A.N.: HOTD SPOILERS: I'm writing this post-premiere of House of the Dragon episode one. I loved it. I'd also forgotten how brutal and gory GoT could be! I like that the showrunners made a point that Aemma's childbirth was something that was being done to her rather than her having any decision in – highlighting that she is the Queen but she is still part of a deeply patriarchal society that puts the King's heirs above all else. Also, Alicent's anxiety is palpable throughout the episode – the nail-biting and finger-picking, poor girl! Anyone else need a shower to get the grease off when Otto Hightower suggested she go visit the King wearing one of her mother's gowns? Putting her in her mother's gowns is forcing her to assume an adult's role. The writers and Emily Carey did a fantastic job in making young Alicent a very sympathetic character. And Daemon…my Daemon. Matt Smith was always going to be excellent, but he really was fabulous in this episode. The oozing charisma, the undercurrent threat of violence, the distrust toward Otto (saying what we all know but which Viserys refuses to see) and his genuine love for his family and compassion during the funeral scene... Fabulous. Oh, and the prophecy! It wouldn't be included without George's approval, which says a lot. It's likely that was the prophecy Rhaegar discovered in his youth, which prompted him to become a warrior. Also, it makes Rhaenrya's motivations to take the Iron Throne more than purely just ambition – she always has the prophecy in the back of her mind.

What did everyone else think?

Also, I have been watching a lot of YouTube lately and found Hill's Alive's video "Mhysa Is A Master" which goes into great depth about the situation with Mirri Maz Duur and the implications for Daenerys' arc, and details why Daenerys succeeded in hatching dragons while Aegon the Unlikely failed at Summerhall. It's worth a watch.

Valyrian Steel

51

The Spider and the Raven

Parchment and paper rustled as Larra looked through her old sketches and studies.

"What are you doing?" Bran asked quietly, his eyes lighting up as he played with Arianwyn and Uhtred in his lap, Uhtred's tiny claws flashing in the firelight as he swiped at Bran's long, spidery white fingers.

"We spent all our childhood outside with Maester Luwin, learning," Larra said, sighing heavily. "Running about the godswood collecting nuts and leaves and feathers and all sorts, searching through the library's archives to learn what treasures we had collected. We learned through exploring the world around us. Until we defeat the winter, the children must suffer to learn from stuffy old books… Maester Atten tells me the girls are losing interest in their lessons. I would, too, shut inside that dreary old chamber for hours on end. I thought these might spark something if we were to scatter them about the schoolroom with Rickon's treasure troves. At the very least, they'll brighten up the schoolroom."

"These are not your dream-paintings," Bran said softly, turning his inscrutable dark eyes on Larra's drawings and labelled sketches and diagrams.

"No," Larra said. "Maester Luwin said I could be a naturalist – he said some maesters devote their entire lives to gathering samples of every species of flowers and birds and such. I used to think maybe I'd spend my days riding throughout the North doing the same – documenting every plant, flower, fungi, bird and mammal north of the Neck."

Bran's smile was sad and slightly ironic. "You never did get the chance to document all your discoveries."

"No. Killed a fair few of them, though," Larra said, and Bran's eyes glinted as he chuckled softly. Glimmers of the little boy he had once been shone through that rare smile. "How are you feeling today?"

"I'm very well, thank you," Bran said softly. His eyes glimmered with that rare excitement. "Lord Tyrion has completed designs for a funicular."

"Is that fancy lordling teaching you strange tongues?" Larra teased, and Bran laughed.

"They have them in Casterly Rock," Bran said, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. "A funicular has two counterweight carriages attached to opposite ends of a haulage cable. They're used to mount a steep incline. As one carriage ascends, the other descends at an equal speed… Lord Tyrion believes he may even be able to design a miniature version to put inside the Unbroken Tower so that I can move freely with my chair rather than having to leave so many lying about."

Larra lowered one of the studies she had been examining, of numerous wildflowers that grew abundantly in the moors around Winterfell. It was one of the last paintings she had completed before they had had to flee. She remembered the day she had spent with Rickon, Bran lying on a blanket in the tall grasses with his head resting on Summer as Rickon gathered flowers for her. Rickon had found the nest of a tiny harvest mouse. She could still hear his excited cries echoing over the moors, see his hair glimmering gold as he gestured wildly for her to join him – and his wide eyes as a snowy owl had soared through the air, swooping to snare prey. Her stomach hurt and she winced.

"Bran, is it your wish that you take up the Tower as your home once it is complete?" Larra asked. They had done what they could to make Winterfell as navigable as they could for Bran in his wheeled chair – but it was simply too old. Tight spiral staircases and uneven floors worn down over a thousand generations made it difficult to adapt things for Bran, especially considering that no space went unaccounted for while the entirety of the North was in residence.

"Where else shall I find a place for myself?" Bran asked, in his gentle, sad voice. His eyes glinted, however, and Larra smiled at the enthusiasm in his face, that little boy she so loved shining through this young man's mask. "The maesters have designed it especially for my use. I shall have an unimpeded view of the godswood – and access to it, if the craftsmen are truly able to build a funicular from the top of the Unbroken Tower into the godswood."

"But would you be happy there," Larra said earnestly, "separated from the rest of us?"

Bran gazed at her, his expression almost curious. "I bear the name of Stark but I am so much more than that now…and yet so much less. I cannot be a son of House Stark – I will never bear arms and fight for Jon, nor hold lands in his name, nor marry to strengthen political ties on his behalf, or father children to take my place once I am gone. I am memory. No more and no less. Memories are all well and good but they do tend to get in the way of what needs to be done."

"Memories are important," Larra said, almost defensively. She wouldn't have Bran belittling his own importance, though in truth his words resonated with her. She had known it the moment they reached the great weirwood, seen Lord Bloodraven in his throne of weirwood roots – Bran was no longer Brandon Stark. He was…other. A strange, unknowable being with eerie power – the power of knowledge. He had become something else. He would exist as he was now: the world's memory trapped in living flesh.

"We live only as long as the last person who remembers us," Bran said thoughtfully.

"You remember everything," Larra countered.

"Yes."

Frowning, allowing herself a small moment of curiosity about Bran's unnerving gifts, Larra asked, "Do you…do you disappear into the past often?"

"Not very often," Bran admitted, his voice gentle. "Only when it is necessary."

She cleared her throat. "Have you… You haven't slipped, have you? The way… You told me you slipped into Hodor's mind, that's why he – Tell me you're being wise with your talents."

Bran smiled blandly. "I do only that which is necessary."

"Such as?" Larra prompted, but Bran just smiled, stroking Uhtred's ears while Arianwyn pawed daintily at his paralysed leg, asking for attention.

"Lord Bloodraven showed me the path," Bran said enigmatically.

"Bran…" She wanted to say so many things: that she feared losing him to the memories, to the past. That she feared more his ability to slip into people's minds even in the past. She dreaded that anyone might find out about Bran's power – and manipulate or threaten him into using his power to do their bidding, whether or not they understood that the past was already written. There was no altering it…

Working out Hodor's fate and Bran's part in it, and reconciling it with that nugget of wisdom from Lord Bloodraven, was an ongoing process for Larra.

Instead of telling Bran her fears, she said instead, "When you find yourself bored, do you revisit entertainments from the past?"

"Sometimes," Bran admitted. His eyes saddened. "Nothing in the last century, though."

"Why is that?"

"It would be too…tempting," Bran admitted. "I am less likely to lose myself to the memories if I remain removed from the lives of those I revisit."

Her heart squeezed, realising in that instant that if Brandon outlived them all – and Lord Bloodraven's extended lifespan hinted at such a thing for Bran – he would deny himself the ability to visit them. They would be too tempting for him. He might be lost under the waves.

"What do you like to visit? Tourneys?" Bran had always wished to be a knight, after all, and he never had seen a tourney before his fall.

"No, not tourneys. Plays and festivals and musical galas," Bran said, smiling softly.

"You never showed a fondness for music before," Larra mused.

"It's all here, in my head," Bran said, raising a slender finger to his brow. "I can listen any time I wish."

"Bully for you," Larra said. She adored music and dancing, had often bemoaned the dearth of true musical genius in the North, had tried to coax Father to encourage the birth of culture in Winter's Town. He had laughed and said most people did not care to bring culture to the bearded wildmen of the North. Yet Lord Manderly had always arrived at Winterfell for any feast or gathering with musicians in tow, ready to play until their fingers bled to please Lord Stark – and please Larra. She smiled at Bran. "Crisantha and Rosamund have that lovely pianoforte. Perhaps you could learn to play. We could play together! It would keep your fingers warm."

"I have pondered other ways to do that," Bran said thoughtfully.

"Such as?" Larra prompted, after a moment's silence. He gave her an enigmatic smile.

"Sansa tells me you wished to discuss the Dothraki horde travelling along the Kingsroad," he said, evading her question. Larra sighed.

"Yes," Larra said. "Did she also tell you that she asked me to burn the horde if they ventured too close to Winterfell?"

"I do not believe she would have asked if she had not been confident you would refuse," Bran said thoughtfully.

"Testing the waters, was she?"

"She is right to do so," Bran said. "You are a dragon-rider now, Larra. There are many who wonder how you will use Rhaegal."

"Rhaegal wasn't born a weapon," Larra said, with a bite. "I shan't treat them as one. I'm… I am truly blessed to be bonded with them."

"Yes," Bran smiled softly, his eyes glinting with that familiar warmth and excitement she had so missed in her brother's unfamiliar face. "Daenerys looks at Drogon and sees power. You look at Rhaegal and see freedom."

"Some would argue they are one and the same," Larra said quietly.

"Some. The wisest know better," Bran said softly. Larra sighed and returned to her studies, organising them into neat piles – insects, amphibians, the far from abundant Northern reptiles, birds, mammals, trees, nuts and wildflowers. She smiled softly, realising she was missing one particular, incredibly rare reptile. Rhaegal.

She was one of only two dragon-riders in the world. For a century and a half, dragons had been extinct. Now she had the opportunity to share the knowledge only she could accumulate – that only she knew how to share.

Larra gazed at one particular study she had done, of seven species of Northern newts, annotated to the very last detail and painted with vibrant watercolours until they nearly jumped off the page. It occurred to her, not for the first time, that she knew this land – its cultures and customs, its past and its people and every creature that had adapted to thrive here, in the harshest environment on the continent. She was as much a part of the North as it was of her: the North was in her blood and in every decision she made. Her fate had been intrinsically tied with the land. She had been raised with the knowledge of those who had come before her, the wisdom of a man who understood his people and his responsibilities to them. She had been raised with Ned Stark's deep sense of duty. She had never once heard Father talk about their entitlement.

It was one of the vast differences between herself and Lady Targaryen – but perhaps one of the most significant.

Larra had been raised to think how she could utilise Rhaegal's potential to benefit as many people as possible.

Father would have balked at unleashing a dragon, even upon an enemy army. They may be enemies, but they were people – they had lives of their own, families who longed for their return, relied upon them. Who was Larra to deprive them of their protectors?

"Brandon…" She only ever called him Brandon when she was speaking to the greenseer rather than her little-brother. And there was a distinction. She cleared her throat. "Is it possible, do you think… After all you have shown me about her path thus far, is it in Daenerys Targaryen to change her course – to avoid becoming Maegor or Princess Rhaenyra?" She gazed at Bran, her eyes full of earnest worry.

The best and trickiest way of defeating an enemy was to nullify the threat they posed. If Daenerys continued on the trajectory she had set herself on, Larra knew it was a matter of time until someone had to stand in her way – to defend the realms of men.

And Larra was the only other dragon-rider in the world. Whether or not she wished it, the responsibility of stopping Daenerys may fall to her.

"Jaehaerys is credited with saying that every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin – and we hold our breath as we wait to see how it lands. That seems to oversimplify things," Larra said thoughtfully. "We are not born one way or another: we become who we are through our choices. Daenerys chose villainy when she murdered her slave Mirri Maz Duur. Daenerys believed her slave had dared rebel against her. Perhaps she even believed Mirri Maz Duur would better serve her in death than in life."

"That's an interesting observation," Brandon said softly. "Why do you say that?"

"The Tragedy of Summerhall," Larra said. "The only difference between Aegon the Fifth's attempts to hatch dragons and Daenerys' was the death of a magi."

"The Ghost of High Heart," Brandon sighed, his eyes twinkling with the shadow of a smile.

"Aegon the Unlikely was close to doing it, wasn't he – to hatching dragons into the world again," Larra said, and Brandon nodded slowly. "Pity. Then again, I shudder to imagine King Aerys on dragonback."

"Yes," Brandon said quietly. Something glinted in his eyes and Larra narrowed hers at him.

"Was it an accident that Aegon failed?" Larra asked, eyeing him shrewdly.

"A dragon was born that day at Summerhall," Brandon said enigmatically. "The only dragon we needed."

"Rhaegar."

"The Last Dragon," Brandon breathed. His eyes glinted again. "So people believe."

"Let them," Larra said sharply. She sighed and shook her head. "Daenerys couldn't have known how close Aegon was to successfully hatching dragons. But what happened with Drogo and their unborn child…the child born a grotesque, dead in her womb – the reason Drogo remained a husk despite the trade… Only death may pay for life. Daenerys learned only that lesson: not that she was morally reprehensible for murdering a slave she had only a belief had rebelled against her."

Larra bit the inside of her cheek, worrying her lip as she thought things over. Time and again she returned to the memories Brandon had shared of Daenerys' rise to power. Every time she reflected on them, she saw something new. The more she saw, the more she learned, and the more she dreaded.

"Could Daenerys be made to see how her choices are leading her to a precipice? If she continues on as she has, she will fling herself over it," Larra said. "Is it possible to bring her back from the edge? To make her understand the dangerous line she's flirting with?"

Brandon mused on the question for a while before answering. "The past is written: until the quill touches the parchment, the future constantly transforms itself. With very decision made, it shifts – even the minutest decisions have far-reaching consequences…like sinking a stone into water, the ripples spreading out."

"Can…can you see the future?" Larra asked, her heart in her throat.

"I can see possibilities. There are so many of them. With every decision made, the possibilities become fewer," Brandon murmured. "When you bonded with Rhaegal, you altered the course of many lives. Almost as many as when you chose Gendry as your partner."

Larra sighed softly. She did not care to know what Brandon did – when had the dragon-dreams ever helped the Targaryens who had come before her? Even her own dreams had plagued her, yet Larra believed she had experienced them through Lord Bloodraven's interference – so that when the time came, and Bran told her about his dreams, she would believe him. Support him. Do everything in her power to bring him to the three-eyed raven. So that they were in this position now.

Still…the knowledge Brandon had was closer to prophecy than reality and prophecies were notoriously unreliable. She knew that from the old poems and from watching Daenerys Targaryen's growing discontent and paranoia about the prophecies she had received from Mirri Maz Duur and the shadow-binder from Asshai, Quaithe.

"Brandon… We were speaking of Daenerys Targaryen. Does she have it in her to change her course?"

Brandon's eyes glazed over, the hand he had been using to stroke Arianwyn stilling, and eventually he sighed, his eyes sharpening one again. "Possibly," he conceded, though Larra noted the lack of conviction in his voice. "First, she must learn to listen."

"She'll never listen to anyone," Larra scoffed. "The dragons mean she doesn't have to."

"She'll listen to a Targaryen," Brandon said softly.

Larra eyed Brandon sharply. "Enlightening her about myself and Jon will only push her closer to the edge."

Brandon smiled. "I wasn't talking about you or Jon."

"Who, then?" Larra frowned. She grumbled half-heartedly, "Don't tell me there's another!"

Brandon gave her an enigmatic smile. After a moment, he asked, "Which of your ancestors would resonate with Daenerys, do you think?" Your ancestors… It still sounded strange to her ears. She was part of the most notorious dynasty in millennia, though so few knew it. She was happy to keep it that way, though was by no means naïve to think it would remain so.

"She has convinced herself she was born to sit the Iron Throne…" Larra said, frowning softly. A female dragon-rider with a heightened sense of her own entitlement. "Princess Rhaenyra."

Brandon's eyes glinted. "The Realm's Delight. Yes," he said softly. "There are many lessons Daenerys could learn from Rhaenyra. I can show her many things."

Larra started, gulping. "Do you think it wise to share your abilities with her?"

"A facet of them, perhaps," Brandon shrugged. "The past is fixed: no power in the world can alter it."

Larra stared at him. "Except you."

Brandon paused. He turned his dark eyes to her, and she could see the sorrow and regret in those fathomless dark eyes. "I have learned much since Hodor…because of Hodor," he said sadly. "And from the Bloodraven. He shared many secrets. It is time I shared some of them with you."

"Me?" Larra asked, then frowned, sighing heavily. She was far too tired. Her daily routine, though fulfilling, could be gruelling. Exhaustion had gripped her every night and Gendry had had to dig her out of the blankets when the maid came to wake her this morning – a rare thing. Meetings with the maesters, council sessions with the knights and lords, private lessons with Narcisa, time spent with the children, touring the courtyards, sitting with noblewomen, taking tea with the newly-arrived ladies, training in the yard, touring the castle to check on the progress of fortifications, writing new chapters for her story The Princess Bride to keep up with the demand from the children in the nursery eagerly awaiting the next instalment at bedtime – it was exhausting.

Flying on Rhaegal was her one respite from the constant demands on her time. She knew she took on too much yet she knew Sansa, even this cultured, mature version of her, well enough to see when she was becoming overwhelmed. She lightened Sansa's burden while her sister familiarised herself with a handful of necessary duties. Gradually, Larra would drip-feed the rest back to Sansa. But there were some aspects of castle life that Sansa had little interest in and less knowledge of – anything involving warfare. Her lessons had never extended to weapons, armoury, fortifications or strategy. She listened carefully to everything Larra said during council meetings and they picked over everything other knights and lords suggested in private to better Sansa's understanding…but she wasn't going to become an expert strategist overnight.

And the cost of failure was too great to risk allowing Sansa to cut her teeth on planning the defence of Winterfell.

So, she listened and observed when the older, more experienced lords and knights gave their input, as Larra did: she was still learning, too. And though she knew Winterfell better than anyone else present, she was not an experienced commander. She had ideas, and the knights and lords discussed their merit or adjusted the details that would be detrimental to their efforts.

Larra rubbed her eyes. "I don't think I have the patience to learn any more secrets."

"Lost knowledge, then," Bran smiled. "There is much you must learn, too."

"About what specifically?" Larra grumbled.

"How to train your dragon," Bran smiled warmly, and reached out, swatting at Uhtred, who yowled but leapt from the settle. Bran cupped his fingers over something on the settle and glanced at Larra. "When the last dragon died, the culture of dragon-riding died with it. Knowledge the Targaryens had brought from Valyria was forgotten, and then lost."

"I don't need to train Rhaegal," Larra frowned obstinately. "Training means the same thing as bending them to my will…Rhaegal is a wild creature – they should remain free."

"Free, yes. Yet you are bonded," Bran said lightly, peering into his cupped hands. She wondered what he had trapped in them. "Rhaegal will always be drawn to you, and you to them. Your bond with Rhaegal is different than the Targaryens' historic bond with their dragons."

"Because of the blood of the First Men."

"Yes. The warg lineage you inherited. The bond between you and Rhaegal is not born of blood sacrifice, which makes your bond with Rhaegal unique amongst dragon-riders…" Bran sighed heavily, tilting his head at Larra, his expression gently defiant. "I will share Rhaenyra's life with Daenerys – and you. You are the only true dragon-riders in the world. It is important you both understand what that means."

Larra gazed back at her brother. She voiced the worry that had been niggling in the back of her mind since Sansa posed the question about the Dothraki horde. "Do you have the same worries for me as I do for Daenerys?"

"Never," Bran answered immediately, with absolute certainty. It was…heartening. A knot unfurled in Larra's chest, and she relaxed slightly in her seat. "Your life has been utterly different: you learned young to rely upon yourself, your education and your cunning, your physical power. You know what you are capable of: you have no need to rely upon a dragon to get what you want."

"All I wanted was to keep you alive," Larra said honestly.

"And you did," Bran beamed. "You did what no-one else in the world could do. But you've yet more to do… I would like to take you into the past, Larra. You were always entranced by the Dance of the Dragons, by the idea of the Rogue Prince and the Sea Snake and the Queen Who Never Was… Learn from them what it means to be a dragon-rider."

Larra frowned. Only the Sea Snake survived the Dance – Cregan Stark had to be convinced by Corlys Velaryon's own granddaughters to spare his life. As for Princess Rhaenys and Prince Daemon… They had been the height of the Targaryen dynasty, a family at its most powerful, a time of the most plentiful dragon-riders in Targaryen history this side of the Conquest…and they had been instrumental in its decline.

The only thing with the strength and will to destroy the House of the Dragon was itself. And in tearing themselves apart, the Targaryens had ripped the Seven Kingdoms to shreds along with them, leaving nothing but a smouldering husk behind.

Her voice cool, Larra said, "I'd rather set a new precedent for what it means to be a dragon-rider."

A knock on the door echoed inside the chamber and Larra started. "It is Maester Arys, my lady."

"Let him come in," Larra called, mildly bewildered. She had not called for a maester. The door opened and Maester Arys, with his enviable beard and twinkling eyes, bowed low as he entered the chamber.

"My lady," he said, then bowed to Bran. "My lord. I received word you require my assistance."

"Do we?" Larra asked, glancing at Bran, who smiled blandly.

"Yes, indeed," he said softly, his eyes on Maester Arys. "Maester Arys, thank you for coming all this way."

"The Maesters' Tower is but a short distance, my lord. Are you or your ladyship in some discomfort?" the maester asked.

"No," Bran smiled serenely. "I have a favour which I would ask of you, Maester."

"A favour I shall gladly grant, my lord," Maester Arys bowed low again.

"Once upon a time, my sister Larra took lessons in High Valyrian with Maester Luwin," Bran said softly.

"I am aware, my lord," Maester Arys nodded. His eyes glinted. "Maester Luwin's progresses regarding the education of you and your siblings are much talked about in the Maesters' Tower. There is discussion that the Citadel should recommend they be the high standards to which all highborn children are educated."

"Maester Luwin was very thorough with our education," Larra said. "I'd say he would be proud, but Maester Luwin was the humblest man I have ever met."

"Maester Arys, if it is agreeable to you, I would like you to continue my sister's instruction with High Valyrian," Bran said, and Larra raised her eyebrows at him.

"I would be honoured, my lord," Maester Arys said, inclining his head toward Larra. "I look forward to our lessons, my lady."

"Don't speak too soon. Have you ever heard High Valyrian spoken with a Northern accent?" Larra asked, and the maester chuckled.

"I am sure you speak High Valyrian as finely as you do Dothraki or any of the dialects of the Free Folk which I have oft heard you speak, my lady," Maester Arys said generously.

"Larra…would you please leave Maester Arys and me alone? There are some things I would discuss with him private," Bran said.

She stared at her brother. Indignantly, she reminded Bran, "This is my chamber!" Bran just smiled benignly at her. "Oh, very well. I shall go out to play with Arya and Calista Velaryon."

Larra tidied her studies and sketches away and rose from her rocking-chair, dusting off her split-skirt. She nodded at Maester Arys, who bowed and stepped aside to let her pass.

The heavy oak door opened and closed, Larra disappearing beyond it. Her footsteps echoed faintly in the corridor beyond, then were lost.

"Join me, please," Brandon said softly, nodding to Larra's vacated rocking-chair.

"Have you some pain, my lord?" the maester asked. His chain glinted in the sunlight and the links clinked and tinkled as he sat.

"I have not suffered pain in many years," Bran murmured. "I wished to speak to you of Larra."

"Of her lessons?"

"No." Bran stared at the man, who shifted uncomfortably the longer Brandon stared. "You and I are the most well-informed men in Westeros. Forever, I shall be limited by my broken back, you by your birth, yet that does not mean we cannot have profound influence… And influence is largely a matter of patience." The maester went still, watching Bran carefully, his blue eyes shrewd and wary. "Yet without allies, patience gains little."

"If I may humbly boast, I have many allies, my lord," the maester said quietly.

"But I do not," Brandon said silkily.

"And you wish me to be your ally?" the maester replied sceptically. "I am honoured, my lord, yet I do not understand. There are many in far greater positions of power than myself who would be eager to assist you."

"Others play the game for their own benefit," Brandon said quietly. He turned his inscrutable dark eyes on the maester. "You play for the benefit of those who will never have the influence to play for themselves. That is why I have chosen you."

"I still do not understand, my lord."

Brandon sighed. "I am Brandon the Broken, bound to this chair. Yet I have more knowledge than anyone could ever dream of possessing. You need my mind, as I need your body, if we are to realise the endgame."

"What endgame is that, my lord?"

"A world where those with power are duty-bound to defend the vulnerable, not punish them for being so," Brandon said. "Where lives are not wasted on wars fought for vanity, where the smallfolk thrive under the protection of great leaders who would rather take blows for them than see their people bleed. A world wherein we treat each other with dignity and respect. Where the abhorrent is no longer celebrated."

"That sounds like quite a world," the maester said softly.

"Yes," Brandon said wistfully. "Yet it is not so far beyond our reach as to be an impossibility within our lifetimes. You have already taken the first steps. I wish to be your guide as you continue your journey, for you shall advise others along the way where I cannot."

"I shall, of course, do all that I may to assist you, my lord," said the maester humbly, bowing his head.

Brandon nodded, lowering his eyes to his hands. The maester followed his gaze and watched as Brandon raised his hand to reveal something nestled in his other palm. A thick, fat body and long, wiry legs covered in bristly hairs, moving erratically. "When a maiden marries, we oft gift her a newborn kitten to keep her new home free from vermin. Yet everyone overlooks spiders. They hunt the irritants that oft go undetected until rot has long set in." He held out his hand to the maester. "Be so kind as to set this spider free. He must continue to weave his webs."

His dark, inscrutable eyes held the gaze of the maester, who stared back, unsettled and filled with dread. Yet the maester cupped his hands around Brandon's and took the spider, setting it free on the mantelpiece among Larra's trinkets and little paintings.

Brandon sighed contentedly and settled back as the maester sat.

"We have much to discuss."

The yard echoed with the song of steel. Everywhere, smallfolk sparred with spears and arrows whizzed through the air, embedding themselves in targets rigged to a contraption that moved them erratically. Larra winced. The way the roughspun dolls moved reminded her all too vividly of the unpredictable, lumbering gait of the rotting wights. Knights sparred with each other, and Larra paused for a moment, watching Darkstar and Gendry engaged in a duel. They were using edged blades, both of them dressed casually but with lethal intent etched into the furious, stern planes of their faces. Other knights and their squires had paused in their training to watch Darkstar and Gendry, or else their attention was torn between them and a secondary duel taking place between Lady Brienne, Arya and Calista Velaryon.

Larra gravitated toward the latter, leaving Gendry to spar rather than risk him losing focus. He was with Darkstar to learn: she would only be a distraction. As seriously as Darkstar took his role as instructor, Gendry was equally devoted as a student. It was that dedication and passion that drew so many eyes.

Through the crowds of people milling about – some training, others going about their work, traversing the courtyard to get across the castle – Larra spotted Jon.

It was easy to tell the difference between a true Northerner and any of their southern guests, even without sigils and the style of brigandines and tunics and armour. Among a sea of heavy surcoats, fur-trimmed cloaks and thick leather gloves, true Northmen stood out in their brigandines and tunics, hands bare, hair pulled back, eyes bright and cheeks pink from the exertion. They enjoyed the sunshine and puffed and heaved with the effort as they sparred, laughing as they sparred with southern lordlings laden down with cumbersome cloaks over unwieldy armour.

And among them stood Jon, with his shorn curls and simple, reinforced leather brigandine and plain gorget, boots scuffed and caked with dirt from the yard, arms crossed over his chest as he watched Lady Brienne sparring with Arya and Lady Calista. Larra moved through the yard toward Lady Brienne, her golden hair gleaming in the sunlight as she sparred with both Lady Calista and Arya. They both wielded long spears, attacking almost in unison: Lady Brienne deflected them with Oathkeeper.

"To think, young girls are taught to dance until their toes bleed," Larra sighed, sidling up beside Jon, who stood with Lords Tarly, Royce and Umber and Ser Lyn Corbray, who had the point of Lady Forlorn, his family's ancestral Valyrian steel sword, resting in the sludge, wrists crossed idly over the hilt. Arya was knocked off her feet, while Lady Calista pulled herself up from the sludge, breathless and smiling despite the blood welling on her lower lip. "This is the only dance worth knowing."

"My lady," Lord Royce bowed his head respectfully, as Arya grunted, clambering off the ground and dusting off the seat of her trousers.

"Move your feet, Arya," Larra called. "You must be swift and quick as shadows to best Lady Brienne."

"I'm not so worried about Lady Brienne as the Others," Arya panted, as Lady Calista twirled her spear idly in her hands.

"Then you're being far too reckless," Larra told her sombrely. "You're fighting with emotion, not strategy."

Arya frowned at her. "How d'you know that?"

"I've seen enough of King's commanders to know," Larra said grimly. Arya flicked a glance at Jon.

"You've fought them?" Lady Brienne asked quietly, peering at Larra. Jon started, staring at her.

"Aye," Larra grunted, suppressing a flinch. Hold the door…

"You fought the Night King?"

"No. I'd be dead," Larra said bluntly. "Killed some of his commanders, though. And not nearly enough of his foot-soldiers."

"What are they like?" Arya pressed.

"Which?"

"Either. Both."

Larra sighed heavily. "The wights are mindless, possessed by the single urge to kill. They are corpses: they often have parts missing. That makes their movements erratic, unpredictable. They feel nothing: no fear, no pain. They need neither rest nor sustenance. For every one you kill, dozens take its place... The commanders are entirely different. They are honed precision. Utterly emotionless, pure skill. Calm and implacable. They take the time to consider every movement, anticipate every strike and counterstrike – they are unparalleled swordsmen. They will give Darkstar a run for his money."

"Yet you defeated them," Lady Brienne said gently.

Larra shrugged. "Perhaps they have no idea how to account for the unpredictability of Men," she said. "Their will has dominated all life without exception – until – "

"Hardhome," Jon said quietly, and Larra nodded. Until Jon had wielded Longclaw against one of the Night King's commanders, and they had learned what was their only advantage: that to kill a commander was to kill all his foot-soldiers.

"Hardhome," Larra agreed with a heavy sigh. "Until Hardhome, they had met no true resistance."

"When did you face them?" Jon asked, his voice oddly hoarse. Larra glanced at him. It was the first time they had spoken in days.

"We fled the great weirwood in the Land of Always Winter when they found us," Larra said. "The Night King and his commanders came."

"Why?" Arya asked bemusedly.

Larra sighed. "For Bran." Her voice slipping into a low growl, Larra said, "But I wouldn't let them have him."

"Woe betide any man who comes between you and your brothers," the Greatjon chuckled richly.

"Or woman," Larra muttered darkly. She glanced at Jon, whose dark eyes rested on her, frowning.

"I leave the training under your capable supervision," Jon said to the lords gathered. Running away, Larra thought, frowning, as Jon turned and left. It had to be odd, she thought, not to have to bow to men who would have considered Jon less than the shit they scraped off their boots had he not earned the crown of the North.

"My lords, excuse me," Larra murmured, dipping a tiny curtsy, and stalked after Jon. She called, "Jon, have you a moment to speak with me?"

"I'm expected in council," Jon said over his shoulder.

"As am I – we can walk together," Larra said, yet Jon did not slow down. She stopped, narrowing her eyes, and raised her hands to her hips. Sharply, she said, "Excuse you. I am back here."

Jon paused. His shoulders tensed as he dithered. Then she heard him sigh, his posture relaxing. He turned and returned to her, almost shamefacedly. He hadn't looked her in the eye for days and regretted ignoring her, she knew. She knew her brother too well.

"Ser Davos is worried that there is something weighing on your mind," Larra murmured, aware that the bustle and chatter about them concealed their conversation from curious ears.

"Is he, then?" Jon asked, his tone sharp, defensive.

"I like him," Larra said simply. "He shoots straight."

Jon smiled slightly. "There must be a bit of Northern blood in him."

"Jon… He knows something is wrong. He says you've been keeping Sam at arm's length. And you won't look me in the eye," she said softly, peering into Jon's face even as he tried to avoid her eyes. She pressed her lips together, then asked gently, "Are you angry at me for telling you the truth?"

Jon's dark grey eyes shot up to her face. More sharply than he meant to, he said, "No." He flinched at his harsh tone.

Larra nodded. "Then you're angry at Father for keeping it from us." Jon winced. "Jon… Father is no less noble for having kept the truth from us. He devoted his entire life to protecting us, to fulfilling the promise he made to our mother. To our mother." She said the word with awe. They had a mother.

"I'm not angry at Father," Jon sighed heavily. He looked utterly defeated – and exhausted.

"What, then?" she prompted gently.

After a long while, Jon admitted, "Sansa. Ever since she appeared at Castle Black…it's the first time she's ever accepted me…"

"As a Stark. All you ever wanted," Larra said, smiling ruefully. "We never had the name but we have always been Starks. That is how Father raised us. Nothing about our parentage changes who we are. It doesn't change who you are. And Sansa cares about who you are, not your name. We are who we are. The past doesn't change that… I wish you'd talk to me."

"You can't talk to Gendry?" Jon asked.

"It's not for my sake I want you to talk to me, Jon," Larra said sombrely. She sighed. "If not me, someone."

"I can't talk to Sansa about this."

"Arya, then." Larra frowned. Did Arya know? It was difficult to know what Arya was aware of – she seemed to observe everything, knew far too much. Only Bran knew more about what went on in the castle than she did.

"Have you told her?"

"No," Larra said quietly, watching Jon. "I thought you would have."

"I haven't," Jon said.

"Perhaps you should," Larra said. "She always came to you with her worries: it's your turn to confide in her. You need to talk to someone, Jon. I can't – I can't keep worrying about our future alone."

Jon raised his dark eyes, frowning.

"Jon… I have bonded with Rhaegal. That alone is irrefutable proof of our parentage. The truth will come out – too many people know already," Larra said plaintively. She licked her lips. "What happens when she finds out? All of these fortifications… You're so focused on the Night King – as you should be – but if we have even the faintest hope that we'll survive this war, what happens after? When there's no great enemy to unite against? When people want to return home, and Daenerys decides it's time to press her claim…only to be told she has none. That it's you who should take the Iron Throne."

"I've no ambition for the Iron Throne," said Jon, sounding exhausted to his marrow.

"D'you know something? That's what would make you the best king to ever sit upon it," Larra said, smiling sadly. "You would never take the throne for yourself. But you'd do it, to do your duty to the people who need you the most. Blasted thing – it should be melted down!"

"Perhaps that's the solution," Jon said. "You fly Rhaegal to the Red Keep, now, melt down the Iron Throne and be done with it."

"And plunge the realm into chaos? Say what you will about her, Cersei's the only thing keeping the southern kingdoms from descending into absolute anarchy," Larra said, sniffing delicately. She eyed Jon. "Sansa asked me if I'd burn the Dothraki horde if they threaten to bring sickness to Winterfell."

"I know."

"I will not unleash Rhaegal on innocent people, even if it means the guilty go free," Larra said sternly. She sighed and shook her head, acknowledging something that had been on her mind since the discussion with Sansa. "But when it comes to it I will put an end to her."

"If."

"What?"

"You said when it comes to it. Not if."

"Fine, if… I've been speaking with Bran about whether it's even a possibility she can avert her own fate. After what she did in the Westerlands…what she did to you…" Jon flinched, and Larra reached a hand out, resting it on his arm. He raised his eyes slowly to hers, haunted and guilt-stricken. He felt ashamed for what Daenerys had done to him. Anger simmered deep in her belly. "I'm beyond sceptical. For the sake of doing everything and anything to avoid what I know she's more than capable of, I'll hold on to a faint glimmer of hope that she can be convinced not to choose violence any time she doesn't get what she wants…" She glanced away, drawn by the ringing of clashing steel, and admitted to him in a quiet, tremulous voice, "I worry, Jon."

"About her taking the Iron Throne?" Jon asked. It was interesting that that was his first question, said a lot about what had likely been at the forefront of his mind.

"I worry what she'll do when she learns the truth. Will she step aside and encourage you to claim the Iron Throne? Or leave you here in the North, acknowledging the independence of our kingdom? Think about what you know of her," Larra said sombrely. "Of her past actions, her personality… She'll never be content to leave you alive: the truth threatens everything she believes about herself."

"I don't care about the fucking Iron Throne," Jon said, with true heat behind his words.

"I know that," Larra said, giving him a rich, genuine smile. "Anyone who knows you will respect that." She held his eye and her voice was more earnest and more stern than ever as she told him, "Regardless of your will, your blood puts you in her way. As long as you are alive, you are a challenge to everything she believes. And it… It may not be up to you."

"What do you mean?" Jon asked bluntly, wincing even before she answered – he knew what she meant.

"Ser Jaime Lannister knows the truth. I imagine Lord Lonmouth does, too, or he has guessed it. You, me, Sansa, Benjen, Meera, Bran... Too many people know the truth to let it remain a secret," Larra said, sounding as tired as she suddenly felt. "And if it comes down to a choice between Cersei, Daenerys or you, the majority will support you."

"I'm not a ruler," Jon said. "I'm only King because the Northern lords declared it after the Battle of the Bastards. I don't rule – I plan military defences."

"You're a leader. You've united armies that were once enemies to fight for a common goal," Larra said. "And the majority of Westeros has been raised with the belief that military success makes you a good king."

"Aye, which is why most of the Targaryen kings were shite," Jon groused, and Larra laughed.

"They were," Larra said. "And they historically discounted people who would have been far better suited to rule purely because they lacked a cock."

Jon gazed at her shrewdly. "Perhaps you should sit the Iron Throne."

"You're being silly – stop it," Larra snapped, as Jon smirked. "Jon, I am being serious. Do you think all the schemers died with him when I severed Littlefinger's head from his body? When this becomes known, you will cease to be Jon Snow. Everyone in Westeros will know you as the Last Dragon's only true heir. They may even demand that you take the throne. And where will that leave us, with Daenerys on dragon-back determined to burn anything that gets in her way?"

"Alright," Jon grunted, scowling. "Alright… I understand." He deflated, his anger drifting away on the gentle wind. He sighed, his expression softening to sadness as he gazed at her. "Can we just… Can we just focus on surviving the Night King?"

"No," Larra said bluntly, and Jon's eyebrows rose. "We must be prepared to handle things when people find out the truth – when Daenerys learns the truth. I'm not saying we ignore preparations to devote hours wringing our hands over potential plots to install you in the Iron Throne – I'm just asking that we take the time to sit together as a family and decide what to do – what's best for all of us."

Jon sighed heavily, gazing out across the yard, where Darkstar dodged a particularly brutal slash from Gendry.

"You'll bring Gendry," he said quietly.

"Not if you don't wish him to be there," Larra said.

"No: he should come," Jon said, glancing at Larra. "I know how important he is to you."

"Do you?"

"You've chosen him, haven't you?" Jon asked gently. "He's yours. You're his."

Larra smiled. "Yes."

Jon nodded to himself. "Then he should sit in with us. Maybe he can talk some sense into you."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Think I don't realise why you've been goading Daenerys?" Jon said, his tone almost scolding. "Letting her dwell on her anger toward you, instead of – "

"Instead of pursuing you," Larra said, and Jon gazed back at her.

"Aye."

"After what she did to you, I'll have no hesitation putting an end to her," Larra said bluntly.

Jon cleared his throat. "You know?"

"I know," Larra said gently. "Jon… If she ever tries to pressure you – in any way – no matter what she does, I want you to remember that you are free to reject her. You are not beholden to give her what she wants."

"We need her armies –"

"I see no armies but the one you united to fight beside you," Larra said. She leaned closer, trying to catch his eye. "You owe her nothing. Look at me. I never want you to feel you must appease her, keep her sweet."

"Even though we must."

"Why must we? Because she has a dragon?" Larra asked. She scoffed gently, then growled, "So do I. You remember that, little brother. Remember that I will always protect you."

A.N.: A few things needed to be said!