A.N.: Fifty chapters! I remember when I was struggling with chapter seven! Valyrian Steel has become so much more than I thought it would be – I've realised that I'll have to break up Larra's journey into different stories, otherwise this story will have 200+ chapters!
HAPPY D-DAY!
Can anyone remember if Arya knows about Jon and Larra? I've completely forgotten if I've told her!
Valyrian Steel
50
Preparation
A fierce wind howled beyond the diamond-paned windows, shuttered to the darkness and the cold, and Larra rocked contentedly in her rocking-chair, fingers busy with her crochet, one of her kittens, Arianwyn, purring deeply around her neck while Uhtred lay curled up before the hearth, a tiny ball of charcoal fluff. She gazed across the hearth, watching Gendry. They had sent the children to bed after baths and his hair was starting to curl beautifully all over his head as it dried before the fire. His head was bent over Dark Sister, the blade turned to the firelight. His lips moved silently as his thumb stroked the blade almost lovingly. He was counting the ripples. Counting the folds in the steel. By day, he spent his hours hammering at the anvil, working on anything and everything Winterfell needed to rebuild and to fortify. Larra had insisted that Gendry be given the time every day to work on his Valyrian steel.
They had to continue as if they would survive the war to come. And that meant that Gendry had to continue working on his skill with the complicated techniques inherent to forging Valyrian steel – a process unlike any in the world. Its art had been lost.
Gendry was the first in over four centuries to create fresh Valyrian steel. Every blade in existence could be re-forged yet only Gendry understood the technique and had the skill to forge it anew. He spent a lot of time talking quietly with Bran in the library, discussing technique and long-forgotten lore about forging Valyrian steel.
He sighed softly and sheathed the blade, resting the scabbard against the mantel and leaning back in his chair, frowning thoughtfully.
"You're quiet this evening," Larra said. Even with the children, who usually coaxed rich laughter and creative play from Gendry, he had been gentle. Not subdued, but not as open and charismatic as Larra knew him to be. He had sat quietly with Neva and Briar, reading.
"I've just been thinking," Gendry sighed.
"About what?"
"We finished the scorpion," Gendry said quietly, glancing over at her. His eyes glowed sapphire in the firelight.
"That's a good thing," Larra said.
"I didn't think we'd have the time to finish it," Gendry said, glancing at her. She was reminded once again that Gendry had been to the True North, had faced the enemy, had looked them in the eye and fought, and had survived. He knew what they were to face, better than most.
"The Wall still stands," Larra told him gently. "Until the Others find a way to bring it down, I thank the gods for every moment more we have to prepare."
"There's only so much preparation we can do," Gendry said. "Soon, we'll have full armouries, the Unbroken Tower will be rebuilt with the scorpion in place… Winterfell will be the best-fortified castle in Westeros…and we will have to wait. The men are…"
"The men are what?"
"Some question whether the Night King exists at all…else they believe he's just another lord or a wildling king who's taken a fancy name. They think him and his armies will be stopped by any storm," Gendry said.
"You know the truth," Larra said. She gazed at Gendry. Sansa and Jon spent a lot of time with the lords and knights. Gendry heard the muttering from the smallfolk. "But you are right, there will come a time when there is no more work to do… People will become bored, then worried, then angry… What do you think we should do?"
"People need something to do…but we also need something to look forward to," Gendry said softly. "You know…I still remember when the King threw a tourney for your father."
"You're not suggesting we host a tourney?"
"No," Gendry chuckled at her appalled expression. Tourneys were a southern institution – the pastime of a people who had forgotten what it meant to fight to live, who made a spectacle of warfare, turned brutality into a pageant. "But we need something. Something that keeps us motivated. The longer the Night King takes to get here, the less people will take the threat seriously." He glanced at Larra and gave her a small smile, adding, "The dances help."
Almost every night, there was music and dancing. And Larra had ensured the halls were opened to anyone, not just the nobility: the smallfolk enjoyed a dance as much as any highborn. Not everyone turned up to the dances but there was always a vast array of people eager to dance – to court their sweethearts. Larra often took the older Lannister girls, dragging Cadeon along: it was the only chance Narcisa had to dress up and show off her dancing skills. And it was an opportunity for Larra to educate the girls in manners: she encouraged the girls to dance with whoever asked them, no matter how lowborn – because she did the same. She loved to dance: she loved the music. No matter how exhausted she was, she took the time to enjoy a few dances.
It was also good for the smallfolk to see one of the Starks among them, to see her as approachable: and many did approach her. Many issues that might have escalated to a significant problem for Jon were diffused by Larra in the dance-hall. She saw things and heard things that rarely made it up to the King's solar. She was reminded of Father inviting someone to dine with him every day, to hear about their lives and their troubles, keeping in touch with the fears and desires of his people. Jon had yet to come to the dance-hall yet he was just as active about Winterfell, ingratiating himself among the smallfolk who were the life's-blood of the castle, whose work allowed everything to run smoothly, even when no-one saw it. Jon had spent too much time at Castle Black, where every man's efforts contributed to their survival, not to appreciate the invisible workforce that kept Winterfell going.
"When are you going to come dancing with me?" Larra asked, and Gendry smiled softly, his eyes glinting in the firelight.
"Not tonight," he said, chuckling as she yawned widely, shuddering. She smiled blearily, disentangling her crochet from her lap.
"I think it's high time you learned how to use one of those," Larra said, nodding at Dark Sister. Gendry raised his eyebrows. "I know you favour your hammer…but what if it is lost? You need to be able to wield whichever weapon you can get your hands on."
"I see what you're doing. You're trying to work me to exhaustion so you can get a good night's sleep," Gendry said, winking, and Larra laughed, grinning.
"And deprive myself the pleasure of your body?" she said, her eyes roving over his muscled body. She gently pulled Arianwyn from around her neck to snuggle with Uhtred on the hearth and Gendry reached for her hips as she climbed into his lap. She cuddled up close, enjoying his scent and his warmth. He leaned up to tenderly kiss her throat, her jaw, and she cradled his face in her hands, stroking her thumbs over his cheekbones, before leaning in to give him a tender, lingering kiss.
"Promise me you'll learn to wield a sword," she whispered, her eyes filled with earnestness. "I know you know how to fight. You can kill a man with one blow of your fist if you had to… I don't want you surviving this war to be a matter of chance."
He reached up, smoothing away the curls tumbling about her face, and sighed heavily. "Would you still marry me if I didn't?"
"I don't know," Larra said honestly. "Your bedsport's not enough to make me forget you had the chance to learn how to defend yourself to the best of your abilities and you wouldn't take it."
"Hm. So when should I go to the training yard, then?" Gendry asked, his smile gentle, and Larra released a breath, a knot unfurling inside her chest. She hadn't realised how much she had been worrying about Gendry being untrained with most weapons. Possibly because she worried about so much that each individual worry seemed negligible unless she focused her energies on it.
"I want to find someone who has the time to train you properly," Larra said.
"You don't want me joining the other smallfolk?"
Larra sighed heavily, admitting to Gendry, "Most of them will die in the battle. They're being taught enough to give them hope that what they know will be enough to keep them alive, so they have the courage to fight at all." Gendry nodded solemnly. "After the war, Jon will need a master-at-arms. I've seen you teaching in the forges, Gendry. You give clear instructions, you demonstrate, you're enduringly patient and you're always learning. Most masters-at-arms have had a sword in their hands since before they can even remember, even a wooden sparring-sword. It makes it harder to teach when you already take the fundamentals for granted…"
"You want me to be Jon's master-at-arms?" Gendry asked.
"I want you to have as many options as possible," Larra said honestly.
"And what about the forges? Valyrian steel? What about that?" Gendry prompted.
"You are the only person in the world able to forge fresh Valyrian steel," Larra said. "That makes anything you create priceless."
"Why do you sound as if that's a bad thing?"
"I'm not sure how you can capitalise on it," Larra said. "Even if people learned what you're capable of, they wouldn't believe it unless they saw it with their own eyes – and who is going to journey to Winterfell, just to see if the rumours are true?"
"What if we didn't stay in Winterfell?"
"Where else could we go where either of us would be safe?" Larra said quietly. She remembered how Jaime Lannister had looked at her in the hall the day he had arrived: she remembered Lord Lonmouth's shrewd pale eyes as he gazed at her and Jon. The rumour was Richard Lonmouth had been squire to and knighted by Prince Rhaegar himself during the Rebellion. Benjen, Bran, Larra, Meera, Sansa, Jon, Gendry – too many people now knew the truth.
It was no longer a secret.
Too many people knew the truth about Larra and Jon's parentage. Too many people looked at Gendry and were struck by his resemblance to his father Robert Baratheon.
Rhaegar's daughter and Robert's son.
She remembered what the Penroses had said about their brother Cortnay, who held Storm's End in readiness for a true heir to return. She had seen Ser Davos' glance at Gendry, the last known Baratheon bastard.
Larra's sleep was restless of late, dreading what happened if they did survive the Night King.
"One thing at a time, then," Gendry said quietly. He tilted her chin with a gentle touch and kissed her. "Who are you going to get to teach me?"
"I have an idea," Larra said. "I wonder whether he'll agree, though."
"Not the Kingslayer?"
"No," Larra chuckled. Skilled as Ser Jaime undoubtedly was – he had worn the white cloak of the Kingsguard, despite everything – he was skittish as a scolded cat. He had not yet had the time to settle down in Winterfell: very few in the castle actually appreciated that he had given up so much to come so far – on his own. He did not come as a Lannister of Casterly Rock: he came to Winterfell as an anointed knight of the Seven Kingdoms, sworn to defend the innocent. "He could have a lot to teach you, but I don't think it wise to put Robert Baratheon's son before him. He undoubtedly has his own feelings about his brother-by-law."
"More than a few, if it's true he cuckolded him," Gendry snickered, and Larra rolled her eyes.
"Cersei was a fool," she sighed, shaking her head. She scoffed. "She and Princess Rhaenyra made the same mistake: they were arrogant enough to believe they would never have to face the consequences of their actions."
"Rhaenyra had a dragon, though," Gendry pointed out.
"And her father's love," Larra sighed, shaking her head. "Cersei certainly had neither."
"No; she had a drunk fool husband," Gendry said. He frowned at her. "You've mentioned Princess Rhaenyra quite a lot lately."
"Have I?"
"Yes," Gendry said. "She's been playing on your mind."
"I suppose she has."
"Why?"
"The Dance of the Dragons was essentially a family squabble over succession," Larra said quietly. "When it becomes known who Jon is – what he is, the tension with Lady Targaryen will escalate. People will make their choice between a woman who had never set foot on Westerosi soil, but who has dragons, and a man who has sworn his life to defend the realm, a celebrated swordsman and a leader of peoples he united, who had the political savvy to survive some of the most cutthroat cultures in Westeros, who puts his people first. He's the son of a highly respected High Lord and has risen to the rank of Lord Commander and King through his own tenacity. Jon will be dragged into any conflict over the Iron Throne regardless of what he wants. There will be too many people who have no desire to see either Cersei or Daenerys on the throne – in spite of the fact Daenerys has dragons. Jon is the surviving son of Rhaegar Targaryen. A male heir takes precedent over everyone else in the line of succession."
"Explain it to me again," Gendry frowned. "Where does Daenerys come in the order of things?"
"Aerys fathered Rhaegar, Viserys and Daenerys," Larra said, sighing heavily, more exhausted than she wanted to admit. The bed called to her: but her time alone with Gendry was precious and she would not waste it. "Rhaegar fathered Rhaenys, Aegon, Jon and me. After Rhaegar died and Aegon was killed in King's Landing with Aerys, Jon became King the moment he was born."
"Though he's never been crowned."
"By anyone except the North, where he's earned his crown," Larra said proudly, and Gendry nodded, frowning.
"If Jon was to sit on the Iron Throne, now, what would the line of succession be?" Gendry asked.
"If Jon took the Iron Throne and died without children, any male children I have would be considered for the throne," Larra said carefully. "Though that has not always been the way of things. Princess Rhaenys was passed over, and so was her son Laenor – likely the lords of Westeros did not want a regency with Princess Rhaenys ruling in her son's stead, among other reasons."
"What about Daenerys?"
"She wouldn't get a look in," Larra said, shrugging, as she stroked Arianwyn, who had leapt up onto the settle with Uhtred, who was pouncing on Gendry's fingers as he wiggled them playfully. "The only reason people would support her is through fear of her dragons – the same way the early Targaryens retained power."
"Why does she say she was born to rule the Seven Kingdoms?" Gendry frowned. "Why does she keep going on about how the Iron Throne is hers by right?"
"She doesn't know about Jon. She was raised believing the Iron Throne belongs to Targaryens: as far as she knows, she is the last of them," Larra shrugged. "By process of elimination, she is the last Targaryen left to claim the title. As for her being born to sit on the Iron Throne – that's pure arrogance."
"What happens when she finds out about Jon?"
"We'll find out soon enough, I imagine," Larra sighed gloomily.
"I'd best practise with that sword if I'm to protect Jon," Gendry mused.
"I'm afraid even Valyrian steel doesn't hold up to dragon-fire," Larra said, resting her head against Gendry's chest. She felt his enormous body tense, though his heart thumped steadily.
"That's what you're worried about," he said quietly, and she sighed.
"She's burned anyone who got in her way," Larra said softly. "And no matter how worthy Jon is of ruling the Seven Kingdoms – and he is: he'll always do his duty by his people – she's made up her mind what she wants. He stands in the way, threatens all she has convinced herself is her destiny. She'll burn him just to stop the confusion."
"Even though she desires him?"
"Especially because she desires him," Larra sighed. "She'll consider it a betrayal."
Three betrayals you shall know. Once for gold, once for blood and once for love.
Larra sighed and rubbed her face, tucking herself closer to Gendry. She put little stock in prophecy but the strange woman's words resonated with her in that moment.
Once for blood… Daenerys had betrayed her brother in Vaes Dothrak.
Once for gold… She had betrayed the Wise Masters of Astapor.
Once for love?
Who did Daenerys love?
There was no good dwelling on prophecies. If reading High Valyrian epic poetry had taught Larra anything, it was that prophecies never came about the way people convinced themselves they would.
"Larra…"
"Mm?" she murmured, her eyes closed, dozing in Gendry's arms.
"Would your children be in the line of succession if they were fathered by a bastard, even if we were married?" Gendry asked quietly, and Larra's eyes opened. She gazed up at Gendry.
"I suppose it would depend on how many people supported us," Larra said quietly. She gazed at Gendry. "It…"
"What?"
"I don't know what's going to happen after the war," Larra said, hedging, "but we may need more southern allies."
"You mean Stormland allies," Gendry said. She smiled: he was so shrewd! She always appreciated just how sharp he was – as sharp as the Valyrian steel he alone could forge.
"There's an abundance of them," Larra said, "and they know who you are just by looking at you."
"Most of them fought against my father," Gendry said, and he scoffed. "Says a lot about him that Robert's own bannermen chose to fight for Rhaegar."
"Not all of them," Larra said gently, though Lord Lonmouth's sharp eyes flickered through her mind, the grim Ser Jorian Gower, the charismatic and handsome Ser Arthur Wylde and his half-brother Dag. Men who had followed Prince Rhaegar into battle without hesitation, honoured his memory even now.
"They chose to spend over twenty years in exile rather than kneel to a lesser man," Gendry said sadly. Larra leaned up, cradling his cheek, and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. She knew Robert Baratheon's worst traits weighed on Gendry – the whoring and abandonment of the children he fathered so carelessly, the disinterest in ruling, blinding himself to Cersei's treason, leaving the Seven Kingdoms vulnerable to a cruel tyrant and a gentle boy.
"You're nothing like him," Larra said softly, and he gave her a glum smile. "Except that you have it in you to inspire as much loyalty as my father had for Robert."
"You want me training with Stormlords?" Gendry asked.
"Actually, no," Larra said. "I have asked Darkstar."
"The Dornishman?" Gendry asked, and Larra nodded. She had noticed Ser Gerold's gaze focused on Gendry often enough, those beautiful violet eyes of his narrowed with anger. Larra could only assume it was residual fury against Gendry's father – for the man who had smiled down at Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon, their bludgeoned, bloodied bodies draped in Lannister cloaks, and called them "dragonspawn." The North remembered the Red Wedding, but Dorne had never forgotten their princess.
"He is an exceptional swordsman," Larra said softly. Darkstar was exceptional: she had watched him training in the yard, facing off against multiple opponents with a single sword. She had heard of Braavosi water-dancers but Darkstar truly made swordsmanship a form of art, mesmerising and breath-taking, a fluid, lethal dance.
"He spends a lot of time gazing at you," Gendry remarked.
"Does he, then?" Larra asked. Gendry nodded, his sapphire eyes searching her face.
"When he's looking at you seems to be the only time he's not angry," Gendry mused. He caught Larra's eye. "But I can taste his fury whenever he looks at me."
"Robert was vile about Princess Elia's murder, and the butchery of her children," Larra told him. "The North remembers, but Dorne has never forgotten their princess."
"It was the Lannisters who butchered Elia and her babies," Gendry frowned, then sighed. "I suppose Robert benefited from it, stepped over their dead bodies to take the throne."
"That's what they say," Larra sighed gloomily.
"So why – " Gendry frowned at her, scrutinising her expression. "Why pair me with a Dornishman?"
"As I said…we will likely need southern allies," Larra sighed. "You've seen how hot-headed Lady Nym is, felt Darkstar's anger. It would not be beneath the Dornish to seek vengeance for Elia by assassinating you, just for being sired by Robert Baratheon. If ill-feeling toward you would keep them from allying, better they can learn for themselves the very best of you before it ever becomes an issue."
"You sound so confident I'll win them over," Gendry said, with a wry smile.
Larra leaned in and gave Gendry a gentle kiss. She adored this fierce, gentle, cunning, kind man. "You shall."
Days later, Larra wandered the battlements, gazing down into the training yards. Grit crunched underfoot and a gentle breeze gentled the sting of the sunshine against her exposed skin. It was always informative to learn what went on when people thought no-one else was watching. Though she had no reason to distrust Ser Gerold Dayne, Larra wanted to see what happened when he and Gendry were alone.
The Darkstar had agreed to train Gendry but Larra was no fool: she knew he had agreed purely because she had asked him.
From what she could see, though, Darkstar took his charge seriously. He had his silver hair tied back with a suede cord and wore leathers rather than armour, his boots dirty from the grit and sludge in the courtyard his cheeks were flushed with colour as he sparred with Gendry. Next to Gendry, Darkstar looked as slender as a whip and almost short, neither of which he was – he was well-built with broad shoulders and stood as tall as Jon, yet Gendry dwarfed all but the Greatjon and Lord Velaryon. Larra watched Darkstar but she also watched Gendry. Shrewd as he was, Larra knew he had it in him to be an expert swordsman. As she watched, she could see him assessing Darkstar's every movement, anticipating every strike, reading his intentions in the subtlest movements of his body.
Darkstar seemed to understand very quickly that Gendry was incredibly bright, and as Larra watched he pushed Gendry from rudimentary skills every highborn lad learned before he was six to trickier techniques. And the longer the sparred, the more Gendry learned to read Ser Gerold's movements, the less Darkstar gave away.
"I hear you're behind this," said a familiar voice, and Larra smiled as she turned to Ser Davos.
"For better or worse," she acknowledged.
"It's right he should learn to wield those swords he's so skilled at crafting," Ser Davos said stoutly. "I'm no swordsman myself, but he looks a natural at it."
"Gendry's incredibly shrewd," Larra said, watching him and suppressing a swoon. The way his body moved… He had removed his overcoat and jerkins and sparred in his leather trousers, tall boots, undershirts and the black linen shirt she had darned only days ago: the fabric was wearing thin from the constant friction against his muscled body. He was solid in a way many men were not: his sheer size was as much an advantage as his cunning. Darkstar understood that, too, adjusting how he taught Gendry certain movements to accommodate and increase the advantage of Gendry's size. "He's anticipating what Ser Gerold will do next. That's the mark of an expert swordsman."
"It's the difference between life and death," Ser Davos said bluntly, and Larra nodded.
"Did Jon send you out here to assess the progress of the lessons?" she asked.
"Came out here to enjoy the sunshine," Ser Davos said, his eyes crinkling with tension as his beard twitched. "I don't anticipate we'll have much opportunity to bathe in the sunlight soon enough."
"Not too soon," Larra said, raising her face to the Unbroken Tower, still undergoing reconstruction – but even though they had more than adequate manpower to rebuild, they were still limited by the same constraints all builders suffered, no matter the season: they were beholden to each different aspect of the construction being completed in a timely manner, and when one workman encountered a setback it affected everyone else. Currently, she could see the workmen sitting on the high hammer-beams, laughing and talking and sharing a song as they watched the fighters below.
"Aye, not too soon," Ser Davos agreed. He had not been beyond the Wall, Larra recalled, yet he believed Jon wholeheartedly and supported him – had supported Jon since King Stannis had appeared at Castle Black, blocking Mance Rayder's army. Ser Davos' beard bristled again. "My lady…"
"I'm not a lady," Larra said softly, sighing. No-one at Winterfell seemed to know how to address her: Larra herself did not know. All she knew was that Jon had earned his crown, though he had never worn one. What he had done on his own merit had no bearing on who she was.
"Perhaps not," Ser Davos said, shrugging, "though it makes folks happier to call you one. Must be odd, all these people who once treated you as Ned Stark's bastard bowing and curtseying and vying for your approval."
"The ones who treated me as a bastard are dead," Larra said, aware her tone was cold and grim. In truth, the only person who had ever made her feel like a bastard was Lady Catelyn. Everyone else had known and liked her for her nature, regardless of her name. "What is on your mind, Ser Davos?"
"It's Jon," Ser Davos said bluntly. "He's…spooked. More so than after Eastwatch. In a way I've not seen him… I know many of his brothers are dead, yet even Samwell Tarly he keeps at arm's length."
"He hasn't spoken to you about what troubles him?" Larra asked.
"No," Ser Davos said. "I know I'm Jon's advisor purely because he had no others but –"
"Jon trusts your judgement," Larra said quietly, glancing at Ser Davos. "Don't underestimate your worth, Ser Davos. You have influence with Jon because he respects you."
"Either way… Something's happened that he won't share with me," Ser Davos said. "I don't meant to go behind his back, and I'd never ask you to share anything you know without his permission…"
"But?"
"There's that tricky word – your brother told me everything before the word 'but' is – "
He broke off, remembering that he was speaking to a lady. Larra smirked. "Is horse-shit."
"Aye," Ser Davos chuckled. "I'd never ask you to betray Jon's confidence but if he won't talk to me, I'd ask you to speak to him. He needs someone to talk to about whatever has him so wound up."
Larra smiled sadly. She was the last person Jon wanted to speak to. She was the one who had turned his world upside-down with news about their true parentage, had thrown him into chaos trying to work out what it meant that they had never been bastards, that Father had lied to them, that Prince Rhaegar had sired them, that Lyanna…Lyanna, who had been in the crypts all their lives, their mother, had been dead all along…
She had allowed Jon the time to approach her, knowing best how to handle her brother when he was overwhelmed, yet perhaps his time at Castle Black and in the True North had changed him in ways even she could not know. It was a sudden, horrible thought, that she didn't know Jon nearly as well as she once had. At his core, he was still the Jon she had always loved and respected, even admired. But they had spent nearly eight years parted. Half the lifetime they had spent together.
They had both endured things they could never accurately share with each other. How could they?
Yet despite their different journeys, they had both made their way back here. They both had the same secret that they hadn't even realised they had been carrying in their blood for decades. They shared Father's greatest secret, the best-kept secret in Westeros. They shared the tragedy and trauma of being the surviving children of the Last Dragon, of being the product of the tragic romance between Prince Rhaegar and his beloved Lady Lyanna.
"I'll speak to Jon," she promised Ser Davos. His beard bristled as he gave her a strained smile, bowed, and walked away, idly strolling the battlements and gazing out over the moors, glittering with fresh snow. She sighed and turned back to the courtyard, frowning when something caught her eye.
Though people passed through the gates, no-one ever stopped at the enormous stone direwolves situated either side of the heavy oak door leading into the crypts, let alone entered through it.
But someone did. She watched a travel-stained cloak disappear into the darkness, and watched for a good long while, waiting for the figure to re-emerge. They never did, and she was drawn by curiosity and a fierce sense of protectiveness – only Starks went into the crypts. It was the resting place of the Kings and Queens of Winter.
She turned her attention to the courtyard, watching Gendry and Ser Gerold sparring, yet was always mindful of the cloaked figure that had slipped into the crypts. When a half-hour had passed and still no sign of the man reappeared, Larra slipped down the gritted steps into the yard and tucked her cloak around her as she descended the dank steps into the crypt. It was always so much colder in the crypts than anywhere else in Winterfell, even the ice-stores primarily used by the maesters.
The soft golden glow of candlelight coaxed her deeper into the bowels of the crypt, and she pondered whether the sight had been welcoming to the intruder. Or whether they had been relieved to find a glimmer of golden light in the pressing darkness, aware that the spirits of the dead Kings of Winter did not take kindly to being disturbed by an outsider.
Most of the lit candles were clustered around Father's statue, where his bones now rested after their long journey home. They cast eerie shadows along the great hall of kings, as if the very shades of the men and women who had been interred here walked among them. Larra frowned in the darkness, watching silently as the figure before Father's statue reached out, clumsily attempting to light another candle.
"A haunting likeness, isn't it?" Larra said softly, and Ser Jaime turned sharply toward her. He grimaced as candle-wax burned his finger, and he hastily set the candle down.
Straightening, he turned his gaze to the statue. "He looks as grim and tired as I remember him."
Larra chuckled softly: to those who had not known him, Father had been grim-faced and stern. He had always been tired, Larra remembered, from the responsibility of so many lives in his hands.
Ser Jaime murmured, "He must have been exhausted, carrying the weight of it with him all those years."
Larra sidled up to him and gazed into Father's face. Her stomach hurt, looking at him. How she wished he was flesh-and-blood. "What weight would that be?"
Ser Jaime gazed at her steadily. "The truth."
Her lips twitched, and she reached out to light a candle. "That's a funny word, isn't it?"
After a long moment, while Larra lit a candle and nestled it carefully among the others, Ser Jaime said, "All these years, he kept you here, safe and protected. No-one ever even suspected – not even Robert." He went quiet, then scoffed, saying in a scalding tone, "Why would he? He was thoughtless!" He shook his head, his dark-gold hair glinting subtly in the firelight. His eyes shone like the purest emeralds, and they remained focused on Larra's face, wide and truly seeing what no-one else had. He shook his head slightly. "No-one gave it a second thought that Ned Stark fathered bastards during the War. Especially as you grew up to look exactly like him… It was never Ned you took after. It was her." He glanced down the hall, to the serene likeness of Lyanna, where her bones were interred between her older brothers. Candles flickered all around her, and Larra wondered if Ser Jaime had lit any for her. His tone soft and thoughtful, he admitted, "I danced with her, once, at Harrenhall. You're exactly like her," he said wonderingly, gazing at Larra now. "Except for your eyes and your smile. They're his. And your brother's voice: I should have recognised it when I heard him speak in the Dragonpit. Rhaegar had the same iron tones in his voice…" He shook his head, sighing heavily. "You were never Ned Stark's bastard. You weren't hers, either."
"No?" Larra asked blandly. "How would you know that?"
Ser Jaime seemed to think of his response carefully before he turned to her, his eyes gleaming with earnestness, solemnly telling her, "Because Rhaegar Targaryen was everything people ever said he was. He was the most honourable, decent and thoughtful man I have ever known." Larra just smiled sadly, but she froze when Ser Jaime said, "Lord Lonmouth was there when they wed."
"Oh, was he?" she smirked delicately, though her heart squeezed with dread. They had spoken of Rhaegar and Lyanna – of Jon and Larra?
"On the Isle of Faces, before the Old Gods and the New," Ser Jaime said fervently. "Rhaegar wed Lyanna…and Ned Stark spent the rest of his life protecting their secret. Their children…" He scoffed gently, shaking his head again. "Robert used to say it must have been a rare wench who made Ned Stark forget his honour." Ser Jaime gazed at Larra, his expression almost heartbroken. "He sacrificed his honour out of love for his sister. Which makes his life – and his death – so much more honourable and tragic than anyone could ever have imagined." He sighed, and Larra thought he looked rather haggard in the flickering candlelight. His shoulders slumped, and Ser Jaime Lannister looked bereaved as he gazed at Ned Stark's stone countenance as if he would find the answers to all life's questions chiselled in the stone. "He haunts me as much as Rhaegar."
"They haunt you?"
Ser Jaime murmured, "In my dreams, I see them."
"Why do you think that is?" Larra asked quietly.
Ser Jaime's lips twitched and his eyes glinted with the irony he shared with his younger brother. "Trying to guide me between choosing what is right and what is easy…" He tilted his head and watched her carefully. "You knew all of this."
"Father never spoke of it. Not a word of it, not even to us," Larra said honestly. She hadn't known Lord Richard Lonmouth had attended Rhaegar and Lyanna's wedding. "I learned of it months ago; Uncle Benjen confirmed it."
"What are you going to do?" Ser Jaime asked.
Larra blinked. "What do you mean?"
"You – your brother – you are the heirs to the Iron Throne – "
"On which your sister sits. Over which, Daenerys Targaryen is willing to burn the Seven Kingdoms to ash," Larra reminded him. "The Night King threatens to bring an end to this world; that is all I have it in me to think about. It's all Jon and I care about."
"Lord Lonmouth took one look at you and guessed the truth," Ser Jaime said urgently. "Word will spread."
"There's not much anyone can do about it while we're snowed in at Winterfell," Larra said, shrugging delicately, "even if we wanted to."
She gave Ser Jaime a meaningful look and wandered back to the stairs, climbing out of the crypts.
Footsteps echoed softly in the darkness and Jaime sighed, turning away from the empty stairs to gaze at the elegant statue of Lady Lyanna and her noble brother Ned.
Out of the darkness, Tyrion waddled into the warm glow of the candlelight. A stoppered wineskin hung limply from one hand, his wine-glazed eyes sharper than usual as he stared open-mouthed at Jaime.
Jaime's lips parted but he had no idea what to say.
Tyrion said something Jaime would never forget, because he had never heard it from anyone before: "I think perhaps you're the cleverest Lannister."
A.N.: I thought it would be interesting to start setting up things like succession and Larra's perspective on what it means to be a dragon-rider, and how dragons should be used (if at all), and the fact that if Larra or Jon play the game of thrones, it won't be out of personal ambition but out of others pushing them into that position.
I just love the Lannister brothers' relationship. Oh, also, I can't wait to find ways of including whatever we learn about Larra's dagger from HotD in this story!