to see it in their faces as they realised that they would never see their loved ones again. She never saw their courage as they met their deaths. In the Field of Fire, she didn't see thousands of men with lives and families and stories of their own. She dehumanised them. That's how she could relish burning the Lannisters. And in a heartbeat they were no more than ash, the wind carrying the ghosts of their screams away."
"I shouldn't have asked you to use Rhaegal," Sansa said softly.
"You won't be the last," Larra said grimly, her voice full of dread. Dragons had been extinct for a century and a half. They had been used to terrible effect to forge the Seven Kingdoms and the first Westeros had learned of their resurrection was the Field of Fire, the Lion Culling. They were creatures of immense power. Many would fight to either kill or control the dragons before history could repeat itself, before the Targaryens – Daenerys – could regain their hold, before the dragons and those who rode them became a threat to every person in Westeros who had enjoyed their freedom from a magnificent and terrible dynasty.
Westeros had been rid of dragons for a century and a half. And with the dragons' deaths, the power of the Targaryen dynasty had waned, until their once-splendid family was reduced to nothing more than two vagrant children begging in the dust of Essos.
"The Targaryens did what the dragonlords always did in Valyria: they used their dragons to enslave and intimidate," Larra said softly. "We've been free of that dread for a century and a half. I won't let Rhaegal be used to confirm Westerosi lords' worst fears about dragons."
"Even if it means thousands will die?"
"The Dothraki know how to rule themselves," Larra said. "I could fly Rhaegal down to the Neck and pre-emptively burn the entire horde to prevent disease from spreading any further than Moat Cailin but I would forfeit the healthy riders to stop the sick ones. It's also not my place to interfere, when the leaders within the horde are likely discussing how to stop the disease from wiping them out: the Dothraki are brutal but they aren't stupid. They will be as worried about the disease spreading through their riders as we are of them bringing the sickness to Winterfell…" She sighed and shook her head. She glanced at Sansa. "I could fly to the Neck tonight and burn the entire horde and we could say it was to prevent the threat of disease…but what happens the next time we hear of a potential threat? Shall I fly off on Rhaegal to deal with it before it can affect us? That's how the Valyrians created their empire. It's how the Targaryens ruled for a century and a half. It is not who I am. It's not who Father raised me to be… I will not turn that magnificent creature into a weapon. They're as wild and as free as Shadow and should be allowed to be so."
"I'm sorry that I've upset you," Sansa said quietly.
"You haven't," Larra said dully, shaking her head. "You will not be the last to suggest I use Rhaegal for their firepower now that we are bonded. It's just the first time I've said aloud what I feel about it. It's better we discuss it than me tearing the head off some poor lordling for suggesting it."
"I've yet to see you truly snap at anyone, even when you're angry," Sansa said gently. "And I have seen you angry in council meetings."
"Have you, then?"
"Your anger is so cold it burns," Sansa said sagely. "When you're truly angry, you go quiet. It's scarier than any red-faced lord bellowing across the table. That's why everyone listens to you."
"Because of my glacial rage?"
"Because your rage is as beautiful as it is terrifying. And unlike the men's tantrums, your fury is constructive," Sansa said. "It seems to sharpen your focus."
"I suppose it does," Larra sighed. She reached up to rub her aching eyes. She frowned. "You said there was good news, comparatively."
"Oh. Highgarden has been reclaimed by Ser Garlan Tyrell."
"I thought the Tyrells were all dead, but for the rosebuds Jon met at Dragonstone. Which is he, then?"
"Garlan the Gallant," Sansa said, her eyes lighting up. "The second son – Margaery and Loras' older brother."
"And now heir of Highgarden. What is his nature?"
"As his nickname suggests. At my wedding to Lord Tyrion, all of the guests shunned me – all but Ser Garlan and his wife Lady Leonette. Ser Garlan told me that Lord Tyrion is a 'bigger man than he seems' and that I would have been far happier with him than with Ser Loras… Ser Garlan danced with me. He was very kind."
"And now he shall rule the Reach," Larra mused. "Well, he sounds wise enough."
"How do you know he is wise?"
"He saw Lord Tyrion's true worth," Larra said simply. "Did the raven-scroll say anything else?"
"It detailed the allies who helped reclaim Highgarden and mentioned that Lady Olenna Tyrell, despite being fragile from poor health, has returned to the Reach with her surviving granddaughters, including Lady Alinore Tyrell. She's the young widow of Willas Tyrell. They married quietly after the bombing of Baelor's Sept."
"Willas was the eldest son?"
"Yes, and heir to Highgarden before the Uprooting. Lady Alinore is heavy with child, according to the maester who wrote the raven-scroll," Sansa mused.
"Narcisa sometimes mentions the rosebuds they met at Dragonstone," Larra said thoughtfully. "She seemed impressed by Lady Alynore's elegance, which is something… Well, at least Ser Garlan has Lady Olenna to guide him as he rebuilds the Reach. The smallfolk will have continued on as they always have, likely already planted their crops long before the Lannisters raided Highgarden's stores. The smallfolk have prepared for the winter – though I do wonder what the new Lord Tyrell will do with those crops."
"What do you mean?"
"Winter harvests are limited. That means Lord Tyrell must choose between feeding his people or selling the crops elsewhere at a premium," Larra sighed. "I know what I would do."
"Keep your people fed."
"Father raised us with the belief that ruling is a responsibility, not a right. Few share that sentiment. The Reach's wealth comes from its fertile lands. Though nobody admits it, that wealth relies on the people who work the land," Larra said. "The Tyrells don't work the fields: the smallfolk do. Without the smallfolk, there are no crops, there is no wealth."
"What about the places that rely on the Reach?" Sansa said.
"King's Landing will be the first to succumb to famine, as it did during the War," Larra said, and Sansa nodded thoughtfully. "Thousands will die of famine before sickness grips the city."
"You think a plague will strike the capital?"
"It usually does," Larra mused. "War, famine, plague… One tends to follow the other. They are brothers in competition to see who can create the highest death-toll… The War of the Five Kings was unique in that a plague did not strike, but then again the Tyrells prevented a famine in the capital."
"So not only did Daenerys Targaryen murder an entire House that kept the Westerlands united, she has likely sown the seeds for a famine that will weaken the capital," Sansa sighed.
"I do hope Cersei is smart enough to use that to her advantage," Larra said thoughtfully.
"You sound almost as if you support her on the Iron Throne," Sansa said.
Larra shrugged. "Cersei likely blew up the Sept of Baelor, yet I feel far safer with her on the Iron Throne than Daenerys."
"Because of her dragons," Sansa said quietly. Any conversation about the Iron Throne and Daenerys inevitably returned to the topic of dragons.
"We've seen what she does with them when she doesn't get her way," Larra said. "Aegon, Rhaenys and Visenya managed to strike a very precarious balance during their reign…Jaehaerys managed it, too. That's why he remains the most celebrated king of the Targaryen dynasty… He understood that dragons were a last resort where politics failed. Daenerys has no understanding of politics. She places no value in them whatsoever."
"She's managed to get this far."
"Through her dragon's brute power. In Meereen, she made a half-hearted attempt at politics and when she faced pushback from the nobles and the freed slaves, she imposed her will through Drogon, regardless of the wants and needs of the Meereenese people," Larra said. "She ruled through absolutism, the same way Maegor did."
"Absolutism?"
"Maester Luwin used the term to describe Maegor's reign. Royal power unchecked and unrestrained by any other institution – whether it was the Citadel, the Faith or the nobility," Larra said. "Maegor answered to no-one, thanks to the dragons."
"In fairness to Lady Targaryen, I do not believe she is as tyrannical as Maegor."
Larra gazed at her. "Not yet. He was not born Maegor the Cruel. Just like Princess Rhaenyra: she did not turn from the Realm's Delight into Maegor with Teats overnight."
"Then how did it happen?" Sansa asked quietly.
"They made choices. Little ones, at first. Choices in their own lives, then choices they made in reaction to things that occurred outside of their control," Larra said. "The same as Daenerys has: she has made choices. She made the choice to set the Lannister armies ablaze, along with the food from the Reach. She made the choice to murder the Lannisters in cold blood. She made the choice to abuse Jon."
"And she made the choice to join the fight against the Night King."
"Yes," Larra said, admitting, "We saw in Brandon's memories that Daenerys' choices were usually well-intentioned. I do believe that she began with the best intentions."
"But?" Sansa prompted, smirking, her eyes alight. Everything before the word 'but' is horse-shit.
"But her dragons have enabled her to get her way," Larra said. "She does not have to listen to anyone's better judgement if she doesn't wish to. Daenerys confuses her arrogance with experience. She believes that she is right and good and that anyone who defies her is evil and her enemy. And she is allowed to continue believing this because she has the power to murder anyone who gets in her way. When she murders people she believes are her enemies, it further enforces that she is doing what is right and just. Otherwise, wouldn't they have the strength to stop her?"
"So she is as ignorant as I am."
"You are far from ignorant. You have learned from every experience you have survived," Larra said. "You were once naïve: your mother fought to preserve your innocence as long as possible. But you were educated, as a lady, yes, but you were educated. You had lessons in history and basic economics and geography… You learned at your mother's knee what it means to rule a castle. Daenerys has had no education whatsoever. She has had no formal tutoring but she also refuses to learn from those with more experience. Anyway… Enough talk of her. What does Winterfell's capacity stand at, with our new guests' arrival?"
"We are almost full," Sansa said. "Any more people arrive, we will have to house them in Winter's Town."
"Any complaints from those newly-arrived?" Larra asked.
"No. they're happy to have sturdy walls and a blazing fire," Sansa said, gazing at Larra. "It was interesting to see who joined Ser Jaime to come north. Most of those men fought beside Prince Rhaegar. He must have been one man in a million to inspire such loyalty even after death."
"Like Jon."
A.N.: FIVE DAYS! I need House of the Dragon.