A.N.: Thank you so much for the positive reviews!

Valyrian Steel

52

The World is Ahead

She sighed and kneaded her eyes, grumbling as she crossed out several notations, marking an X beside another sketch of Winterfell. The door to the library opened and closed softly, and she barely glanced up, pausing only when she realised who had entered the hall. Ser Jaime stood uncertainly at the end of the first stack, glancing at her.

"Ser Jaime," she said politely.

"My lady," he said, bowing to her handsomely. Since his arrival, he had been bathed, sheared and provided with thick winter clothing. He looked warm, and handsome in his fur-trimmed surcoat. She set her pencil down, glad to give herself an excuse to take a break from her work.

"How are you settling in to Winterfell, Ser?" she asked.

"Very well, my lady, thank you," Ser Jaime said generously.

"The tailors did well," Larra said, eyeing the cut and stitching of his surcoat. "You do not lack for warmth, I hope?"

"No, my clothes provide ample warmth," Ser Jaime said softly.

She eyed his metal hand, the gilded steel glinting in the light. "We should send you to the forges, and have you properly outfitted. A hook – no. That won't do. It would be in danger of lodging between ribs… A dagger, perhaps – or a mace, or morning-star. Can you imagine Calanthe's face? You would be her hero forever."

"She's enthusiastic," Ser Jaime said drily, and Larra chuckled.

"And we love her all the more for it," Larra said, and he smiled.

"I have already thanked your lady sister for the new clothes…" Ser Jaime said quietly. His expression was completely earnest when he said, "Thank you, for interceding on my behalf on my arrival."

"I don't waste good," Larra said simply. "You have been speaking with the lords and knights on the war council?"

"Yes, my lady – and I have taken many tours of the castle, examining the siege preparations," Ser Jaime said.

"And what is your assessment?" Larra asked, and at Ser Jaime's hesitant look, she added, "If there is even the smallest thing you have noticed, or wish to query, please voice it. I value as many experienced commanders sharing their insight as possible."

"The other lords have been very generous," Ser Jaime said. "Lord Tarly especially. He has a particular eye for strategy and does not lack for patience when I voiced some concerns."

"And those concerns were addressed?" Larra asked, and Ser Jaime nodded, approaching the table where she sat.

"They were," he assured her. "You may be content that every eventuality is being accounted for."

"Except, of course, the ones that none can account for," Larra said, groaning softly as she rubbed her eyes.

"Tyrion has told me how you play cyvasse, my lady," Ser Jaime said gently. "And you, perhaps best of all, knows what to anticipate from the coming threat."

"Why do you say that?"

"They say you shifted your form into that of a great she-wolf and traversed the True North, your brother riding astride you, battling White Walkers," Ser Jaime said, and Larra burst out laughing.

"Do they, indeed?" she laughed. "What colour does my pelt take?"

"Oh, black. They say you're only distinguishable from that great she-wolf companion of yours by your eyes – even in your she-wolf form, they remain as vividly purple as ever," Ser Jaime said, his lips twitching softly as Larra continued to giggle, tickled by the idea.

"I tell you what, it would have made things far easier," Larra said honestly, wiping her eyes, still smiling.

"They're not wrong, are they," Ser Jaime prompted carefully. "You were beyond the Wall, all these years."

"The world thought us dead," Larra said, shrugging. She smiled ruefully. "There's a certain safety in death, isn't there?"

Ser Jaime blinked at her, his lips parting. "That is…what I have thought before."

"Truly?"

"I thought it of your sister Arya. While all thought her dead…she remained safe," Ser Jaime said.

"Safe from your family, you mean."

"Yes."

Larra smiled, making a thoughtful noise. "If ever there was a case-study about the dangers of underestimating young girls, it's Arya, Sansa and myself."

"You're very impressive," Ser Jaime said.

"Only because we're the exception," Larra said, shaking her head sadly. "It's more of a reflection on our society's expectations than our abilities, wouldn't you say?"

Jaime stared at her, then said almost regretfully, "You're everything Cersei wishes she was."

Larra narrowed her eyes. "I'll take that as the compliment I believe you intend it as."

"I do," Ser Jaime said. "Cersei always chafed against her gender, the body she believes she had the misfortune to be born into. Your sister Sansa embodies the Maiden, your sister Arya the Warrior… You seem to maintain a balance of both."

"I never put stock in the southern gods, but I thank you for the compliment," Larra said, and Ser Jaime nodded. "Speaking of maidens – have you been to see the girls?"

"In the school-room," Ser Jaime nodded, "yes. They are – happy."

"You needn't sound so shocked," Larra said.

"After the treatment your sister endured, you will forgive me if I am," Ser Jaime said shame-facedly. Larra shrugged.

"Sansa's stronger for what she's learned through those experiences," Larra said honestly. "She would've remained a little girl forever if not. Did Crisantha speak to you?"

Ser Jaime frowned thoughtfully. "No. Why?"

"She hasn't said a word since she arrived here," Larra said. "I had hoped she might warm to you… She'll speak when she's ready."

"I'm told you take an active role in their care," Ser Jaime said carefully. Larra nodded. "I am grateful."

"One day, we must speak of their futures," Larra said distractedly. They were wards of the King in the North but one day, they would come of age. They would be marriageable – and as the only surviving female descendants of House Lannister, they would be hugely valuable in brokering alliances within the Westerlands – and throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Ser Jaime was also the eldest male heir of House Lannister: he was the head of the family. He would decide the fate of House Lannister, and all who shared his name. "But not today. Today…I do battle with geometry."

"What is it you're working on?" Ser Jaime asked curiously. Larra gave him a grim look and showed him a sheaf of paper she had been annotating.

"Sansa told me, everyone talked about Lord Tyrion's strategy with wildfire during the Battle of the Blackwater, even if they never gave him true credit for it," Larra said. "I've been struggling with how best to utilise wildfire."

"From what I gather, the intent is to defend Winterfell, not attack the enemy," Ser Jaime said.

"It is. Winterfell is the best hope we have. As long as we stay within its walls…" Larra said. "But that does not mean we cannot use everything we have to our advantage. We have far more limited resources than Lord Tyrion when he planned for the defence of King's Landing. Any cache of wildfire the pyromancers can brew up must be used with absolute precision."

Ser Jaime cast his eye over the paper she had handed him. "A star?"

"I've been experimenting with geometry and how best to cover the moors with wildfire without wasting it but also ensuring the blast radius will annihilate as much of the Night King's army as possible…" Larra said, rubbing her eyes. "Thank you for sending them, by the way."

"What?"

"The pyromancers," Larra said, then frowned curiously at the knight. "May I ask why you sent them to Winterfell? Wildfire is your sister's favoured weapon during siege – during the Blackwater and the Faith's reign of terror. Why would you deprive her of it now, when she could be using this time to build up a great cache of wildfire to prepare for war against Lady Targaryen?"

Ser Jaime sighed heavily and let the paper drift back to the table. "My brother used wildfire to ensure there were as few casualties as possible," he said quietly. "My sister does not share his qualms about excessive loss of life. I did not kill King Aerys only to have my sister burn millions of people to ash in a ham-fisted attempt to preserve her control over the city… I was never a good student." He gazed at the books lying open, the pieces of paper scattered with her drawings, sums and annotations.

"Perhaps you had a poor teacher," Larra said fairly, as Ser Jaime sat down on the chair beside her. "Rickon could never sit still; he learned best outdoors, exploring things. Robb was lazy unless he was passionate about something."

"He enjoyed strategy," Ser Jaime said quietly, and Larra stilled.

"He enjoyed strategy," she agreed. She cast a sidelong look at Ser Jaime. "And you learned from him. You did at Highgarden what Robb did at the Whispering Wood."

"There are always lessons in failure," Ser Jaime said to her. "Had he lived to learn from his failures, Robb Stark might have built a legacy to outshine my father's… He was decent."

"How do you know?"

Ser Jaime gave her a rueful smile. "I was his prisoner."

"It was an argument we always had."

"How to treat prisoners of war?" Ser Jaime asked, his eyebrows raised. Larra smiled.

"We were not raised alike. Robb…was raised by his mother to believe that nobility came from birth," Larra said, pulling a face. She sighed heavily. "I always disagreed utterly. If you want to know a person's true character, watch how they treat those more vulnerable than they are, not how they act amongst those they consider their equals." Ser Jaime looked thoughtful for a long while, as Larra turned back to her calculations. She glanced up as the library door opened and Lord Tyrion appeared.

"Princess Alarra," he said, bowing low. Larra bristled as he pulled a face. "That doesn't sound right. Lady Alarra?"

"Call me what you like," Larra grunted.

Lord Tyrion's lips twitched with amusement. "You are like Benjen. He was clever and intimidating too."

"Am I intimidating?"

"The only thing sharper than your aim is your tongue," Lord Tyrion said, and Ser Jaime smirked. "I do wonder if perhaps you and your terrifying uncle are anything like Cregan Stark."

"The Hour of the Wolf," Ser Jaime said appreciatively. Everyone knew the story of how Cregan had come down from the North with his Winter Wolves – to clean up the mess the Targaryens had made with the Dance of Dragons.

"Possibly," Larra said, shrugging. "Cregan's only one of the most well-known Starks in recent history, though. I imagine Benjen as First Ranger more resembled Theon Stark."

"I thought he was a Greyjoy," Lord Tyrion said, glancing from Larra to his brother and back.

"Named for a Stark. Theon Stark was known as the Hungry Wolf on account of the constant state of war the North was in during his reign. He repelled the Andals, threw them back into the sea," Larra said proudly. "He defeated Argos Sevenstar in the Battle of the Weeping Water. Then he strapped Argos' body to his ship as a figurehead and sailed across the Narrow Sea, burning a score of Andal villages, slaughtering hundreds, and mounted their heads on spikes along the eastern coast – lest anyone be in any doubt what would happen if they tried to take the North from its people."

Her voice had turned low, threatening. Lord Tyrion held her gaze.

"Well, I think we can dispense with the pikes," he said amiably. "Your demonstration in the Great Hall was more than enough."

"Was it?" she asked tartly.

Lord Tyrion exchanged a significant look with his brother as he approached the table. Larra glanced between the two as Lord Tyrion pulled out a chair and took a seat on her other side. One brother sat either side of her – she wondered if this had been planned, or whether Lord Tyrion intended to take advantage of a situation presented to him.

Either way, she arched an eyebrow and said coolly, "Surrounded by lions."

Lord Tyrion gave her a very arch look. "I shouldn't imagine a dragon has any dread of such things."

She sighed heavily, sitting back in her chair. Giving Ser Jaime a look, she said, "That didn't take long."

"Oh, no need to give my sweet brother such a chastising look, my lady. I was in the crypt, lingering beyond the candlelight," Lord Tyrion said, and Larra closed her eyes. She hadn't even thought to check. Who dared go into the Stark crypt? She sighed and rubbed her face as Lord Tyrion said quietly, "The final puzzle piece I was missing. I had wondered why it was you went out of your way to antagonise Lady Targaryen." He sounded almost annoyed not to have realised the truth himself. "When she finds out the truth, Daenerys' first thought will be you rather than Jon…" He stared longingly at Larra. "I have always dreamed what it would feel to have a sister who loved me absolutely, who would do absolutely anything – even the reprehensible – to protect me."

Coolly, Larra asked, "Is there a question in there, my lord?"

"People speak at great length of your potential with a meat hook," Lord Tyrion said brusquely. "One wonders what you will do with a dragon."

She just prevented herself from rolling her eyes, but her annoyance seeped into her voice. "That seems to be the theme of discussion at the moment."

"Lady Sansa told me about the Dothraki," Lord Tyrion said offhandedly. "You refuse to unleash dragonfire upon the horde even to kill the sick and stop disease from spreading."

"The Dothraki aren't stupid. They know how to protect their horde," Larra said. "It's no-one's place to interfere in their business."

"Lady Targaryen would disagree."

"Lady Targaryen burned their most sacred place and ordered them halfway across the world to die so could sit her arse on the Iron Throne," Larra said sharply. "Let's not pretend her motivations since Qarth have been altruistic. She has been striving to return to the Seven Kingdoms and claim the Iron Throne since she married her horse-lord."

"She has helped many lives," Lord Tyrion said quietly – and the quietness told Larra what she needed to know. He had never been shy about anything, but the half-hearted nature of his defence of Daenerys spoke volumes.

"She has overturned many lives," Larra said. "And accumulated wealth and armies as she went. What do you think she had always intended to use them for? She lacked the patience to stay and put in the work to establish an educated, progressive society that ensured the abolition of slavery for good. You were always a champion of curiosity, of learning. What is your opinion on a ruler who is boastful about having no formal education and refuses to learn?"

Lord Tyrion groaned. "You delight in presenting me with problems, don't you?"

Larra's smile was as dangerous as a direwolf's. "Since we met."

"Days ago…when we sat to cyvasse…" Lord Tyrion mused thoughtfully. "It was not a casual gesture, inviting me to play, was it?" Larra fiddled with her pencil – because she had sought Lord Tyrion out. She had yearned for his advice. Because of everyone she knew, she trusted his insight. "You were angling to ask me something."

"Hardly matters now," Larra sniffed, trying to sound unconcerned, but it did sting – not to be able to trust in the advice of a man she respected.

"How so?"

"I wished to speak in hypotheticals," Larra said honestly. "But you know the truth. There is no such thing as a hypothetical question discussed between us."

"I should hate to think that we cannot still be earnest with one another."

"After the Lion Culling, you should know better than to think you will never be allowed to serve two masters," Larra said, and Lord Tyrion gazed sombrely at her, temporarily lost for words. No matter his personal opinions, his position had been made clear by Daenerys: he could support her or die.

"We may not have open and honest discussion?" he asked gently.

"Absolutely, if you have ambitions to become kindling," Larra said. Lord Tyrion's lips twitched, his eyes glinting.

"Despite preparations for siege against an unknowable terror, you sought me out for advice on politics. That tells me you have some hope, however small, of surviving the war and you worry about the wider implications of the truth," Lord Tyrion said gently. His gaze was earnest, his eyes terribly discerning as he continued, "You worry more for your brother than for yourself, though you are both now, with or without your desire to be, players in the game." He sighed, his eyes darting over the various books and scrolls she had been working from, the sheaves of paper she had covered in annotations. Finally, he said very seriously, "In my position, knowing what I do, my advice to you is the same as the advice I gave your brother so many years ago: Never forget what you are, Alarra Targaryen." She flinched at the name. It was the first time anyone had ever called her such. "Others will not. Wear it like armour and it can never be used against you."

"You think I should embrace it – we should embrace it," Larra said quietly, aware that Ser Jaime sat silently on her other side.

"You have claimed a dragon, Larra," Lord Tyrion said gently. "There is no going back. Word of your lineage will spread. You can either decide to embrace all that that is, and take control of your fate, or you can hide from the truth and risk others controlling you with it."

Larra closed her eyes. She knew he was right. That was what she was afraid of – that she did have to embrace her birth-right or risk others manipulating her with it.

Lord Tyrion turned to Larra's sketches. After a few moments, he slipped from his chair and went searching among the stacks. Ser Jaime watched her carefully. When her features were relaxed, contemplative, she appeared her age – young. He forgot how young the Starks truly were. And how long they had been left alone to cope in adult roles suddenly thrust upon them. But Lady Larra had not only had herself to think about – as her sisters had: she had put her brothers first. Ser Jaime vaguely recalled the little one, the one who had died before he reached adulthood, slain for sport before the Battle of the Bastards – so it was said. He shied away from thinking of the other, the little dark-haired boy with bright eyes that saw too much. Lady Larra had been left to care for the boy Jaime had broken. Tyrion was one thing: Brandon was quite another. With the snow and wind howling around the castle, Jaime could imagine the True North: but he could not imagine how Lady Larra had not only survived beyond the Wall but ensured her crippled brother also lived.

He watched Lady Larra carefully. With her features soft, she looked as young as she was – and so beautiful! Her long, pale face, those high cheekbones, her delicate rosebud mouth, those pretty lips, neat eyebrows hovering expressively over those intense violet eyes – Rhaegar's eyes. Yet her shoulders slumped slightly, and Jaime reflected on her conversation with Tyrion. She had remained guarded, always mindful that Tyrion indeed served another master – one who wanted to conquer all life in Westeros. His loyalty to Daenerys Targaryen would be brutally enforced. Therefore she could not trust his judgement.

"You really did want my brother's advice, didn't you?" Ser Jaime said gently.

"There's a line. Before…and everything that came after," Lady Larra said, her violet eyes shining, her voice slightly hoarse as she said, "Everyone from before is dead – except for him. He's the only one – He is one person whose opinion I value."

"You trusted him."

"Yes," Larra said softly. "And when he gave Bran designs for a saddle so he could ride – that is when I loved him."

"It's a rare person who sees Tyrion's true worth," Jaime said. "I...hate the idea of him in such danger yet he is perhaps the only person in the world with the skill to manage Daenerys Targaryen." Lady Larra scoffed, her expression scornful. "He's done it before."

"Joffrey feared your brother," Lady Larra said. "Daenerys doesn't fear anyone – and if she even thought him a threat, she would feed him to Drogon."

"Tyrion thrives best when confronted with a challenge that engages all of his skills," Jaime said.

"Daenerys is certainly that."

"We need him to be by her side, to guide her…if we want to have any chance of surviving her," Jaime said, wincing. They all knew the dangerous position in which Tyrion now found himself. He would have done better to remain in the fighting pits, Jaime thought.

"Even he can't stop her from indulging her worst instincts – when no-one has ever dared point out that her actions are evil, no matter her intent," Larra said miserably.

"I've been thinking what my father would do if he had to deal with this mess."

"Verbally thrash everyone into submission?"

"That would be a good deal of it, yes," Jaime said, his lips twitching at Lady Larra's tart tone. "He would also have many plans in motion at the same time, to neutralise the threat – so that if one plan failed, he never had to think about what to do next."

"From the cyvasse board to the battlefield," Lady Larra sighed heavily.

"You worry Daenerys will learn the truth and declare you her enemy."

"She's already my enemy," Lady Larra murmured, something dark shadowing those brilliant eyes. Rhaegar's eyes. When this battle's done, I mean to call a council. Changes will be made. I meant to do it long ago, but…well, it does no good to speak of roads not taken. We shall talk when I return… It was the last thing Prince Rhaegar had said to Jaime before he took the long road to the Trident. And Jaime still remembered the way the prince's eyes had darkened with a mixture of anger and despair when he spoke of making changes. The young woman before him had little by way of Rhaegar's looks, except for the eyes – Lady Larra took after her mother's beauty so fiercely – yet those eyes, they were Rhaegar's. It was easier to see Rhaegar in her twin-brother, with his pensive nature and steely voice.

"Is it wise to let her know that?" Jaime asked gently. "Whether you wish it or not, you share blood. You are…family."

Lady Larra flashed a glare, all but baring her fangs. "She is not my family."

"Perhaps…allow her to believe she could become your family. She's alone in the world. If she thinks she has your support – I don't mean ceding Northern independence, I mean – support her claim to the Iron Throne," Jaime said. "Befriend her. Make her love you…" He watched her lip curl with distaste – and agitation. He smiled. "It's not in your nature to be deceiving. Perhaps Tyrion is right – you are Cregan Stark. He tolerated none of the nonsense in King's Landing. He did what needed to be done… For myself, I know what she has done that is unforgiveable. Dear as you hold my nieces, I do not flatter myself that the Lion Culling holds the same weight for you. What has she done that you cannot move past?"

Lady Larra narrowed her eyes, saying carefully, "She…wounded Jon."

"Is there anything you would not do to protect your brother?" Jaime asked.

"I would do murder, if that's what you mean – but befriending her…that is distasteful to me." Her lip curled again. "I lost my tolerance for mind games in the True North."

"If you wish to protect Jon, you may have to stomach them," Ser Jaime said. He sighed heavily, leaning forward. When he spoke, his voice was gentle yet filled with such earnestness, Larra could no look away. "Remember, Lady Larra…your father's honesty got him killed. He refused to play the game – and hundreds of thousands have died because of it…"

Larra stared at the knight, until he became flustered. "What?"

Cocking her head to the side thoughtfully, as she observed Ser Jaime's handsome face, his earnest demeanour, Larra said, "I believe I'm starting to understand what Lady Brienne sees in you… Lord Tyrion – come quick! Your brother is blushing!"

She heard Lord Tyrion chuckle, and Ser Jaime gave her a look, rolling his eyes as if he was used to being teased – by his brother. She smiled softly to conceal how deep Ser Jaime's words had struck. Everyone said honour had killed Father: his devotion to Robert Baratheon's memory and their friendship. None had admitted the truth: that Father had sealed his fate the moment he had confronted Cersei Lannister about her bastards.

Father had died because he didn't understand the game, and his role in it. Or perhaps because he did understand his role – and refused to play in spite of it.

Larra flinched as a wave of nausea rolled through her, the taste of bile strong in her mouth. She inhaled sharply, her vision dancing, as heat surged through her veins, making her hands tremble. She closed her eyes, resting her head back, and stifled a soft moan as a new ache throbbed at her temples. Feeling decidedly ill, she focused on breathing in and out, slowly, rather than on the threat of spewing vomit all over the calculations she had been working on all morning.

"My lady… You are pale," Ser Jaime said gently. "I shall summon a maester."

"No," she moaned softly, eyes still closed, head still resting back. "I am perfectly well. I shouldn't have broken my fast with eggs and black pudding. I'm not accustomed to rich food anymore." Her hands shaky, she reached up to wipe a trickle of sweat from her brow. She felt more ill than she let on, her head swimming, dizziness making the nausea worse.

"You're panting," Ser Jaime said concernedly. "You're not well."

"I'm alright," Larra insisted, though without any heat in her voice. "I just…need to rest, 'til it subsides." She breathed out slowly. When the dizziness subsided, and the nausea was a memory lurking in the back of her mind, she opened her eyes. It was no use, though. The headache that had begun faintly now throbbed at her temples and she winced.

"Blast these calculations," she grumbled, rubbing her eyes. "I've been staring at them so long, they've started dancing… If you will excuse me, Ser… I must go and take some fresh air."

"If it's all the same to you, my lady, Tyrion and I will stay and work on the calculations," Ser Jaime said, and Lord Tyrion nodded. His eyes were shrewd as he watched Larra, but he gave her a small smile as she nodded and left the table, sitting up straighter to look over the papers with his brother. Larra dipped the two a respectful curtsy and departed the library.

As the door swung behind Lady Larra, Jaime turned to his brother, frowning.

"Is it true, she's taken Robert's bastard as her lover?" Jaime asked.

"Well, I don't imagine they're playing tiddlywinks in that chamber they share," Tyrion said, smirking. "Why?"

"She's pregnant."

Tyrion blinked at him. "How could you possibly know that?"

Jaime shrugged. "Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps she is just sick to her stomach from rich food and being stuck inside this stuffy library all morning," he said fairly.

As Larra wandered the corridors, breathing through another wave of nausea that had her sweating, pausing as the flagstone floor lurched, she was met by Bran. He was alone, wheeling himself around, carrying several books in his lap. He smiled when he saw Larra.

"Rhaegal is waiting for you," he said gently, his eyes alight with enthusiasm. "Enjoy your ride."

"Thank you," Larra said softly, fighting through the nausea with a smile. She reached out and smoothed his hair from his face. "I shall see you at dinner."

Tyrion noted his brother's stillness as Lord Brandon Stark wheeled himself into the library. He gave them both a soft, enigmatic smile, inclining his head, and turned to wheel his chair among the stacks with surprising swiftness. Tyrion turned to Lady Larra's calculations. He appreciated the precision of her sketches and annotations, and went through her works to find a good starting point. There was no point repeating her work. She had drawn out plans for five, a seven, twelve and fourteen-pointed stars, sketching them around a scale drawing of Winterfell in its entirety. She had completed the calculations for the twelve- and fourteen-point stars as needing far too much wildfire to be feasible, while the five- and seven-pointed stars covered too little ground to make an impact. Tyrion picked up the graphite pencil and compass Lady Larra had left behind and set to work, sketching and annotating. He smiled to himself as Jaime lost interest in watching him and abandoned the table. He rose and Tyrion noted that Jaime made no show of meandering amongst the stacks: he went straight to the boy in the chair.

He watched as the young man reached up to slot a book back on the shelf, stretching his torso so that he could reach. A small frown creased his brow, and Lord Brandon sighed, gazing up at an empty space just out of his reach.

"Here," Jaime said softly, and Lord Brandon glanced over at him. Jaime stepped forward, flustered when he offered his right hand on instinct. He cleared his throat and offered the left. "Let me help you."

Lord Brandon held up the heavy book for him to take hold of. It was heavy, and awkward, and Jaime struggled to slot it back in its place on the shelf, even with his gilded hand. It was awkward.

"You will adapt," said a soft, sorrowful voice. Jaime glanced down at the young man in the chair – the chair Jaime had put him in. "It will take time, but you will."

Jaime stared down at him. This was his fault. He had broken a little boy. The things I do for love… Had it ever been love? Or was it just it just Cersei's way of controlling him, as she felt compelled to control everything around her because she had so little control over her own life? He gazed down at Lord Brandon, remembering those dark eyes widening with sudden horror as he realised, a heartbeat before he fell. He remembered the howling of the wolf-pup, how it chilled his marrow. He remembered the soft thump of impact, in a way he barely remembered the blood-curdling death-screams of the countless men he had slain in battle.

"I'm sorry for what I did to you," he said softly, steeling his nerves to look the young man in the eye.

"You weren't sorry then," Lord Brandon said lightly. He gave his shoulders a little shrug beneath his heavy fur-trimmed brocade surcoat. Beneath it, Jaime saw he wore a long tunic, the hem brushing his ankles. To keep his useless legs warm. Lord Brandon gave him a bland smile but his eyes glinted merrily. "Had you not pushed me, neither of us would be where we are today. We would not be who we are today. Join me, Ser Jaime." Lord Brandon gestured to the hearth, where a settle had been arranged and a low table piled with books, one of them open to a history of the Conquest. The illuminations glimmered in the light from the fire, and the high, mullioned windows shedding rare Northern sunshine into the rafters.

Ser Jaime joined Lord Brandon by the fire but frowned. "She doesn't know, does she?" he asked. "If she had known, she would never have stopped Lady Targaryen's commander from taking my head in the Great Hall."

"Do not misunderstand Larra," Lord Brandon warned gently, still smiling in that enigmatic way. "She is a cyvasse master. She understands how one decision has lasting consequences. The repercussions of your actions, Ser Jaime, have shaped our world. Without them, King's Landing would have been laid low. I would never have become what I am – and nor would Larra. Without realising it, you have defined the course of the future. May I ask you something, Ser Jaime?"

"Of course."

Lord Brandon sat with his pale hands clasped in his lap, his head tilted to one side, dark eyes glinting in the firelight. For some reason, Jaime was reminded vividly of a curious raven watching something interesting. "What do you wish your legacy to be?"

Jaime blinked. "My father used to ask the same thing…though never in a way that made me think he actually cared to hear the answer."

"Your father was Hand of the King for twenty years. For another twenty, he remained at Casterly Rock. You spent twenty years in the Kingsguard," Lord Brandon said softly. He asked curiously, "What do you imagine you could accomplish with the next twenty years? What legacy would you wish to leave?"

"I thought I would die wearing my white cloak," Jaime said honestly. He had been too reluctant to leave Cersei to think of any ambition for himself, even when presented with the choice of freedom by his father – though that freedom was an illusion. Being heir to Casterly Rock was a cage of a different design.

"Your entire life, you have been motivated by your devotion to your family. To House Lannister," Lord Brandon mused. "But your finest moment, the moment that defined you, was when you acted not for personal glory or your father's ambition, but for the good of the realm. You forfeited your life when you killed King Aerys." His impenetrable eyes rested on Jaime, and something like respect, almost fondness, radiated from the young man's face. "You knew you would be executed for regicide even as you drew your sword… You were brave, you were just and you defended the innocent. You upheld your oath as a knight of the Seven Kingdoms."

"I'm not sure I agree with you."

"You are a good man, Ser Jaime," Lord Brandon said softly. "It is time you let the world know it."

"There's no rewriting history."

"No, the ink is dry," Lord Brandon said, with a twist of his lips, as if he was amused by Jaime's words more than he let on. "But you can write your future."

"Not with this hand," Jaime said, eyeing his left hand. He should go to the schoolroom with his cousins, sit beside little Altheda and Rosamund as they practised their letters with chalk on slate, or dragging a stick through a tray of sand.

"What do you wish your future to be?"

"You assume I will survive this war," Jaime said quietly.

"Indulge me, then," Lord Brandon said, and Jaime knew he could deny the boy nothing. "Play along."

"I would be…not a perfect knight…but a good man."

Lord Brandon's smile was radiant. For a moment, Jaime could see the boy he had once been, shining from his eyes. He was pleased.

"You've already begun. You've made opportunity for yourself to be that man," Lord Brandon said, all but stating that in abandoning Cersei, Jaime had made the right choice. Lord Brandon gave him a stern, understanding look, as if he could read Jaime's thoughts. He warned Jaime gently, "Don't waste it."

The cold was welcome. It chilled her skin and combated the sweat beading on her brow, which she wiped away hastily, annoyed both by the sweat and by her shaking hands. The headache, her dizziness – it all went away the moment she stepped out of doors. Fresh air, that was what she had needed.

Rhaegal swooped and circled, and they glided through the clouds. Nothing but the sound of the wind and of Rhaegal's chirps and coos. The more they flew together, the more vocal Rhaegal was becoming – sometimes, Larra believed she and Rhaegal were truly conversing. The pitch and tone of Rhaegal's coos and grumbles, their expressive snorts and the rumbling chortle like laughter changed in response to what Larra said.

Some maesters had supposed that dragons were more intelligent than men. That said little, but Larra was inclined to agree. Rhaegal, at least, was very clever. Almost wolf-like. She had spent enough time with Last Shadow to recognise familiar traits: elusiveness, cunning, protectiveness, ferociousness, playfulness, loyalty.

Like wolves, when Rhaegal was left to their own devices, they were gentle and companionable. They remained true to their nature – which had little to do with fire and blood. Dragons used their fire to cook their meat: she had seen Rhaegal use their flames only once, when they had hunted a lone aurochs, charring it and snatching the corpse in their talons. They had flown Larra back to Winterfell and fed on the aurochs beyond the curtain-wall, to general interest from anyone along the battlements with a decent enough view.

Rhaegal did not use fire to spread fear, to subjugate. They used it to hunt, to sustain themselves. Not to dominate life.

Larra sighed and gazed out across the sea of billowing clouds, gleaming in the sunlight. The sky above them was endless forget-me-not blue, the clouds fluffy and white as lamb's wool. The sun was hot, the breeze sharp and cold. And she was free – free of calculations, of tricky conversations, of the gnawing worry in the pit of her stomach.

Rhaegal banked around a towering column of cloud and she inhaled sharply, tightening her thighs, and her entire body tensed as she went dizzy. Clinging to Rhaegal's back, Larra moaned and fought the wave of nausea and dizziness that threatened to overwhelm her. Rhaegal clicked and cooed, vocalising anxiously – she felt the flicker through the bond, and her stomach knotted as Rhaegal angled their wings and they began a gentle descent.

They flew low over the wolfswood, snatches of birdsong darting about her ears, the ice-capped tips of evergreens glittering like emeralds just out of reach, and Rhaegal cooed and sang as they gently alighted in an untouched ice-meadow, sparkling like a lady's finest jewels.

Larra hastily descended from Rhaegal's back. The moment her boots hit the snow, she doubled over and retched, emptying the contents of her stomach.

Gasping and coughing, Larra wiped her mouth and moaned. Her hand shook again, and she felt sweaty and unsteady. As she kicked snow over the small puddle of vomit, Rhaegal clicked and cooed, nudging their great muzzle against her side.

"I think I just – I just need to sit for a bit," Larra said breathlessly, staggering away from the concealed vomit, to drop in the snow. All around Rhaegal, it was melting swiftly: she sat on a snowbank and reached for handfuls of the powdery stuff, using it to cool her forehead, the back of her neck. She shoved some in her mouth to cleanse it of the taste of vomit, spitting it out again. She knew better than to eat snow: it had to be melted and boiled first. But it did take away the taste of sick.

Rhaegal clicked and cooed curiously at her as she leaned back, lying in the snow. It felt good to lie down, and even better to lie against the cold snow, soothing the trembling of her overheated body. The clouds tumbled overhead as Larra lay in the snow, panting.

"I feel better out here," Larra told Rhaegal, who cooed softly. Larra tilted her head to gaze at the dragon, who seemed to be watching the snow melt all around them. Rhaegal snorted softly and rustled their enormous wings, which gleamed as vibrantly as the ice-glazed evergreens around them. The veins of copper glowed vividly and Larra smiled, watching them. "You're happier up there, aren't you? That's where you were always meant to be." She sighed and gazed up into the endless forget-me-not sky. She admitted to Rhaegal, "I've no idea where I'm meant to be – except with you."

Rhaegal chirped.

"You're right: and Gendry."

Rhaegal cooed, snorting gently.

"I am feeling better," Larra told them, and Rhaegal rustled their wings. "Go back? I suppose I must." She grumbled, climbing slowly to her feet. The world no longer spun or lurched about her, and she breathed a sigh of relief, trudging through the snow back to Rhaegal. Snowmelt glittered all about Rhaegal where they lay. "I'll have to speak to the saddlers, though. What do you say to a saddle? It'll stop me falling from your back if I have a funny turn – and it may be more comfortable for you, not having my feet digging into your back."

Rhaegal chirped happily. Larra nodded, walking up to Rhaegal's enormous head. One vivid bronze eye gleamed as she rested her hand on Rhaegal's long muzzle. They snorted delicately and chirped, nuzzling against her until she rested her entire weight against Rhaegal's head. She rested her head against Rhaegal, gently stroking the tough skin beneath that great eye, and smiled softly as she listened to Rhaegal cooing and singing tenderly. Like dogs and even horses, Rhaegal used their great muzzle to rub against her, showing affection. She could feel it, thrumming through the bond.

She felt Rhaegal's delight sparking through her veins as Larra clambered onto the dragon's back, their palpable relief as Larra settled into place on Rhaegal's back – as if Rhaegal had missed her there, felt incomplete without her. Larra smiled and brushed her hand against Rhaegal's skin, rough and hot, a simple gesture that echoed the thoughts and feelings she sent through the bond. She knew she was meant to be here, too. She knew how right it felt.

"Brandon's going to show me some of your ancestors," Larra told Rhaegal, who clicked curiously. "I'll take a look at their saddles and see what we can come up with that's comfortable for us both." Rhaegal made a pleased noise, and Larra smiled. She sighed. "I imagine Brandon's the only one who will ever know where you came from."

Rhaegal cooed curiously. "We all come from somewhere. I had no idea where I came from – just like you." She sighed. "No idea where I came from: now I have no idea where I'm going."

It was a daunting idea, and yet…and yet it filled her with a strange sort of excitement.

The world is ahead.

A.N.: I think we all know what's ahead for Larra!